Bad Behavior(38)

"I've been working hard, too!" Drew cried through the wall.

"Shut the fuck up, Drew!" I called again. "Anyway, she will do the check, and we will go from there. All in all, it's not as bad is it could be. At least I don't think it is."

"Are you sure it's just a coincidence?"

"Oh, I never said that. I don't think it is. Castille took advantage of the parents, grandparents, and spouses of some of the most powerful mob bosses and white-collar criminals in New York and New Orleans. This isn't over just because we know that now. I mean, it explains a lot-how the Ponzi got so big and why it was charged here-but our clients are not a fan of loose ends."

DiSalvo's words circled my mind like carrion birds over a corpse. You take on a client who's fucked over the parents and grandparents of half the mob?

"Fuck." I drew out the word on an exhale. It was the only response to any of it, to the whole situation.

Vinnie rubbed his eyes with a vengeance, as if the action would erase the bad news from his sight. "What if they think we have something to do with it?"

I'd been worrying over that ever since DiSalvo explained the particulars of Castille's sins. DiSalvo had heard through the grapevine-the retired-criminal grapevine?-that Castille had run a game on the wrong people, namely, the relatives of mob royalty. One of Castille's "investors" happened to be one of DiSalvo's elderly sisters, whom he had funded for her entire life. When DiSalvo found out I was repping the guy who bilked her, he, quite naturally, blew a gasket. Not out of loyalty to "senile fucking Clara," of course, but out of self-preservation. Anything that connected a federal investigation to him was bad news.

I could only hope his call had been more about damage control than anything else. I didn't think he would hurt me, not after all I'd done for him.

"I'll handle that if it happens. DiSalvo seemed convinced when I explained that we were in the dark."

"But what about your other clients? Will they be as understanding?"

I shrugged. "We just have to move ahead with this case. I don't know of any other way to do it."

"We could try to drop Castille as a client," Vinnie said.

"We could, but that's no easy thing. Dropping Castille now would send him running to another attorney in town, one who might not be as discreet with Castille's client list. That would blow up in our faces. Letting him out of our grip now would be a mistake. Besides, if we tried to quit, the Court will want an explanation. And we'd have to refund his retainer and eat the bill on all the time you've put into it. Not to mention, the fees from the federal case alone will put your little brat through college and then some. You want to lose all that?"

Vinnie groaned. "No."

"All right. I'm glad we're in agreement. Drew!" I yelled. "I expect that fucking client cross-check report on my desk by the end of the day. If it isn't, go ahead and cancel your nonexistent weekend plans!"

I heard something bang against the wall. A stapler, maybe?

Vinnie dropped his voice. "I hope you know what you're doing, boss."

I matched his volume. "You and me both, Vin. Shit. We need to win this case sooner rather than later."

I picked up a pen from his desk, pallida & associates emblazoned across the side in gold letters, and chewed on the end. We both grew silent. I was thinking. He propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes. He could have dozed off for all I knew. I just kept mulling over the problem, trying to get the win and save our skins.



       
         
       
        

"Maybe we can try to disqualify this Lincoln guy again?" Eyes still closed, Vinnie threw the shitty idea out on the field. A swing and a miss.

"Nope. Try again." A parade of motions ran through my mind, all different sorts meant to create a quagmire for my enemies. Problem was, I didn't need to slow this case down. I needed to speed it up. To end it. But not with a plea deal or a conviction, with a win. The only way I knew to get that was to prostrate myself before the goddess of reasonable doubt.

I bent over, head between my knees. This was Sherman all over again, though the threat of death wasn't quite as front and center. It lurked around the edges, veiled and in the dark.

"It's this guy Lincoln, right? He's the problem. He's got a justice boner for Castille, right? How do we make him take a cold shower? Demoralize him and then take him to the fucking mat?"

I stopped midchew, an idea coming into my mind, as devious as it was clever. It was wrong. Fuck wrong. It was immoral, as if I had any license to use that word anymore. If I did it, I could never take it back. It would plop down on top of my pile of sins like a sickly-sweet cherry.