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Never thought I would be one of them. The business card in my hip pocket read ‘Eddie Flynn, Attorney’.

If my father, a gifted conman in his own right, had lived to see this day, he would’ve been ashamed. I could’ve been a boxer, or a con artist, or a pick-pocket, or even a bookie. He would look at his son, the lawyer, and shake his head and wonder where he’d gone wrong as a parent.

The main problem is that lawyers tend to think of themselves more than their clients. They start off full of good intentions: they saw To Kill A Mockingbird, maybe even read Harper Lee’s book too, and they want to grow up to be Atticus

Finch. They want to represent the little guy. David and Goliath stuff. Then they realize they won’t make a decent living in that line of work, that their clients are all guilty, and even if they do write a speech worthy of Atticus, the judge isn’t gonna listen to a goddamn word they say.

Those that are wise enough to know it was a pipe dream to begin with figure out they need to join a big firm, work their asses off and try to make partner before their first heart attack. In other words, they figure out that the law is a business. And business is booming for some.

Standing outside 16 Ericcson Place, I was reminded of how much money big-time criminal lawyers made. This was the address for NYPD’s First Precinct.

The parking bays outside, usually reserved for patrol vehicles, had been taken by a fleet of expensive German engineering. I counted five Mercedes, nine BMWs

and a Lexus.

There was something going down inside.

The entrance to the precinct was by way of blue and white painted mahogany doors with iron studs punctuating each ornate panel. This led to the TSO’s desk, and beyond, the duty sergeant’s booking desk. That’s where I saw the argument in full flow. A plain-clothes detective in a yellow shirt was sticking his finger in Sergeant Bukowski’s face while maybe a dozen lawyers on the other side of the desk argued among themselves in the waiting area. The waiting area wasn’t more than twenty feet long by ten feet wide, with yellow tile on the wall. The tile could’ve been white at one stage, but cops smoked a lot in the seventies and eighties.

Bukowski called me twenty minutes ago. Said I needed to get down here fast.

There was a case. A big one. That meant I owed Bukowski Knicks tickets. We

had an arrangement. If something juicy came across his desk, he called me. Only problem was Bukowski wasn’t the only cop in the precinct on the take, and judging by the crowd of lawyers, word must’ve gotten around.

‘Bukowski,’ I said.

He was a butter-ball of muscle, body hair and fat in NYPD navy blues.

Ceiling lights caught the sweat on top of his bald head as he turned, winked at me and then blithely told the detective to take his finger out of his face or he would insert it somewhere in the detective’s mother. I didn’t listen to the details.

‘I’ve had enough, Bukowski. They get one minute each with the suspect.

That’s it. After that she picks her lawyer and we go straight to interview. You got it?’ said the detective in the yellow shirt.

‘That’s fine with me. Seems fair. I can handle that. Go get some coffee for half an hour. Or call your mother, tell her I’ll be by when my shift’s over.’

The detective stepped back, nodding continually at Bukowski before swiveling on his heel and making his way through the steel door at the back of

the waiting room.

Bukowski addressed the crowd of lawyers in front of him like he was a bingo caller explaining the rules. ‘Now, here’s what’s going to happen. Each one of you pricks takes a number, when I call it out you got a minute with the suspect.

She don’t sign your retainer, you’re out of here. Got it? That’s the best I can do.’

Some of the lawyers threw their hands in the air, then began pounding their cell phones with their fingers while others just continued to complain while they jostled toward the ticket machine to get a number. The tickets were for members of the public who waited in line to make a complaint – not for lawyers waiting to see a client.

‘What the hell, Bukowski?’ I said. ‘What’s the point in me buying Knicks tickets for you if you’re going to call every damn lawyer in Manhattan?’

‘Sorry, Eddie. Look, this is a hell of a case. You’ll want it. This ain’t nothin’

to what this place is gonna look like in the morning when there’s an army of paparazzi outside waiting to get a picture while we take these girls for arraignment.’

‘What girls? What’s the case?’

‘The ESU brought in two girls at midnight. Sisters. Both in their twenties.

Their pops was lying upstairs in the bedroom, torn to pieces. The sisters called the cops on each other. They’re both saying the other one killed him. This case – it’s gonna go big.’