Rough Justice

'You used me, you asshole.'

'Come off it, dear.' Steere's smile twisted into a sneer. 'You got paid, didn't you? Almost two hundred grand this quarter, including your expenses. Hotel, phone, even dry cleaning. Every cent paid in full. Twenty-five grand left on the retainer.'

'That's not the point.'

Steere's laughter echoed off the cinderblock walls of the interview room. 'Easy for you to say, you're not paying it. For that much money, using you should be included. Christ, for that much money, fucking you should be included.'

'Fuck you!' Marta shot to her feet, seething. She felt the urge to pace, to move, to run, but the interview room was as cramped as a phone booth. She was trapped. By Steere, by herself. How could she have been so naive? She still couldn't bring herself to accept it. 'So you killed Darnton, even though you'd be questioned? Charged?'

Steere shrugged. 'It was a risk, but I run risks every day. I figured the D.A. would find a reason to charge me, but that's okay. Any ink is good ink. I knew I'd hire the best and get away with it, and I will. Because of you.'

Because of you. The words burned into Marta's brain. Steere had written the story and she had sold it, better than she'd ever sold anything in her professional life. Pitched it to the jury in the day and the satellites at night. And she didn't do it for the money or the facetime, not this time.

She did it for Steere.

In the split second she realized it, Marta's fury became unreasoning. She could have sworn he wanted her, he'd given every signal. He'd lean too close at counsel table, look too long at her legs. Once he'd touched her knee, bending over to retrieve his fountain pen, and her response had been so immediate it surprised even her. The memory made her feel crazy, unhinged. Unleashed. 'I'm going to Judge Rudolph with this,' she said.

'You can't. I'm your client and this is a privileged conversation. Disclose it and you're disbarred, ruined.' Steere laced his long fingers together and leaned forward on his side of the metal ledge. 'Of course, I'd deny the conversation ever took place. You'd look like a fool.'

Then I quit. I'm not your lawyer anymore. I'm withdrawing from the representation.' Marta snatched her bag and briefcase from the tile floor.

'The judge won't let you withdraw while the jury's out. It's too late in the game. It's prejudicial to me, infringes my constitutional rights.'

'Don't you lecture me,' Marta shot back, though she knew he was right about her withdrawal. 'I suborned perjury for you.'

'Suborn perjury, my my. You can talk the talk, can't you? So can I. You didn't suborn perjury because I didn't testify in my own defense.'

'It's a fraud on the court—'

'Enough.' Steere cut Marta off with a wave. 'Here's what happens next: the verdict comes in by noon and I go free. Then I hold a press conference where I tell the world that the mayor is a smacked ass, the jury system is a blessing, and you're the best whore money can buy.'

Marta froze. Her fingers squeezed the handle of her briefcase. Rage constricted her breathing. She felt choked, with Steere's polished loafer on her throat.

'Then we'll go to the Swann Fountain for the victory celebration,' Steere continued. 'We can play footsies, just like old times. After that I'm booked to St. Bart's on a Learjet that'll take off from Atlantic City if Philly is snowed in. I love the beach, don't you? Hate the water, but love the beach. Want to come?'

Marta only glared in response. She wouldn't be used like this. Not by him. Not by anyone. She reached for the door of the interview room.

'Aw, don't go away mad, honey,' Steere said.

'I have work to do.'

'What work? You just proved me innocent.'

'Right. Now I'm going to prove you guilty.'

Steere chuckled behind tented fingers. 'There's no evidence.'

'There must be.'

'The police couldn't find any.'

'They didn't have the incentive I do.'

'And you'll find this evidence before the jury comes back? By noon tomorrow?'

'They won't be out that long,' Marta said. She yanked the door open to the sound of Steere's laughter, but as furious as she was, she knew it didn't matter who was laughing first. Only who was laughing last.

2

The Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia is a newly built courthouse and the holding cells adjoining the courtrooms resemble small, modern offices. Clear bulletproof plastic has supplanted atmospheric iron bars and the white-painted cinderblock walls are still clean and relatively unscuffed. Elliot Steere's cell contained a white Formica bench, a stainless steel toilet, and a half-sink. Steere was the only prisoner on the floor and because of transportation problems caused by the snowstorm, would be staying nights in his holding cell during jury deliberations. He crossed his legs as he read the Wall Street Journal and pointedly ignored the older guard standing in front of him like a penitent.

'I can't do it, Mr. Steere,' the guard said, glancing over his shoulder. The other guard was out on break but he'd be back soon. Frank didn't want to get caught standing in Steere's cell. 'I tried, but I can't.'

Steere didn't look up from his newspaper. 'Yes you can. Try again.'