Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller Read Online Free PDF

basketball player from U. of North Florida, except that as he ducked his skullcap of black crinkly hair to move through the door, he moved awkwardly, not the way an athlete would move. Nickerson glanced down at Darryl Morgan’s sneakers. Feet like boats.
    By the time the detectives stepped forth to be seen, William Smith
    had climbed behind the wheel of the pickup and slammed the door behind him. Darryl Morgan, the big-footed one, moved more slowly.
    “ Poh -lice! Hold it right there!” Nickerson flipped his gold shield, which said JACKSONVILLE SHERIFF’S OFFICE. He made sure the crackling fluorescent light above the Lil’ Champ shone on it. “Let’s see some ID, boys.”
    No one moved. Moths struck and sizzled on the fluorescent tubes.
    “He over twenty-one,” Morgan said, indicating Smith in the truck. Smith had carried the beer. “I jus’ along for the ride.”
    Nickerson said, “If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d have farted.”
    Smith turned the ignition key, starting the engine so that the pickup rattled violently.
    Nickerson tugged at the Saturday Night Special in his waistband.
    Tanagra yelled at Smith, “Hold it, hold it right there, hold it!” She reached for her own pistol. “You hear me? Right there!”
    Morgan backed his huge frame against the building. His eyes were wide as eggs.
    Nickerson dropped to one knee and fired what he would later describe in the official police report as “two warning shots when the suspect Smith attempted to escape.” One of the shots struck a nut on the front left wheel of the pickup, flinging sparks into the night like angry fireflies. The other passed through the old metal of the driver’s door and into William Smith’s left thigh. Smith yelped in pain and fell forward. His left foot lifted off the clutch; the weight of his right leg was thrown onto the accelerator.
    The pickup hurtled backward in a screeching curve. Before Smith could shift his weight and lift himself up, the rear end of the truck smashed into a pair of concrete posts on the edge of the highway. The pickup tilted over, as if a dozen men had shoved it, and fell on its side with the sound of a thousand nails being dropped on a counter. Then it bounced and settled. The engine died. A shower of glass fell.
    Silence slowly filled the damp air outside the Lil’ Champ. Metal creaked for a minute or so. Until Darryl Morgan, his back still pressed flat against the building, said, “Lord Jesus …”
    “Go take a look, Carmen,” Nickerson told his partner.
    After a couple of minutes, Carmen Tanagra walked back from the wreck. The way she walked, hips undulating in tight slacks, a distinct space between her upper thighs, often made men stare and calculate. She was not unaware of it.
    “Boy seems to have a bullet in his leg. Definitely has a sliver of windshield in his throat, and it’s sticking out the back of his neck. He’s looking poorly.”
    “You gonna stand around talking, Carmen? Or call an ambulance?”
    “No rush for that, Nick.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “Graveyard dead, that’s what I’m saying.”
    Nickerson’s eyes rolled in his head. He wheeled on Darryl Morgan, who towered over him but looked as frightened as a rabbit dumped into a swamp teeming with alligators.
    Nickerson said angrily, “You and your dead pal been out to the beach tonight, right? Looking to score a few TV sets, or maybe better. Got caught in the act and lost your cool, and you shot a man. Big fella, don’t pop my cork by telling me it ain’t so! Let’s just hear about it. And then I’ll tell you how you got the right to remain silent, and all that other shit.”

Chapter 3

    TEN DAYS AFTER the murder of Solly Zide I accepted the job with the Sarasota law firm. Then it was called Royal, Kelly, Green & Wellmet—Green was the one leaving, and Jaffe was about to insinuate himself into the letterhead. I gave three months notice to the state attorney’s office in Jacksonville and celebrated by