waited for their full attention. “Julie, yesterday you asked me what I wanted from this case. Besides enough new business to pay the rent. Well, what I’ve decided to do is form a corporation, distribute the shares a third to each of us. Then I’m going to sign a personal services contract binding myself to the corporation for the next ten years. You hear what I’m saying? It’s not about the money. It’s about us and what we’ve done together.” Thoroughly embarrassed, I huffed and puffed for a moment, then added, “If it wasn’t for the two of you, the best I could hope to be, at this point in my life, is dead.”
Caleb was first to react. He walked across the kitchen, dragged me into a bear hug, kissed me on both cheeks. “Partner,” he said, stepping away, “you’re the greatest. Ain’t that right, Julie?”
“Yeah.” She was standing by the sink, holding a soapy dish. I remember the soap running along her fingers, onto her wrist, dripping to the floor. “Sid’s the greatest, all right.” She crossed the kitchen to place a wet hand against my cheek. “But it’s not like we didn’t already know it.”
I put my arm around her waist, drew her to me, held her for a long moment before pulling away. There was no sexual element to our hug. Julie was my sister, my family; I would protect her with my life, protect her as I’d never protected my parents, my wife, my son. There was something wrong with that, and I knew it. I knew it and I didn’t care.
A few minutes later, we acknowledged the fact that our new partnership wouldn’t be worth much if we didn’t get Priscilla acquitted by returning to work. I went into my bedroom-office in search of my Rolodex. I’d been hoping to leave the forensic evidence (assuming it was admitted) unchallenged. After all, we weren’t going to argue that somebody else pulled the trigger. But if Byron, in fact, had a .42 blood-alcohol and the prosecution was, in fact, going to contend that he was comatose when shot, we’d have to offer some evidence to the contrary. Evidence that could only come through an expert witness.
I thumbed through the Rolodex until I came to the number of Dr. Kim Park. Park, a naturalized citizen by way of Seoul, Korea, was a forensic pathologist with impeccable credentials and a love of the spotlight. He was small, almost elfin, with sharp, animated features that projected passionate belief in his own testimony. Jurors loved him.
In my prime, I’d used Park several times and what I remembered most about him, as I punched out his Chicago phone number, was that he liked four-star hotels as much as he liked testifying in a courtroom packed with reporters. I was calling him at the small office he maintained in his home and, given his workaholic reputation, wasn’t surprised when he picked up on the second ring.
“Dr. Park,” he said, his enunciation precise, his voice pitched high enough to thoroughly disguise the steel trap between his ears.
“Sid Kaplan, Kim. How’s it hangin’?”
“Well, Sidney, according to the inside dope on Asians, not very far.”
I dredged up an appreciative chuckle. “Look …”
“Over the weekend, while I was in New York, I read something about your case in Newsday. It sounds quite interesting.”
“It’s hot, Kim. Definitely hot.”
I quickly outlined the case and the strategy we intended to pursue, both in the courtroom and through the media, ending with the blood-alcohol rumor. Kim took a moment to think it over, then asked the inevitable question.
“Did the … the deceased have cocaine in his system?” He’d been about to use the word victim.
“Don’t know.” I paused, took a deep breath. “What I’d like to do, Kim, is send you the autopsy material as soon as I get my hands on it.”
“No problem. I’d love to see it.”
“Oh, there’s a problem, all right, and it’s called money. As in we don’t have dime number one.”
“Well …”
“But what you gotta think about
Caleb was first to react. He walked across the kitchen, dragged me into a bear hug, kissed me on both cheeks. “Partner,” he said, stepping away, “you’re the greatest. Ain’t that right, Julie?”
“Yeah.” She was standing by the sink, holding a soapy dish. I remember the soap running along her fingers, onto her wrist, dripping to the floor. “Sid’s the greatest, all right.” She crossed the kitchen to place a wet hand against my cheek. “But it’s not like we didn’t already know it.”
I put my arm around her waist, drew her to me, held her for a long moment before pulling away. There was no sexual element to our hug. Julie was my sister, my family; I would protect her with my life, protect her as I’d never protected my parents, my wife, my son. There was something wrong with that, and I knew it. I knew it and I didn’t care.
A few minutes later, we acknowledged the fact that our new partnership wouldn’t be worth much if we didn’t get Priscilla acquitted by returning to work. I went into my bedroom-office in search of my Rolodex. I’d been hoping to leave the forensic evidence (assuming it was admitted) unchallenged. After all, we weren’t going to argue that somebody else pulled the trigger. But if Byron, in fact, had a .42 blood-alcohol and the prosecution was, in fact, going to contend that he was comatose when shot, we’d have to offer some evidence to the contrary. Evidence that could only come through an expert witness.
I thumbed through the Rolodex until I came to the number of Dr. Kim Park. Park, a naturalized citizen by way of Seoul, Korea, was a forensic pathologist with impeccable credentials and a love of the spotlight. He was small, almost elfin, with sharp, animated features that projected passionate belief in his own testimony. Jurors loved him.
In my prime, I’d used Park several times and what I remembered most about him, as I punched out his Chicago phone number, was that he liked four-star hotels as much as he liked testifying in a courtroom packed with reporters. I was calling him at the small office he maintained in his home and, given his workaholic reputation, wasn’t surprised when he picked up on the second ring.
“Dr. Park,” he said, his enunciation precise, his voice pitched high enough to thoroughly disguise the steel trap between his ears.
“Sid Kaplan, Kim. How’s it hangin’?”
“Well, Sidney, according to the inside dope on Asians, not very far.”
I dredged up an appreciative chuckle. “Look …”
“Over the weekend, while I was in New York, I read something about your case in Newsday. It sounds quite interesting.”
“It’s hot, Kim. Definitely hot.”
I quickly outlined the case and the strategy we intended to pursue, both in the courtroom and through the media, ending with the blood-alcohol rumor. Kim took a moment to think it over, then asked the inevitable question.
“Did the … the deceased have cocaine in his system?” He’d been about to use the word victim.
“Don’t know.” I paused, took a deep breath. “What I’d like to do, Kim, is send you the autopsy material as soon as I get my hands on it.”
“No problem. I’d love to see it.”
“Oh, there’s a problem, all right, and it’s called money. As in we don’t have dime number one.”
“Well …”
“But what you gotta think about
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