serious.
“First things first. You’re going to do this by the book. I have astandard form of retainer letter on my laptop here. We’re going toput one together for you right now. Joel has to sign a retainerletter. And you have to talk to him about what this is going tocost.”
I swallow.
“I know.”
She takes my hand.
“I know you hate this stuff. But you’ve got to take care of business.You’re going to have to take this case all the way to the finish line,Mike. I don’t want to hear you ever again suggest to Joel or Naomithat they hire another lawyer. This is your case. Period. And ifyou’re going to be the attorney of record, you have to get a retainerletter.”
“I will.” She’s right, of course. Rosie used to lecture me a lot whenwe were married. More often than not, she had good reason.
“Good. Then I think you should spend tomorrow with your buddy,Joel.”
“I’m going to spend as much time as I can with him. Unless I can pulla rabbit out of my hat, he isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”
At one-fifteen, I arrive at my second-story one-bedroom apartment in aneight-unit walk-up building just behind the fire station in downtownLarkspur.
I climb up the short flight of steps, find the afternoon paper andfumble for my keys in the dark. The building is vintage fifties, andit’s showing its age. My apartment consists of a small living room, aneven smaller bedroom, a dining area big enough for a dinette set and akitchen big enough for one. It’s enough for me, but cramped when Gracestays here. The furniture is basic cheap Scandinavian teak, with a fewbookcases built of bricks and boards. The only indication of moderntechnology is a computer in the corner of my bedroom, a Mitsubishinineteen-inch TV and a small compact-disc player. Forty-five yearsold and I’m still living like a college student. It’s the price youpay when you have alimony, child support and an ex-wife who wants nicestuff for our daughter. Although Rosie probably doesn’t need the moneyfrom me, she’s absolutely right in demanding it. Given my propensityfor frittering it away, it’s better that I have a legal obligation topay it to her. It doesn’t help that I have a sixty-eight-year-oldmother who isn’t in the greatest of health.
I grab a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge and I look at my reflectionin the small mirror in the kitchen. My thick light brown hair ismatted to the top of my head. There are a few flecks of gray in thesideburns. The crow’s-feet around my eyes remind me that I’m no longerin my thirties. My face is a little more rounded than it used to be. Istill have the lean legs and torso of a cross-country runner. Rosiesays I look like the consumate middle-aged Irishman a combination ofboiled potatoes and beer. I realize that I’m beginning to look moreand more like my dad.
There are two messages on the answering machine. The first onesurprises me.
“Mike, this is Roosevelt Johnson. I’d appreciate it if you would callme as soon as you can.” I jot down his phone number.
The second message is from Rabbi Friedman.
“Michael, please call me on Saturday afternoon after services. Thereare a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” I tilt my head backand close my eyes. I wonder if Rabbi Friedman is calling to ask whyJoel is still in jail.
Let the second-guessing begin.
CHAPTER 10
FIRST, YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING
In our top story this morning, District Attorney Prentice Gates saidattorney Joel Mark Friedman will be charged with first-degree murder inthe shootings of two colleagues.”
—news center 4 daybreak. saturday, january 10.
“Did you find a judge yet, Mike? When the hell am I getting out ofhere?” At eight-thirty the next morning, Joel’s unshaven face has alook of desperation.
The small, gray interview room is stuffy.
“Not yet. Rosie’s calling in some favors. The duty judge said we’dhave to wait till Monday.”
“Shit.”
“It’s an old trick. They haul you in on Friday night so you have
“First things first. You’re going to do this by the book. I have astandard form of retainer letter on my laptop here. We’re going toput one together for you right now. Joel has to sign a retainerletter. And you have to talk to him about what this is going tocost.”
I swallow.
“I know.”
She takes my hand.
“I know you hate this stuff. But you’ve got to take care of business.You’re going to have to take this case all the way to the finish line,Mike. I don’t want to hear you ever again suggest to Joel or Naomithat they hire another lawyer. This is your case. Period. And ifyou’re going to be the attorney of record, you have to get a retainerletter.”
“I will.” She’s right, of course. Rosie used to lecture me a lot whenwe were married. More often than not, she had good reason.
“Good. Then I think you should spend tomorrow with your buddy,Joel.”
“I’m going to spend as much time as I can with him. Unless I can pulla rabbit out of my hat, he isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”
At one-fifteen, I arrive at my second-story one-bedroom apartment in aneight-unit walk-up building just behind the fire station in downtownLarkspur.
I climb up the short flight of steps, find the afternoon paper andfumble for my keys in the dark. The building is vintage fifties, andit’s showing its age. My apartment consists of a small living room, aneven smaller bedroom, a dining area big enough for a dinette set and akitchen big enough for one. It’s enough for me, but cramped when Gracestays here. The furniture is basic cheap Scandinavian teak, with a fewbookcases built of bricks and boards. The only indication of moderntechnology is a computer in the corner of my bedroom, a Mitsubishinineteen-inch TV and a small compact-disc player. Forty-five yearsold and I’m still living like a college student. It’s the price youpay when you have alimony, child support and an ex-wife who wants nicestuff for our daughter. Although Rosie probably doesn’t need the moneyfrom me, she’s absolutely right in demanding it. Given my propensityfor frittering it away, it’s better that I have a legal obligation topay it to her. It doesn’t help that I have a sixty-eight-year-oldmother who isn’t in the greatest of health.
I grab a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge and I look at my reflectionin the small mirror in the kitchen. My thick light brown hair ismatted to the top of my head. There are a few flecks of gray in thesideburns. The crow’s-feet around my eyes remind me that I’m no longerin my thirties. My face is a little more rounded than it used to be. Istill have the lean legs and torso of a cross-country runner. Rosiesays I look like the consumate middle-aged Irishman a combination ofboiled potatoes and beer. I realize that I’m beginning to look moreand more like my dad.
There are two messages on the answering machine. The first onesurprises me.
“Mike, this is Roosevelt Johnson. I’d appreciate it if you would callme as soon as you can.” I jot down his phone number.
The second message is from Rabbi Friedman.
“Michael, please call me on Saturday afternoon after services. Thereare a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” I tilt my head backand close my eyes. I wonder if Rabbi Friedman is calling to ask whyJoel is still in jail.
Let the second-guessing begin.
CHAPTER 10
FIRST, YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING
In our top story this morning, District Attorney Prentice Gates saidattorney Joel Mark Friedman will be charged with first-degree murder inthe shootings of two colleagues.”
—news center 4 daybreak. saturday, january 10.
“Did you find a judge yet, Mike? When the hell am I getting out ofhere?” At eight-thirty the next morning, Joel’s unshaven face has alook of desperation.
The small, gray interview room is stuffy.
“Not yet. Rosie’s calling in some favors. The duty judge said we’dhave to wait till Monday.”
“Shit.”
“It’s an old trick. They haul you in on Friday night so you have
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