Rafael's cocaine before the deal went through, because Rafael would weigh the dope if it was returned. Booth thought about turning down Mammon's offer, but his need overcame all objections and he leaned for-ward greedily as the white powder cascaded onto the mirror to form a small mound. Booth separated the white powder into several thin lines, then rolled a ten-dollar bill tight and inserted it into his nostril. Using the bill like a straw, he sucked up the coke, then leaned back to enjoy the rush.
Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, "Freeze," and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Chapter FOUR.
Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.
"Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail."
"The jail? Where is that?" Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.
"It's a block from the courthouse," the secretary told him, shaking her head.
Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.
"Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?"
"How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?"
IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.
The so-called library consisted of two handmade wooden bookshelves containing a one-volume edition of the Oregon Criminal Code, a one-volume edition of the evidence code and a worn set of Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases. A high window with thick, escape- proof
was provided by two bulbs that let - enough light into the room. The wire hung hung from the ce ling In wire cages.
Peter sat on a metal folding chair in front of a rickety wooden table with his back to the far wall, waiting to meet his first criminal client. His fingers nervously were drumming a solo on Mammon's case file when the door to the interview room opened. Peter stood. A guard stepped aside and all the light from the hall was obliterated by the man who filled the doorway.
"Knock when you want me, " the guard said. Then, Peter heard the lock on the thick metal door snap shut, trapping him inside the overheated coffin of a room.
Christopher Mammon moved under one of the caged lightbulbs and Peter sucked in a breath. He was used to large men. His father was large, Amos Geary was large.
But Christopher Mammon was bizarre. Curly black hair hung down over his high, flat forehead and cascaded over his massive shoulders. Tufts of hair stuck out of the collar of an orange jail-issue jumpsuit that was stretched taut across his gargantuan chest. The jumpsuit had short sleeves and Peter could see snake and panther tattoos rippling along Mammon's forearms and biceps whenever he moved. About the only parts of Mani-mon that were not grotesquely big were his cold blue eyes, which were narrow and focused like a predator's, and his ears, which were tiny and delicate.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Mammon. I'm Peter Hale, the attorney the court appointed to represent you," Peter said nervously, holding out one of Amos Geary's business cards. The card disappeared in Mammon's hand.
He examined it, then examined Peter.
,If you're my lawyer, why isn't your name on this card?" Marmnn
Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, "Freeze," and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Chapter FOUR.
Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.
"Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail."
"The jail? Where is that?" Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.
"It's a block from the courthouse," the secretary told him, shaking her head.
Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.
"Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?"
"How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?"
IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.
The so-called library consisted of two handmade wooden bookshelves containing a one-volume edition of the Oregon Criminal Code, a one-volume edition of the evidence code and a worn set of Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases. A high window with thick, escape- proof
was provided by two bulbs that let - enough light into the room. The wire hung hung from the ce ling In wire cages.
Peter sat on a metal folding chair in front of a rickety wooden table with his back to the far wall, waiting to meet his first criminal client. His fingers nervously were drumming a solo on Mammon's case file when the door to the interview room opened. Peter stood. A guard stepped aside and all the light from the hall was obliterated by the man who filled the doorway.
"Knock when you want me, " the guard said. Then, Peter heard the lock on the thick metal door snap shut, trapping him inside the overheated coffin of a room.
Christopher Mammon moved under one of the caged lightbulbs and Peter sucked in a breath. He was used to large men. His father was large, Amos Geary was large.
But Christopher Mammon was bizarre. Curly black hair hung down over his high, flat forehead and cascaded over his massive shoulders. Tufts of hair stuck out of the collar of an orange jail-issue jumpsuit that was stretched taut across his gargantuan chest. The jumpsuit had short sleeves and Peter could see snake and panther tattoos rippling along Mammon's forearms and biceps whenever he moved. About the only parts of Mani-mon that were not grotesquely big were his cold blue eyes, which were narrow and focused like a predator's, and his ears, which were tiny and delicate.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Mammon. I'm Peter Hale, the attorney the court appointed to represent you," Peter said nervously, holding out one of Amos Geary's business cards. The card disappeared in Mammon's hand.
He examined it, then examined Peter.
,If you're my lawyer, why isn't your name on this card?" Marmnn
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