Lassiter

  Lassiter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Levine, Paul (Paul J.)

  Lassiter: a novel / Paul Levine.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-440-42313-3

  1. Lassiter, Jake (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Stripteasers—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Sex-oriented businesses—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Miami (Fla.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.E8995L37 2011

  813′.54—dc22 2010054128

  www.bantamdell.com

  Jacket design: Carlos Beltran

  Jacket image (beach): © Jason Todd/Getty Images

  v3.1

  “In the halls of justice, the only justice is in the halls.”

  —LENNY BRUCE

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - A Brew and Burger Guy

  Chapter 2 - Jake the Fixer

  Chapter 3 - The Road to Hell

  Chapter 4 - People Change

  Chapter 5 - A Man Named “Charlie”

  Chapter 6 - She Likes It Rough

  Chapter 7 - The Do-Over

  Chapter 8 - The Taste of Wet Steel

  Chapter 9 - Never Lost, Just Hard to Find

  Chapter 10 - We, the Jury

  Chapter 11 - Digging Up Buried Bones

  Chapter 12 - The Solid Gold Lighter

  Chapter 13 - The Prince of Porn No More

  Chapter 14 - Pimpmobiles on Parade

  Chapter 15 - Adjudged Delinquent

  Chapter 16 - Naked Came the Night

  Chapter 17 - The Road Goes on Forever

  Chapter 18 - Humanitarian of the Year

  Chapter 19 - The Marvelous Jew

  Chapter 20 - Just Like the Rest of Them

  Chapter 21 - Partners for Life

  Chapter 22 - Talking Trash

  Chapter 23 - Young, Single, and Horny

  Chapter 24 - The Kid Makes a Discovery

  Chapter 25 - Mood Swings

  Chapter 26 - A Hard Night’s Sleep

  Chapter 27 - No One Breaks Into the Grand Jury

  Chapter 28 - The Pork Barn

  Chapter 29 - Boy Meets Punching Bag

  Chapter 30 - Plan One, the Gun

  Chapter 31 - A Question of Redemption

  Chapter 32 - The Missing Client

  Chapter 33 - Target Practice

  Chapter 34 - Ratting Out the Client

  Chapter 35 - The Fairy Godfather

  Chapter 36 - Three Mysterious Cars

  Chapter 37 - The Old Instep Stomp

  Chapter 38 - The Rendezvous

  Chapter 39 - A Semi-Pro P.I.

  Chapter 40 - The Hummer

  Chapter 41 - A New Deal

  Chapter 42 - Orchids and Blood

  Chapter 43 - Going Biblical

  Chapter 44 - Eyeball Witness

  Chapter 45 - No Alibi

  Chapter 46 - Innocence Is Irrelevant

  Chapter 47 - So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger

  Chapter 48 - The Maniacal Obsession

  Chapter 49 - Jailhouse Rock

  Chapter 50 - Where the Wind Was Born

  Chapter 51 - The Right Reverend Snake

  Chapter 52 - The Boy Under the Bench

  Chapter 53 - A Pay-or-Die Deal

  Chapter 54 - An Army of Assassins

  Chapter 55 - Clay Pigeons

  Chapter 56 - The Portable Vagina

  Chapter 57 - Too Many Questions

  Chapter 58 - The Rat

  Chapter 59 - The Dark Side

  Chapter 60 - Living a Lie

  Chapter 61 - Family Ties

  Chapter 62 - Lawyers, Guns, and Money

  Chapter 63 - Playing Hooky

  Chapter 64 - Never Let Them See Your Fear

  Chapter 65 - The Alibi

  Chapter 66 - A Courtroom Visitor

  Chapter 67 - The Damn Ugly Truth

  Chapter 68 - Suitable for Framing

  Chapter 69 - Breaking the Conspiracy

  Chapter 70 - Rough Justice

  Chapter 71 - The Old Fumblerooski

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Women’s Jail Annex, Miami …

  I presented my Florida Bar card at the security window and eased onto a metal bench that would likely throw my back out if the wait lasted more than a few minutes.

  It did.

  I stood, stretched, and studied the frescoes covering the cracks in the plaster walls. Island scenes of towering palms along a placid sea. Laughing mothers and hopscotching children in splashy Caribbean colors. The paintings made the place even more dreary, the inmates’ lives even more hopeless.

  Finally, a female guard brought my client from her cell. With her face scrubbed of makeup and her dark hair in a ponytail, Amy Larkin looked more like a college cheerleader than a woman charged with First Degree Murder.

  “I didn’t kill him, Jake,” she blurted out. “Honest, I didn’t.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  I settled into a straight-backed chair, and we faced each other across a table with cigarette scars from the days lawyers smoked in the visitors’ room, just to cover the smells.

  “Where were you last night?” I asked.

  “Nowhere near Ziegler’s.”

  An alibi? Attending Mass with a hundred witnesses would do just fine.

  “I was with a man,” Amy said.

  Not as good as church, but better than the scene of the crime.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  I gave her my big, dumb guy look. It’s not much of a stretch. “What’s that mean?”

  “If he testified, his life would be in danger.”

  “What about your life?”

  She fingered the opening of her jailhouse smock, flimsy as crepe paper. “He wants to help, but I won’t let him.”

  “That’s my decision, not yours. Give me his name.”

  “I can’t.”

  My lower back was throbbing again. Too many blind-side hits had knocked a lumbar vertebra off-kilter.

  “I’m thinking your alibi is bullshit.”

  “You just have to trust me, Jake.”

  “The hell I do.”

  I get my hands dirty for my clients. I fight prosecutors in court and occasionally in the alley behind the Reasonable Doubt tavern. I stand up to judges who threaten me with contempt and to Bar Association bigwigs who would love to pull my ticket. But I won’t tote my briefcase across the street for a client who deceives me.

  “Lie to your priest or your lover. But if you lie to me, I can’t help you.”

  “I’m not! I wasn’t at Ziegler’s. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

  I looked for the averted gaze, the tightened lips, the nervous twitch. Nothing.

  “I’m innocent, Jake. Dammit, isn’t that enough?”

  “Innocence is irrelevant! All that matters is evidence. So give me your alibi, or the jury will give you life.”
<
br />   She took a moment to think it over before saying, “I’m sorry, Jake. You’ll have to win without an alibi.”

  I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. “Enjoy your stay, Amy. It’s gonna be a long one.”

  1 A Brew and Burger Guy

  Eight days earlier …

  When the hot brunette in the tight black skirt waltzed into the courtroom, I was cross-examining a stubborn cop who wouldn’t agree to “good morning.”

  “Isn’t it true my client passed the field sobriety test?” I asked him.

  “No, sir. He couldn’t walk a straight line.”

  “Just how wide is that line, Officer?”

  The cop shrugged, bunching the muscles of his neck. “Never measured it.”

  “Why not?”

  He smirked at me. “It’s imaginary.”

  “Really?” Pretending to be surprised. “And how long’s that imaginary line of yours? Six feet? A mile? What?”

  “I guess you could say it’s infinite.”

  The brunette shimmied into a front-row seat, tugged the hem of her skirt, then fixed me with a look as friendly as an indictment.

  “So, my client stepped off an imaginary line, which has an infinite length and an indefinite width. An invisible line. Is that your testimony?”

  “Not at all. I can see it.”

  “You can see imaginary lines.” I paused. “So you’re delusional?”

  The cop’s eyes flicked toward the prosecutor. Help. But he didn’t get any.

  “Officer …?” I prompted him.

  “I’m trained and experienced. I’ve arrested hundreds of drunk drivers in the last—”

  “I’m sure you have,” I interrupted. “Now, what other imaginary objects do you see?”

  “None I can think of.”

  “No unicorns?”

  “No, sir,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “Leprechauns, then?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a chupacabra crawling out of the Everglades?”

  “Objection!” Harold Flagler III, the young pup of a prosecutor, belatedly hopped to his feet.

  “Grounds?” Judge Wallace Philbrick asked.

  “Mr. Lassiter is badgering the witness.”

  “It’s my job to badger the witness,” I fired back.

  “Judge Philbrick,” Flagler whined.

  “I get paid to badger the witness.”

  “Your Honor, please admonish—”

  “C’mon, Flagler. Didn’t they teach you trial tactics at Yale?”

  “Mr. Lassiter!” Judge Philbrick wagged a bony finger at me. “Address your remarks to the court, not opposing counsel.”

  “I apologize, Your Honor.” Sounding so sincere I nearly believed myself.

  I swung around, as if pondering my next question. In truth, I wanted a good look at the woman in the gallery. Slender with military school posture, an angular jawline, and a somber expression. Tucked into her pencil skirt was a silk blouse, red as blood, with those big, puffy sleeves, as if she might be hiding an Ace of Hearts, or maybe a derringer. Chin tilted up, she stared me down.

  I gave her a quick, crinkly grin and looked for any hint of interest. No inviting eyes or playful smile. Nada. Maybe if I wowed her in closing argument, she’d lighten up and slip me her phone number.

  Occasionally, I get a groupie or two. Women attracted to a big lug with a craggy profile, a broken nose, and hair the color of sawgrass after a drought. Two hundred thirty-five pounds of ex-linebacker crammed into an off-the-rack, wrinkled brown suit. A brew-and-burger guy in a Chardonnay-and-paté world. I wrapped up my cross-exam, while sneaking peeks at our visitor. She pulled something out of her purse. I walked toward the rail and saw it was a photo, but I couldn’t make out any details.

  Flagler stood, fondled his Phi Beta Kappa key, and announced the great State of Florida rested its case.

  My turn. No way would I let the presumably innocent Pepito Dominguez testify. He was a twenty-year-old smart-ass with a diamond earring and a barbed-wire tattoo circling his neck. With no witnesses, I rested, too.

  The bailiff tucked the jurors into their windowless room where they could surf for porn on their PDAs, and the judge turned to me. “Mr. Lassiter, Ah assume you got some legal mumbo jumbo for the record.” His Honor came from a family of gentleman farmers in Homestead by way of Kentucky, and his voice rippled with bourbon and branch water.

  “Motion to exclude the breathalyzer test,” I began, going through the motions of making my motions.

  “Grounds?”

  “No evidence the operator was properly trained, the equipment properly maintained, and the test properly administered.”

  Boilerplate stuff. No chance.

  “Denied.” De-nahd.

  “Motion to exclude my client’s statements to the arresting officer.”

  “Denied.”

  I checked the gallery. Mystery Woman was still there, eyes drilling me.

  Who the hell are you?

  I’d had multiple concussions on the football field. Still, I thought I remembered all my disgruntled ex-clients and infuriated ex-girlfriends. Maybe she was a Florida Bar investigator, building a case against me for yet another insult to the dignity of the court. Or maybe just one of those women with bloodlust. You see them at boxing matches and bullfights and murder trials. Not usually a rinky-dink DUI.

  At the next break, I intended to plop down beside her. If she didn’t serve me with a subpoena, I might ask her out for a drink.

  “Motion for directed verdict. Do you want to hear argument, Judge?”

  “About as much as Ah want to hit Dixie Highway during rush hour.”

  “For the record, I’d like to state my grounds.”

  “You can pour syrup on a turd, but that don’t make it a pancake. Got any more motions you want denied, Mr. Lassiter?”

  “I’m plumb out.” Adopting a Southern accent of my own. Judge Philbrick peered at me over his spectacles, wondering if I was mocking him.

  At the prosecution table, Flagler gave me his Ivy League snicker. If I wanted, I could dangle him out the window by his ankles. But then, I’d been picking up penalties for late hits while he was singing tenor with the Whiffenpoofs. Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

  “You two want to talk a minute before Ah bring the jury in for closing?” Judge Philbrick picked up a cell phone and wheeled around in his chair to give us some privacy.

  Flagler sidled up to me and said, “Perhaps it is a propitious time to discuss a deal.”

  “If my client wanted to plead guilty, he wouldn’t need me.”

  “We could recess, have a latte downstairs, and work it out.”

  “I don’t drink latte, with or without a hint of nutmeg.”

  “If I win, I’m asking for jail time.”

  “Ooh, scary.”

  Shaking his head, Flagler returned to the prosecution table and picked up his neatly printed note cards. The jurors filed back in, and Judge Philbrick ordered them to listen carefully to closing arguments, but to rely on their own memories, not those of the lying shysters. Actually, he said “learned counsel,” but everybody knew what he meant.

  I glanced toward the gallery. Yep, the woman was still there in the front row. I gave her a neighborly nod. She took it and gave nothing back.

  Flagler bowed obsequiously to the judge and thanked the jury for leaving their fascinating jobs and coming to the courthouse in the service of justice.

  Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

  After twenty minutes, he sat down and I stood up. “How did my client blow a point-six when stopped by the police officer but only a point-zero-nine at the station?”

  Judging from their blank looks, math was not the jurors’ favorite subject.

  “I’ll tell you how,” I continued. “There’s no way! At point-six, my client’s breath could have ignited charcoal in a
hibachi.”

  Fearing he’d belch beer into the cop’s face, my too-damn-clever client had squirted enough Listerine into his mouth to disinfect a knife wound. The mouthwash vaulted the kid’s mouth alcohol off the charts, while the blood alcohol test accurately pinned the number at a notch above the lawful limit.

  Oftentimes, complete dickwads are undeservedly lucky, while the good get crapped on by life’s endless shit storm. So it was with Pepito Dominguez, who inadvertently, but fortuitously, screwed up the alcohol tests.

  “If the tests don’t fit, you must acquit!” I boomed.

  Rest in peace, Johnnie Cochran.

  After some more double talk and sleight of hand, I thanked the good citizens for not falling asleep and sat down. The judge recited his instructions, and the bailiff returned the jurors to their little dungeon to deliberate.

  I spun through the swinging gate and plopped down next to Mystery Woman. Up close, she had full lips and a flawless complexion, without the hint of foundation, blush, or war paint. Her eyes were green with a touch of a golden sunset, her dark hair pulled straight back and held by a squiggly elastic band. Late twenties or early thirties.

  “Hey there.” I gave her a lopsided grin that has been known to charm a number of barmaids.

  “Hello, Mr. Lassiter.” No smile. No warmth. No nothing.

  “Have we met before?”

  “My name is Amy Larkin.”

  She waited a moment, as if the name might provoke a reaction. It didn’t.

  “So what brings you to the courthouse, Amy Larkin?”

  “You do, Mr. Lassiter. I need to ask you some questions.”

  Something in the way she said “questions” convinced me we weren’t going to be chatting over Happy Hour.

  “Fire away,” I said.

  She handed me the photo she had been holding. A small cocktail table in front of a stage. Pole dancer in the background. Front and center, two young women in string bikinis were draped over a thick-necked guy with shaggy hair and a bushy mustache the color of beach sand. The Sundance Kid with a shit-eating grin. Young. Cocky. Stupid.

  I should know. The guy was me.

  Embarrassing to look at now. I was a glassy-eyed drunk in a Dolphins jersey. Number 58. Not even traveling incognito. A red scab ran horizontally across the bridge of my nose. If you make enough helmet-first tackles, your face mask will take divots out of your flesh.

  “Long time ago. Birthday party my teammates threw for me,” I said. “Where’d you get the picture?”