I'd say a quarter of your list. A couple of them went with us.
Myron whistled, feigned nonchalant, but he was not happy to hear this. I'll get them back.
You think so? FJ again smiled the reptilian smile; Myron almost expected a forked tongue to
dart out between his lips. Do you know how many more are going to leave when they hear
about Esperanza's arrest?
A lot?
You'll be lucky to have one left.
Hey, then I'll be like Jerry Maguire. Did you see that movie? Show me the money? I love black
people? Myron gave FJ his best Tom Cruise earnest. You. Complete. Me.
FJ remained cool. I'm willing to be generous, Myron.
I'm sure you are, FJ, but the answer is still no.
I don't care how clean your rep used to be. Nobody can survive the sort of money scandal you're
about to go through.
It wasn't a money scandal, but Myron was not in the mood to issue corrections. Are we finished,
FJ?
Sure. FJ gave him one last scaly smile. The smile seemed to jump off his face, crawl toward
Myron, and then slither its way up his back. But why don't we get together and have lunch?
Any time, Myron said. You have a cellular?
Of course.
Call my partner right away and set it up.
Isn't she in jail?
Myron snapped his fingers. Drat.
FJ found that amusing. I mentioned that some of your old clients are now using my services.
So you did.
If you contact any of them he paused, thought it over I'd feel obliged to retaliate. Do I
make myself clear? FJ was maybe twenty-five years old, less than a year out of Harvard Business School. He had gone undergrad to Princeton. Smart kid. Or powerful father. Either way, rumor had it that when a Princeton professor was about to accuse FJ of plagiarism, the professor disappeared and only his tongue was found on the pillow of another professor who had considered leveling the same
charges.
Crystal, FJ.
Great, Myron. Then we'll talk again.
If Myron still had his tongue.
The three men slid into their car and drove off without another word. Myron slowed his heart
rate and checked his watch. Court time.
Chapter 7
The courtroom in Hackensack looked very much like the ones you see on television. Shows like The Practice and Law & Order and even Judge Judy capture the physical appearance pretty well. They can't of course capture the essence emanating from the little things: the faint, underlying stench of fear-induced sweat, the overuse of disinfectant, the slightly sticky feel to all the benches and tables and handrails what Myron liked to call the ooze factors.
Myron had his checkbook ready so bail could be posted immediately. He and Win had gone over it last night and figured the judge would come in around fifty to seventy-five grand. Esperanza had no record and a steady job. Those factors would play in her favor. If the money was higher, no problem. Myron's pockets might be only semideep, but Win's net worth was on par with the GNP of a small European country.
There were droves of reporters parked outside, tons of vans with wrapped cables and satellite dishes, and of course phallic antennas, stretching toward the heavens as though in search of the elusive god of higher ratings. Court TV was there. News 2 New York. ABC News. CNN. Eyewitness News. Every city in every region of the country had an Eyewitness News. Why? What was so appealing about that name? There were also the new sleazoid TV shows, like Hard Copy, Access Hollywood, Current Affair, though the distinction between them and the local news was becoming murky to the point of nonexistent. Hey, at least Hard Copy and the like were somewhat honest about the fact that they served no redeeming social value. And they didn't subject you to weathermen.
A couple of reporters recognized Myron and called out. Myron put on his game face serious, unyielding, concerned, confident and no-commented his way through them. When he entered the courtroom, he spotted Big Cyndi first no surprise since she stuck out like Louis Farrakhan at B'nai B'rith. She was jammed into the aisle of a row empty except for Win. Not unusual. If you wanted to save seats, send Big Cyndi; people did not relish excusing themselves to squeeze past her. Most opted to stand. Or go home even.
Myron slid into Big Cyndi's row, actually high-stepping over two knees that looked like batting helmets, and sat between his friends.
Big Cyndi had not changed from last night or even washed up. The steady rain had rinsed out some of the hair dye; purple and yellow streaks had dried on the front and back of her neck. Her makeup, always applied in amounts thick enough to make a plaster bust, had also suffered under the rain's onslaught, her face now resembling multicolored menorah candles left too long in the sun.
In some major cities, murder arraignments were commonplace and handled in factory-line fashion. Not so here in Hackensack. This was big time a murder case involving a celebrity. There would be no rush.
The bailiff started calling cases.
I had a visitor this morning, Myron whispered to Win.
Oh?
FJ and two goons.
Ah, Win said. Was the cover boy for Modern Mobster voicing his usual medley of colorful
threats?
Yes.
Win almost smiled. We should kill him.
No.
You're just putting off the inevitable.
He's Frank Ache's son, Win. You just don't kill Frank Ache's son.
I see. Then you'd rather kill somebody from a better family?
Win logic. It made sense in the scariest way possible. Let's just see how it plays out, okay?
Don't put off until tomorrow what must be exterminated today.
Myron nodded. You should write one of those life-instruction books. They fell into silence. Cases went by a breaking and entering, a couple of assaults, too many car thefts. Every suspect looked young, guilty, and angiy. Always scowling. Tough guys. Myron tried not to make a face, tried to remember innocent until proven guilty, tried to remember that Esperanza too was a suspect. But it didn't help much.
Finally Myron saw Hester Crimstein sweep into the courtroom, decked out in her best professional civvies: a sleek beige suit, cream blouse, and a tad overcoiffed, over-frosted hair. She took her spot at the defense table, and the room fell silent. Two guards led Esperanza through an open door. Myron saw her, and something akin to a mule kicked him in the chest.
Esperanza was dressed in a court-issued fluorescent orange jumpsuit. Forget gray or stripes if a prisoner wanted to escape, he was going to stick out like a neon light in a monastery. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. Myron knew that Esperanza was petite maybe five-two, a hundred pounds but he had never seen her look so small. She kept her head high, defiant. Classic Esperanza. If she was afraid, she wasn't showing it.
Hester Crimstein put a comforting hand on her client's shoulder. Esperanza nodded at her. Myron tried desperately to catch her eye. It took a couple of moments, but eventually Esperanza turned his way, looking straight at him with a slight, resigned, I'm-okay smile. It made Myron feel better.
The bailiff called out, The People versus Esperanza Diaz.
What's the charge? the judge asked.
The assistant district attorney, a fresh-faced kid who barely looked old enough to sport a pubic
hair, stood by a pedestal. Murder in the second degree, Your Honor.
How do you plead?
