FiFty Fifty

Chapter One

EDDIE
I hate lawyers.
Most of them. In fact, nearly all of them with only a few notable exceptions.
My mentor, Judge Harry Ford, and a few old-timers who hung around the Manhattan Criminal Court buildings like ghosts at their own funerals. When I was operating long cons in my late teens, I knew a lot more lawyers than I do now. Most lawyers were easy to con because they were dishonest.
Never thought I would be one of them. The business card in my hip pocket read 'Eddie Flynn, Attorney'.
If my father, a gifted conman in his own right, had lived to see this day, he would've been ashamed. I could've been a boxer, or a con artist, or a pick- pocket, or even a bookie. He would look at his son, the lawyer, and shake his head and wonder where he'd gone wrong as a parent.
The main problem is that lawyers tend to think of themselves more than their clients. They start off full of good intentions: they saw To Kill A Mockingbird, maybe even read Harper Lee's book too, and they want to grow up to be Atticus Finch. They want to represent the little guy. David and Goliath stuff. Then they realize they won't make a decent living in that line of work, that their clients are all guilty, and even if they do write a speech worthy of Atticus, the judge isn't gonna listen to a goddamn word they say.
Those that are wise enough to know it was a pipe dream to begin with figure out they need to join a big firm, work their asses off and try to make partner before their first heart attack. In other words, they figure out that the law is a business. And business is booming for some.
Standing outside 16 Ericcson Place, I was reminded of how much money big- time criminal lawyers made. This was the address for NYPD's First Precinct. The parking bays outside, usually reserved for patrol vehicles, had been taken by a fleet of expensive German engineering. I counted five Mercedes, nine BMWs and a Lexus.
There was something going down inside.
The entrance to the precinct was by way of blue and white painted mahogany doors with iron studs punctuating each ornate panel. This led to the TSO's desk, and beyond, the duty sergeant's booking desk. That's where I saw the argument
 
in full flow. A plain-clothes detective in a yellow shirt was sticking his finger in Sergeant Bukowski's face while maybe a dozen lawyers on the other side of the desk argued among themselves in the waiting area. The waiting area wasn't more than twenty feet long by ten feet wide, with yellow tile on the wall. The tile could've been white at one stage, but cops smoked a lot in the seventies and eighties.
Bukowski called me twenty minutes ago. Said I needed to get down here fast. There was a case. A big one. That meant I owed Bukowski Knicks tickets. We had an arrangement. If something juicy came across his desk, he called me. Only problem was Bukowski wasn't the only cop in the precinct on the take, and judging by the crowd of lawyers, word must've gotten around.
'Bukowski,' I said.
He was a butter-ball of muscle, body hair and fat in NYPD navy blues. Ceiling lights caught the sweat on top of his bald head as he turned, winked at me and then blithely told the detective to take his finger out of his face or he would insert it somewhere in the detective's mother. I didn't listen to the details.
'I've had enough, Bukowski. They get one minute each with the suspect. That's it. After that she picks her lawyer and we go straight to interview. You got it?' said the detective in the yellow shirt.
'That's fine with me. Seems fair. I can handle that. Go get some coffee for half an hour. Or call your mother, tell her I'll be by when my shift's over.'
The detective stepped back, nodding continually at Bukowski before swiveling on his heel and making his way through the steel door at the back of the waiting room.
Bukowski addressed the crowd of lawyers in front of him like he was a bingo caller explaining the rules. 'Now, here's what's going to happen. Each one of you pricks takes a number, when I call it out you got a minute with the suspect. She don't sign your retainer, you're out of here. Got it? That's the best I can do.'
Some of the lawyers threw their hands in the air, then began pounding their cell phones with their fingers while others just continued to complain while they jostled toward the ticket machine to get a number. The tickets were for members of the public who waited in line to make a complaint – not for lawyers waiting to see a client.
'What the hell, Bukowski?' I said. 'What's the point in me buying Knicks tickets for you if you're going to call every damn lawyer in Manhattan?'
'Sorry, Eddie. Look, this is a hell of a case. You'll want it. This ain't nothin' to what this place is gonna look like in the morning when there's an army of paparazzi outside waiting to get a picture while we take these girls for arraignment.'

'What girls? What's the case?'
'The ESU brought in two girls at midnight. Sisters. Both in their twenties. Their pops was lying upstairs in the bedroom, torn to pieces. The sisters called the cops on each other. They're both saying the other one killed him. This case – it's gonna go big.'
I looked around the waiting room. The cream of Manhattan's criminal defense attorneys were gathered, all the big players in their thousand-dollar suits with their assistants tagging along behind them.
I looked down. I wore a pair of black and white Air Jordan Low's, blue jeans and an AC/DC tee under a black blazer. Most of my clients weren't concerned with my sartorial appearance after midnight. I clocked some of the suits nudging each other and nodding in my direction. Clearly, I didn't look like any kind of competition for these guys. But what I didn't understand was why this case was such a big deal.
'The sisters claim the other one did it. So what? They got money or something? What's brought all the lions to the riverbank tonight?'
'Shit, you haven't seen the news, have you?' said Bukowski. 'No, I've been asleep.'
'The girls are Sofia and Alexandra Avellino. Frank's daughters.' 'Frank's dead?'
Bukowski nodded, said, 'I talked to one of the ESU responders. Frank was gutted like a fish. Torn up with a blade. The responder told me this was a bad one. And you know the ESU – they see a lot.'
The Emergency Service Unit of the NYPD operated like a smart SWAT team. There wasn't much they hadn't seen – from terrorist atrocities to bank robberies, hostage situations to live shooters. If someone in the ESU said it was bad, that meant it was straight out of a nightmare. But it wasn't the extraordinary level of violence involved in the crime that had brought out Manhattan's finest criminal sharks – it was the victim and the alleged perps.
Until November last year, Frank Avellino had been mayor of New York City.
'What are the chances of me getting in on this case when I'm at the back of the line?'
'You're at the front of the line now. Carol couldn't get the client signed up. The guy in there now hasn't got a prayer. I'll take you through in a second,' said Bukowski.
'Hang on, I was third in line?'
'Carol Cipriani bumped me a grand to be first, but she couldn't get the client signed up. Sorry, Eddie. I gotta eat.'
'Hey, what are we? Chopped liver? What gives here?' said one of the suits.

'Don't worry, take it easy. He's not bumping the line. You'll get your chance,' said Bukowski. 'It's okay, Eddie. Most of these pricks are here to see Alexandra. You're seeing Sofia.'
'Hang on, we're not here to see both sisters?' asked one of the suits, and they all raised their voices to complain.
Bukowski was my guy, along with half a dozen other duty sergeants who would tip me off if they caught a big arrest, and I always looked after them in return. This time, the NYPD smelled a big case and every cop who had a lawyer feeding their pockets got on their phones. I'd seen it before. The detectives in charge of the case would complain to the sergeants, but as long as they didn't cut into the arrest time too much there was nothing they could do. The detectives wouldn't complain to their superiors because then they would be ratting out a fellow officer.
In the NYPD, rats die in holes. Some of the lawyers here would get their shot and those who didn't wouldn't complain. If they did complain then they wouldn't get any more calls. The clients wouldn't complain because they got the pick of the best lawyers. High-profile homicide was Christmas time for uniformed PD. Like most things in this town, a little corruption and a little money on the side helped to grease everyone's wheels.
Welcome to New York City.
'Let me grab my keys and I'll introduce you to Sofia.'
'Why am I seeing Sofia?' I asked.
Bukowski leaned in close, said, 'I know you. You won't take the case if the
client is trying to get off on a crime they committed. Alexandra, I got my doubts about her. This chick – Sofia – well, you'll see. I get twenty to thirty people come through my cells every day. I can spot the real perps same as you. She ain't a perp. But I gotta warn you, don't make any sudden movements with this chick. Don't hand her nothin', don't leave any pens or paper with her.'
'Why?'
'Well, the custody doc thinks she's crazy ... But she won't attack you. You're gonna be her lawyer.'