known for mild manners when provoked. "Take it easy. It's time this county had a D.A. for the criminal class.
Like Washington's mayor. It ought to be part of affirmative action." She doesn't laugh. We are doing coffee at the little espresso shop a half block from her office. My treat as I ply her.
"I've seen ten-dollar hookers strike harder bargains," she tells me. "He thinks this is the legislature. He likes to be lobbied. A good day at the office is people taking numbers outside his door. I tell the guy's lawyer to screw off on the phone. You heard it. And he cuts the ground out from under me."
"That was Radovich?" She nods. "And now he wants to do Acosta."
"His call," I tell her.
"Yeah. Right. It's a headline case, and Kline wants to motor ahead of the media curve," she says. "To hell with law and order. This is politics." I come to the point. "Tell me the score on Acosta."
"You know what we know." She gestures toward the paper. "Yeah. Right."
"I guess Tony gets a reprieve." She laughs. The bright side.
"For now anyway. His Highness is not holding court today. I called his clerk, and all appointments are canceled," I tell her.
Harry's theory is that after getting all worked up only to be disappointed last night, Acosta is probably home polishing the family knob.
"I'm sure he will bellow about entrapment," I say.
"The battle cry of every John," she tells me. "But his lawyers will have a problem. Our lady was wired. The impetus for the crime sprang forth in all of its resplendent glory from the defendant's own fly." I look at her.
"He took her out of the barn for a trot in the moonlight before they ever discussed stud fees. At least according to the witness," she says.
"This is on the tape?" I ask her. "His primordial urgings?" "What do you want, pictures?"
"No, just assurances that the man is dead meat." She looks at me. "Poor choice of words," I say.
"According to the witness. I haven't heard the tape. The techs are working on it. Some problem. Something about audio quality. They're trying to enhance it." And how good is your witness?"
"She talks the queen's English. No record. Nothing to impeach her. Hometown girl, born and bred. Good student. Wants to be a cop. Paid some political dues. Worked a few campaigns. Gofer stuff. Confined mostly to law-and-order gigs. She's into straw boaters and porn-porn skirts. Her latest outing was on behalf of God's gift to the criminally stupid."
She's talking about Kline's campaign.
"Did he bring her into this?" She shakes her head.
"Vice. It was their show all the way. If kline had done it we'd have found the girl's palm prints all over the perp's pecker, and Acosta's lawyer would be pitching it that she offered to pay him."
"How did they come to take the judge?" I ask. "Just random selection?" She knows what I'm asking. I am remembering Tony Arguillo's final comment in my office; that cops know how to take care of their own. I am wondering if this particular blanket party was planned and executed by Phil Mendel and the association for the city's finest. It would be Mendel's style, his way to quash a subpoena. "You'll never prove it," she says.
"Hey, do I look like the village ombudsman? Medals of honor all around as far as I'm concerned."
"Consider the subject," she says. "Laws of probability. Sin enough times, you're bound to go to hell."
"Pure chance. Random selection," I say. My contribution to this orgy of agreement.
"Do you think the good judge will try to cut some kind of a deal?" "Knowing the resolve in our office," she says, "he'll probably claim he thought that stiff thing was the turn indicator and get it all reduced to a moving violation." I ignore this.
"There's not much he can step down to." Soliciting for prostitution is only a misdemeanor, a citable offense in this state for which the perpetrator is ordinarily not even taken into custody. A citation is issued with a summons to appear. Vice's own kind of speeding violation.
Any
Like Washington's mayor. It ought to be part of affirmative action." She doesn't laugh. We are doing coffee at the little espresso shop a half block from her office. My treat as I ply her.
"I've seen ten-dollar hookers strike harder bargains," she tells me. "He thinks this is the legislature. He likes to be lobbied. A good day at the office is people taking numbers outside his door. I tell the guy's lawyer to screw off on the phone. You heard it. And he cuts the ground out from under me."
"That was Radovich?" She nods. "And now he wants to do Acosta."
"His call," I tell her.
"Yeah. Right. It's a headline case, and Kline wants to motor ahead of the media curve," she says. "To hell with law and order. This is politics." I come to the point. "Tell me the score on Acosta."
"You know what we know." She gestures toward the paper. "Yeah. Right."
"I guess Tony gets a reprieve." She laughs. The bright side.
"For now anyway. His Highness is not holding court today. I called his clerk, and all appointments are canceled," I tell her.
Harry's theory is that after getting all worked up only to be disappointed last night, Acosta is probably home polishing the family knob.
"I'm sure he will bellow about entrapment," I say.
"The battle cry of every John," she tells me. "But his lawyers will have a problem. Our lady was wired. The impetus for the crime sprang forth in all of its resplendent glory from the defendant's own fly." I look at her.
"He took her out of the barn for a trot in the moonlight before they ever discussed stud fees. At least according to the witness," she says.
"This is on the tape?" I ask her. "His primordial urgings?" "What do you want, pictures?"
"No, just assurances that the man is dead meat." She looks at me. "Poor choice of words," I say.
"According to the witness. I haven't heard the tape. The techs are working on it. Some problem. Something about audio quality. They're trying to enhance it." And how good is your witness?"
"She talks the queen's English. No record. Nothing to impeach her. Hometown girl, born and bred. Good student. Wants to be a cop. Paid some political dues. Worked a few campaigns. Gofer stuff. Confined mostly to law-and-order gigs. She's into straw boaters and porn-porn skirts. Her latest outing was on behalf of God's gift to the criminally stupid."
She's talking about Kline's campaign.
"Did he bring her into this?" She shakes her head.
"Vice. It was their show all the way. If kline had done it we'd have found the girl's palm prints all over the perp's pecker, and Acosta's lawyer would be pitching it that she offered to pay him."
"How did they come to take the judge?" I ask. "Just random selection?" She knows what I'm asking. I am remembering Tony Arguillo's final comment in my office; that cops know how to take care of their own. I am wondering if this particular blanket party was planned and executed by Phil Mendel and the association for the city's finest. It would be Mendel's style, his way to quash a subpoena. "You'll never prove it," she says.
"Hey, do I look like the village ombudsman? Medals of honor all around as far as I'm concerned."
"Consider the subject," she says. "Laws of probability. Sin enough times, you're bound to go to hell."
"Pure chance. Random selection," I say. My contribution to this orgy of agreement.
"Do you think the good judge will try to cut some kind of a deal?" "Knowing the resolve in our office," she says, "he'll probably claim he thought that stiff thing was the turn indicator and get it all reduced to a moving violation." I ignore this.
"There's not much he can step down to." Soliciting for prostitution is only a misdemeanor, a citable offense in this state for which the perpetrator is ordinarily not even taken into custody. A citation is issued with a summons to appear. Vice's own kind of speeding violation.
Any
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