Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice Read Online Free PDF

sympathetic. Black jurors
will cut you a break if they think the cops did wrong, which is
always the presumption in the ‘hood, but you got to remember this.
Your black juror isn’t from the streets. She’s a registered voter
or she wouldn’t have been called, and when you bring in some
slippery white boys, you got trouble.”
    “ So why’d you leave her
on?” I asked.
    “‘ Cause, Jake, my boy, in
case you haven’t noticed, while I may be as bald as a cue ball, I’m
as black as the eight ball. I was hoping for some home cookin’ from
number five.”
    “ And . . .”
    “ And she scowled at me
worse than at you. We both botched it with Mrs. Cherelle
Washington. We bobbled, blundered, and bungled. We fumbled,
faltered, and floundered. We looked deep inside ourselves and
failed to see the light.”
    “ Maybe we’ll get lucky. You
do believe in luck, don’t you Henry Thackery?”
    “ Of course. How else can
one explain his enemy’s successes?”
    I thought I’d heard that somewhere before
and probably had. Lawyers are noted plagiarists.
    ***
    Our respective clients sat at opposite ends
of the defense table, and I joined H. T. Patterson pacing in front
of the bench. The clients watched us, probably wondering why H.T.
and I acted as if we were on trial. I’m not sure why, but that’s
the way it is.
    “ Good luck, Kyle,” Blinky
said, caught up in the spirit of the moment. Foxhole buddies, at
least for now.
    Josefina Baroso sat in the front row of the
otherwise deserted gallery. Her legs were crossed, her fine chin
tilted upward, an enigmatic smile playing at her lips. I resented
her regal presence. If this were ancient Rome, and we were
gladiators, she would be casting thumbs down as a spear pressed
against her brother’s throat.
    Abe Socolow walked calmly down the aisle,
whispered something to Queen Josefina, and took his place at the
prosecution table. He was one of these guys who never sweated. His
shirt always stayed tucked into his pants, and his shoes never lost
their shine. I was dying to get him in a headlock and give him a
noogie.
    The back door banged open, and Judge Gold
trundled in, his black robes flapping behind him. The clerk was in
her place, and the stenographer sat hunched over her keyboard,
stretching her neck. “Bring in the jury,” the judge ordered the
bailiff.
    You try to read their faces. If they won’t
look you in the eye, they’ve gone against you. That’s what old
lawyers will tell you over a dry martini at the Gaslight. As with
most courtroom wisdom about verdicts, they’re right fifty percent
of the time.
    These jurors were all over the place. A
couple studied their shoes. A couple were clutching their thin
sweaters, protection against the spastic air-conditioning that
could drip warm water one moment and freeze sides of beef the next.
Mrs. Cherelle Washington shot a look at Socolow, then me, then
stopped her gaze on H. T. Patterson. She seemed angry with all of
us.
    “ Who do you think’s the
foreman?” Blinky asked.
    “ The shark hunter,” I
guessed, straining unsuccessfully to see who was holding the two
sheets of paper on which was written the fate of Messrs. Baroso and
Hornback.
    “ Has the jury reached its
verdicts?” Judge Gold asked, in properly senatorial
tones.
    Mrs. Washington stood up.
    Oh shit.
    “ We have, Your Honor,” she
said, holding out the verdict forms to the wheezing bailiff, who
carried them to Rosa Suarez, the clerk.
    “ Thank you, Madam
Foreperson,” the judge said. He studied the forms and seemed to
grimace, but it could have been stomach gas. “The clerk will
publish the verdicts,” he announced, handing the forms to Rosa
Suarez, who stood with an air of self-importance.
    Rosa Suarez’s uncle was a county
commissioner, and her entire family—mother, father, three brothers,
and a sister— held county jobs. If you needed a gator removed from
a backyard canal or a new water meter on your house, chances are a
Suarez would sign the