during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.
Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”
I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”
He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.
Link is smiling.
Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”
“We’re watching it.”
“You gotta stop him.”
“Who?”
“Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”
“We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”
“Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”
“Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”
He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”
“Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”
“Can you ask him?”
I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”
He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.
“That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”
No response. No acknowledgment.
CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.
His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.
Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.
Another explosion.
3.
The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.
As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One
Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”
I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”
He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.
Link is smiling.
Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”
“We’re watching it.”
“You gotta stop him.”
“Who?”
“Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”
“We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”
“Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”
“Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”
He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”
“Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”
“Can you ask him?”
I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”
He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.
“That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”
No response. No acknowledgment.
CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.
His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.
Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.
Another explosion.
3.
The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.
As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One
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