Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Read Online Free PDF
Author: Clifford Irving
courts and then between Buildings C and D of the Ravendale Apartments in the Braeswood district.
The Ravendale Apartments rented furnished apartments on a month-to-month basis to visiting yuppies and divorcees, who stayed until they went back home or found permanent living space elsewhere in Houston. The residents of Ravendale drank Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers and played volleyball in the pool on hot summer evenings. No one paid attention to strangers. They were nearly all strangers to each other.
Good Dumpsters here, Hector Quintana had learned. Gringos threw things out which back in El Palmito his people would battle to own. He once found a toaster oven; another time, New Balance running shoes with a hole in the toe. Fit him perfectly, aided by balled-up wads of newspaper. Peanut butter, a box of Wheat Thins, an unopened bottle of Mr. and Mrs. T's Bloody Mary Mix. He would never understand gringos.
Tonight he had even better luck. Rummaging in the Dumpster among the various garbage smells, he dug out a pair of dirty white tennis socks, a half-finished jar of Planters salted peanuts, and then a bottle of Old Crow about four inches full. He opened it, sniffing to make sure it was not kerosene. The aroma of bourbon filled his nostrils.
Pushing his luck, Hector dug farther. Amid lemon peels and coffee grounds, his brown hand closed on something cool and metallic: a pistol.
He looked at it and knew he had a prized possession, something which could change his life — if he could find the courage to use it correctly.
But where would that courage come from? To work that out, he sat down on the fresh-mowed grass next to the parking lot and ate the jar of peanuts, which he washed down with big swallows of Old Crow until the bottle was empty.
Before he parted from his wife and young children in his village of El Palmito, his father had taken him into the fields and said,
"Hijo mio,
when you get where you're going, don't forget Francisca and your children. Send money to them before you get drunk on Saturday night. And also don't forget, the reason opportunity is often missed is that it usually comes disguised as hard work. Go with God."
Suddenly Hector Quintana thought he understood what the old man had meant. Abandoning the shopping cart, he stuffed the little pistol into his back pocket.
He set out on foot in the warm May night, heading for the Circle K convenience store he had seen just up the block on Bissonet.
On the humid Monday morning following the reduction of bail for Johnnie Faye Boudreau, Warren Blackburn returned for the first time in two years to the 299th District Court, the scene of his crime. The sweat on his forehead slowly cooling, he stood for ten minutes in the anteroom of Judge Lou Parker's chambers. He had avoided her court assiduously until now, but now it was time. Can't duck her forever, he decided, and I've paid my dues.
Warren wore his best dark blue suit and his shoes had been shined by the bootblack in the courthouse basement. He watched Melissa Bourne-Smith, the new court coordinator of the 299th, bent over the computer at her government-issue metal desk. He had been introduced to her a few weeks ago in the cafeteria, and since then they had exchanged a few hellos in the elevators. He tried today to exude a mix of gravity and bonhomie, but he felt neither. In this court he felt like a burned-out failure of a lawyer.
Finally the court coordinator raised her Afro and shot him a radiantly false smile.
"Might have something good for you. The judge said she wants a young lawyer on this one." She glanced down at the docket sheet. "Defendant's name is Hector Quintana. An illegal alien. Capital murder, case number 388-6344. Can you come back at noon?"
Surprised, not quite believing what he had heard, Warren wrote quickly on his yellow legal pad.
Capital murder was top of the line, differing from ordinary murder in that there were aggravating circumstances: murder during the commission
The Ravendale Apartments rented furnished apartments on a month-to-month basis to visiting yuppies and divorcees, who stayed until they went back home or found permanent living space elsewhere in Houston. The residents of Ravendale drank Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers and played volleyball in the pool on hot summer evenings. No one paid attention to strangers. They were nearly all strangers to each other.
Good Dumpsters here, Hector Quintana had learned. Gringos threw things out which back in El Palmito his people would battle to own. He once found a toaster oven; another time, New Balance running shoes with a hole in the toe. Fit him perfectly, aided by balled-up wads of newspaper. Peanut butter, a box of Wheat Thins, an unopened bottle of Mr. and Mrs. T's Bloody Mary Mix. He would never understand gringos.
Tonight he had even better luck. Rummaging in the Dumpster among the various garbage smells, he dug out a pair of dirty white tennis socks, a half-finished jar of Planters salted peanuts, and then a bottle of Old Crow about four inches full. He opened it, sniffing to make sure it was not kerosene. The aroma of bourbon filled his nostrils.
Pushing his luck, Hector dug farther. Amid lemon peels and coffee grounds, his brown hand closed on something cool and metallic: a pistol.
He looked at it and knew he had a prized possession, something which could change his life — if he could find the courage to use it correctly.
But where would that courage come from? To work that out, he sat down on the fresh-mowed grass next to the parking lot and ate the jar of peanuts, which he washed down with big swallows of Old Crow until the bottle was empty.
Before he parted from his wife and young children in his village of El Palmito, his father had taken him into the fields and said,
"Hijo mio,
when you get where you're going, don't forget Francisca and your children. Send money to them before you get drunk on Saturday night. And also don't forget, the reason opportunity is often missed is that it usually comes disguised as hard work. Go with God."
Suddenly Hector Quintana thought he understood what the old man had meant. Abandoning the shopping cart, he stuffed the little pistol into his back pocket.
He set out on foot in the warm May night, heading for the Circle K convenience store he had seen just up the block on Bissonet.
On the humid Monday morning following the reduction of bail for Johnnie Faye Boudreau, Warren Blackburn returned for the first time in two years to the 299th District Court, the scene of his crime. The sweat on his forehead slowly cooling, he stood for ten minutes in the anteroom of Judge Lou Parker's chambers. He had avoided her court assiduously until now, but now it was time. Can't duck her forever, he decided, and I've paid my dues.
Warren wore his best dark blue suit and his shoes had been shined by the bootblack in the courthouse basement. He watched Melissa Bourne-Smith, the new court coordinator of the 299th, bent over the computer at her government-issue metal desk. He had been introduced to her a few weeks ago in the cafeteria, and since then they had exchanged a few hellos in the elevators. He tried today to exude a mix of gravity and bonhomie, but he felt neither. In this court he felt like a burned-out failure of a lawyer.
Finally the court coordinator raised her Afro and shot him a radiantly false smile.
"Might have something good for you. The judge said she wants a young lawyer on this one." She glanced down at the docket sheet. "Defendant's name is Hector Quintana. An illegal alien. Capital murder, case number 388-6344. Can you come back at noon?"
Surprised, not quite believing what he had heard, Warren wrote quickly on his yellow legal pad.
Capital murder was top of the line, differing from ordinary murder in that there were aggravating circumstances: murder during the commission
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