Peter was gripped by deep depression. He had not gone to law school to muck around in the swamp called criminal law. Real lawyers sued for millions or handled massive business deals. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most prestigious type of legal practice, criminal law was a minus seventy-two.
'I hope my father didn't misrepresent my qualifications, Mr. Geary,' Peter said hesitantly. 'I've never handled a criminal case.'
'Peter, we're not talking crime-of-the-century. We're talking shoplifts at JC-PENNEY, driving while stupid.
Most of these cases will plead out and the rest could be handled by Forrest Gump. Your dad told me about some of the cases you've tried on your own and some of the ones you've second-chaired. I'd say that you're probably one of the most experienced attorneys in town, right now. So, don't sweat the small stuff. -Now, here's my plan,' Geary said, fishing through his desk until he found a cigarette. 'Your office is next door.' A plume of smoke blew across the desk and Peter held his breath to avoid breathing in the foul, cancerous discharge. 'The walls are paper-thin, so we don't need an intercom. Settle in. Read through the twenty case files on your desk. Keep a copy of the Criminal Code at your right hand, a copy of the Constitutions of the United States and the state of Oregon at your left, and a copy of the Oregon State Bar Criminal Law Handbook within easy reach. If you have any questions, try not to bother me with them. I'm very busy.'
Peter looked stunned. Geary grinned maliciously.
'Welcome to the real world, son. And have a nice day. Now, scat. I have to go to the ninth circle of hell to fight the devil for Elmo Judd's soul.'
Whitaker State College was founded as an agricultural school to service eastern Oregon in 1942, but had since developed a decent liberal arts program. The older, brick buildings surrounded a quadrangle at the center of the campus and were covered with ivy. The legislature had funded an expansion program in the late fifties and, again, in the early eighties, and a school of business, the football stadium, a new athletic facility and a block of two-story, brick dormitories were among the newerlooking buildings that spread out from the hub.
In the shadow of the business school was a large blacktop parking area. Shortly before 10 P.m evening classes ended and the faculty and off-campus students emptied into the lot. Christopher Mammon drove a dull green Chevy when he did not want to attract attention.
Tonight, the Chevy was parked as inconspicuously as possible in the shadows of a large oak tree on the edge of the lot because there were two kilos of cocaine in separate Ziploc bags under the driver's seat.
The Chevy was a normal-size car, but Mammon was so massive that there was barely room for Kevin Booth in the front seat. Mammon's body was so large it approached the grotesque. At a flabby two hundred pounds, Booth had been big enough to play high school football, but alongside Mammon's enormous lots, awesome thighs and mile-wide chest, he appeared to be one dimensional.
Booth looked over his shoulder through the rear window as he had several times each minute since Mammon parked. After a few seconds, Booth twisted forward and drummed his fingers nervously on the dashboard.
'Where is that bitch? She said nine forty-five and it's after ten.'
'Relax, man.' Mammon's eyes were closed and he sounded bored. Booth could not believe how calm Mammon was with this much dope in -the car. Of course, Mammon was always calm. When you were that big only King Kong could raise your blood pressure. If they were arrested and went to jail, Mammon would be the king of the beasts in a jungle filled with wild animals.
Booth would die in prison, prey for the lowliest of meateaters.
'There's something about that cunt I don't trust,' Booth told Mammon, as he looked anxiously over his shoulder again.
'You don't trust anyone. That's your problem,' Mammon said, opening his eyes and lifting his huge head from the headrest.
'If this deal gets fucked up, Rafael is gonna be really Booth said, more to himself than Mammon.
pi Booth could not decide who scared him more, Mammon or the slender man with the lifeless eyes who supplied Booth with cocaine.
'That's why you should be glad I'm dealing with your buddy, this time.'
'But what if the bitch doesn't show?'
'She'll be here,' Mammon assured Booth, a hint of menace creeping into his voice. 'She knows what would happen to her if she let me down.'
Booth imagined the things Mammon would do to punish the blonde if she crossed them. Then he imagined what Rafael might do to him if the sale did not go through. one of Rafael's mules had dropped off the two kilos at Booth's house early this evening. Booth's part in the transaction was turning over the cocaine to Mammon and giving the thirty thousand the girl was bringing to another of Rafael's mules. Objectively, Booth was only a go- between, but Booth had vouched for Mammon.
'What if she goes to the cops?' Booth asked anxiously. 'She's been acting squirrelly lately.'
Mammon sighed. He switched on the dome light.
Then, he took a mirror and a razor blade from the map holder on the driver's door and handed them to Booth.
Mammon opened one of the Ziploc bags and dipped a slender coke spoon into the bag. Mammon held the spoon over the mirror' Booth fixed on the white powder, hypnotized by it.
'I need some peace and quiet, Kevin. If you promise to shut up, I'll let you have a little nose candy.'
Booth's brain told him it was dangerous to use in public. It was also a form of suicide to use any of Rafael's cocaine before the deal went through, because Rafael would weigh the dope if it was returned. Booth thought about turning down Mammon's offer, but his need overcame all objections and he leaned for-ward greedily as the white powder cascaded onto the mirror to form a small mound. Booth separated the white powder into several thin lines, then rolled a ten-dollar bill tight and inserted it into his nostril. Using the bill like a straw, he sucked up the coke, then leaned back to enjoy the rush.
Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, 'Freeze,' and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Chapter FOUR.
Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.
'Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail.'
'The jail? Where is that?' Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.
'It's a block from the courthouse,' the secretary told him, shaking her head.
Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.
'Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?'
'How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?'
IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.
The so-called library consisted of two handmade wooden bookshelves containing a one-volume edition of the Oregon Criminal Code, a one-volume edition of the evidence code and a worn set of Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases. A high window with thick, escape- proof
was provided by two bulbs that let - enough light into the room. The wire hung hung from the ce ling In wire cages.
Peter sat on a metal folding chair in front of a rickety wooden table with his back to the far wall, waiting to meet his first criminal client. His fingers nervously were drumming a solo on Mammon's case file when the door to the interview room opened. Peter stood. A guard stepped aside and all the light from the hall was obliterated by the man who filled the doorway.
