The Dark Shield

Chapter One

All rise! the clerk commanded. Supreme Court, Part Thirteen, is now in session. The Honorable Judge Manuel Lopez Ramos presiding.

Ramos entered quietly, ignoring the spectators and armada of reporters who filled his large courtroom. He ambled to the bench and up its three steps, slipping his tall frame into his leather chair and casually opening a black loose-leaf book. Flipping a few pages, he finally announced, You may be seated. Turning toward the clerk, he said, Okay, Eddie, let’s go.

On the sentencing calendar, the clerk announced, People versus Antonio Del Pedro.

Both sides ready to proceed? Ramos asked impatiently. The question was required at all sentencings; in this case, the answer was obvious. Since the day the jury had delivered its verdict, each side had anxiously awaited this moment—the prosecution, gleefully; the defense, fearfully.

Ready, Your Honor, both sides answered simultaneously.

People, Ramos growled, taking his first glance at the prosecution’s table, anything to say before I pronounce sentence? Until now, Ramos hadn’t noticed Thomas Heany, the district attorney, seated next to the assistant district attorney who had successfully tried the case. Tommy’s grandstanding for the press, Ramos thought. He hasn’t tried a case—much less been in a courtroom—for over a decade. Now he’s here taking all the bows, as if he was the only prosecutor to ever convict Tony Del Pedro. At least that’s what he’d like the public to believe!

Yes, Your Honor, the DA exclaimed as he jumped from his seat. Leaving the trial prosecutor behind, he gave the reporters a friendly wink as he proudly strutted to the podium.

May it please the court, he announced as he smiled garishly at the press. As Your Honor is aware, after a trial by a jury of his peers, I have convicted the defendant of each and every count of the indictment. All felonies! All involving extremely large amounts of cocaine! Cocaine! The curse that’s plagued our society, our youth, our safety, our very American way of life! Your Honor, as you know, I have dedicated my career to defending justice and …

Oh, God, Ramos thought, he’s on his soapbox. Anytime he smells a headline, he’s as shameless as a dog in heat. Three terms as district attorney, and still a political prostitute. If he wasn’t from my party, I’d shut him up. Instead, I have to look as if I’m interested.

The DA rambled on for a full forty minutes. Little of what he said was relevant, and most was redundant. Finally, satisfied that he had exhausted every opportunity to utter self-serving sound bites, he gathered his notes and pranced proudly back to his seat.

Ramos turned to the defense table and barked, Does counsel for the defendant wish to be heard? If you’re so inclined, he added, you may address any relevant issue raised by the prosecution. But, he warned, it’s not necessary.

Yes, Your Honor, Frank McKeefe, the defense attorney, uttered softly. Unlike the DA, McKeefe had no other lawyers at his side—only his client, Tony Del Pedro, dispassionately sitting handcuffed in his bright orange jail garb. Behind Del Pedro stood two burly court officers, and a half-dozen more were within striking distance.

As McKeefe pushed back his chair, it dragged on the tile floor with a loud, shrill screech. Visibly nervous, and now embarrassed by his awkwardness, he sheepishly approached the podium, then held it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

May it please the court, he began, his voice subdued. Unlike the prosecution, he had no notes. This was neither the time nor place to be verbose—in Ramos’s courtroom, no matter what a defense attorney said, he’d be finished before he started. After a nervous cough, McKeefe delivered a brief yet passionate statement. In response, all Ramos gave was silence and an emotionless, blank stare. Not until the remarks seemed near conclusion did Ramos move ever so slightly.

Your Honor, in closing, I believe that mercy, fundamental fairness, and our rule of justice under the law—the foundation of all that we do in these sacred halls—cry out to you on my client’s behalf, beseeching you to sentence him on each count to periods of incarceration that are reasonable, concurrent, and not consecutive … I thank you for your time and patience. Your Honor, I apologize if I was perhaps a little emotional. But, please, judge, take that as a demonstration of how sincerely and strongly I believe in everything I have said. Thank you, Your Honor.

A long, pregnant pause followed. All eyes turned toward Ramos. It was his turn to speak, yet he was totally silent. He just sat there, completely motionless, his face stoic and indifferent. He had his game face on, and he would not reveal whether he had been entranced by McKeefe’s remarks, or totally bored. Within the next few minutes, he would supply the answer. Meanwhile, the next few decades of Tony Del Pedro’s life would hang in the balance. Anxious to hear every word, the hushed crowd leaned forward.

Suddenly, the silence was broken as Ramos came alive, lashing at his microphone and pulling it closer. Feedback squealed throughout the courtroom, its loud shrill visibly jolting most of the apprehensive audience.

His voice just above a whisper, Ramos said crisply, The defendant will rise. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, its ominous tone an unmistakable foreboding of what would follow. Without a doubt, by tomorrow Del Pedro would be headed for some upstate maximum security prison so far north there were only two seasons: July and winter. He was about to find out how long he’d be there, but more than likely his parole officer was yet to be born. Ramos’s sentences were so severe it was said he made criminals disappear, earning him the nickname Manuel the Magician. This morning, Ramos’s reputation, coupled with his tone of voice, told everyone that another trick was coming.

Slowly standing, Del Pedro defiantly riveted his eyes on Ramos, their message clear: You can take away my freedom, but not my pride. Smirking slightly, he was clearly daring Ramos to try.

Returning the challenge, Ramos looked Del Pedro straight in the eyes. The two stared at each other silently, patiently, and most of all, contemptuously. For what seemed like a full minute but was less than half, neither so much as blinked. Finally, a strange look came across Ramos’s face. Not a smile nor a sneer, it was somewhere in the middle: cheerful, yet simultaneously sinister, eerie, and evil. No one in the courtroom dared utter a word.

Ramos’s voice hissed across the courtroom: Does the defendant have anything to say before the court pronounces sentence?

This was neither a trick nor a surprise question; it was also required. The law’s self-righteous quest to at least appear fair and, perhaps, even merciful, demanded that, in the statute’s words, the sentencing judge afford the defendant an opportunity to be heard and to make a statement.

The question had rolled off Ramos’s lips easily and unemotionally, as if it were rote, nothing more than an inconsequential line in a script, a question he might have asked countless times before. And he had. Each time he had asked it, he allowed his to voice project what everyone knew: I’m only asking because I have to. In fact, whenever Ramos asked the question, a thought ran through his mind that could have gotten him thrown off the bench if uttered: You may have the right to be heard, but I don’t have to listen. It didn’t matter whether a defendant spoke or not; no words, tears, or pleas would change the result. Long before the sentencing date, even before the jury delivered its verdict, Ramos had crafted what he considered the appropriate punishment. After his first few sentences, there was no secret to his system: Anyone who refused to cop a plea and went to trial automatically got the full extent of the law—some, as appeals courts would later curtly note, got even more.

Del Pedro stood mute and in contemptuous defiance. It didn’t matter to Ramos, he had prepared for Del Pedro’s silence. After a quick glance and discreet wink to his stenographer, he turned to Del Pedro and said impatiently, I’m waiting. Is there anything you want to say, Mr. Del Perro?

Ramos’s remark wasn’t a slip of the tongue; it was intentional. When he called Del Pedro Del Perro, or literally, son of a dog, Ramos wanted to insult him. But one barb wasn’t enough; he added another, I know why you’re called Tony Two-Necks. Two helpless old drunks jokingly called you ‘Del Perro.’ Your pride, your famous Latin temper, wouldn’t let you overlook it, so you broke both their necks. Two men dead, just to satisfy your machismo. Well, ’mano, others may fear you, but not me! You’re not the first murderer I put in jail, or the last.

The entire audience gasped as a contagious murmur vibrated through the courtroom. Del Pedro’s role in those murders was common knowledge. A score of years ago he had been tried for both. A good lawyer—and, purportedly, two bribed jurors—secured his acquittal. In the eyes of the law, that acquittal exonerated Del Pedro; it was as if the murders had never happened. Indeed, Ramos’s mere mention of the incident was a legal error of such egregious magnitude as to trigger an almost automatic reversal. Ramos—as every other lawyer in the room and most of the audience—was well aware of the rule.

But Ramos was also aware of something else: the wink he had given his stenographer. It had been a signal: Stop typing! When he saw a discrete but mischievous smirk on her face, he knew she would follow his instructions and not record a word. As a result, he was satisfied that none of his insults would make it into the official stenographic record; as far as the law was concerned, now and forevermore, his words had never been spoken. A smug look on his face, Ramos awaited Del Pedro’s response.

Meanwhile, Del Pedro’s face was red with anger. Ramos had insulted him, publicly spanking him. Ramos knew humiliation was totally foreign to Del Pedro’s lifestyle. I know what’s going through your mind, Ramos thought. You’re Tony Two-Necks! No one—absolutely no one—ever dared to so much as interrupt or even speak back to you, let alone embarrass you. The penalty was simple and swift: Anybody who dis’d you died. Yet here you are, handcuffed, powerless to do anything—at least for now.

But, as Ramos had hoped, handcuffs wouldn’t silence Del Pedro.

You bastard! he shouted. As if on cue, the stenographer began typing. I’ll tell you what I’d like to say! Del Pedro yelled still louder. I got screwed! You screwed me all through the trial! You, that goddamn cop Martin, my goddamn lawyer! You all screwed me! And now? You son of a bitch, you’re gonna screw me again! You and your black robes! I’ll get you! I’ll get all of you bastard sons of—

Quick as a serpent’s fangs, Ramos bit into Del Pedro. Mr. Del Pedro! he shouted, I remind you that this is a court of law! I will not put up with any antics from you or anyone else!

Before Del Pedro could respond, Ramos aimed his evil stare toward McKeefe. It was the lawyer’s turn to be castigated. Mr. McKeefe! Ramos yelled. I expect you to control your client and instruct him appropriately!

McKeefe blushed. He was just barely audible as he muttered, I … I’m sorry, Your Honor. My client is a … well, he’s … he’s a bit distraught today, Your Honor.

Del Pedro wasn’t as reserved. Distraught? Distraught? he shouted. I’m not distraught! I’m goddamn pissed! Judges? You’re all whores, money-grubbing whores. You know how many judges I bought and sold since—

Ramos pushed his microphone away; he no longer needed it. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, That’s enough! One more outburst from you, just one, and you’ll be taken back to your cell, and I’ll proceed without you. And you know I will! He had underscored the power behind his words by his body language—acting as if he was a heartbeat away from jumping over the bench and punching Del Pedro.

Dumfounded, Del Pedro backed up ever so slightly. Clearly, he was caught off-guard by the force of Ramos’s response and its naked challenge.

Behind that challenge was a secret known only to Ramos: His seemingly furious rage was nothing more than an act. In fact, he was in total control, satisfied with himself, and completely enjoying Del Pedro’s antics.

McKeefe, however, was unmistakenly and visibly upset. First turning toward Del Pedro, then Ramos, he grimaced as if he was becoming sick and about to spew his breakfast on the floor.

Ramos knew it was too much to ask McKeefe to control his client; in Del Pedro’s agitated state, no one could. Ramos had counted on that.

Instead of his client, McKeefe directed his remarks to Ramos. Judge … uh, Your Honor? he said unassertively. May it please the court, may I interject to note that my client has never been convicted of any other crime and—

Interrupting him at precisely the right moment, Ramos commanded, Counselor, move on! Let’s get on with sentencing!

Okay … uh, Your Honor, McKeefe murmured. I’m, uh, steadfast in my earnest belief in this honorable court, and, uh, its intimate knowledge of the law. May it further please the court, I’m confident that Your Honor is … uh, aware that the sentences on each count must, by law, merge and be served concurrently … not, uh, consecutively.

Ramos was sitting now and clearly unimpressed. McKeefe had wasted his words; he might just as well have been talking to a granite statue. Shying away from looking Ramos in the face, he stared at his open attaché case on the table in front of him. Finally, as if reading from a book, he tamely added, Uh, Your Honor, I know that this honorable court is … uh … is totally familiar with the, uh, legions of cases which control sentencing parameters. I guess there is no need for me to further burden the record, nor Your Honor. Therefore, while I’m not sure of your specific intentions, I have no doubt that you’ll sentence him accordingly. That’s all I have to say. Thank you … uh, Your Honor, sir.

Ramos couldn’t decide if the performance deserved pity or laughter. McKeefe had just followed one of the first rules of courtroom lawyering: When all else fails, grovel shamelessly! Subserviently, he stepped back slightly from the defense table.

All right, Ramos said impatiently, the defendant has had an opportunity to make a statement. Now, it’s my turn.

As if nothing had happened, he resumed his monotone, giving a rote recital of the required legal mumbo-jumbo. The court has reviewed the pre-sentence report, copies of which have been made available for counsel, no portion of which has been excerpted …

Suddenly, he stopped. A long, pregnant pause followed. As all eyes in the courtroom focused on him, he slowly removed his glasses, folded them, and carefully placed them in their carrying case. Casually closing the case, then his loose-leaf book, he slowly looked up and stared at Del Pedro. Ramos hesitated a moment as that satanic smile came across his face again. His silent, subtle, and insidious message was clear: he was relishing every moment. He wanted to savor this!

Calmly, he finally began to speak again. Mr. Del Pedro, just so there’s no misunderstanding, the sentences I’m about to impose will not be concurrent. Not even attempting to hide either his perverse enjoyment or his vicious contempt, he pronounced each word slowly, sarcastically, and sanctimoniously, squeezing every delicious drop from each syllable. No, no, sir, Ramos continued, they will be consecutive. I’m somewhat confident that you know the difference, but—just to be sure—please let me explain. Sir, concurrent means that you serve all your sentences simultaneously, or all at the same time. Consecutive, however, is what we lawyers call ‘back-to-back.’ By that we mean one after the other. As applied to you, well, sir, you won’t begin to serve any time on the second sentence until you serve each and every single day of the first. And then, sir, after you have served every last day of the second sentence, you begin the third. And so on … and so on … and so on …

McKeefe finally interjected, But, Judge, you can’t … Your Honor, I just—

Ramos stopped him cold. Mr. McKeefe. First of all, pardon me for interrupting you. Putting an edge on his voice he added, But please don’t interrupt me! I’d like to move along. I have other cases I must tend to … As to this case, may I remind you that when the verdict came in, I heard your very eloquent arguments about all the reversible errors I supposedly committed during the trial? At that time, you clearly indicated that you would appeal the verdict. If you wish, I’ll hear your arguments about my sentencing now, or you may include them within your brief on appeal. What’s your pleasure, counselor?

Once again, Ramos had sent a subtle but unmistakable message: I don’t want to hear it, so don’t waste your time—or mine.

Uh … that’s all right, Your Honor. Perhaps I should save it for the appeal. But, uh, Your Honor, will the record reflect my objection? McKeefe tamely added.

By all means, the record will so reflect. Now, let us continue.

Ramos turned to Del Pedro. The two court officers standing behind him took a combat stance. Both had their blackjacks discreetly hidden but at the ready, as did every other officer within the courtroom.

Antonio Diego Rodriguez Del Pedro, Ramos began. Hesitating an instant, he hissed a gratuitous, also known as Tony Two-Necks … . Glancing at the DA’s table, he noticed the DA whispering something to his assistant. Ramos didn’t claim to be able to read minds or lips, but that didn’t stop him from guessing what was probably being said: Oh, shit, now he’ll get more press than me.

Smiling gleefully, Ramos continued, A jury having found you guilty of the crimes contained in indictment number 2-5-5-9 slash A, this court sentences you as follows: As to count one, criminal sale of a controlled substance in the first degree, you are sentenced to an indeterminate period of incarceration, the minimum of which shall be …

Ramos stopped and, very purposefully, licked his lips. Almost in unison, everyone in the courtroom leaned slightly forward, not wanting to miss a word.

Twenty-five years … the maximum of which shall be life. Looking up at Del Pedro, Ramos paused for a delicious moment, smiled, then continued, As to count two, criminal possession of a controlled substance in the first degree, you are sentenced to an indeterminate period of incarceration, the minimum of which shall be twenty-five years and the maximum of which shall be life. This sentence shall be consecutive, and not concurrent, with the sentence under count one. Once again, Ramos paused and smiled. As to count three …

After that, Ramos repeated twenty-five years, life, and consecutive over and over, once for each of the six remaining counts in the indictment.

Not that he cared, but Ramos noticed that the clerk, the DA, and the reporters had been keeping the score: Altogether, Del Pedro had been sentenced to a minimum of two hundred years and a maximum of eight life terms. Ramos knew it was impossible; he also knew it was illegal. He hadn’t merely thrown the book at Del Pedro, he had hit him with the entire library.

Finally came the last line of the script, something Ramos had said hundreds of times before. This, too, would be rote, but it was also required. After a sarcastic sneer at Del Pedro, Ramos added, The clerk will please serve the defendant with a copy of his right to appeal.

The ceremony completed, the officers barked at Del Pedro, Step to your left! Let’s go! Both officers grabbed his shoulders and pushed him toward the side door. Turning, Del Pedro looked at Ramos and shouted, I’ll get you, you bastard! You and that damn cop, Martin!

The officers didn’t hesitate. Pulling Del Pedro’s arms, they dragged him out of the room.

Ramos didn’t flinch. None of Del Pedro’s escapades had surprised him; to the contrary, he had planned them. The entire proceeding had been an elaborate play, which he had composed, produced, and directed. He had rehearsed his lines and his cues and anticipated the responses of his co-star, Del Pedro. As predicted, Del Pedro’s pride had blinded and betrayed him. With his anger unchecked, an outburst was inevitable, and all his threats and curses—especially the admission that he had bribed some judges and the inference he could bribe still more—became a permanent part of the record. Ramos knew none of it would curry Del Pedro any favor with an appeals court. And tomorrow, Ramos hoped to be equally as successful when Jose Ramirez, Del Pedro’s co-defendant and partner-in-crime, was to be sentenced. That would be Act Two of Ramos’s play. With the right prodding, Ramirez would also go ballistic, losing emotional control and perhaps even surpassing Del Pedro’s transcribed tirade.

Ramos calmly looked around the courtroom, showed just a hint of a self-satisfied smile, and announced, The court will recess to chambers.

All rise! the clerk loudly ordered.

A bounce in his step, Ramos walked off the bench. Just before he disappeared into the hallway he heard one reporter say to another, Wow! Two hundred years! After today, the next time we write about Tony will be his obituary.

Maybe, the other replied, but I wouldn’t wanna be that cop, Martin, either.

* * *

The clerk followed Ramos into his chambers. Judge, the clerk said, what time do you want to start that robbery trial this afternoon? Two o’clock?

Yeah, that’s good. But don’t worry, Eddie, you’ll be home early. He’ll take a plea.

Without a doubt, judge. Smiling as he shook his head from side to side, Eddie added, Within an hour, Del Pedro will be headed upstate. Before he gets ten blocks from here, the word about his sentence will have already gone through every corner of this building. Before we’re back from lunch, it’ll reach every guy waiting to go to trial, guaranteed. This afternoon the pay phones will have a line five prisoners deep—every one of ’em waitin’ to go on trial before you, and every one of ’em beggin’ their lawyers to get them a plea. I can hear ’em right now. ‘Please! Call the DA! Right now! Please! Tell him I’ll cop a plea to anything! I don’t want no trial in front of that judge!’ Yes sir, Your Honor, it’ll be a long time before your next trial.

Ramos smiled. He knew his clerk was right. Ramos wouldn’t be on trial for a while. Anyone who chanced a trial before him would have to be either very brave or very foolish. Most criminals weren’t that bold or that stupid, so the vast majority of cases assigned to Ramos ended with a guilty plea and a sentence that was very long—but still less than the maximum. As part of the plea bargain, they had to give up their right to appeal. As Ramos was wont to say, If you want the deal, you can’t appeal. It was worth it; anything was better than being sentenced by Ramos after a trial. As a result, he never had a backlog of cases. He had the best statistics of all the judges, even though he handled more cases than any other judge. He also had the highest conviction rate. Those cases which didn’t quickly plea out went to trial almost as quickly, usually within a few weeks. And then they went to jail, sentenced to the maximum. In fact, his jail stats were also the best. Criminals who came before him not only went to trial in the least amount of time, they went away for the longest time. He wanted it that way, even though he also held the record for number of trial convictions reversed after appeal. But a reversal now and then didn’t bother him. After all, he had predicted that too.

The clerk’s smile was even wider now. Judge, you really hammered that guy. Whether the sentence is legal or not? Well, that ain’t up to me. But I saw some justice this morning.

Come on, Eddie, Ramos said impatiently. By now you ought to know there’s no such thing as justice. There’s just us.

Ramos wasn’t trying to be humorous; he believed it. Lately he was growing more and more impatient with those judges who weren’t fellow believers. But such thoughts were best kept to himself. Turning to his desk, he grabbed the morning’s stack of phone messages. After he thumbed through them, he asked, Eddie, would you do me a couple of favors?

Sure, judge. What do you need?

My secretary had to leave early. Call the chief judge’s office and tell him I can’t make this afternoon’s judges’ meeting. Tell him I’ll call him tonight. Here, take this one too. Call the police commissioner’s office; the number’s on the message. Ask for Virginia, his secretary. Tell her to tell the PC that I’d be honored to sit on the dais during the promotion ceremony, and if they want me to make a speech, let me know, I’ll prepare something. But, please, Eddie, don’t even think of volunteering me. I hate to make speeches. As an afterthought, Ramos added, Oh, while you’re at it, I guess you better tell them to get in touch with either Sergeant Martin or his supervisor. Tell them that that scum Del Pedro specifically threatened him today. They probably heard about it already, but make sure, would you? They’ll know what they have to do.

No problem, judge. But what about you? He threatened you too. Want me to alert security? Maybe guard you and your family for a while? Maybe we can—

Ramos held up his opened hand, silently ordering the clerk to be quiet. Ramos was totally focused on properly hanging his robes and putting on his old, worn blazer. You know, he mused, I probably get threatened twice a week. If it ever stops, I’ll know I’m doing something wrong. Closing the closet behind him, he turned to the clerk. It’s part of the job. You can’t let it get to you. When it does, the bad guys have won, and it’s time to quit and just close the courthouse. Eddie, never, ever let it get to you.

The clerk’s smile was gone. Nodding compliantly, he said, Okay, but be careful, will ya?

Don’t sweat it, Eddie. By the way, how come you didn’t warn me that the DA was sitting in the courtroom?

Geez, judge, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice him until you came out. He must have slipped in at the last moment. You know him, you can bet he wanted it to look like you waited for him.

Eddie, you’re probably right. Okay, go ahead now, make those calls and go to lunch. I won’t be needing you until two. And tell the staff the same thing.

Thanks, judge. Have a good lunch.

Ramos buttoned his blazer. His chambers weren’t cold, and he really didn’t need a coat, but the closed jacket hid the shoulder-holstered .45-caliber automatic he always wore. The gun held a ten-round clip and would stop a grizzly bear. It was over half a foot long—bigger, heavier, and harder to conceal than most handguns. The shoulder holster made it somewhat comfortable but often inaccessible. When he was on the bench, his long, zippered robes got in the way, as did the closed topcoat he wore on the street or in his car. Ramos’s solution was simple: Besides the .45, he always wore a small, five-shot .38-caliber revolver strapped to his ankle.

Walking out the door of his chambers and down the corridor to the parking lot, Ramos began to sing softly. He had learned the song in army boot camp. They sang it during the daily five-mile run.

"I wanna be an airborne ranger!

I wanna live a life of danger!"

Chapter Two

Prominently posted on the doors of Ramos’s courtroom was a stern warning: Absolutely no television cameras, still photography, or tape recorders. No one had dared disobey during Del Pedro’s sentencing, but pandemonium erupted the instant Ramos left the room. Suddenly, it became a three-ring media circus, and it was show time. High-intensity television lights flicked on, and cameras flashed as a herd of reporters whipped out microphones and raced toward the lawyers.

The DA met them halfway, salivating at the chance for some media face-time and the opportunity to give his well-rehearsed impromptu comments. Simultaneously, Frank McKeefe was unsuccessfully searching for a way out. A dozen microphones had already surrounded him and he was being barraged by twice as many questions. Surrendering to the inevitable, he attempted a statement. After mumbling a few syllables, he became tense and began stuttering incoherently. The tape recorders kept going; some reporters were too surprised to stop, others too entertained. Finally pushing his way out of the courtroom, Frank feverishly fled to the nearest men’s room and barricaded himself in a stall.

A half hour later, Frank was still hiding. He had regained his composure, but the sting of embarrassment remained. As he was preparing to leave, the entrance door opened. Peering over the stall, he saw the back of the intruder—a uniformed police officer. Suddenly, a familiar voice shouted, Frank, are you in here?

Joe? he asked hopefully.

Who’d ya expect, Elvis Presley?

Opening the stall, Frank saw his brother Joe, a wide grin across his face.

Well, big brother, Joe exclaimed, I heard you really made the family proud today!

Please, I’m embarrassed enough! My client maxed out, I froze on TV! My wife, the kids! What’ll they think? Wait ‘til they see it. Not to mention what it’ll do to business.

So is this what you meant when you said your practice was in the toilet?

Very funny, Joe. Stick to being a cop and leave the jokes to late-night television.

You plan on staying in here all day? Joe asked sarcastically.

Are the reporters still outside? Frank responded apprehensively.

Nope, all gone. The DA took most of them to lunch. Speaking of lunch, you look like you could use something solid in you. How about it? I’ll buy.

Joe, what if they’re … Frank mumbled, his concern for the press still obvious.

We’ll go to my usual place, Joe interjected. There won’t be any reporters. Trust me.

I don’t know, Joe. I look a mess, I left my attaché case in the courtroom, and I …

Clean yourself up and get your bag, Joe insisted. Dad’s Diner. Ten minutes.

Lacking the strength to argue, Frank murmured, All right, all right. Ten minutes.

* * *

Joe’s usual place had seen better days. The broken neon sign proclaimed it as Dad’s Diner, but years ago it had been an exclusive restaurant, renowned as much for its excellent cuisine as its ambiance. Now it was no more than a greasy spoon. The ambiance that once filled the air was long gone; these days it smelled of fried eggs, bacon, and coffee. Its patrons no longer typified the high-society, fashion-setting, moneyed elite of the city. Instead, they represented two-thirds of the criminal justice system: cops and lawyers. The other third—criminals—rarely entered, and those who did left quickly. Anyone who had a taste for crime rarely had an appetite for breakfast surrounded by uniformed cops.

After a smile to Lorraine, the attractive, shapely waitress, Joe took his regular perch—the furthest table to the rear, his back to the wall, facing the entrance door. As he had predicted, there wasn’t a reporter to be found.

Joe was halfway through his second cup of coffee when Frank finally arrived. As he walked toward Joe, Frank motioned to Lorraine. Instinctively, she followed, picking up a coffee pot and a cup along the way.

Taking a seat, Frank said, Joe, did anybody ever tell you you’re a creature of habit? When I walked in, I just looked at the last table. I knew you’d be here, your back to the wall.

You know how it is. Remember that rookie a few years ago in that bar on Fulton and Grand? Off-duty, in civilian clothes, minding his own business and watching the ball game. When a stick-up guy came in the door, the rookie handled himself well. He got behind the perp and got the drop on him, but he forgot the second rule: Face everyone, and always have your back to the wall. He never saw the perp’s partner at the end of the bar. The son of a bitch snuck up behind him and, bang! Blew the back of the kid’s head off. He never saw it coming, never knew what hit him. This wall behind me? That’s my partner.

You and your war stories.

Better to learn by other people’s mistakes, Frank.

Lorraine had stood by silently. What’ll ya have, sir? she asked Frank politely.

Frank murmured, Coffee. As if Lorraine wasn’t there, he turned to Joe and asked, Why were you in court today? On trial?

Before Joe could answer, Lorraine abruptly interrupted, Just coffee, sir? Despite the fact that she had been ignored, the tone of her voice wasn’t sarcastic or rude—she was clearly busy. How ‘bout you, Joe? It’ll be a while before your eggs are ready. Want another cup of coffee on the house? You might need it. I’ve seen this guy around. I think he’s a lawyer. Keep your guard up, darlin’.

After a quick laugh, Joe said, Lorraine, meet my brother, Francis Xavier McKeefe, Esquire, attorney-at-law. Or is it at-large? They call him F.X. around the courthouse, but you can call him Frank. He used to be a prosecutor, protecting you, me, and the rights of the vanquished. Then he went over to the dark side. Put out a shingle, became a criminal defense lawyer. Now he lives off crime, defending slime.

Joe’s sarcasm didn’t stir Frank; these were things Joe had said many times before. Smiling, Frank said, Lorraine, is it? Frank McKeefe, pleased to meet you. Coffee will be fine. I apologize for my brother. Truth is, he’s always been an embarrassment to our family, the black sheep.

Lorraine returned the smile and filled Frank’s cup. The smile got wider as she turned toward Joe. Black sheep, huh, Joe? I always thought of you as a wolf. Punctuating her remarks with a coy wink, she added, Well, how ’bout that other cup? You’ve got time, honey. I’m sure the police department can survive without you for a few more minutes.

Sure, Lorraine, Joe said. You don’t mind if we sit here a while and kill some time?

Lorraine’s smile got even wider. With another wink and a sexy voice, she added, Baby doll, whenever you ever get time on your hands, call me—collect—I’ll help ya kill it.

Lorraine, you are a killer. You and those big eyes. Eyes to die for.

Her eyes brightened as she said, They’re only for you, sweetheart, only for you.

The middle-aged woman at the next table apparently had overheard the conversation. Her voice dripping with sarcasm, she exclaimed, Miss, pardon me for interfering with your social life, but unlike some of your clientele, I have to go to work. If it’s not too much trouble, my check, please!

Keep your blouse on, lady, Lorraine snarled. It’s comin’. Turning toward Joe and Frank, Lorraine said under her breath, Damn jealous bitch.

You just lost a tip, Joe whispered.

From her? Lorraine quietly hissed. You kiddin’? No way. She’s been comin’ in here every mornin’ for a year. Never once left me a tip, not one damn dime! All she ever orders is a single cup of coffee, black, no sugar. That, and one piece of whole wheat toast—dry, no butter, no margarine, no nothin’. Typical wrong-side-of-forty, overweight bitch. Fightin’ her waistline and her biological clock and losin’ to both. Ya notice? She’s not wearin’ a weddin’ ring? Probably divorced and mad at the whole world ’cause of it. Last time she had somethin’ hard between her legs was the broom she flew in on. Damn witch.

After they all laughed, Lorraine loudly added, Officer, let me get ya a clean cup. Turning to Frank, she added, Sure I can’t get you somethin’ with your coffee, judge?

Thank you, Lorraine, Frank answered, playing along. Just coffee.

Come on, judge, Joe interjected, have some eggs, maybe some pancakes. They have a great corned beef hash. It just slides down your throat. That grill may look like a grease pit, but nobody’s died so far. Well, nobody important.

Frank didn’t laugh. Instead, he seemed to wince at the mere mention of food. He hesitated, then said, Well, maybe I should have something. Tell you what, Lorraine. Give me some dry toast and coffee. As an afterthought he added, With milk and sugar, please.

Turning to Joe, Lorraine smiled and said, I’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart.

As soon as she walked away, Frank turned to Joe and said, I thought you were head over heels in love with Carolyn. It looks like Lorraine is giving her some competition.

Frank, I was just playing. I’ve known Lorraine for years, ever since she started working here. We tease each other, but it’s nothing. We’re just old friends. Carolyn’s the only woman for me.

Old friends or not, Lorraine is no consolation prize. She’s like you, he remarked sarcastically, a tad flirtatious, street-smart, and a little rough around the edges. I’ll bet she’d like everyone to think she’s tougher than she really is. My intuition tells me it’s defensive, to protect herself. Seems like she’s lots of fun, though. Plus, she’s a real dark-haired beauty.

Ah, my brother, the psychologist, Joe said with a loud laugh. You just met her, and already you know enough to analyze her. You ought to get cards made up: ‘Frank McKeefe, super-shrink, a diagnosis for your every neurosis.’ So what if I was flirting with her, what’s the problem? Pausing an instant, he added sarcastically, After all, you hate Carolyn.

Now that one’s dangerous. I told you the first time I met her, she’s a self-centered phony. And I’m not the only one who feels that way. My wife hates her. Won’t even mention her name; calls her The Murderess, Little Miss Perfect, or her latest, That Bitch. So she’s good in bed, so what? Is that all you want, a narcissistic nympho? Let me ask you, how come she—quote—loves you—end quote—but still keeps in touch with that rich guy? What’s his name? Jay? What’s that all about? I’ll tell you, she’s a gold-digger and dangerous.

Joe was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn’t Frank’s remarks; it was his tone. Their usual playful sibling banter was turning ugly. As was often the case with the truth, it was also hurtful. Becoming defensive, Joe raised his voice an octave and barked, Frank, enough with the lectures. You’re just jealous. You want to call her dangerous? Fine. I call her different—different in a good sense. She’s not like all the rest. That’s what I love about her. As for Jay? Well, that’ll end soon. Trust me, it’s over. She wants a commitment, kids, all of that. He’ll never give her any of that. I know I sound like some lovesick teenager, but I finally met the woman of my dreams, the one I know I was made for. I just wish you and Betsy liked her.

"So do I, but we don’t … and never will. And let me tell you—as if you didn’t already know—Betsy should have been a nun. She loves everybody.