walked down the aisle and gently pushed against the swinging door.
“Maybe I can get a federal correctional center,” Romero called out. “Would that do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Shelly. Thirty years, easy time.”
“Mr. Romero,” she said as she hiked her bag over her shoulder, “there’s nothing easy about thirty years.”
18
You
S HE WAS BACK to Paul Riley. Shelly had started with him and, after meeting with over twenty defense lawyers across the city, had returned to him. Because he was the best. Because his practice was thriving, unlike many of the state-court criminal defense attorneys, so he might be more willing to take on a case that didn’t pay. Because he had been the top lieutenant at the county attorney’s office back when he put away the infamous killer, Terry Burgos. Because he’d been an Assistant U.S. Attorney before that, and probably knew better than anyone how to navigate the murky waters between the two prosecutorial offices.
Because she detected something in the way he looked at her? She thought of herself as rather plain-looking, tall and athletic, her mother’s curved face and pointed chin, thick hair that fell to her shoulders with little ado. But she wasn’t blind to the looks on the faces of many gentlemen who made her acquaintance, and Paul, who otherwise managed a passable poker face, hadn’t done a good job of concealing his opinion. Maybe he wasn’t trying to.
“So the shooting of this cop falls right in the center of an undercover federal sting,” said Paul. Shelly had broken the oath of secrecy but felt perfectly secure in doing so, in this context, one lawyer to another, explaining the merits of the case to the lawyer who might be handling it. Did Paul know that this was the scenario?
“Timing is a question,” he said. “We don’t know how much time they want to wrap up their investigation of the dirty cops. Could be months. Could be years. The more time they need, the better your leverage.” He snapped his fingers absently. He and Shelly were across the street from Paul’s office. It was a primarily carry-out diner with a small counter. Paul lifted a slice of chicken off his plate. He clutched a napkin in his other hand.
Shelly had a fruit plate before her but couldn’t touch it. The men behind the counter were shouting to each other in Greek. Piles of sliced chicken and burgers sizzled on the grill. The place reeked of fried foods.
“I don’t want to plead him out,” she said.
Paul wiped his mouth. “Premature. Investigate first. Find out about the dead cop. See what the feds have on him.”
Shelly looked at him. “I didn’t come here so you could tell me to investigate the case before I plead out my client.”
He smiled briefly, then turned to her. “Shelly, I start trial in less than thirty days. It will last eight weeks at least. It’s a multiple-defendant Medicare fraud case. And I have a civil RICO trial scheduled for four weeks after that. Even bigger.”
“And those clients pay,” said Shelly. She immediately regretted the comment. She couldn’t impose her priorities on Paul Riley.
Paul let it slide. “What I would be happy to do is help. Anything you don’t understand, or if you want some advice or my opinion, I’ll be available. Evenings.”
“Won’t you be preparing for trial in the evenings?”
“Yes, but there are plenty of lawyers I’m working with. It’s a pretty big defense team.”
Paul Riley, in other words, was the showboat who took the labor of the toiling attorneys and wove magic in the courtroom. Shelly gave up all pretense of attending to her food and swiveled on her chair. “Tell me what I need to do to change your mind.”
Paul found this amusing. “There is nothing you can do, Shelly.”
“We’ll move the trial date,” she offered. “To fit it into your schedule.”
“Shelly—”
“I’ll find a way to get you paid.”
Paul held up a hand. “I’ll help, Shelly. No charge. But
“Maybe I can get a federal correctional center,” Romero called out. “Would that do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Shelly. Thirty years, easy time.”
“Mr. Romero,” she said as she hiked her bag over her shoulder, “there’s nothing easy about thirty years.”
18
You
S HE WAS BACK to Paul Riley. Shelly had started with him and, after meeting with over twenty defense lawyers across the city, had returned to him. Because he was the best. Because his practice was thriving, unlike many of the state-court criminal defense attorneys, so he might be more willing to take on a case that didn’t pay. Because he had been the top lieutenant at the county attorney’s office back when he put away the infamous killer, Terry Burgos. Because he’d been an Assistant U.S. Attorney before that, and probably knew better than anyone how to navigate the murky waters between the two prosecutorial offices.
Because she detected something in the way he looked at her? She thought of herself as rather plain-looking, tall and athletic, her mother’s curved face and pointed chin, thick hair that fell to her shoulders with little ado. But she wasn’t blind to the looks on the faces of many gentlemen who made her acquaintance, and Paul, who otherwise managed a passable poker face, hadn’t done a good job of concealing his opinion. Maybe he wasn’t trying to.
“So the shooting of this cop falls right in the center of an undercover federal sting,” said Paul. Shelly had broken the oath of secrecy but felt perfectly secure in doing so, in this context, one lawyer to another, explaining the merits of the case to the lawyer who might be handling it. Did Paul know that this was the scenario?
“Timing is a question,” he said. “We don’t know how much time they want to wrap up their investigation of the dirty cops. Could be months. Could be years. The more time they need, the better your leverage.” He snapped his fingers absently. He and Shelly were across the street from Paul’s office. It was a primarily carry-out diner with a small counter. Paul lifted a slice of chicken off his plate. He clutched a napkin in his other hand.
Shelly had a fruit plate before her but couldn’t touch it. The men behind the counter were shouting to each other in Greek. Piles of sliced chicken and burgers sizzled on the grill. The place reeked of fried foods.
“I don’t want to plead him out,” she said.
Paul wiped his mouth. “Premature. Investigate first. Find out about the dead cop. See what the feds have on him.”
Shelly looked at him. “I didn’t come here so you could tell me to investigate the case before I plead out my client.”
He smiled briefly, then turned to her. “Shelly, I start trial in less than thirty days. It will last eight weeks at least. It’s a multiple-defendant Medicare fraud case. And I have a civil RICO trial scheduled for four weeks after that. Even bigger.”
“And those clients pay,” said Shelly. She immediately regretted the comment. She couldn’t impose her priorities on Paul Riley.
Paul let it slide. “What I would be happy to do is help. Anything you don’t understand, or if you want some advice or my opinion, I’ll be available. Evenings.”
“Won’t you be preparing for trial in the evenings?”
“Yes, but there are plenty of lawyers I’m working with. It’s a pretty big defense team.”
Paul Riley, in other words, was the showboat who took the labor of the toiling attorneys and wove magic in the courtroom. Shelly gave up all pretense of attending to her food and swiveled on her chair. “Tell me what I need to do to change your mind.”
Paul found this amusing. “There is nothing you can do, Shelly.”
“We’ll move the trial date,” she offered. “To fit it into your schedule.”
“Shelly—”
“I’ll find a way to get you paid.”
Paul held up a hand. “I’ll help, Shelly. No charge. But
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