Rogue Lawyer

“I’m sorry. Look, Judith, every time I see you I think about sex. My problem, not yours.”

“Get help.”

“I don’t need help. I need sex.”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“You have fights tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, and I don’t resist.

“I do.”

“You’re sick, you know. That’s such a brutal sport.”

“Starcher says he wants to go.”

“You take Starcher to the cage fights and you’ll never see him again.”

“Relax. I’m just joking.”

“You may be joking, but you’re still sick.”

“Thank you. Have another drink.” A shapely Asian in a short, tight skirt walks by and we both have a look. “Dibs,” I say.

The alcohol kicks in—it takes longer for her because she is naturally wound tighter—and Judith manages a grin, the first of the evening. Could be the first of the week. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, her tone noticeably softer.

“Not since we last met,” I say. “It’s been all work.” My last girlfriend said good-bye three years ago. I get lucky occasionally, but I’d be lying if I said I was on the prowl for a serious woman. There is a long, heavy gap in the conversation as we get bored. When we’re down to the last few drops of our drinks, we go back to Starcher and my mother and the next weekend that we both now dread.

We walk together out of the bar, dutifully peck each other on the cheek, and say good-bye. Another box checked off.

I loved her once, then I truly hated her. Now I almost like Judith, and if we can continue these monthly meetings, we might become friends. That’s my goal, because I really need a friend, one who can understand what I do and why I do it.

And it would be much better for our son, too.

7.

I live on the twenty-fifth floor of a downtown apartment building, with a partial view of the river. I like it up here because it’s quiet and safe. If someone wanted to bomb or burn my apartment, it would be difficult without taking down the entire building. There is some crime downtown, so we live with plenty of video surveillance and guards with guns. I feel secure.

They fired bullets into my old apartment, a duplex on the ground floor, and they firebombed my old office five years ago. “They” have never been found or identified, and I get the clear impression the cops aren’t looking that hard. As I said, my line of work inspires hatred and there are people out there who’d love to see me suffer. Some of these people hide behind badges.

The apartment has a thousand square feet, with two small bedrooms, an even smaller kitchen, seldom used, and a living area that’s barely big enough to hold my only substantial piece of furniture. I’m not sure a vintage pool table should be classified as furniture, but it’s my apartment and I’ll call it what I want. It’s nine feet long, regulation size, and was built in 1884 by the Oliver L. Briggs company in Boston. I won it in a lawsuit, had it perfectly restored and then carefully reassembled smack in the middle of my den. On an average day, or when I’m not away in cheap motels dodging death threats, I rack ’em up time after time and practice for hours. Shooting pool against myself is an escape, a stress reliever, and cheap therapy. It’s also a throwback to my high school days when I hung out at a place called The Rack, a real local dive that’s been around for decades. It’s an old-fashioned pool hall with rows of tables, layers of smoke, spittoons, cheap beer, some petty gambling, and a clientele that acts tough but knows how to behave. The owner, Curly, is an old friend who’s always there and keeps it ru

When the insomnia hits and my walls are closing in, I can often be found at The Rack at two in the morning playing nine ball alone, in another world and quite happy.

Not tonight, though. I glide into the apartment, floating on the whiskey, and quickly change into my fight clothes—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bright, shiny yellow jacket that snaps at the waist, practically glows in the dark, and screams “Tadeo Zapate” across the back. I pull my slightly graying hair into a tight ponytail and stuff it under the T-shirt. I change glasses and select a pair rimmed in light blue. I adjust my cap—also a bright yellow that matches the jacket, with the name Zapate across the front. I feel sufficiently disguised and the evening should go well. Where I’m going the crowd is not interested in misfit lawyers. There will be a lot of thugs there, a lot of folks with legal troubles past, present, and future, but they’ll never notice me.

It’s another sad fact of my life that I often leave the apartment after dark with some sort of disguise—different cap, glasses, hidden hair, even a fedora.

Partner drives me to the old city auditorium, eight blocks from my apartment, and drops me off in an alley near the building. A crowd is swarming out front. Loud rap booms across the front plaza. Spotlights sweep maniacally from building to building. Bright digital signs advertise the main event and the undercard.

Tadeo fights fourth, the last warm-up before the main event, which tonight is a heavyweight contest that is selling tickets because the favorite is a crazy ex-NFL player who’s well known in the area. I own 25 percent of Tadeo’s career, an investment that cost me $30,000 a year ago, and he hasn’t lost since. I’m also betting on the side and doing quite well. If he wins tonight, his cut will be $6,000. Half of that if he loses.

In a hallway, somewhere deep under the arena, I hear two security guards talking. One is claiming the evening is a sellout. Five thousand fans. I flash my credentials and get waved through another door, then another. I enter the dark locker room and the tension hits like a brick. Tonight we’re assigned to one half of a long room. Tadeo is moving up in the world of mixed martial arts, and we’re all begi

With the exception of Oscar, they’re all members of the same street gang, a mid-level organization of El Salvadorans who run cocaine. Tadeo has been one of the gang since he was initiated at the age of fifteen but has never aspired to a leadership position. Instead, he found some old boxing gloves, discovered a gym, and then discovered he had freakishly quick hands. His brother Miguel also boxed, but not as well. Miguel runs the gang and has a nasty reputation on the street.

The more Tadeo wins the more he earns, and the more I worry about dealing with his gang.

I lean down and speak softly to him. “How’s my man?”

He opens his eyes, looks up, suddenly smiles, and pulls out the earphones. The massage ends abruptly as he sits on the edge of the table. We chat for a few moments and he assures me he’s ready to kill someone. Attaboy. His prefight ritual includes avoiding a good shave for a week, and with his scraggly beard and mop of black hair he sort of reminds me of the great Roberto Duran. But Tadeo’s roots are in El Salvador, not Panama. He’s twenty-two, a U.S. citizen, and his English is almost as good as his Spanish. His mother has documents and works in a cafeteria. She also has an apartment full of kids and relatives and I get the impression that whatever Tadeo earns gets divided many ways.