Book 3, Chapter 45
Alan Harding
No one searched Lucia on the way out, though she did have to go through
another metal detector before she picked up her belongings in the exit
room. She put on her rings before doing anything else. She was surprised
how strong the need was to feel connected to Carlo.
Belted and with her pockets jangling as usual, she was walked to the car
park, where she sat in her car for a few minutes, composing herself. I
need a phone. She turned the ignition on to check her memory. And some
petrol. I mean gasoline. May as well be American about it.
Presumably a gas station will have a phone, so that's two birds I can
kill with one stop. Then I need to get to a lawyer before they close, if
that's possible. No point in putting that off. Should be enticing enough
work; get Rupi out of prison, then get the bastards in the prison
charged for what they've done to her.
And then there's whoever Robinson was phoning after my first session
with him. He rang before I was properly out of the room, so it was
urgent, and presumably important, and it was to tell someone he'd had to
make concessions on Rupi, so the cat would be out of the bag sooner than
they'd hoped. He'd do what he could but he didn't hold out much hope.
Then he'd started to listen, and Sheldon mended my belt, more's the
pity.
Who was he calling? Higher up the corporate ladder, or the District
Attorney? He'd not sounded deferential, so we can assume it wasn't a
superior in Warrenhouse. The DA, then, or someone in the DA's office,
someone trusted. I must keep in mind that it could be some third party,
but why complicate things? The DA would want to know.
Election day's soon, I think. Don't they elect at the beginning of
November, unlike our random `whenever the crisis hits'? Presumably he
won't be happy at one of his prize cases going belly-up right now. He
won't be bothered in a few weeks, but now it's going to be a big thing
for him. What's he going to do?
She sat and thought for a while, then shivered. She had to get that
lawyer moving, and fast. Just in case she was right. First, she had a
call to make. She drove off, feeling better as she always did when the
prison gate was behind her. At least they'd let her out.
She filled up, topped off the wash-bottle, hand-washed the windscreen
and still the man in the overalls was on the phone. She cleaned the
lights and the number-plates, and chatted to the girl behind the till
about movies she had no intention of seeing, and he finally finished.
She ran to the phone.
"Detective Menendez."
"Lucia Verdi. I'm glad to find you there. Thanks for pointing me at the
prison on a closed day."
Menendez laughed. "From what Jesus said, you weren't likely to let that
stop you."
"I didn't, and I meant it when I said `thank you'. I got to see her -
she's in a dreadful state - assaulted and on hunger strike. At least
they were making some effort to keep her alive, and she had a guard."
Why did she have a guard? They'd let her get assaulted three times at
least; why give her a guard when she's safe in the hospital? Later, I'll
think about that later.
"I need to get her a lawyer, as soon as I can. Someone recommended
Mackenzie, Compton. Are they good? I reckon the police would know who
beats them most in court."
"They're good. The DA hates coming up against anyone from that practice,
though John Compton is his least favourite. He's an ex-DA himself, and
was a good one from what I hear. He's practically retired now though.
The son, Jack, took the other route; he worked as a Public Defender till
he'd paid off his conscience and could start making money and raising a
family. Still does deserving cases on the cheap when they catch his
fancy. I'd go for him if I were you. I work harder on a case if I know
he's defending."
"Thanks. Got an address?" Menendez gave her the phone number too, saying
she'd be better off getting an appointment - it wasn't one of those low
security places like a prison - there were receptionists to get past,
not men with guns; a much harder proposition.
As soon as she rang off, Lucia dialled the number Menendez had given
her, and asked to see Jack Compton, today, if at all possible, if not,
another attorney, as a matter of extreme urgency relating to the recent
Dr Bedi case. Yes, the Indian doctor.
She didn't get an appointment, but she did almost get a promise that the
message would be passed on.
Lucia set off again, the disquiet she'd felt in the prison car park
nagging away at her. And why a guard now, when she couldn't move and
there was no one to attack her. Apart from the guard, of course. Of
course! Shit! Oh shit!
She checked her mirror and eased the accelerator down towards the floor.
Better not get carried away. The last thing she needed was police
custody. Look what had happened to Rupi for volunteering for a line-up.
Or was she getting paranoid? She needed to see that lawyer!
The line-up. That's what she'd nearly got earlier. Asian. As in `an
Asian was seen driving badly'. To a Briton, `Asian' meant someone from
the Indian subcontinent. That would be why Rupi had volunteered when the
police asked at the hospital for Asian women for a line-up; it's how she
thought of herself. But that's not what an American would mean, was it?
Korean, Vietnamese, Filipino; South East Asian, like the nurse at the
prison.
That's probably what the witness had seen, so why had they picked out
the one who plainly wasn't the driver? Because they were the different
one? It happened. And once they'd made the identification, they'd amend
the memory to fit; it's how the brain did things; no deliberate malice
was needed.
She'd need to check, but this case got worse every time she looked at
it. She turned right and left onto a road paralleling the Richmond road,
but the car that had been behind her for the last dozen miles carried
on. Nothing seemed to pick up from it, so she assumed she wasn't being
followed. Maybe it was just happening in the prison. She snorted. Just!
She pulled in to the kerb to check the address and consult her map.
Start at the courthouse and work out, for lack of any better system. It
turned out to be near `The Clarion'. She could park there and walk;
driving in town with a map open on the steering wheel was not a good
idea.
She turned back onto the main road and followed it into town, made the
various turns and nosed into a space down the block from the newspaper
office. She half wondered whether to check their archives to see what
the reason for the fuss over Asians was, but reminded herself of her
time budget. Attorney. She walked the blocks to Mackenzie, Compton. It
was on a street with other lawyers and estate agents.
What was it Americans called them? Realtors? She'd probably have to see
one about renting an apartment; she couldn't leave Freya and Asha with
Michael forever, and Gloria and Aldo would be coming back east from
Texas soon. She should ring Gloria and tell her where she was. And it
would give Rupinder's relatives somewhere to stay too, if she got a big
enough place; her parents or one of her brothers would certainly make
the journey to visit her. Maybe she should rent a house.
The list of attorneys had seven names, but there was only one person
waiting, so maybe she'd get to see someone this visit. She walked up to
the reception desk. There was no one at it, but a young black man was
filing papers away behind it.
"Can I help you?" Heavens! He had a West Midlands accent.
"Birmingham? Your accent?"
"Walsall, actually. Not many people from outside the area can tell them
apart."
"Sorry; you're right, of course. I just picked the big name. Anyway, I
rang up earlier about Dr Bedi. The receptionist said she'd pass the
message on to Mr Compton. That's Jack Compton, I think."
"That was you, was it? She said someone with an English accent, but not
like mine."
"I was born in Liverpool, but raised in Cheshire and Tuscany, so I doubt
anyone could place my accent."
"Somewhere up north, but I wouldn't even try to guess beyond that. You
don't sound like a scouser." He grinned at her. "Mr Jack's reading up
for a court appearance tomorrow, but he left instructions to keep you if
you came in. He wants to see you. I'll let him know you're here, but
it's a big presentation, so he'll probably be a while. He's thorough."
"I asked to see him because he's got a good reputation. I can hardly
complain about him earning it, can I? I'll catch my breath and catch up
on my thinking. It's been a busy day."
She sat down where she could see out of the window, and went through her
notes, amending, adding, trying to work out how realistic her fears for
Rupi were. She'd lost herself in sketching the view outside in the
streetlights when a hand touched her shoulder. She came back into the
room with a jolt.
"Sorry to startle you, but I did try to get your attention. Dr Verdi?
I'm Jack Compton. Are you a medical colleague of Dr Bedi's?" The man
speaking to her was in his early forties, about her height, slim -
almost thin - and had a beard trimmed back from his face to his
jaw-line.
"My doctorate's in mathematics. I only use the title when I think I
stand to gain from it. I'm her oldest friend. We went to school
together, university in the same place, kept in touch ever since. When
she didn't reply to my wedding invitation I got worried. As I was over
here, I decided to look her up. I found out where she was from a police
contact - I'm a police officer in Italy, by the way - and visited her
this afternoon." He raised his eyebrows.
"I bluffed my way in. I worked out she was almost certain to be on
hunger strike - I know her. She was, and they were willing to let me
talk her off it. I got a good list of concessions for her; almost what
she should have had all along, but I'm very worried about her."
"I had a full workload when her case came up, or I'd have volunteered to
take it on. The prosecution was... Look, the chairs are more comfortable
in my office, and I want my last coffee of the day. Do you want to
finish that off while I have a word with Matthew?" He pointed to her
sketch.
She looked at her sketch, and out of the window. Now she'd got to the
attorney, it all seemed trivial. She packed it away, readied her notes
and stood in the middle of the room, trying not to overhear what he and
Matthew were talking about.
He took her through to the other front room of the house and walked
straight up to an espresso machine. "If you're Italian, I assume you
drink proper coffee?"
"I'd love one."
"My wife bought it me for our anniversary. She tries to keep this room
from looking too office-like. My mother worked from this room, and Helen
manages to keep the feel." He handed her the cup, and set about making
another for himself.
"Your mother was an attorney too?"
"Attorney, artist, mother. Different order at different times. I have
twin sisters; she was pretty much a full-time mother then, from what I
can remember. Always some painting, though. The flower paintings are
hers. The church is my father's. Realistic water-colours, so I dabble in
abstract acrylics." He pointed at the wall by the door. "Have a seat,
I'll be with you in a second." The door opened, and Matthew handed him a
thin folder. "Thanks Matt. Are you off now, or has someone snagged you
for the late shift?"
"I'm on till Shelley arrives. I may read up on tomorrow before I go."
"Well, remember to get some sleep. Even us parasites need sleep." He
winked at Matthew, who grinned in return.
"Parasites?"
"It's what we are. If lawyers in the various legislatures didn't make
such convoluted laws, most of the time people could sort things out for
themselves. And just think how much more money there'd be for useful
things if we weren't creaming it off. Things like educating people to
deal with the law, for instance. But while the system's as it is, some
of us have to fight it when it does things like catch your friend up in
it."
"Is that what it's done? You don't think it's bigger than that?"
"In what way?"
"Committee to re-elect the DA?"
"It won't do him any harm, but I think your friend was just used. You
think it goes beyond that?"
"Maybe I'm seeing conspiracy where there's only a cock-up - I'd be glad
to find that's what it was - but so many things seem to fit my friend
being fitted up that it's hard to think it's all a fluke. And what's
happened to her in prison is horrendous. It's why I want you to get her
out. I'm worried she won't be allowed to live that long."
"Melodrama, or do you have evidence?" He looked harder-faced than
before, and she realised she was getting shrill.
"Let me calm down a little before I go off on the conspiracy angle. Will
you agree to act for her?"
"She already has a lawyer. Not a very good one, perhaps, but your friend
would need to dismiss him before anyone else can take over. And don't
count on me doing charity work, if that's what you've heard."
"I can afford you, whatever you charge. Rupi's worth it. And she agreed
to me hiring a new lawyer for her. She signed this; it's part of the
simple legal system you were wishing for. And, well, it'll sound like
the conspiracy theory, but I was told it by someone I trust; you can
judge how true it is. I was told that her lawyer had been bought. I
assume that means he didn't do as good a job as he could have. Like
visiting her in prison or making an appeal." She showed him the
instruction she'd drawn up.
"Not proper form, of course, but I don't see why I can't act on it." He
looked at Lucia for a while. She tried not to squirm. "Excuse me for a
moment." He took the folder Matthew had given him, read the first few
lines, and went to his desk. A quick flip through his Rolodex and he was
on the phone, talking quietly and facing away from her. Another call
followed, then another, and another. When he'd finished that, he
swivelled his chair to face her, and sat there for a while, scanning
through the contents of the folder.
"So, want to talk about this conspiracy against my client now?" He got
up and joined her on the comfy chairs. "Frank Turner, her Public
Defender, drank away what he earned. As lawyers go, PDs don't get paid
much, but enough to do some serious liver damage. He's currently touring
in Europe."
"Reading between the lines, his colleagues are wondering which case he
threw to get the money. And why he didn't drink it this time. There's a
hint of `Well, he said he was going to Europe' about it. Maybe he's
drying out somewhere. Maybe he's drinking himself to Hell one last time.
Maybe he already has."
"No one's been assigned to your friend's case; they're too overloaded to
look for work. It should have come up for review. Turner should have
flagged it for appeal. The paperwork's all gone missing. I talked to the
chief over there. He's willing for me to take the case. I've called the
penitentiary to arrange a visit tomorrow. Dr Rupinder Kaur Bedi has a
new lawyer."
--
The opinions given above may be mine. They might also
just be what I feel like saying right now, okay?
Alan Harding
<ponet...@yahoo.com> writes
>he calls Rupinder "my" client...good way to indicate the changeover,
>plus ups the drama from there on out. At the end of it, I'm really
>wanting to know what this gentleman can do for her and what's going to
>happen next.
>
>So. What's going to happen next?
No one could say you weren't eager!