JL04 - Mortal Sin Read Online Free PDF Page A

the trainer was pleading for another twenty-four hours, Diaz decided to send him a message. Take a little chunk out of the man’s shoulder, just as a warning. Maybe get the guy to find a safe with some cash in it underneath the manure piles. In a movie, he saw the bad guys chop off someone’s little finger. He couldn’t remember if it made the man talk.
    Diaz lifted the chain saw with both hands. “No!” the trainer shrieked, his eyes filling with tears.
    “Ay, be thankful it’s not your
pinga,”
Diaz yelled over the roar.
    The saw was bucking, and the man was screaming, and the horses were kicking the place down, and Ramos was saying something he couldn’t hear. Diaz tried to gently tap the wailing machine against the trainer’s shoulder, but he missed. The churning blade came to rest against the man’s neck, where it bit through his carotid artery, splattering Ramos’s white linen
guayabera
a rich scarlet and spraying the two palominos, turning them into pintos.
    A week later, on that cool and breezy day, Guillermo Diaz sat in my office. “Grand jury meets this afternoon,” I told him.
    “Big fucking deal. They got no witnesses.”
    “Ramos turned state’s evidence, testified yesterday. You’re going to be indicted for Murder One.”
    “That’s bullshit. Where is the chickenshit
cobarde
? Where’s he now?”
    “In protective custody.
    “¿Dónde?”
    “How should I know? And what difference does it make? You think you can get him to change his mind?”
    “No, I think I can kill him.”
    Outside the windows, a buzzard landed on the ledge, spreading its six-foot wings, then folding them in that familiar hunched-shoulder look. The ugly birds fly south each winter and perch outside the windows of high-rise lawyers, reminding us of our ethical standards.
    “You’re not kidding, are you Guillermo?”
    “You get to take his statement,
“¿verdad?”
    “Right, a pre-trial deposition.”
    “You tell me when and where, it’s over real quick.”
    He stood up and paced to the window. Spooked, the buzzard spread its wings and soared away. I leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on the credenza, and flicked the button on the Dictaphone. A little red light blinked on. “Let me get this straight, Guillermo. You’re asking me to set up Rafael Ramos, so you can kill him.”
    “Ay, Counselor, I do it with or without your help. What other choice I got?”
    “Yes,” I told Wilbert Faircloth. “I recorded my conversation with Mr. Diaz.”
    Faircloth let his voice pick up some volume. “And did you have a court order permitting you to conduct this recording?”
    “I did not.”
    “Was the recording made in the course and scope of a bona fide law-enforcement investigation?”
    “No, I did it on my own.”
    “And, as a lawyer, you are familiar with Chapter 934 of the Florida Statutes, are you not?”
    “I know the gist of it.”
    “The
gist
of it,” Faircloth repeated with some distaste. He paused, apparently considering whether to press me on the particulars of the law. “Do you know, sir, that the statute forbids tape recording a conversation unless all parties to that conversation have consented?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know that on February twelfth, 1993?”
    What would be better, I wondered, denying knowledge of the statute and therefore admitting incompetence, or conceding I knew my conduct was felonious? Probably the former, but damn, it would be a lie. They couldn’t prove it, of course. No perjury charge. Still, one of Lassiter’s Rules is not to lie to the court.
    “Yes, I knew the law at the time.”
    “May we assume you obtained your client’s permission?”
    “You may assume it, but it wouldn’t be true.”
    “So then, you did not have Mr. Diaz’s consent to tape-record his conversation?”
    I can’t stand it when lawyers posture. “You expect me to ask permission to record his threats to kill a witness?”
    “No, Mr. Lassiter. I expect you to follow the