least try to.
“Yeah, well you missed, didn’t you? She survived and now she’s talking to the cops.”
“I hit her three times. It’s a miracle.”
“Miracles happen, don’t they? A basic rule is never leave behind a witness.”
“I know, I know. Can’t we take care of her?”
“Shut up. You’re in enough trouble.”
“Can you get me outta here?”
“I’m working on it. Burch’ll be over tomorrow. Just do what he says.”
----
Joshua Burch was a well-known criminal defense lawyer along the Coast. His reputation spread from Mobile to New Orleans, and he was the go-to guy when a man with some cash found himself in trouble. He had long been a favorite of the gangsters and was a regular at the nicer bars along the Strip. He worked hard, played hard, but maintained a respectable facade in the community. He was a fierce advocate in the courtroom, cool under pressure and always prepared. Juries trusted him, regardless of the awful things his clients were accused of, and he seldom lost a verdict. When Burch was performing, the courtroom was always packed.
He was thrilled to hear the news of Fortier’s murder, suspected it was gang-related, and anticipated the phone call for almost a week. He wanted the cops to arrest someone and solve the crime. Burch wanted to be called upon for the defense.
The first thing he didn’t like about Nevin Noll was his stare: cold, hard, uninterrupted by normal blinking, the look of a psychopath who knew no mercy. Look at a juror like that and he or she will vote to convict in a heartbeat. They had to work on the stare, probably beginning with a pair of odd eyeglasses.
The second thing was his cockiness. Locked away in a county jail, the boy was arrogant, unperturbed, and nonchalant about the serious charges facing him. Nothing was wrong, or whatever waswrong could certainly be swept away. Burch would have to teach him humility.
“Where were you at the time of the murder?” Burch asked his client.
“Not sure. Where do you want me to be?”
So far there had been no straight answers. “Well, it looks like the state is putting together a rather compelling case. The cops think they have the murder weapon, though ballistics has yet to report. There are a couple of eyewitnesses, one of whom took three slugs in the face and evidently is claiming you pulled the trigger. We’re off to a bad start here, Nevin. And when the proof is stacked against the defendant, it’s usually helpful if the defendant has an alibi. Is it possible you were playing poker with some buddies in Biloxi while Mr. Fortier was getting shot in Pascagoula? Or could you have been with a girlfriend? It was, after all, Saturday night.”
“What time do they think Fortier got shot?”
“The preliminary estimate is eleven thirty.”
“It was closer to midnight. So, yeah, look, I was playing cards with some friends and then around midnight I went to bed with my girl. How about that?”
“Sounds great. Who were your friends?”
“Uh, well, I’ll have to think about that.”
“Okay, who’s your girl?”
“Think about that too. There’s more than one, you know?”
“Of course. Get the names straight, Nevin. And these are people who’ll be asked to take the witness stand and verify your story, so they have to be rock solid.”
“No problem. I got lots of friends. Can you get me outta here?”
“We’re working on it, but your bond is a million bucks. The judge takes a dim view of murder, even when it involves a lowlife like Fortier. We have a bail hearing next week and I’ll try to get it lowered. Mr. Malco is willing to put up some real estate. We’ll see.”
----
Two weeks after Fortier’s burial, Marcus Dean Poppy assumed his daily breakfast table in the main dining room of the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Arkansas. He had not attended the rather low-end graveside service; in fact, it did not cross his mind to go anywhere near Biloxi. The murder was a clear warning to Mr. Poppy,
“Yeah, well you missed, didn’t you? She survived and now she’s talking to the cops.”
“I hit her three times. It’s a miracle.”
“Miracles happen, don’t they? A basic rule is never leave behind a witness.”
“I know, I know. Can’t we take care of her?”
“Shut up. You’re in enough trouble.”
“Can you get me outta here?”
“I’m working on it. Burch’ll be over tomorrow. Just do what he says.”
----
Joshua Burch was a well-known criminal defense lawyer along the Coast. His reputation spread from Mobile to New Orleans, and he was the go-to guy when a man with some cash found himself in trouble. He had long been a favorite of the gangsters and was a regular at the nicer bars along the Strip. He worked hard, played hard, but maintained a respectable facade in the community. He was a fierce advocate in the courtroom, cool under pressure and always prepared. Juries trusted him, regardless of the awful things his clients were accused of, and he seldom lost a verdict. When Burch was performing, the courtroom was always packed.
He was thrilled to hear the news of Fortier’s murder, suspected it was gang-related, and anticipated the phone call for almost a week. He wanted the cops to arrest someone and solve the crime. Burch wanted to be called upon for the defense.
The first thing he didn’t like about Nevin Noll was his stare: cold, hard, uninterrupted by normal blinking, the look of a psychopath who knew no mercy. Look at a juror like that and he or she will vote to convict in a heartbeat. They had to work on the stare, probably beginning with a pair of odd eyeglasses.
The second thing was his cockiness. Locked away in a county jail, the boy was arrogant, unperturbed, and nonchalant about the serious charges facing him. Nothing was wrong, or whatever waswrong could certainly be swept away. Burch would have to teach him humility.
“Where were you at the time of the murder?” Burch asked his client.
“Not sure. Where do you want me to be?”
So far there had been no straight answers. “Well, it looks like the state is putting together a rather compelling case. The cops think they have the murder weapon, though ballistics has yet to report. There are a couple of eyewitnesses, one of whom took three slugs in the face and evidently is claiming you pulled the trigger. We’re off to a bad start here, Nevin. And when the proof is stacked against the defendant, it’s usually helpful if the defendant has an alibi. Is it possible you were playing poker with some buddies in Biloxi while Mr. Fortier was getting shot in Pascagoula? Or could you have been with a girlfriend? It was, after all, Saturday night.”
“What time do they think Fortier got shot?”
“The preliminary estimate is eleven thirty.”
“It was closer to midnight. So, yeah, look, I was playing cards with some friends and then around midnight I went to bed with my girl. How about that?”
“Sounds great. Who were your friends?”
“Uh, well, I’ll have to think about that.”
“Okay, who’s your girl?”
“Think about that too. There’s more than one, you know?”
“Of course. Get the names straight, Nevin. And these are people who’ll be asked to take the witness stand and verify your story, so they have to be rock solid.”
“No problem. I got lots of friends. Can you get me outta here?”
“We’re working on it, but your bond is a million bucks. The judge takes a dim view of murder, even when it involves a lowlife like Fortier. We have a bail hearing next week and I’ll try to get it lowered. Mr. Malco is willing to put up some real estate. We’ll see.”
----
Two weeks after Fortier’s burial, Marcus Dean Poppy assumed his daily breakfast table in the main dining room of the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Arkansas. He had not attended the rather low-end graveside service; in fact, it did not cross his mind to go anywhere near Biloxi. The murder was a clear warning to Mr. Poppy,
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