Down Here

your message,” the hard-honey voice on Michelle’s answering tape said.

“It’s me,” I said, after the beep. “It’s . . . six-oh-five in the afternoon. I’m going to be here in the church for a little while, but I can’t stay long. I need to see you. If I’m not here when you call, leave a way for me to get in touch with you, probably past midnight.”

I reached for more coins . . . then stopped. I walked around the wall, through the beaded curtain, and into the restaurant.

My booth, the one against the back wall, was empty, as always. So was the rest of the place. Occasionally, some tourists would ignore the filthy, fly-specked front window and wander inside. If the service didn’t send them packing, the food they were served would guarantee they’d never come back.

I sat down, glanced at my watch. Not like me to do that—patience is the one card I always keep in my deck.

Mama came through the kitchen, carrying a heavy white tureen on a tray with three matching bowls, slightly larger than cups. She placed the tray on the table, uncovered the tureen, and ladled out a bowl for me. Hot-and- sour soup—Mama’s personal creation. I bowed my thanks, took a sip. “Perfect,” I said.

At that, Mama sat down across from me, and helped herself to a bowl.

“Not work, right?” she asked me. To Mama, “work” could mean anything, from stealing to scamming to smuggling. What all of us did, one way or another. Our family doesn’t care about crap like genetics, but it’s got no room for citizens.

“Not work, Mama,” I said. “Trouble.”

“Trouble for you?”

“Not for me. Not for any of us. It’s Wolfe. She just got arrested.”

“Police girl?” Mama said, raising a sculpted eyebrow.

“Yeah. I don’t have any real facts yet. She’s supposed to have shot some guy.”

“Not kill?”

“Not . . . yet, anyway. He’s in a coma; they don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“So how talk?”

“Supposedly, he talked before he went out, Mama. And he named Wolfe as the shooter.”

“You say not work.”

“Not work, right. Nobody hired me. There’s no money in this.”

“You and police girl . . . ?”

“It’s not that, either, Mama. Look, there’s no money in this,” I repeated. “Probably end up costing money, okay? Only, I’m doing it. And it doesn’t matter why.”

“Not to me, matter,” she said, shrugging to add emphasis to her lie. “You have more soup, okay?”

^“I’ve got to split,” I told Mama a short while later. “Over to the courthouse. When Max—”

“Max wait here for you?”

“No,” I said. Then I told her what I wanted him to do.

“Okay, sure,” she said. “Come when you . . . ?”

“When I light a cigarette. Now, listen, Mama. The Prof and Clarence will be here, too. I’m not sure when. They don’t have to actually stick around, just leave numbers with you where I can reach them later tonight, okay?”

“Sure okay. What you think?”

“Sorry, Mama. I’m just . . . edgy. See you later.”

Night Court never changes. Years ago, when I was trying to make a living as an off-the- books investigator, I sometimes worked the corridors. I was a hovering hawk, searching for marks to steer over to one of the lawyers I had a fee-splitting arrangement with.

First I’d convince the wife or the mother or the girlfriend—90 percent of the crowd was always women—that the guy being arraigned would fare much better with a “private” lawyer than Legal Aid. Not a hard sell. Then I’d find out how much cash they were carrying—none of the lawyers I shilled for would touch a check—and make the connection.

Whatever lawyer I was working with that night would stand up on the case, make a bail argument or a quick deal, then move on. None of that breed ever actually tried cases. Most of them didn’t even have an office, just a business card and a mail drop.

Anytime you have a steady stream of people being arraigned, you’ll find lawyers like that . . . and men like me trolling for prospects. In the Bronx, some of the fishermen speak Spanish. I heard, over in Queens, there’s one who’s fluent in Korean, and Brooklyn even has a guy who does it in Russian. All working for two-bit grifters with law licenses.

Those “arraignment only” lawyers take some of the caseload off Legal Aid’s back. And the judges like them fine too, because they never make trouble. Even most of the people who hire them go home happy, convinced they did the right thing by their loved ones. Another piece of the “system” you’ll never see on Law and Order.

I moved through the crowd, looking for Davidson. Most of the people milling around had the dull, slightly anxious faces of cattle being herded down a chute, toward the sound of evenly spaced gunshots.

Davidson wasn’t in the hall. I pushed open the doors and walked into the courtroom. It was about half full; people sat distanced from one another, like they do in porno theaters. I didn’t recognize the judge on the bench, a dark-brown man with close-cropped gray hair.

I moved down the left side of the courtroom, looking for an aisle seat so I could scan without calling attention to myself.

A clot of gangbangers sat down front, eye-fucking everyone who looked their way. A young court officer, his short-sleeved white shirt tailored to show off impressive biceps, deliberately strolled by their area, playing his role.

A pair of whore lawyers were just over to my right. Those permanent-retainer lackeys spent every night pleading working girls to time served—usually two, three days—and paying their fines. They did volume business, representing the interests of a few pimps with good-sized stables of street girls. Higher-class hookers didn’t often get pinched. And when they did, whoever was running them would put real legal talent into the game.

A Spanish woman who looked like she’d just gotten off work—hard work—fingered a rosary. Waiting for them to bring her son out, I figured. A skinny, pasty-faced girl with barbell studs piercing her nose, eyebrow, and the top of one ear stared straight ahead, her face as bleak as her prospects.

A woman with a prominent black eye and swollen lip sat with her hands in her lap. Waiting to post bail for the guy who had beaten her up, my best guess.

A fat, sleekly dressed Chinese man was bracketed by two marble-eyed young guns, their leather fingertip jackets marking them as clearly as the tattoos under them.

A heavyset, weary-looking black woman held a sleeping baby on her lap.

A pair of guys in their thirties, dressed costly-casual, sprawled back in their seats, still glazed. I figured the one they were waiting for had been the driver.

I spotted a few press guys, sitting together. Way too many for a typical night arraignment. I was looking around for Hauser when Davidson came from the back, where the pens are, and headed for the door. I slipped out behind him.

Davidson moved through the crowd outside the courtroom with the assurance of an all-pro halfback in an open field. I thought he might be heading for the pay phones, but he passed them by and went out the door.

By the time I spotted him, he was leaning against one of the railings, firing up a cigar.

I walked over, moving deliberately slow.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

He took a long, deep puff on his cigar, gave me a professional appraiser’s look, not trying to hide what he was doing.

“Say a few more words,” he said, finally.

“You’ve got two little girls. Born the exact same day, only three years apart. The big one’s about twelve now. Natural leader, smarter than you ever imagined. Loves to read, an ace at archery. The little one’s going to be a