FiFty Fifty

Chapter Eight

EDDIE

Harper called me just after she left Sofia's place around five in the afternoon. She didn't get much out of her, and she was tired. We arranged to meet for breakfast the next day after my meeting with the DA.
In all my time as an attorney I'd never had a good experience with plea bargains. Even if the prosecution are offering your client a great deal on a guilty plea, with reduced jail time for saving the city the cost of a trial, it always carries a tinge of regret for me. In a plea deal, the prosecutor is the one sentencing the client, not the judge. Sure, you can bargain a little, but normally you don't have a lot of power in that situation. Harry Ford, before he became a judge, once told me that it was the plea bargains that get you into trouble with the client. Sure, they like the deal to begin with – one year of jail time on a plea, or run the risk of a trial and conviction that carried a fifteen-year sentence. That's a no brainer even for those clients whose brains don't work so good. But after six months of the Department of Correction's hospitality in a double cell at Sing Sing, with another six to go, it's surprising how many clients begin to complain about their lawyer forcing them to take a plea – that they're really innocent after all. Unfortunately, a lot of them are telling the truth. Innocent people plead guilty every day in every city in America because the prosecutor dangles a deal that means they can serve a little time and then get out and get on with their lives. Take a deal and serve one year or risk twenty-five-to-life? It ain't hard to see why people take a plea.
And while I'd never enjoyed plea bargains, I enjoyed visiting Hogan Place even less. The DA's office felt like enemy territory. Always had. Always will.
The elevator door opened at the District Attorney's office reception, and there, behind the desk, was Herb Goldman. Sometimes I think he's part of the furniture, and not just because of his longevity in the job. His skin could have been stretched across a couch and passed for fine Italian leather. Still, even at his age, not much gets past Herb. He knows all the gossip in the office, and he's older than God. Probably wiser too. I approached Herb's garish purple tie and broad smile. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
'How come you still haven't been struck off, Eddie?' said Herb. 'They haven't caught me yet. I thought you were dead.'
 
'Me? Nah, only the good die young.'
'In that case, that tie will live longer than you. What are those things on it, turtles?' I said, leaning in for a closer look at Herb's tie. I quickly decided I didn't want to get that close to it, and retreated a step.
'My wife bought me this tie.'
'You should get a divorce.'
'Do you know any good lawyers?' he said, shading his eyes and looking all
around the office like a cowboy surveying a barren prairie.
'You should be in one of those Florida retirement homes, making people your
own age miserable.'
'Don't tempt me. I'd love to retire, but I can't. The DA's office keeps
threatening to give me a gold clock every now and again, and I tell them the same thing – I can't retire. It's a death sentence – my wife would kill me if I was in the house all day. The DA that canned my ass would be an accessory to murder.'
'If your wife murdered you the DA would send her flowers and a thank-you card.'
Herb had a laugh that started somewhere in his belly and rumbled up through hissing pipes before escaping his lips in a high-pitched cacophonous wheeze. Like Mutley from the cartoons.
'I got you down to see Dreyer, with this crew,' he said, pointing with his pen to the other side of the room.
I hadn't noticed when I came in but seated to my left, on the couch, sat Levy, accompanied by the young lawyer I'd met outside the precinct – Kate. On the other chair was another young face, a guy with keen eyes who couldn't be more than twenty-five – the lawyer I'd seen with Levy visiting Alexandra's holding cell some days ago.
The presence of Levy and his team meant there was about to be a whole lot of trouble.
They got to their feet as I approached.
'Eddie, good to see you again,' said Levy, in a tone that didn't even get close to sincerity, and didn't care either. 'This is my associate, Scott Helmsley.'
He pointed to the fair-haired kid in the tight suit to his left. I'd seen him in the precinct on the night of the arrest but didn't get much of a chance to appraise him. He didn't look old enough to shave and yet he busted out a movie-star smile and extended a hand from a silk, double-cuff shirt.
'It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,' said Scott, and he took my hand in the firm grip that some men use. I always thought the hard-handshake guys were compensating for something. The guys who can really crush your knuckles