The Letter Of The Law

CHAPTER 7

"I'm entirely innocent. My case is a classic study of the all too typically overzealous police mentality and, quite frankly, circumstantial bad luck."

Casey looked across the plastic-topped table at her former professor. It was surreal to see him here, dressed in a flame orange jumper with the back of an armed guard's head bobbing in the window outside the door. Although she knew he'd been shot, Lipton showed no signs of the distress or fatigue that would normally accompany such an episode. His face was the same as it had been nearly fifteen years ago, those brilliant, piercing blue eyes, the rakish wavy blond hair. Maybe the hair, like his suntan, had faded, but she didn't know if that was from his incarceration or from age. His demeanor, too, was the same. He sat bolt upright with his chin held high and spoke in snappish commanding phrases.

"You'll take the case, of course," he said. He took out a pair of reading glasses that she didn't remember him having. Still, they were fashionable and did nothing to detract from his appearance. He looked down at the files he'd carried in with him and shuffled through them in a businesslike manner.

"Why did Michael Dove withdraw?" Casey wanted to know.

"Is it appropriate for an attorney to inquire into the privileged discourse between her client and a third-party attorney?" Lipton demanded. He was glaring over the tops of his glasses.

"No," Casey said, shaking her head. "I suppose it isn't."

"I thought not." Lipton sniffed indignantly. He looked back down at his papers before saying, "If it's a matter of money, I know your rates."

Casey didn't know how to respond to that. While it was true that money was on her mind, the way he broached the subject was almost insulting.

"Did my original choice of Michael as my counsel wound your pride?" Lipton inquired archly.

"Of course not," Casey said quickly.

"Of course it did," Lipton corrected. "You always had a thing about being the best, not the best you could be, but first, to win the prize. You always liked prizes, Casey. Well, Michael got the prize this time. He was the one the renowned law professor chose to come to his defense, and you didn't like that one bit, did you?

"No, I suppose you didn't," Lipton continued pensively. "But now it's yours. For reasons we shan't discuss, he is no longer the appropriate person to handle the situation. You, my dear, are just what I need. The evidence against me is insufficient and I will be acquitted. You will see to it."

Lipton passed the files across the table to her.

"I have done the major part of your work for you," he said, patting the stack of papers with paternal affection. "But your gift is with the jury."

Casey's cheeks showed a hint of pink.

"I have to tell you," she confessed, "that my relationship with Judge Rawlins leaves a lot to be desired."

"All the better," he said. "Maybe he'll do something stupid. That wouldn't be unheard of. If he does, it will give us more to work with if we need to appeal. But as I said, I'm certain you'll win."

"I'll want to start from the beginning," she said in her most professional manner. "I'll ask Rawlins for a six-month extension with the right to resubmit all motions."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Lipton countered. "My trial begins a week from Monday, and that's all you'll need to prepare."

Casey began to protest that it was almost unheard of for an attorney to have so little time to prepare for trial, but Lipton's halting, slender hand cut her off. "Every motion is in order. I oversaw everything and Michael is no slouch."

"I have to familiarize myself with the case," Casey interjected. "I have to develop a strategy for witnesses, for the entire trial…"

Lipton smiled demonically at her and in a hushed voice said, "My dear, I told you. I have everything right here. This is the strategy. These are the witnesses. I am the director. You are the player…"

Casey pressed her lips together, thinking. Part of her wanted to wipe the smug, assuming look off this man's face, to politely get up and leave. Another part of her never could. As insulted as she might be, she was also fascinated and challenged. What he said about the prize was painfully true. She remembered the stab of resentment she'd felt when she read about the case and learned that her old professor had chosen Dove and not her for his defense counsel. She had the better reputation of the two, if not by much. And more important, as a female she would have a natural advantage when it came to convincing a jury that her client was not guilty of a heinous crime toward another woman.

And now that he was offering her the case, he was doing so with restrictions. She was fairly certain she knew what he was up to. It was the game within the game. The decision to proceed with the trial was more than just his desire to get out of jail. It was a strategic move, and it made her wonder if Lipton had somehow forced Dove to rescind the case. If Lipton were found guilty, the chances of getting another trial on appeal would be good with a switch in attorneys so close to trial. Van Rawlins wasn't the kind of judge to insist on an extension under normal conditions. He certainly wouldn't do so now, knowing full well that such an extension would make Casey's life easier.

"There are some questions I do need answers to," Casey declared.

"And there are some I'll answer," Lipton replied curtly. "Others I won't. I'm not your usual client, my dear. I am your teacher. You are my pupil. Don't expect to enjoy the usual prerogatives you have with a sniveling criminal. I am neither sniveling nor a criminal."

"Why did you try to escape?" she asked, refusing to be baited.

"I wasn't trying to escape," he told her sternly. "I was there that day. I saw her body. It was horrible. I wanted to get away from everything… I loved her."

"She was your…"

"We were lovers," he said with a cryptic smile.

Was he suggesting that he was a prize Casey had wanted as well? She felt vaguely disturbed. When she was a student, she had certainly admired him, but many of her classmates had felt the same way. He was considered one of the preeminent authorities on criminal law. His book The Letter of the Law had been such a smashing success that he traveled the country giving seminars.

And in the last fifteen years, there were very few attorneys who had ambitions of becoming trial lawyers who hadn't been exposed to either one of his seminars or his book. Essentially, it was a practical guide to winning. After a preamble that described the nobility of criminal defense work, the book went on to describe the most effective tactics for winning a case. Its disregard of moral considerations was stunning and had made the book every bit as controversial as it was popular. Like many great ideas it was simple, and therein lay its brilliance. So there she had been, a young law student awed not only by the notoriety but also by the overwhelming intellect and charisma of the man.

Lipton's strange, almost knowing smile struck a nerve with Casey, but it quickly disappeared and he got back to business.

"I was upset," he continued, his words almost lifeless. "Anyone would have been. I wanted to get away. I had no idea anyone saw me leaving her apartment."

"You ran into another car," Casey pointed out.

Lipton shrugged. "Most people are mindless. For someone to have the perspicacity to see my license plate was an unusual coincidence. Otherwise, I would have taken my leave without arousing suspicion."

"Her father thinks you did it," Casey said.

"The father is mad," Lipton said, flaring up for the first time. "He was behind the attack on me, if it wasn't him who actually shot me." Lipton's hand instinctively sought out and caressed the healing wound not three inches above his heart. "It happened so fast, I don't know.

"He was the one who killed her, you know," he continued, narrowing his eyes malevolently. "He was jealous of what I had with his daughter."

"Did you tell this to anyone?" Casey said, incredulous. She vaguely recalled the father from the newspaper accounts, but nowhere had she heard or read of him as a suspect.

"Of course not!" Lipton scoffed. "I was their suspect. Once the police machine sets its sights on a person, that's it. They're like dumb animals. Beyond a very brief initial interview, I've said nothing to the police. I know better than that. But all this is in the files. You're wasting my time."

Casey thought about asking what other important things he had to do, but didn't.

"What about the underwear?" she asked, averting her eyes from his cold gaze.

"A sexual proclivity," he told her. His voice was quiet, almost syrupy. "A trophy of sorts."

"And the blood?" she asked.

"Old," he said. "Marcia liked to be tied up. She was what I call a dominant woman. Young, but still dominant. She was smart and headstrong and ambitious as well as very beautiful. I find that dominant women often like to be tied up… to restore the natural order if you will…"

Casey looked up. Lipton's eyes were gleaming now. He was playing with her, staying just barely within the bounds of decency.

"That doesn't explain"-Casey stopped, cleared her throat, and continued-"that doesn't explain the blood."

"Part of the bondage she craved was to have her panties stuffed into her mouth," Lipton responded in a clinical tone. "She bit her tongue. It's that simple."

"And speaking of sexual proclivities," he continued, "Michael Dove has my computer and I want you to get it from him immediately, and by that I mean today. The police took it when they arrested me. After they went through it, along with everything else I own, and found nothing, he was able to get it back. There are some very personal files that I've hidden on the hard drive that could be very damning if they were to get into the wrong hands. Their sexual content is irrelevant. That's my private business. But if a prosecutor got them in front of a jury… well, not everyone has our enlightened view when it comes to the First Amendment, especially when it comes to sex."

Lipton was leering at her now, and Casey's skin began to crawl. The air vent hummed. A fly came down from the ceiling and conducted a haphazard march across the tabletop between them before retreating to the glass panel on the door. More than anything, Casey wanted to get out of the room.

"I'm sure I'll have more questions after I read these," she said, rising and gathering the files. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you, Casey, on a daily basis, I mean. It's been quite a while," he said, rising himself and extending his hand. Casey took it, and her old professor pressed his long, cool fingers into her flesh until she twisted free.

"Then don't take the case," Tony told her. He was standing next to her Stairmaster machine in a royal blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a bold orange tie. Casey dabbed her sweaty face with a fresh white hand towel and stared hard at him. Her hair, pulled back from her face with a black cloth band, had gone from wavy to curly in the heat of her workout.

"Right, Tony," she huffed sarcastically. It was six-thirty in the morning and she was almost finished with her workout. The small exercise room was adjacent to her office. It came complete with a shower and a small set of free weights. Casey was obsessed with being mistaken at the beach for a twenty-one-year-old. Working out every morning kept her that way. She claimed it also gave her time to think about the coming day. It wasn't unusual at all for Tony to wander in about this time with his second double cappuccino of the morning. His idea of starting the day off right was to have his shoes shined while he drank his first double and scanned the morning paper.

Casey presumed he wasn't serious when he said she should drop the case. When Lipton had first been arrested over a year ago, Tony had implored her to contact him.

"Let him know you're available," Tony had said. She refused, and then when she lamented Michael Dove's being hired by Lipton, Tony only made it worse by saying that if she'd taken that first step of contacting him, she could have had the case.

"The first step is every bit as important as trying the case," Tony was always saying. "Without the first step, there is no case."

"That's your job," she'd responded.

"He wasn't my law professor," Tony had countered. "He was yours. You could have had the case. All you had to do was ask. I tell you that all the time, Casey. You have to ask."

Now that she had the case, she certainly wasn't going to give it up.

"I'm not saying I don't want it. It would be great," Tony said, stepping aside as she got down off the machine. "The media will be like bums on a bologna sandwich for this one. It might even get some play nationally. And the guy can pay our top rate. He's loaded. Those are all good reasons to take it, but I really mean it when I say don't take it if you're not comfortable."

Casey studied his face.

"Do you really think I'm that mercenary?" he asked. "I don't want you working with a client if it disturbs you. Besides, one week to prepare is almost unheard of. I don't know if you could do it."

His last words were spoken with an ingenuous expression. Whether they were actually intended to challenge her or not, Casey responded that way.

"I can do it," she said with a snort, hoisting a pair of dumbbells and beginning to crank out a set of curls as if to accentuate her confidence. "I could walk in on a case in a day if I had to."

"What about the fact that it looks like he did it?" he asked, sitting down on the padded bench and bracing his elbow against one thick knee.

"Innocent until proven guilty," she said. "Remember?"

"But tell me you don't think he did it," Tony said. As he continued to speak, he counted off on his fingers. "Come on. The guy was seen leaving the scene. He lied about it to the police. He had her bloody underwear in his bag, for God's sake! And they caught him heading for the airport with a reservation to Toronto. Oh, that's good, Casey. That's overzealous. Tell me how you explain the guy out of all that."

"You're talking like a prosecutor," she said.

"Hey, I started there, too, you know," he reminded her.

"You're so far from the DA's office that you… I don't know. You're just far."

"Okay," he said, "so we're back to representing defendants until they're proven guilty? That's good. I thought we were going to have to start chasing ambulances."

"Funny," she said, switching her dumbbells to an overhead press. "But Lipton didn't say he did it. That's the difference and you damn well know it. If a client tells me he did it, I won't represent him. I don't care if it's the pope. But Lipton says he's innocent, and he deserves to have someone plead his case."

"Hey, go easy on the pope. This guy's no pope."