you doing this? Just tell me why."
"There are reasons that I can't go into, I truly can't go into."
"Yeah, right."
I try a different approach, because this one obviously isn't working at all. "Okay, you tell me why I would be taking on a client to get back at you. I love you, I care about you, but I would do this to punish you? To hurt you? Does that make sense? Did we have a fight I forgot about?"
She takes a moment to weigh my argument, and I think I have a chance until I can see the reject button go off in her brain.
"Don't do it, Andy." It's a combination plea and command.
"I'm sorry, but I have to."
She shakes her head. "No, you want to."
She turns and leaves. I feel bad that she is hurt, but I feel much worse that she believes I would intentionally hurt her.
BEING PUT IN COUNTY JAIL IS LIKE SIGNING A FIRST baseball contract and reporting to the low minor league team they assign you to. You're in professional baseball, and while you know you might someday find yourself in the big leagues, for right now this seems pretty significant. Of course, if someday you do make it to the majors, you realize just how small the minors were.
County jail is the flip side of that. When you're sent there, you know you might find yourself in state prison if you get convicted, but for right now this seems pretty awful. Of course, if you do wind up there, or in a federal prison, you realize just how easy you had it back in County.
The thing is, when you're in County, at least things are happening. You're getting the lay of the land, seeing your lawyer, preparing for trial ... it's a new experience. When you're convicted and sent to State, it feels like the system has forgotten about you, and in fact it has. Your life is not only miserable, it's also boring, and there is no end in sight.
I guess my point is that, all in all, county jail is a pretty super-duper place to live. But for some reason, Oscar Garcia doesn't see it that way. Oscar thinks it's an outrage--a "motherfucking joke" is the homespun way he puts it--that he should be in this position.
He rants and raves for two or three minutes, then finally realizes that, since I am sitting there, I just might have a role to play in all this. "Who the hell are you?" he asks.
"My name is Andy Carpenter. I'm an attorney working for the public defender's office on your case."
He stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to remember something. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
I shrug. "Maybe. I went to NYU. What fraternity were you in?"
Oscar's sense of irony doesn't seem that well developed, and I've got a hunch he's not going to be a master of self-deprecating humor either. He ignores my comment, mainly because he's just remembered where he's seen me.
"You're that lawyer, right?" He points at me, no doubt to make sure I know he's not talking to the table.
"That's what I just finished telling you."
He shakes his head. "No, I mean the guy that was on TV."
I nod. "That's me. The TV lawyer."
He sort of squints at me, checking me out. "What do you want with me?"
He's suspicious, the first sign of intelligence I've seen. I decide to tell the partial truth, which seems to be the most I can manage these days. "I thought you might need my help."
"I don't need nobody's help."
"Then I'll find someone who does." I stand up to leave. "See ya around the campus."
I reach the door and I'm halfway out when I hear, "Wait a minute, man." I can pretend I don't hear it and keep walking, or I can turn around and continue with this self-destructive insanity. I turn.
"What is it, Oscar?"
"I didn't do it, man. I've done some pretty bad shit, but this ain't me."
"Did you know Dorsey?" I ask.
"A little bit, no big deal. He hassled me a few times. Nothing I couldn't handle."
"How did you handle it?" I ask.
"I just let it slide, went about my business."
"And just what is your business?" I ask.
"What the hell is the difference? This ain't about my business. My business is my business."
I pull up a chair and sit down less than a foot away from him. "Listen to me, Oscar, because I'm only going to say this once. Your