Hard News

7

If he didn't do this crime he didsomething.'" The man's voice went high at the end of the sentence and threatened to break apart. He was in his late forties, so skinny that his worn cowhide belt made pleats in slacks that were supposed to be straight-cut.

"And if he didsomething the jury says, 'What the hell, let's convict him ofthis.'"

Rune nodded at the taut words.

Randy Boggs's lawyer sat at his desk, which was piled high – yellow sheets, court briefs, Redweld folders, letters, photographs of crime scenes, an empty yogurt carton crusty on the rim, a dozen cans of Diet Pepsi, a shoe box (she wondered if it contained a Mafia client's fee). The office was near Broadway on Maiden Lane in lower Manhattan, where the streets were grimy, dark, crowded. Inside, the building was a network of dirty, green corridors.

The office of Frederick T. Megler, J.D., P.C., was at the end of a particularly dirty and particularly green corridor.

He sat back in his old leather chair. His face was gray and mottled and would make occasional forays into exaggerated expressions (wonder, hatred, surprise) then snap back into its waiting state of innocent incredulity, punctuated with a breathy, nasal snort.

"That's what I have to deal with." The bony fingers of his right hand made a circuit of the air as he explained the judicial system in New York to Rune. "The way the system works…" He looked at Rune and his voice rose in volume for emphasis. "The way the system works is that the jury canonly convict you for the crime for which you've been accused. They can't convict you because you're an asshole or because of the three guys you wasted last year or because of the old lady you'regoing to mug tomorrow for her social security check. Just for the particular crime."

"Got it," Rune said.

Megler's other set of bony fingers joined in. They pointed at her. "You get things like this true story. My client's arrested for killing some poor son of a bitch. An ADA – assistant district attorney – bless her young, virginal soul, brings him up on four counts. Murder two, manslaughter one and two, criminally negligent homicide. Those last three counts are what they call lesser-included offenses. They're easier to prove. If you can't get a conviction on murder – which is hard to prove to the jury – maybe you can get the manslaughter. If you can't get that maybe you'll get criminally negligent homicide. Okay? So. My client – who's got a rap sheet a mile long – had a grudge against the victim. When the cops arrested him based on an informer, he was in a bar in Times Square, where four witnesses swore he'd been drinking for the past five hours. The victim was killed two hours before. Shot five times in the head at close range. No murder weapon."

"So your client had a perfect alibi," Rune said. "And no gun."

"Exactly." The voice dipped from its screech and sounded earnest. "I grill the informant in court and by the time I'm through his story's as riddled as the vic's forehead, okay? But what happens? The juryconvicts my guy. Not of murder, which is what they should've done if they believed the informant, but of criminally negligent homicide. Which is total bullshit. You don'tnegligently shoot five bullets into somebody's head. Either you don't believe the alibi and convict him of murder or you let him off completely. The chickenshit jury didn't have the balls to get him on murder but they couldn't let him walk because he's a black kid from the Bronx who had a record and'd said on a number of occasions he wanted to cut the vic's spleen out of his body."

Rune sat forward in her chair. "See, that's just what I'm doing my story on – an innocent man got convicted."

"Whoa, honey, who said my client was innocent?"

She blinked and went through the facts for a moment. "I thoughtyou did. What about the gun, what about the alibi?"

"Naw, he killed the vic, ditched the gun, then paid four buddies a couple six-packs of crack to perjure themselves…"

"But-"

"But the point is not is he guilty? The point is you gotta play by the rules. And the jury didn't. You can only convict on the evidence that was presented. The jury didn't do that."

"What's so wrong with that? He was guilty and the jury convicted him. That sounds okay to me."

"Let's change the facts a little. Let's pretend that young black Fred Williams, National Merit Scholar with a ticket to Harvard Medical School, who all he's ever done bad is get a parking ticket, is walking down a Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street when two of New York's finest screech up behind him, get him in a choke hold then drag him to the precinct and book him for rape. He gets picked out of a lineup because they all look alike, et cetera, and the case goes to trial. There the DA describes to a predominantly Caucasian middle-class jury how this kid beat, raped and sodomized a mother of two.

Then a predominantly Caucasian middle-class witness describes the perp as a black kid with razor-notched hair and basketball sneakers and the predominantly Caucasian middle-class doctor gets up and describes the victim's injuries in horrifying detail. What the fuck do you think is going to happen to Fred? He's going to jail and he ain't gonna be just visiting."

Rune was quiet.

"So every time a shooter who Clocks some poor asshole five times in the head gets convicted by a cheating jury – i.e., a flawed legal system – that means there's a risk that Fred Williams is gonna go down for something hedidn't do. And as long as that's a risk then the world's got to put up with people like me."

Rune gave him a coy look. "So's that your closing argument?"

Megler laughed. "A variation on one of them. I've got a great repertoire. Blows the jury away."

"I don't really believe what you're saying but it looks like you do."

"Oh, I do indeed. And as soon as I stop believing it then I'm out of the business. I'll go into handicapping or professional blackjack. The odds are better and you still get paid in cash. Now, I've got some truly innocent clients arriving in about a half hour. You said you wanted to ask me about the Boggs case? Anything about that article I read this morning?"

"Yes."

"You're doing the story?"

"Right. Can I tape you?"

His thin face twisted. He looked like Ichabod Crane in her illustrated copy ofSleepy Hollow. "Why don't you just take notes."

"If you'd feel more comfortable…"

"I would."

She pulled out a notebook. She asked, "You represented Boggs by yourself?"

"Yep. He was a Section Eighteen case. Indigent. So the state paid my fee to represent him."

"I really think he's innocent."

"Uh-huh."

"No, I really, really think so."

"You say so."

"You don't?"

"My opinion of my clients' innocence or guilt is completely, totally irrelevant."

She asked, "Could you tell me what happened? About Hopper's death, I mean."

Megler sat back in a thoughtful pose. He studied the grimy ceiling. The window was open a crack and exhaust-scented April air wafted through the space and riffled stacks of paper. "The district attorney's case was that Boggs was in Manhattan, just driving through from, I don't know, up-state someplace. Some witness said Boggs was standing on the sidewalk talking with Hopper and then they got into a fight over something. Hopper'd just gotten home from work and had just pulled into the courtyard of his building on the Upper West Side. The prosecutor speculated it was a traffic dispute."

Rune's eyes made a sardonic circuit of the room. "Traffic? But he was on the sidewalk, you said."

"Maybe he parked after Hopper cut him off and got out of the car. I don't know."

"But-"

"Hey, you asked what the assistant district attorney said. I'm telling you. I'm trying to be helpful. Am I being helpful?"

"Helpful," Rune said. "What was Randy's story?"

"Part of the problem was that hehad a story."

"Huh?"

"I tell all my clients, if you're arrested don't take the stand. Under any circumstances. The jury can't

– the judge tells them this – the jury can't draw any conclusions from the defendant's not taking the stand. But Randy – against my advice, I wanta point out – did. If you do that the prosecutor can introduce evidence of prior convictions for the purpose of attacking your honesty. Only that – not to prove you have a criminal tendency. Just to show that you might lie. But what does the jury hear? Fuck credibility – all they hear is his string of arrests for petty crimes. Next thing you know, Boggs, who's really a pretty decent guy who's had some bad luck, is sounding like Hitler. He's got a petty larceny bust in Ohio, some juvie bullshit down in Florida, GTA in-"

"What's that?"

"Grand theft auto. So suddenly, the ADA 'S making him sound like he's head of the Gambino family. He-"

"Where was the gun?"

"Let me finish, willya? He said he was with this guy picked him up hitchhiking, a guy who was into some kind of credit card scam. This guy goes to buy some hot plastic and Boggs is waiting in the car. He hears a shot up the street. He gets out of the car. He sees Hopper lying there, dead. He turns and runs smack into a police car."

"He had the gun?"

"The gun was off a ways, in some bushes. No prints but they traced it to a theft in Miami about a year before the killing. Boggs had spent time in Miami."

"Who was this other guy?"

"Boggs didn't know. He was hitchhiking along the Taconic and the man picked him up. They drove into the city together."

"Good," Rune said. "A witness. Excellent. Did you find him?"

Megler looked at her as if enthusiasm and the flu were pretty much the same thing. "Yeah, right. Even if he's real, which he isn't, a guy who's involved in a credit card boost's gonna come forward and testify? I don't think so, honey?"

"Did Randy describe him?"

"Not very well. All he said was his name was Jimmy. Was a big guy. But it was late, it was dark, et cetera, et cetera."

"You don't believe him?"

"Believe, not believe – what difference does it make?"

"Any other witnesses?"

"Good question. You want to go to law school?"

If you're the end product I don't think you want to hear my answer, Megler. She motioned for him to continue.

The lawyer said, "That was the big problem. What fucked him – excuse me, what did him in was this witness. The cops found someone in the building who described Boggs and then later she IDed him in a lineup. She saw him pull out a gun and ice Hopper."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch."

"What was the name?"

"How would I know?" Megler opened a file cabinet and retrieved a thick stack of paper. He tossed it on the desk. Pepsi cans shook and dust rose. "It's in there someplace. You can have it, you want."

"What is it?"

"The trial transcript. I ordered it as a matter of course but Boggs didn't want to appeal so I just filed it."

"He didn't want to appeal?"

"He kept claiming he was innocent but he said he wanted to get the clock running. Get his sentence over with and get on with his life."

Rune said, "I saw in the story that the conviction was for manslaughter."

"The jury convicted on manslaughter one. He showed reckless disregard for human life. Got sentenced to fifteen years. He's served almost three. He'll be eligible for parole in two. And he'll probably get it. I hear he's a good boy."

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Is he one of your guilty clients?"

"Of course. The old I-was-just-hitchhiking story. You hear it all the time. There's always a mysterious driver or girl or hit man or somebody who pulled the trigger and then disappears. Bullshit is what it is. Yeah, Boggs is guilty. I can read them all."

"But if I found new evidence-"

"I've heard this before."

"No, really. He wrote me a letter. He said the police dropped the ball on the investigation. They found the witnesses they wanted and didn't look any further."

Megler snorted cynically. "Look, in New York it's almost impossible to get a conviction overturned

because of new evidence." He squinted, recalling the law. "It's got to be the kind of evidence that would've changed the outcome of the case in the first place and, even then, you have to be able to show you made diligent efforts to find the evidence at the time of the trial."

"But if I do find something would you handle the case?"

"Me?" He laughed. "I'm available. But you're talking a lot of hours. I bill at two twenty per. And the state ain't picking upthis tab."

"But I really think he's innocent."

"So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I'll talk to you."

"I was hoping you'd do it for free."

Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. "Free? I don't believe I'm familiar with that word."

For the first time in her life Rune had an assistant.

Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her – though she couldn't for the life of her guess why he'd want her and not some beautiful debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn't exactly asked her out again after the first rejection and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance.

"What can I do to help?" he'd asked.

And she'd gotten a little flustered, since she didn't have a clue – never having had anyone work for her.

"Hmm, let me think."

He'd offered, "How about if I dig through the archives for information about Hopper?"

"That sounds good," she'd said.

He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished.

"Did you know Lance Hopper?" she asked him.

"Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here. But I worked for him once or twice."

"Youworked for the head of Network News?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He's the one who started the intern program. I think he would've made a good professor." Bradford fell quiet for a moment. "He did a lot for me, for all of us interns."

Rune broke the somber spell by saying, "Don't worry. We'll pay him back."

Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly.

She said, "We're going to find who really killed him."