The Trials of Max Q, page 14
He heads toward the door, but then stops like he forgot his keys. He turns to us with a look of regret. He takes a deep breath, and says, “I apologize for my rude behavior. I don’t know what got into me. It has been quite a stressful week.”
I eye him closely, trying to understand this sudden metamorphosis.
“Just so there are no hard feelings, please join me for lunch—you can continue your questions there.”
Shep is about to decline—something about it being inappropriate to dine with those under investigation by the DA’s Office—but I see an opportunity. I speak for both of us. “We’d love to.”
Chapter 34
A limo meets us at the front of the building, and we are taken to Carmazzi’s, an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. Lansdale jokes that he prefers kangaroo meat, but his guest enjoys Italian.
Carmazzi’s is small in size, but large in history and celebrity. It’s a favorite of my family, and is one of the few things we agree on.
We enter under the red and green colored awning that depicts the map of Italy. To the left is an old-style bar that’s an original from the opening night in 1928. To our right are circular wooden tables that sit under autographed pictures of numerous celebrities, including Sinatra, Bogart, and Babe Ruth—the real one—all photographed while dining here.
My senses flood with the rich aroma coming from the kitchen as we are escorted to a private VIP room reserved for special friends and guests of the Carmazzi family. When we arrive, I immediately lose my appetite. James Lansdale’s lunch guest is none other than my grandmother.
Before I can flee the scene, Ethel stands with help of her cane. “Hello, Jackson,” she says, using my full name, which is usually a sign she means business.
I was named after Andrew Jackson, which is strange, since he was the hero of poor and working class Americans. Although, I’m guessing the Lawsons admire anyone whose face is on a piece of currency. But since Jackson is only on the twenty, I see that their low expectations for me went back to the day I was born.
“And this must be the lovely Jessica that I see so often with you on television,” she makes a rare attempt at charm. She extends her bony hand to Shep, who actually looks impressed.
“This is a great surprise,” Ethel says.
If by surprise, she means plotted, orchestrated, or contrived, then I agree.
We sit and engage in awkward small talk, but I can feel the storm on the horizon. A waitress approaches. Lansdale orders veal parm, I choose penne with vodka sauce, while my grandmother and Shep get matching salads.
“Jackson, we are worried about you and Kerri facing off in such a hostile arena. We feel that no good can come of it, and the potential damage to the family outweighs any kudos that might come to either of you from this case,” Ethel begins her agenda.
I look at Shep as if to say, I told you so.
My law persona takes over. “Maybe Kerri should step down as Anderson’s lawyer. Besides, he needs a real trial lawyer. I will smoke her in court and everybody at this table knows it.”
Ethel looks distressed. I offer her bread, knowing her teeth won’t survive the crust. She declines.
“Jackson, the family has talked it over and we feel you should step down.”
“Funny, I wasn’t invited to that meeting. And last I checked, I work for the Otsego County District Attorney’s Office, not Lawson, Baird & Gentry.”
Ethel never shies away from a battle. She looks frail, but fair warning to those who underestimate her, she will fight to the death. It’s one of the few things I respect about her. “Blood is a constant. You will always be a Lawson first!”
“Maybe so, but it won’t stop me from prosecuting you on an obstruction of justice charge.”
Shep almost chokes on a piece of bread and washes it down with a gulp of water. But before things escalate, our squabble is interrupted by the mayor of New York, who stops by our table for a quick meet-and-greet with the rich and richer—suddenly Ethel and Lansdale are charm school valedictorians. Shep has a “we’re seriously in over our head” look. The mayor of New York is on their side! She might be right on this one.
After a brief photo-op, the mayor leaves, clearing the way for Ethel to resume her attack. “For goodness sake, Jackson, I’m not asking you to do something illegal. All I’m saying is that this case is a conflict of interest that puts the family in an uncomfortable position.”
“There is precedent to say it’s not a conflict,” I contend.
“Why not let this smart and talented girl take over? I have heard all about her on television and she did a marvelous job at the initial appearance. She has no conflicts, so she’ll be able to make more clearheaded decisions.”
Shep is beaming from the compliments. But I’m steamed, which Ethel uses to bait me like a small-mouth bass. I respond, “And by clear-headed, I’m assuming you mean she will see things your way?”
“Jackson, you have always had a chip on your shoulder when it comes to your siblings. I’m afraid that you’re using this situation to try to prove a point. And I, along with the rest of your family, care very much about you. We have supported you and provided you space in your time of loss. So all I’m asking is that for once, you return the favor and support the family.”
Lunch is served, allowing my anger to simmer. We all put our happy faces on for the waitress, before slipping the gloves back on. “Thank you for your concern, Grandmother, but I’ll be staying on the case.”
“Your grandmother is just trying to help you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away,” Lansdale butts in.
If it walks like a threat … I say nothing, which states loud and clear that I’m not budging.
“Go make a fool of yourself, be my guest,” Lansdale says with a dismissive wave.
“So help me, if you embarrass this family any more than you already have,” Ethel pauses for dramatic effect, and then points a crooked finger at me. “Consider yourself warned!”
“Go to trial against me and you’ll go down hard. Consider yourselves warned,” I come right back.
Ethel scoffs, “I don’t know why you are being so stubborn, Jackson. You have no evidence or motive, and Drew has witnesses to his alibi. You will have no choice but to drop the charges.”
I’m sure that someone spoon-fed that company line to Ethel. Despite marrying into a legal dynasty, she really doesn’t know much about the nuances of the law, other than it pays well.
Ethel is on a roll, “That Bang woman was nothing but a glorified prostitute. Bringing an innocent man down certainly isn’t going to bring Reyanne back, if that’s what this is about.”
She has officially crossed the line. “Do not bring her into this.”
“We’re all sorry for your loss, but we have our limits. And it’s not as though you were going to marry her. She just wasn’t Lawson material.”
I stand. “Thank you for lunch, we’ll be leaving now.”
Ethel doesn’t even look at me. “Stop being so dramatic—sit down and finish your meal.”
I pick up my plate of penne and I’m about to toss it on the floor and announce that I’m done. But that’s the reaction they’re looking for. No matter how badly I’m burning inside, I maintain my cool. I set the plate back down on the table and calmly walk out of the restaurant without a word.
I stand on the curb, visibly upset, the rain soaking through my suit. Shep finds me there. “Let’s head back home—it’s been a long day, Jack.”
A yellow cab splashes to a stop and we pile into the back.
“No—I have one more thing to check out while we’re here.”
Chapter 35
We exit the cab into a puddle on 161st Street, across from the Grand Concourse Shopping Plaza in the Bronx.
“Are you going to fill me in on where we are going?” Shep asks again. Her empathy toward me outside Carmazzi’s has turned to impatience.
“We’re going to talk to Anderson’s wife,” I say.
Sigh. “She was seen at a party in the city, Jack. She’s not a suspect.”
“I know, but maybe we’ll learn something.”
Deeper sigh. “Even if she knows something, do I have to remind you that a wife has spousal privileges from having to testify against her husband?”
I tramp through sidewalk puddles and up the staircase of the Bronx County Criminal Courthouse. Shep reluctantly follows me up the stairs to the third floor, and we sneak into a cramped courtroom. We take a seat in the last row of the gallery, just in time for Marissa Torres-Anderson to deliver her final summation.
As a defense attorney in Manhattan, I always did my homework on potential opponents. And the name Marissa Torres-Anderson came up as one of the best. Usually going up against a public defender was like a match between the varsity and the JV. And even if the public defender had talent, there was such a vast difference in resources that it was a losing battle for them. I never faced Marissa, but there were many cautionary tales from my colleagues of how she beat the varsity on a regular basis.
This is the first time I’ve seen her in person. I can’t take my eyes off her as she moves gracefully around the courtroom like she owns it. It’s not her physical beauty that attracts me, although it is undeniable, but the powerful aura of confidence that surrounds her every move. I immediately flashback to that night in Nellie’s when Reyanne walked in. I never thought I’d witness such a powerful force ever again.
Her wardrobe is on the flamboyant side for the legal world. A bright orange blazer over a tight-fitting blouse. Her skirt is mid-thigh and she saunters around the courtroom in a pair of strappy high-heels.
I can tell right away that her choice of clothing is bothering Shep. She has strong feelings about how a woman should dress in the workplace. Open toe shoes with no hose are a Shep no-no, so this ensemble must be driving her nuts.
Marissa is defending a client named Eusubio Rodriguez, who is charged with numerous counts of assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder. Eusubio is facing many years in prison, but won the public defender lottery.
She has the all-Latino jury as mesmerized as I am. In fact, the longer her summation goes the thicker her accent becomes, completely different from when I heard her speak on television. I figure by the time she closes she will need an interpreter for the English parts.
Shep doesn’t seem as impressed; she looks at her watch, and predictably says, “Who wears an outfit like that into court? If that skirt gets any higher it will be referred to as her collar.”
When Marissa finishes, I almost expect the jury to clap. She walks to her seat, leaving behind a vapor trail of charisma. The judge charges the jury on their deliberations and court is adjourned. I’m not sure the deliberations will be necessary.
We meet up with Marissa as she heads for the door. She looks at us like we stole her lunch money. “What an honor—it’s not every day that you get to meet your husband’s captors.”
I barely notice the slight. “That was impressive,” I beam, receiving a dirty look from Shep.
“It really isn’t fair, I have the home field advantage,” she replies, the accent suddenly gone. “It’s all about perception in there.”
“So you’re saying you are dishonest?” Shep asks with attitude.
Marissa looks at me and asks, “Who’s the intern?”
“My name is Jessica Shepherdson, and at least I don’t need to hike my skirt to win a case.”
Marissa just shakes her head and walks out of the courtroom. She heads to the stairs and begins to descend. We follow helplessly behind.
“You may be designer, Ms. Shepherdson, but here in the Bronx we are a lot more Señor Hoochie than Calvin Klein. I know my audience.”
“We aren’t interested in perception, we deal in reality,” Shep says.
“If this were about reality then you would have let my husband go days ago. Reality is that you have nothing on him.”
“You have no idea what we have,” I counter.
Marissa stops in her tracks, halfway down the staircase. She looks back and flashes me a sly grin. “I hope you are a better lawyer than you are a poker player, Jack.”
“We would like to ask you a few questions,” Shep remains all business as we step off onto the busy first floor.
Marissa exchanges “hellos” with a few men in suits who are obviously lawyers. One tells her to keep her chin up, likely referring to her husband’s predicament.
She smiles at me again. “Please tell me that you aren’t just getting around to talking to his wife. The spouse is always the first to be questioned. You are either as inexperienced as they say you are on TV, or this visit is some sort of hope-and-prayer fishing expedition. Neither option screams a winner, Jack.”
“Where were you when Laney Bang was murdered?” Shep asks. For someone who said this was a waste a time she sure has a lot of questions.
“First of all, I’m not exactly sure when she was murdered, so you will have to clarify. And if you two aren’t sure when she was murdered, I suggest you go watch some CNN and get back to me. More importantly, I am late for a train. Thanks to your wrongful incarceration of my husband, I have to travel to Cooperstown to be with him. So I don’t have time for your questions.”
“We’re headed that way, perhaps we can give you a ride.” I offer, stepping out of the courthouse into the drizzling mist.
She shrugs. “If that’s the case, then you two can interrogate me for the next few hours—I hate the train.”
Shep pulls me to the side. She is irate, and admonishes me, using the term “totally inappropriate” over and over.
“You see totally inappropriate and I see a great opportunity to try to shed some light on a case that is in dire need of having some light shed on it.”
She again disagrees, vehemently, but I choose not to listen.
“Our car is in Midtown, perhaps your car service can drop us there,” I say to Marissa, trying to avoid Shep’s menacing gaze.
Marissa looks at me and laughs. “Car service? Who do I look like ... the Queen of England?” She begins to head down the courthouse steps and again we follow.
Marissa stops abruptly, halfway down, and looks as if she’s just had some sort of epiphany. Perhaps she finally figured out that it’s raining and she doesn’t have an umbrella.
“It just hit me that the three of us actually have something in common.”
“Outside of being lawyers, I truly doubt it,” Shep snips.
“Sure we do—we all love screwing my husband. As much as I like to think I do it the best, I must admit that nobody has ever screwed him like you two.”
She laughs as she briskly walks off.
I can’t take my eyes off of her.
Chapter 36
We trail Marissa down a musty subway entrance and I’m overtaken by the humidity. The high security presence since the bombings, including bomb-sniffing dogs, brings back terrible memories—I haven’t been on a subway since that day. But I don’t have to think about it for long—the moment we set foot upon the platform, our train screeches to an air-braked stop. We board and find empty seats. Marissa sits opposite Shep and me.
“So, are you going to start those questions? I’m sure Miss Dress Code here has a whole list of them prepared.”
“I don’t think this is the proper venue,” Shep says.
Marissa takes a look around. It’s still her home field and she looks comfortable. “Well, if you two don’t have any questions for me, then would you mind if I interview you?”
Shep crosses her arms and pulls them tightly to her chest, which means she’s really pissed. “It’s a free country.”
Marissa scans the downtrodden passengers that surround us. “I’m guessing that most of these folks would disagree with you.” She then turns her scrutiny to me. “I’ve studied your work, Jack—you’re good. So I’m mystified that you’re off to such a disastrous start to this case. I thought Drew might be up against some tough competition.”
I don’t take the bait, and reply, “Our strategy is to make the defense overconfident that we are going to drop the charges.”
She smiles. “Bad start notwithstanding, I don’t underestimate you—I think this move to Sticksville has strengthened you. If you had stayed in Manhattan you’d have turned into another soft, country club lawyer that LB&G is famous for. So what made you trade in the Rolls Royce for the beat-up Volkswagen?”
She is angling for my weak spot. But if she thinks she can engage me in a Reyanne conversation while actually riding in a subway car, then despite her claims to the contrary, she is underestimating me. I turn the subject back around, “I just played the hand that was dealt. You, on the other hand, are the one who chose to go against the grain?”
Before she can answer, we arrive at our stop and exit into a subterranean station. We ascend the stairs toward the rain-filled humidity of late July.
“If you mean keeping my low-paying job and not becoming a professional socialite,” she says, as we reach the top of the stairwell, “my answer is that these people can’t speak for themselves, so someone has to speak for them. To take that feeling of helplessness away. I hear everybody talk of a flawed system. The system isn’t flawed; the problem is all the good lawyers run to the LB&G’s of the world, chasing the almighty dollar. Nobody wants to play for the team in the low rent neighborhood, everybody wants to play for the Yankees. Well, if true justice is to happen somebody has to pitch for the Pirates.”
“Behind every idealist is an incident that inspired them,” I say.
She nods, while maintaining her fast-paced walk. “My mother died when I was young. It was just my papa and me—he never remarried. He ran a bodega not far from the courthouse, and we lived in an apartment over it. One day it was decided that they needed more parking at Yankee Stadium, so people wouldn’t have to park amongst us undesirables in the South Bronx. A parking garage was built on the spot of my father’s store and we were supplanted. It wasn’t about the store or apartment—we would find another place to live. But that place was our life and filled with the last memories of my mother. It was over twenty years ago, but when I think of it I still get that same pit in my stomach. That feeling of helplessness—when others control your destiny and can shatter your life on a whim. I vowed that I would control my destiny, and try to help others control theirs.”
