my shorts. But I've never met anyone who actually did."
The young man on the other side of the acrylic barrier sighed. Clarence Brown was a long-legged white kid, almost seven feet tall, and Ben knew from the referral file that he was barely twenty years old. "Look, the cop pulled me over for no reason at all."
Ben glanced at the file. "His report says you were driving erratically."
"That's his story. I'm a good driver. Damn good driver."
"But the cop pulled you over."
"Right. And before he even gets out of his car, I can see him messin' with that breath thing, you know?"
Ben assumed he wasn't talking about Mentos. "You mean the Breathalyzer?"
"Yeah, that. He was gonna make me take that jive test. And I didn't wanna."
"Because you'd been drinking."
"Because what do I know what's gonna happen to me after I breathe into his little balloon? He says I fail, what do I do about it? Cops'll say anything to put a boy from the 'hood away."
"And so... you ate your shorts?"
"Well, I ripped 'em up first. Small pieces. Thought it would soak up the booze. So it wouldn't show up on my breath."
Another glance at the report. "The Breathalyzer showed you with a.12 alcohol concentration."
"Yeah, well, so it didn't work exactly like I planned."
"And the police officer charged you for attempted concealment of a crime and resisting arrest. In addition to drunk driving."
"You see what I'm tellin' you?" Brown leaned forward, practically pressing his nose against the barrier. "Them cops'll say anything to put me and my bros away. Anything!" He fell back with disgust. "So, what'ya say, counselor? Can you get me off? My main man says you're a miracle worker."
"The DA is offering to let you off with a fine, with one condition. License revoked. You can't drive for eighteen months."
"Eighteen months! No way. You gotta do somethin'!"
"Well, I can probably bounce the concealment charge. Maybe even the resisting arrest. But they've got you dead to rights on the drunk driving. Especially since you appear to confess everything in your statement."
Brown rose out of his chair. "What you talkin' about?"
"I'm talking about your statement. You gave the arresting officer a statement."
"I did no such thing."
"I have a copy of the officer's notes."
"I never did no statement, no way, no how. No, sir! I never gave them any kind of statement." He paused. "I just told the man what I did."
Ben blew out his cheeks. "Clarence, take the plea. I'm going to a party."
Christina McCall scrutinized the business card in her hand. "You actually hand this out?"
The short man in the blue union suit nodded. "Clients, potential clients, everyone. Anyone who's in trouble with the police or likely to be. You wouldn't believe how effective it is. I've saved lives with that card."
Christina scrutinized it carefully. It was thicker than most cards because it had a shimmering 3-D surface done up in swirling psychedelic colors. Beneath the colors, set out in boldface capital letters, were four pithy statements stacked one atop the other: don't say anything. don't consent to a search. the police are not your friends. you need a good lawyer.
She flipped the card over. In the center, above the address, it read: darryl cooke. a good lawyer.
"And this gets you business?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. Oh-excuse me, Chris," Cooke said, already moving away. "I promised Charlton Colby a word."
Which was his way of saying he'd spotted someone more important to talk to. Christina supposed she shouldn't fault him; he was just networking, like everyone else here at the Tulsa County Bar reception. In these days of cutthroat law practice, lawyers stealing clients from one another, big firms locking up the top corporate work, lawyers had to scurry for scraps and morsels. Any amount of kowtowing could be justified if it led to work. Preferably with a large profitable law firm.
Christina, on the other hand, had already been with a large profitable law firm. And hated it. She
The young man on the other side of the acrylic barrier sighed. Clarence Brown was a long-legged white kid, almost seven feet tall, and Ben knew from the referral file that he was barely twenty years old. "Look, the cop pulled me over for no reason at all."
Ben glanced at the file. "His report says you were driving erratically."
"That's his story. I'm a good driver. Damn good driver."
"But the cop pulled you over."
"Right. And before he even gets out of his car, I can see him messin' with that breath thing, you know?"
Ben assumed he wasn't talking about Mentos. "You mean the Breathalyzer?"
"Yeah, that. He was gonna make me take that jive test. And I didn't wanna."
"Because you'd been drinking."
"Because what do I know what's gonna happen to me after I breathe into his little balloon? He says I fail, what do I do about it? Cops'll say anything to put a boy from the 'hood away."
"And so... you ate your shorts?"
"Well, I ripped 'em up first. Small pieces. Thought it would soak up the booze. So it wouldn't show up on my breath."
Another glance at the report. "The Breathalyzer showed you with a.12 alcohol concentration."
"Yeah, well, so it didn't work exactly like I planned."
"And the police officer charged you for attempted concealment of a crime and resisting arrest. In addition to drunk driving."
"You see what I'm tellin' you?" Brown leaned forward, practically pressing his nose against the barrier. "Them cops'll say anything to put me and my bros away. Anything!" He fell back with disgust. "So, what'ya say, counselor? Can you get me off? My main man says you're a miracle worker."
"The DA is offering to let you off with a fine, with one condition. License revoked. You can't drive for eighteen months."
"Eighteen months! No way. You gotta do somethin'!"
"Well, I can probably bounce the concealment charge. Maybe even the resisting arrest. But they've got you dead to rights on the drunk driving. Especially since you appear to confess everything in your statement."
Brown rose out of his chair. "What you talkin' about?"
"I'm talking about your statement. You gave the arresting officer a statement."
"I did no such thing."
"I have a copy of the officer's notes."
"I never did no statement, no way, no how. No, sir! I never gave them any kind of statement." He paused. "I just told the man what I did."
Ben blew out his cheeks. "Clarence, take the plea. I'm going to a party."
Christina McCall scrutinized the business card in her hand. "You actually hand this out?"
The short man in the blue union suit nodded. "Clients, potential clients, everyone. Anyone who's in trouble with the police or likely to be. You wouldn't believe how effective it is. I've saved lives with that card."
Christina scrutinized it carefully. It was thicker than most cards because it had a shimmering 3-D surface done up in swirling psychedelic colors. Beneath the colors, set out in boldface capital letters, were four pithy statements stacked one atop the other: don't say anything. don't consent to a search. the police are not your friends. you need a good lawyer.
She flipped the card over. In the center, above the address, it read: darryl cooke. a good lawyer.
"And this gets you business?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. Oh-excuse me, Chris," Cooke said, already moving away. "I promised Charlton Colby a word."
Which was his way of saying he'd spotted someone more important to talk to. Christina supposed she shouldn't fault him; he was just networking, like everyone else here at the Tulsa County Bar reception. In these days of cutthroat law practice, lawyers stealing clients from one another, big firms locking up the top corporate work, lawyers had to scurry for scraps and morsels. Any amount of kowtowing could be justified if it led to work. Preferably with a large profitable law firm.
Christina, on the other hand, had already been with a large profitable law firm. And hated it. She
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