“He is accused of killing a man named Emmett Colder, who works as a security consultant for a man named Russell Costigan. There are also several accounts of assault on other security personnel and several police officers. He is apparently difficult to subdue.”
“Yes,” I said.
“He admits he killed Colder, and assaulted the various others, but says he was set up, says it was self- defense.”
“Can you make a case?”
“On the facts, maybe. But the problem is that Russell Costigan’s father is Jerry Costigan.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“You know Jerry Costigan.”
“I know who he is. He owns many things.”
“Yes.” Paula Goldman’s voice was firm and unhesitant. “And one of the things he owns is Mill River, California.”
“So he doesn’t have much chance,” I said, “if he gets to trial.”
“If he gets to trial, he’s a gone goose.”
I was quiet for a minute, listening to the little transcontinental noises on the open line.
“Did he say anything about Susan Silverman?” I said.
“He said he’d come out at her request, and that they’d been waiting for him. The interview was conducted under close scrutiny and was given very grudgingly. Stein, Faye and Corbett is a major law firm in the Bay area. We have a lot of clout. If we’d had less, there might have been no interview at all.”
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all I know.”
“What are his chances of beating this thing?”
“None.”
“Because it’s an iron-solid case?”
“Yes, it’s iron solid, but he also broke three of Russell Costigan’s front teeth. That’s like beating up Huey Long’s kid in his home parish in Louisiana in 1935.”
“Un huh.”
“And, for crissake, he’s black.”
“The Costigans are not egalitarian?”
“They are not,” she said.
“Tell me about the jail?”
“Four cells off the police station, which is in a wing of the town hall. Hawk is the only prisoner at the moment. The civilian dispatcher, female, and two cops, male, were on duty when I was there. As an officer of the court it is my obligation to remind you that abetting a jailbreak is a felony under the California penal code.”
“It’s never loosened up out there since Reagan was governor,” I said.
“When the sun comes up,” she said, “I’ll scramble around and work on the bail. But that’s shoveling shit against the tide. If you need me call the office.” She gave me the number.
I said, “Thank you, Ms. Goldman.”
She said, “Mrs. Goldman. I work criminal law fifteen, sixteen hours a day. I’m already more liberated than I want to be.”
CHAPTER 2
AT SIX FORTY-FIVE IN THE MORNING I WAS AT THE harbor health Club. Henry Cimoli had an apartment on the ground floor past the racquetball courts, and I was drinking coffee with him and making a plan.
“I thought you quit coffee,” Henry said. He was doing handstand push-ups on the beige shag wall-to-wall carpet.
“This is an emergency,” I said. I was not sleepy but I was tired. “You get the idea?”
“Sure,” Henry said. “All the years I was a trainer. I can rig any kind of cast you want. I’ll make it big, and you can slide your foot right in it when you get there.”
“We’ll need to get that little walker sole for it.” Henry eased out of the handstands. There was a chinning bar across the door to the kitchen. At five four Henry had to jump to reach it. He began to do pull-ups, touching the back of his neck to the bar, his arms apart to the width of the doorframe.
“‘There’s a medical supply house up on Beacon Street, just past Kenmore Square. It’s on the left past the old Hotel Buckminster going toward Brookline.”
Henry was wearing gray cotton shorts and nothing else, and his body pumped up and down on the bar like a small piston. There was no suggestion of strain. His voice was normal and unforced, his movements precise and prompt.
“Maybe you should work less on strong,” I said, “and more on tall.”
