Lassiter

10 We, the Jury

The next morning, I was late for our meeting with State Attorney Castiel. Unavoidably detained, as they say. The jury had reached a verdict in Pepito Dominguez’s DUI trial. So now I stood in Judge Philbrick’s courtroom, arms folded across my chest, waiting for the clerk to announce the verdict.

A shitty little misdemeanor, the equivalent of powder-puff football in a tackle league. Still, my heart pounded.

Yeah, I know I said I didn’t care. But now, with seconds to go, I was the guy on trial. The jury was about to rule on me.

It’s always like this. I want to win.

And fast. Amy was waiting for me upstairs in the lobby of the State Attorney’s Office.

The gallery was empty, except for a couple of seniors who came in for the air-conditioning, and dozed off in the back row. CNN had chosen not to cover the trial, and legal scholars somehow never showed up.

Judge Philbrick asked the magic question: “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The jury foreman gave the right answer: “We have, Your Honor.”

The foreman handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge, who glanced at it and passed it on to the female clerk, sitting directly in front of the bench.

“The clerk shall publish the verdict,” the judge said, in stentorian tones.

The clerk, a fifty-ish woman with eyeglasses slung around her neck on a chain of imitation pearls, squinted at the page, then read aloud: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

She notched an eyebrow on the word “not.”

The judge nodded, the prosecutor scowled, and the jurors started gathering their things. Pepito Dominguez threw his arms around me. “Papa said you were the best! And you are. Thanks, man!”

I peeled Pepito’s hands off my shoulders. “You’re welcome. Tell your old man the bill is in the mail.”

“How ’bout I buy you a drink?”

“You shitting me?”

“Let’s hit Lario’s. Couple pitchers of margaritas. Place is full of models.”

I wanted to bitch-slap the kid. I also wanted to keep my Bar ticket, and the folks in Tallahassee have warned me, scolded me, and placed me on double-secret probation several times. “Didn’t you just get out of New Horizons?”

“My old man put me in, but I didn’t need no rehab.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been upset. The little prick was grateful, and so many clients aren’t. If you win, they think, Hey, I’m innocent, why’d I need you? If you lose, they blame you.

I jabbed a finger into the kid’s bony chest. “I’m gonna be watching you. And if I see you within fifty yards of a bottle, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Looking confused, Pepito tried to work up a cool retort, but his brain cells wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, he said, “I thought we could hang together, even though you’re, like, an old dude.”

“Did you hear me? I represented you because I like your father. But I don’t like you. Why don’t you get a job and stop sponging off your parents?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”

“What?”

“Dad said maybe you could hire me.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ve always thought it’d be cool to be a P.I.”

“Forget it. Tell your dad nothing doing.”

The kid’s old man, Pepe Dominguez, owned Blue Sky Bail Bonds. Pepe sent me clients, and unlike most bail bondsmen, never demanded kickbacks.

Now I turned to his punk-ass son. “You want to be a P.I. So you figure someone will just hand it to you? Ever think there might be some training involved? Some schooling? Some work? Your problem is, you have a great father but you’re a rotten kid.”

“I’m gonna tell Dad you dissed me.” A sissy little whine.

“Tell him there’s a limit to my friendship.”

It was not the last lie I was to tell that day.