Condemned by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

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    â€œThe greatest day of my trial life was when Joe Brill told me I had won my spurs as a trial lawyer.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIn older days, to become a horse soldier, when you finally learned all there was to learn, you were presented with a pair of special spurs, the metal things that a rider wears on his boots when he rides a horse.” Tatiana nodded. “So, after that first homicide case, Joe Brill told me I had won my spurs. I was so delighted to hear something like that from a lawyer like Joe Brill.” Sandro smiled at the happy thought. Tatiana, too, smiled. She reached for and rubbed Sandro’s hand.
    â€œSorry about the race weekend,” he said, watching the road ahead.
    â€œ Nyet problem. We still have a weekend. Different place, that’s all. Besides, I’m not unhappy that you don’t race. It’s dangerous.”
    â€œFun, though,” said Sandro.
    They drove silently for a while. Tatiana turned toward Sandro. “How many miles do you drive when you race?” she asked.
    â€œYou mean around the track, how many miles do we usually go?”
    â€œYes. In the whole weekend?”
    â€œI don’t know, two miles and a half around the track, ten laps in the race, is twenty five, and practice, a couple of sessions, that would make fifty more. I don’t know exactly. Between fifty and a hundred.”
    â€œHow fast do you go there?”
    â€œAround the track?
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt varies. Back straight, about a hundred twenty-five, turns less than that, average, about ninety, ninety-five.”
    â€œHow many miles from that place to home?” she asked, pointing ahead toward New York.
    â€œTwo hundred twenty five.”
    â€œYou go more than a hundred miles an hour from there to here, so you have now more racing than all weekend. And tonight we have a wonderful meal, make love, and have a beautiful weekend in New York. Not bad.”
    â€œNot bad at all, when you put it that way,” said Sandro.
    The phone on the console rang. Sandro pressed a button, the radio automatically muted. “Hello?” he said.
    â€œSandro,” said the deep, resonant voice of Senator Joseph Galiber over the loudspeaker in the dashboard.
    â€œHey, Big Joe, how’s it going?”
    â€œYou don’t care,” said the Senator pleasantly. State Senator Galiber was a tall, handsome, light-skinned black man who had graduated law school with Sandro. Years back, the Senator, who now represented a large district that covered about a third of the Bronx, had been the captain of the legendary City College basketball team. From time to time, Sandro helped write legislative bills for the Senator to introduce before the Senate.
    â€œOf course I care. And don’t say anything dirty, there’s a lovely young woman listening to all of this.”
    â€œAnybody I know?” said the Senator.
    â€œTatiana.”
    â€œHi Tatiana,” the Senator said. Sandro and Tatiana had had dinner a couple of times with the Senator and his wife. “Still haven’t found out the real truth about this guy?”
    â€œDon’t start an international incident,” said Sandro. “This beautiful woman is crazy about me.”
    â€œHow are you, Senator?” said Tatiana.
    â€œCall me Joe, Tatiana. And if you really cared, Sandro, you wouldn’t leave me here in the salt mines, wondering if you finished polishing that drug bill. I’m supposed to re-submit it Monday. I’ve already scheduled a press conference. A couple of the media people have asked my staff for an advance copy. Is it ready?”
    â€œYou still in Albany?” said Sandro.
    â€œI’m coming down this afternoon. I had a finance committee meeting this morning. The bill still has to be printed. One of the guys said I could fax it up to him and he’d work over the weekend and get it ready—if you get it to me, that