Blood Defense - [5]

“A lot less than it’ll cost if you get caught with it.”

He put out his hand. “Come on, man. Give it back. That’s a lot of money.”

“Just be glad I’m not calling your mother.”

Deshawn’s shoulders drooped and he gave me a glum look. He motioned to the others. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Lil’ J leaned toward me. “Hey, uh, you got a card or something?” The others chimed in. “Yeah.” “I’ll take one.” “Me, too.”

I passed my cards around. “Cash retainers only, no checks, no credit cards.” I doubted that they’d be able to swing my fee, but I didn’t want to discourage what was probably the only responsible thing they’d manage to do that month-or that year.

They started to walk away, but Deshawn paused. He looked up and down the street, stepped back, and whispered, “Anybody else gives you trouble, you call me. Hear?”

THREE

The next day, I finished my morning round of court appearances early and got back to the office in time for lunch. Michelle had brought in my favorite: coffee.

I pulled up the old secretary’s chair I’d liberated from the public defender’s office when I quit to go into private practice and sat next to her desk. “Nice Scünci.” This one was red and blue-color coordinated with her cobalt-blue sweater. She always wore her hair up in a ponytail, and I always gave her shit about it. Michelle has the kind of fresh-faced, cheerleader-y looks that still gets her carded at bars. And the tiny scar over her left eye-courtesy of the mugger who’d pistol-whipped her nine years ago-only heightened the effect.

Michelle shot me a look. “Shut up. Jury on Ringer still out?” I nodded. “They asking any questions?”

“Not a peep.” Which was not a good sign. A quiet jury is a convicting jury.

The whomp whomp of a ghetto bird fired up. A daily-and nightly-occurrence in this ’hood. I picked this office because it was cheap and close to the Van Nuys courthouse. It seemed like a win-win, until I found out the building was smack-dab in the heart of Barrios Van Nuys turf, one of the biggest gangs in the county.

Michelle was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her over the din of the helicopters. I shook my head and pointed to the ceiling.

Michelle shouted. “How’d he do on the stand?”

“Not bad.” For a rapist-bully-asshole. His eighteen-year-old victim, Aidan Mandy, a homeless kid Ringer had found hanging around a fast-food joint looking for a handout-money, food, or drugs-had a prior bust for solicitation. So Ringer’s claim that it’d been a consensual business deal might’ve been a winning gambit. Except Aidan wound up in the emergency room with injuries so bad it’d take years before he fully recovered-if he ever did.

Ringer claimed he hadn’t hurt him, that Aidan must’ve tricked with someone else after Ringer, but I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t think the jury would, either. I kept my defense short and tight, put on a couple of “Ringer’s so nice” character witnesses from the insurance company where he used to work, and rested. I expected the jury to convict any minute now.

The helicopters began to move away. Michelle waited for the noise to die down. “Well, I hope he gets nailed. He’s a disgusting douche.”

No argument there. “But I did give a pretty good closing if I do say so myself. Want to hear it?”

Michelle hit a key on her computer and started typing. “Depends. You care about having phone service? If not, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I’ve got to get your claim in to the court this second because we’re about a month overdue on the bill. And you need to pay your car registration.”

“Fine, never mind.” I glanced at Alex’s office-AKA, the storage room where we kept our ancient, incredibly slow copying machine. We’d probably be better off using carbon paper. I noticed the door was closed. That meant he was out. The room was so small you had to leave the door open or you’d wind up breathing carbon dioxide in about ten seconds. “Where’s our intrepid investigator?”

I just hired Alex Medrano, a former client, to be my investigator. He’s got no training or experience, but he’s smart and has mad hacking skills. And I figure he can’t be any worse than the useless slugs I hired in the past.

“Working from home. He’s trying to get those records you asked for on Deshawn’s case.”

“Oh yeah.” I would’ve tried to track them down myself, but it required serious cyberpunk chops-and a decent computer. I had neither. I started to head for my office, but Michelle held up a hand.

“Are you sure about hiring that guy? I mean, he’s a thief and a hacker.”

I looked around at our Office Cheapo furnishings and smacked my forehead. “Damn, you’re so right. How could I so endanger our financial empire?”

Michelle glared at me. “I’m not saying he’ll rip us off, smartass. I’m saying what if he gets caught? It might look like we’re in on it and-”

I shook my head. “Never gonna happen. Trust me.” Alex had hacked into the company computer to “liberate” two 750Li’s from the BMW dealership where he was a salesman. But he hadn’t done it for himself. It was a story straight out of Les Misérables. Alex’s father had died of a sudden heart attack, then his mother had a stroke and needed full-time nursing care, which they couldn’t afford, so his brother, Carlos, had to quit work to take care of her. And his little sister, Leticia, was about to graduate high school. She’d been offered a scholarship at Penn State, but it wouldn’t cover her dorm fees. If Alex sold those cars, it would take care of all of them for at least a few years. So he did steal, but he wasn’t really a thief in my book. I told Michelle his story.