The grand jury was about to come back with his sins listed out in detailed counts. The feds would have their way with him, then would come the civil case, and then, at the ass end of it all, the state might get a chance at him. And I would be there every step of the way, collecting my fees and depleting his ill-gotten gains and making them my ill-gotten gains. God bless capitalism.
There were holes in his story. There always were. Missing names, dates, documents, amounts. None of my clients were ever truly honest. If they had been, they wouldn't be in my office. They'd be in front of the judge, pleading guilty and begging for mercy. Instead, they came to me, wanting to keep their evil gains and escape a prison sentence.
Abracadabra, motherfuckers. Your wish is my command. For a price.
"Does it ever bother you, Evan?" Jonesy asked.
"I don't know, does persecuting innocent citizens ever bother you?" I asked.
Jonesy looped his index finger around the top of his beer bottle and took a swig. Satisfied with his mouthful of beer, he said, "I've never persecuted anyone, so I wouldn't know."
I snorted so hard the whiskey almost went down the wrong pipe. After-work drinks at the Docket Call, a dive right at the edge of Chinatown and the court district, were obligatory. It was a combination of old Irish pub and industrial chic, likely pieced together from failed bars in other parts of the city. The name made it the obvious haunt of attorneys who either didn't want to go home to their boring families or had no families to go home to.
For me, the bar scene was just to decompress from the day and commiserate with others in the profession. I had no need to network, not anymore, but scoping out the competition had always been fun. Other attorneys were like a whetstone that kept me sharp.
The state court trial dogs kept to the back of the bar, rowdy and rough. Well, as rough as New York City lawyers can be in Armani suits.
Toward the front, the federal court attorneys congregated. The assistant U.S. attorneys, or AUSAs, were a clique until themselves. They were in the business of prosecuting my clients, seeing their brand of federal justice done on white-collar wrongdoers. I didn't run with them. I was the enemy. Still, I managed to keep them entertained over drinks with sparring banter. They tolerated me. And, sometimes, I gleaned a little information to help my clients.
Jonesy had been a drinking companion of mine for almost five years, since the day he'd shown up as a baby lawyer. Now he was a halfway decent assistant U.S. attorney. And he wasn't a bad lay, as those go. But we hadn't been between the sheets for years. After our first one-night stand, we'd fallen into a comfortable friendship and only went at each other in front of a judge or jury these days.
He took another big swig from his IPA. His sandy-colored hair needed a cut. It covered his ears and made him look even younger than he was. "I just figured you would, at some point in your career, grow some sort of a-" He set the bottle down and used his index fingers to draw a heart in the air.
I leaned back and laughed. I could feel his eyes roaming me. It was a nice sensation. Jonesy was handsome, young, and hung. All things I appreciated.
I could use the attention. The day had been long and unfulfilling. We'd arranged the delivery of all Connie Castille's documents. Boxes and boxes of lies, dirt, and sad old people's misery. That would be a shitty slog for my associates. Poor bastards.
I didn't want to think about the wrinkled chumps Castille had cheated. Being here with the younger, prettier contingent-even though some of them would have loved to wring my neck-made me feel better.
"No, Jonesy, this one wouldn't even know what to do with an accessory like that." Woodhall, one of the longest-serving U.S. attorneys on record, took the open barstool next to Jonesy. He was grayed at the temples and round in the belly. But he was a damn good prosecutor. Though he was fair, I didn't look forward to cases I had with him. Total hardass. Even though he was at the top of the food chain with no need to try cases, he still did. Once a scrapper, always a scrapper. I just hoped he didn't get Castille's doozy.
"Any word on the next grand jury papers?" I asked. I shifted my heeled foot over to Jonesy's barstool and let my bare calf rest casually against him. He didn't move away.
"Got some real pieces of shit about to be true-billed. I'm sure they're some of your best clients." Woodhall didn't exactly have a voice; it was more a rumble with a hefty sprinkle of disdain on top.
"Good to know. More indictments mean more business for me." I downed my whiskey.