“Where did this happen?”
“Park Slope,” I said.
“Brooklyn, huh?” Paul nodded, still with the narrowed eyes. “I grew up in Prospect-Lefferts. Raised my kids in Brooklyn Heights.”
I felt suddenly like a key was slipping through my fingers, about to be lost forever to some crack in the floor. Whatever I’d gone into that office to accomplish was no longer in my control. I was being cross-examined by someone of far superior skill.
“Anyway, my friend would obviously be better served by a defense attorney with homicide experience.”
“I presume you told him that?” Paul asked.
“Yes, I did tell him.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he doesn’t care. He wants me to represent him.” I willed my voice steady. “He’s not thinking clearly. He wants somebody he can trust.”
“Sounds like he’s thinking very clearly,” Paul said. “And he very clearly wants you.”
There was a challenge to the way he said it.So what are you afraid of?Fear was another of Paul’s forbidden emotions.
“He’s scared.” My stomach shifted uneasily.
“As he should be,” Paul said. “You and I both know that innocent men go to prison all the time. You and I have probably put one or two there.” No, I thought. If I believed that, I would have quit a long time ago. How could Paul suggest that so casually? “And so we return to my original question: why not you?”
Because I have never and will never handle a murder case. For reasons I cannot explain. Also, my life is already so fucked up in general. But I can’t tell you about any of that either without you thinking less of me.
“I’m an associate, not a partner. You said yourself associates don’t take on their own cases.”
Paul picked up a pen from his desk and threaded it through his fingers. “You’renot a partner, no. Not yet.” His eyes were alarmingly bright. “But I am. Now, I’m not saying I’ll be burning the midnightoil with you, but I’m in for the assist.”
I could not for the life of me figure out how this conversation had delivered me here: to representing Zach.
“Oh, okay, great,” I said, because Paul seemed to be waiting for gratitude. But my heart was pounding.
“So who’s your friend?” Paul asked. “Our client?”
“Zach Grayson,” I said. “He’s the founder of—”
“I’ve heard of him,” Paul said. “That, um, logistics company. I read something about it in theHarvard Business Review.”
“ZAG.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Making all companies ship like Amazon.” He sounded vaguely disgusted. “Why can’t people shop in stores anymore?”
Because they work around the clock for people like you.
“Zach cashed out of ZAG anyway,” I offered. “He’s starting something new in New York.”
“Has he been arraigned?”
I nodded. “Yesterday. For the assault on the officer. They’re probably waiting for forensics on the murder. No bail.”
“No bail? Where’s he being held?”
“Rikers.”
“Jesus,” Paul grumbled. “So first we file a habeas writ. Get him out of that hellhole. Then we poke around at the DA’s office and find out what kind of case they have on the murder. Not much of one yet, or they’d have already charged him.” Paul paused, his face flushed with excitement. Like an idiot, I’d flung open the barn door, and he’d made his escape. “You think he’s guilty?”
