Gradually Leon became alarmed as the hearings before the Immigration Appeal Board, which arguably could have been dealt with in an hour, took weeks to proceed. Canada does not extradite its citizens if there is a likelihood of a death sentence. That, however, was not how the proceedings went. There were motions, depositions, adjournments, and appeals. The tribunal chairman commented many times, “Well, that’s a new one, but I guess we’ll need to deal with it.” The case proceeded to the federal Court of Appeal twice, once on an evidence motion, and once on the merits. By the time the Supreme Court ruled what was anticipated, namely that Leon could not be extradited, Blankstein deFijter had sopped up more than $4 million of the retainer.
Finally, the last legal process began. Leon was charged, in Canada, with conspiracy to destroy the Colorado River dams resulting in the murder of a good 20,000 souls, most of whom were American, but a few of whom were Canadian. Once again there were pretrial motions, appeals on interim rulings, motions to quash the indictment as being too vague, and motions to quash the indictment because the deaths took place in the United States and this was Canada. It was endless. The feeding continued, unabated. Once or twice, when it seemed to Leon that the various motions were ridiculous, and he would say as much, one of the lawyers would invariably turn around, eyeball Leon, and tell him, “We’re the lawyers, not just any lawyers, but Blankstein deFijter. And the senior partner of our firm is sitting right there, at counsel table. You don’t know how rare that is. We’re privileged he’s here. Now shut up and look depressed.”
The preliminary inquiry began with less than $5 million of the retainer left. What ought to have been accomplished in three or four weeks had turned into a three-month torturous grind. Finally the pretrial carnival concluded, the indictment was not quashed, and a trial date was set. Two weeks prior to the start of the trial, scheduled to last three months, Dana Wittenberg was given an unpleasant chore. The trough was empty. Blankstein deFijter required another $10 million to see things through to the end of trial. If there were to be appeals, well, that would cost another $5 million or so.
The steel doors clanged shut and Dana waited for Leon to be ushered in. The alleged criminal mastermind came in, hands cuffed, legs chained. The corrections officers were not taking any chances. Leon was not what he appeared to be in court. His rolled-up sleeves showed powerful arms, heavily tattooed. His long ponytail, which had been hidden from view during the various legal proceedings, was undone, revealing long, thick, greying shoulder-length hair. His eyes were a piercing pale blue, and his face radiated rage.
“What d’ya want, kid?” he asked, having a fairly good idea why Dana was there.
Dana tried not to show fear, but wasn’t very successful at it. She reddened slightly, which only served to highlight the scar. “The, uh, the retainer.
The money. It’s used up.”
“You little snot,” Leon snarled, turning around and spitting on the floor. “I’ve been talking to other prisoners, to other lawyers, about what you whores at Blankstein deFijter have done . . . .”
“But Leon,” Dana retorted, “we vigorously defended on every aspect—”
“Screw you,” Leon snapped. “Everyone knows that Canada never extradites if the accused faces the death penalty. You could have sent a $150-anhour clerk to sit at the extradition hearing. And that prelim that went on for three months, and all those idiot motions? A complete waste of time.”
Dana was tougher than she looked. She had suffered through a difficult childhood, poverty, and teenage humiliation. Her mother was killed in an accident, in the accident, and her father took to drinking and worse. She was able to work her way through college and law school on scholarships and working eight-dollar-an-hour fast food jobs. She refused to wilt. “Mr. deFijter has asked for a further retainer, Leon,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “He requires a further $10 million to defend you to the conclusion of the trial.”
“The tottering old money fucker wants what?”
“Ten million. Dollars.” Dana was squirming uncomfortably in the plastic prison chair. “Ten million.”
“I don’t have it. I’m not paying it. Wouldn’t pay it if I had it. I gave you $10 million to look after me. To resolve everything. Now you can’t ask for another ten. Bring it in front of the judge.”
With that he stood up and punched the red button on the wall behind him. “Tell deFijter and the rest of you assholes to bring on a motion. Tell them to go screw themselves.”
Thus, within a few days, Blankstein deFijter brought on another motion. An application to be relieved from the obligation of defending Leon. “We can’t work if we don’t get paid. I mean, could anyone?”
Judge Shawn Mordecai, who had been assigned to handle the conspiracy trial, bristled. “Mr. deFijter,” he said, in a slow deliberate setup, knowing exactly what was coming. “It is common knowledge. Blankstein deFijter has overindulged, once again.”
Before deFijter could respond, Leon stood up and spoke.
“I have been charged with many things. I was faced with extradition hearings and this baseless conspiracy charge. They said to me that they would look after it all if I gave them $10 million, which represented everything I had. I handed over the $10 million. But now, when we’re just half done, they want another $10 million. I don’t have another nickel.”
That last bit wasn’t exactly true, but the court didn’t need to know that.
“What about that, Mr. deFijter?” said the judge, peering at him through bushy eyebrows,
