obviously off his nut, but that would be a tough nut to crack in trial. The key was his mental state at the time of the murder, and there was no evidence he was anything but legally sane. It was only when I had to try to get information out of him that he flipped out. Some client.
Then there was this Delliplane who had potentially startling evidence but was about as credible as a Frisbee. What did he really see that night? Since he was stoned, how sure could he be? If he ever took the stand, even the colorless Sylvia Plotzske would make surfer meat out of him.
Some of the usual crowd wandered into Max’s and gave me a few waves. I pretended to be writing notes on a legal pad.
When I was finally in that condition where what anyone thought of me didn’t matter an iota, I took out my phone and dialed Lindsay Patino’s number, that is, what I thought was her number. I actually got some woman who spoke Spanish and didn’t know any Lindsay Patino.
I hung up and took the paper from my wallet with Lindsay’s number on it. In my inebriated state, my fingers felt like sausages. None of them connected with the others. But I managed to punch the numbers.
“Hello?”
“It’s Denney.”
“Oh, hello. How are you?” She sounded concerned, not just making conversation.
“Oh, I’m at the top of my game. You like what your brother did today?” I said it with a note of anger.
“He’s so scared.”
“Yeah? He’s crazy too.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He keeps telling me all this about the devil and like that and doesn’t remember squat that will help us.”
“You sound angry, Jake.”
“Look, I gotta talk to you about this case. Now. I’m coming over.”
“Wait, tonight wouldn’t—”
I hung up. Such was my cheap exercise of power.
As I weaved out to the parking lot at Max’s, I realized I hadn’t asked her where she lived. I only remembered she had once mentioned the cross streets for the house where she rented the guest quarters. I turned on the lights in my car and tried to find the spot in my Thomas Guide map of city streets. Normally that would be a three-minute process. In my condition it took ten.
I finally found the streets and drove over. My plan was to look for her car, which I had a vague picture of from our little bumping incident. I must have cruised up and down the street four times before I spotted what looked like her vehicle.
I knocked on the front door of the house, and an old man peeked out from behind the chain lock.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for Lindsay Patino.”
“Who are you?” His voice sounded like it came from a gravel pit.
“I’m her lawyer. Does she live here?”
“What’s a lawyer doing making house calls?”
“I care about my clients.”
“If you’re a lawyer, how come you don’t have a briefcase?”
I looked heavenward. “She live in the guest house?” I started to walk toward the side.
“Wait a minute!” the old man shouted, but I was gone. I walked down the driveway, which led all the way to the back. I could see the small guest house and lights on in the window.
Before I was halfway there, the old man shuffled out the back door of the main house. “You stop right there!” he commanded.
I turned to explain reality to him and found myself looking into the dark eye of a hunting rifle.
“Whoa!” I said.
“You’re trespassing.”
“I’m a lawyer!”
“All the more reason to shoot you!”
I put my hands in the air. “Listen, I—”
“Now go out the way you came.”
Then I heard Lindsay’s voice. “It’s all right, Mr. Laguzza.” She stepped out of the shadows.
The old man said, “You know this fella?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Says he’s your lawyer.”
“Yes, it’s all right.”
Old man Laguzza lowered the rifle, reluctantly, it seemed to me. “Strange kind of lawyer,” he said.
Lindsay looked at me with some consternation.
“Well,” she said, “I guess you better come in.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE
Then there was this Delliplane who had potentially startling evidence but was about as credible as a Frisbee. What did he really see that night? Since he was stoned, how sure could he be? If he ever took the stand, even the colorless Sylvia Plotzske would make surfer meat out of him.
Some of the usual crowd wandered into Max’s and gave me a few waves. I pretended to be writing notes on a legal pad.
When I was finally in that condition where what anyone thought of me didn’t matter an iota, I took out my phone and dialed Lindsay Patino’s number, that is, what I thought was her number. I actually got some woman who spoke Spanish and didn’t know any Lindsay Patino.
I hung up and took the paper from my wallet with Lindsay’s number on it. In my inebriated state, my fingers felt like sausages. None of them connected with the others. But I managed to punch the numbers.
“Hello?”
“It’s Denney.”
“Oh, hello. How are you?” She sounded concerned, not just making conversation.
“Oh, I’m at the top of my game. You like what your brother did today?” I said it with a note of anger.
“He’s so scared.”
“Yeah? He’s crazy too.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He keeps telling me all this about the devil and like that and doesn’t remember squat that will help us.”
“You sound angry, Jake.”
“Look, I gotta talk to you about this case. Now. I’m coming over.”
“Wait, tonight wouldn’t—”
I hung up. Such was my cheap exercise of power.
As I weaved out to the parking lot at Max’s, I realized I hadn’t asked her where she lived. I only remembered she had once mentioned the cross streets for the house where she rented the guest quarters. I turned on the lights in my car and tried to find the spot in my Thomas Guide map of city streets. Normally that would be a three-minute process. In my condition it took ten.
I finally found the streets and drove over. My plan was to look for her car, which I had a vague picture of from our little bumping incident. I must have cruised up and down the street four times before I spotted what looked like her vehicle.
I knocked on the front door of the house, and an old man peeked out from behind the chain lock.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for Lindsay Patino.”
“Who are you?” His voice sounded like it came from a gravel pit.
“I’m her lawyer. Does she live here?”
“What’s a lawyer doing making house calls?”
“I care about my clients.”
“If you’re a lawyer, how come you don’t have a briefcase?”
I looked heavenward. “She live in the guest house?” I started to walk toward the side.
“Wait a minute!” the old man shouted, but I was gone. I walked down the driveway, which led all the way to the back. I could see the small guest house and lights on in the window.
Before I was halfway there, the old man shuffled out the back door of the main house. “You stop right there!” he commanded.
I turned to explain reality to him and found myself looking into the dark eye of a hunting rifle.
“Whoa!” I said.
“You’re trespassing.”
“I’m a lawyer!”
“All the more reason to shoot you!”
I put my hands in the air. “Listen, I—”
“Now go out the way you came.”
Then I heard Lindsay’s voice. “It’s all right, Mr. Laguzza.” She stepped out of the shadows.
The old man said, “You know this fella?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Says he’s your lawyer.”
“Yes, it’s all right.”
Old man Laguzza lowered the rifle, reluctantly, it seemed to me. “Strange kind of lawyer,” he said.
Lindsay looked at me with some consternation.
“Well,” she said, “I guess you better come in.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE
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