Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,80

at me with a gun. What are you playing here?”

“Not playing, Mr. Conroy.”

“Then make it official. For all I know you could be some shill for the sheriff.”

“Look straight ahead, Mr. Conroy.”

Steve did. This whack job could still be a shooter. He heard the back door open.

“What you’re asking of me is unethical,” Steve said. “I have not observed any criminal activity, and as the attorney for the LaSalles I’m telling you that unless and until you have probable cause you don’t have any standing with me. Whoever you’re working for, if you are working for somebody, this won’t be—”

He stopped, having the distinct impression he was now alone. He turned. Saw nothing but the night.

56

Monday morning, entering the courtroom for Neal Cullen’s felony arraignment, Steve felt like he was sleepwalking. He should have been alert and ready, prepped to do what he’d done so many times before.

But this was not like before. Everything—his client, his case, his whole life now—was encased in a block of industrial-strength strangeness. Night visitors with guns and old men in chairs, preaching racial purity.

And not just a lying client, but a lying chief witness, too.

He tried to look semi-coherent as he walked through the swinging gate. A row of chairs just inside the bar held a couple of lawyers who gave Steve the eye. These were no doubt local defense counsel waiting to plead their clients. Steve nodded at them.

One, a barrel-bellied bald man in a gray suit, looked away without acknowledging him. The other, a younger version of the bald man, had a little more hair and the gut wasn’t as pronounced. They had to be a father-son team. The younger said to Steve, “How you doing?”

Just great! Life’s a plate of jelly donuts and this town is the filling, oh yes!

“Fine, thanks,” Steve said and approached the clerk and gave him his card. “I’m representing Cullen.”

The clerk took the card and looked at his day sheet. Put a check mark next to a name, presumably Neal’s.

“I assume he’s in the holding tank?” Steve said.

“The bailiff’ll show you the way,” the clerk said.

The bailiff, a female sheriff’s deputy with the attitude of a disgruntled Dairy Queen manager, led Steve past the jury box and through a door in the back of the courtroom. The hallway in back was painted pea green. A holding cell to the right held three men. One of them was Neal Cullen, who was sitting on the bench, whistling. When he saw Steve he came to the bars, a huge smile on his face.

“You don’t look like a man with too many problems,” Steve said.

“Don’t ya know it,” Neal said. “You are the guy who’s gonna to get me out of this with no problem.”

“To be honest with you, it doesn’t look quite that simple.”

“Huh?”

“All I am saying is that in this wonderful criminal justice system of ours, anything can happen. Now listen, this morning you have one job and one job only. That is to keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk. I will tell you to talk when the judge asks how you plead. When the judge asks how you plead you will say, ‘Not guilty.’ Are you with me so far?”

“All the way, man, down the line.”

“The judge’ll set bail and I assume somebody will post it for you, or arrange a bond.”

“Johnny’ll take care of all that.”

“Of course he will. Now when you get out, I don’t want you wandering around town, capisce?

“Yeah, whatever. No problem!”

So far, everything Steve said was according to the playbook. He’d given the same advice, in different forms, many times over the years.

Why, then, were the words sticking in his throat?

Neal crooked his finger and motioned Steve forward. Then he whispered, “You need another witness?”

“Oh, you have another witness for me?”

“If you need one. If you’re feeling nervous.”

“Uh-huh. Is there a store in town? Witnesses-R-Us?”

Neal laughed. “You’re funny, man.”

“Yeah, I am. I’ll be here all week. Tip your waiter on the way out.”

When he got back to the courtroom, Steve noticed several LaSalleites sitting in the gallery. He recognized them from the Bible study.

Most prominent was Rennie, in the middle of the group, looking at Steve. Like he was hoping Steve would accuse him of lying again. Like he would love to rearrange the LA lawyer’s facial bones.

And this was his star witness. Wonderful.

Johnny was conspicuously absent.

Mal Meyer had come to the prosecutor’s table, studying a file. He looked up briefly, nodded at Steve, went back to