“What news?” I asked him.

“They found the prosecutor this evening in his office, single shot through the heart with a .44. He was dead when they found him, blood all around him. He was still holding the gun in his left hand, silencer and all. They say he left a note, but it’s not being released. Two homicide detectives called me at home at around eight, I had just finished watching Jeopardy. I called you on your cell, but it was turned off; then I called you at home, and your wife told me you were preparing for tomorrow’s depos. That’s when I knew I would find you here.”

I was speechless. This was one outcome I had not anticipated. I looked at him, and I saw a single tear rolling down his left cheek, out of the outside corner of his eye. Before I could say anything he continued: “I thought I should let you know, just in case you didn’t find out until tomorrow.”

He then turned around and left.

The next day, I cancelled both depositions. As it would turn out, I would never take them. The case lingered on for another month, with three different prosecutors briefly taking over and then withdrawing from it after finding unspecified conflicts of interest. Eventually the case was assigned to the chief of an out-of-county prosecutor’s office. After less than two days with it, they filed a motion to dismiss it before Judge Tyson. We talked briefly before the hearing, mostly about how unnecessarily unfortunate things had turned. We also agreed on how to proceed with his motion. We decided it would be a closed session with only the parties to the case present plus a court reporter from his office upstate.

Judge Tyson had tried to recuse himself from the case, but we convinced him to stay on. The hearing took less than five minutes. Judge Tyson granted the State’s motion to dismiss, and I then requested that a judgment of acquittal be entered. Finding no opposition from the State, the judge complied. The State then requested that the file be permanently sealed, with access to it only by way of court order. I agreed. Joshua did not even say a word.

After the hearing I was approached by two F.B.I. agents, who wanted to talk to me about Detective Pescatore. I told them that I did not have any corroborated evidence about any wrongdoing by the detective, that all that I had to say was of record in the court file. This was true. His statement to me was off record and not admissible in any proceeding. They said that they would be in contact with me.

Joshua Newman was eventually disbarred, based on his conduct alone. I was called to testify at the Bar disciplinary hearing, and I submitted all the letters that I had in my file. I understand that he was also charged with other violations of the Code of Ethics. My testimony was irrelevant. They had already made up their minds even before the first question was asked.

A few months later, Judge Tyson was named to the Third District Court of Appeals, and last thing I heard, he was a front runner for the vacant position of State Attorney General. I am still practicing criminal defense in the tri-county area, but I am even more selective about which cases I take. I have learned a thing or two by trial and error; one of them is that, although the heat of Miami is very exciting, you must be careful about what you do in a Miami summer, because in this part of the world, summers can last a lifetime.

THE END

“Go ahead and tell me the good news, then,” he said.

“The good news is I know what’s behind your predicament. The bad news is I don’t know whether knowing that is going to make any difference.”

“I’ll be honest Sam: That’s not very comforting. But at least you have whetted my curiosity. Tell me what I did to deserve the wrath of the State.”

“Remember the missing tapes, Joshua?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that one of the lost tapes had a conversation from your friend Lisa’s house?”

“Aha.”

“Well, one of the ladies on the other end of the conversation was Claudia Canetti. Do you know who she is?”

“Of course I know Claudia. I have fond memmories of her.”

“I thought so. The other lady was Sylvia Muñoz, I’m sure you know her too.”

“Of course. Sylvia and Claudia were friends. Actually I met Claudia through Sylvia. She introduced us at a party in Lisa’s house.”

“Did you know that Claudia was a married woman, Joshua?”

He seemed mortified by my question. We had never discussed our intimate lives in detail with each other, and it was obvious that he preferred to keep it that way. A few times I had delved into that territory, always having to do with the case, but every time he had managed to evade my inquisitiveness. He did tell me about the lady in Tampa, but I guess after the slap he didn’t have much choice. However, the circumstances were different this time, and he had no escape route.

“Yeah…I knew that she was married,” he reluctantly answered.

“Did you know who her husband was?”

“Some C.I.A. agent…at least, that’s she told me.”

“Well, then I guess she lied to you, Joshua. Her husband is your prosecutor.”

He raised his head and looked at me in disbelief. “No, no, it can’t be. There’s a mistake. She told me that he was a spy, that he worked long hours because he was cracking a big case. And…she doesn’t even have the same last name. I mean, I would’ve never….”

“Too late, Joshua. You already did. And Sylvia—do you know who her husband is?”

“I had nothing to do with Sylvia, Sam, I swear.”

Joshua was evidently shaken up. Up to that point he had conveniently believed that the whole case against him was a question of envy by the prosecutor at his success as a defense attorney. That was the explanation that suited him best. He could hate the whole legal establishment, me included, and crown himself as a maverick, as a rebel. Having that approach, even if he was convicted, he could go on believing that he had been the victim of a terrible injustice, and his pride and ego would emerge intact, even stronger. But with my news I had dealt him a savage blow. He could no longer feel like the victim, and he would have to deal with his own shortcomings.

“I know you had nothing to do with Sylvia, Josh,” I said. I was trying to soothe him a bit; after all, he was my client, and for a while I had considered him my friend. “However, Sylvia’s husband is also upset at you.”

“I thought she wasn’t married, that she just lived with a guy.”

“She is in fact not married, but she has lived with that guy for almost ten years, which I guess entitles him to call her his wife. What’s more, that guy is Detective Pescatore.”

“Damn it, damn them all. So this whole thing was concocted by a couple of cuckolds just to punish me?”

“Punishing you was almost an afterthought. They set you up to gain access to your conversations, and when they verified their suspicions, then they set out to prosecute you.”

“Unfuckingbelievable.” He paused for a few seconds as if taking his time to assimilate the news. “What do we do now, Sam? Is the case still alive?”

“I wish I could tell you, Josh, but I really don’t know. I know this: now that we have this information, we are in a better position than we were before, but I’m still not sure what to do. There are several things I could do, all of them difficult, but I hope that one of them results in your acquittal. I’ll let you know. I have kept a lot of things from you, Josh, because I felt that telling you could only hinder my investigation, but now that the cat is out of the bag, I’ll keep you informed about everything.”

“This was supposed to make me happy, Sam, but somehow I feel very sad. A lot of things make me sad. But you have done well, Sam. I really appreciate it. You have my gratitude, that’s for sure.”

I knew what his problems were. I was glad that they weren’t my problems.

My legal battles in the case State of Florida versus Joshua Newman were coming to an end; I could sense it. However, the few battles that remained were immense. I decided that I could not try to strongarm the prosecutor the way I had done with the detective. Knowing what I knew about the prosecutor’s background and behavior, I was sure he wouldn’t mind going down in flames if it meant taking me down with him. He had reconciled with his wife even after having proof that she was having an affair; however, he probably believed that adultery in women required tenderness and love, and what he heard on that tape was pure lust. He probably also believed that the true adulterer was Joshua, for he was the one who had “coveted his neighbor’s wife,” therefore he was the one who deserved punishment.

I also understood that the prosecutor had probably reached that level of oblivion that ails many prosecutors, especially those in the major crimes division. After dealing with the worst of society on an hourly basis, they forget that there is a righteous world outside the courtroom. I, of course, had no wish to go down in flames, so the only way I could approach him would have to be in a courtroom setting, where everything was of record.

The day the trial was set to start, I arrived in Judge Tyson’s courtroom a quarter of an hour early. Joshua arrived a few minutes later. I conferred with him and told him what I was going to do and why. He seemed satisfied. When the prosecutor arrived, Joshua looked at him; his look was a strange mixture of defiance, fear, hatred, and contempt. I had seen those looks many times in my life, and they screamed louder than many words. The prosecutor looked confident. A few minutes later, the judge stormed into the courtroom.

There were about fifteen cases in the trial calendar; however, Joshua’s case was number one in the list. We were called immediately.

“Well, gentlemen, are we ready for trial?” the judge asked.

“The state is ready Your Honor?” the prosecutor announced, as I knew he would.

“Mr. Lewis, I presumed you’re ready too, so we can….”

“I’m sorry, Judge,” I interrupted, “but the defense is not ready.”

There was a rising whisper that rippled throughout the courtroom. Those present in the courtroom were mostly defense attorneys and prosecutors who were hoping that our case would go to trial; otherwise, their cases would be called up. The prosecutor looked at me in disbelief. Judge Tyson shook his head, as if trying to shake off his stupor.

“Now, Mr. Lewis, that is certainly a surprise,” he said. “And what reasons may you have to not be ready? They’d better be darn good, counsel, because this court has been very expeditious in accommodating your needs so that you could be ready for trial at this setting. I will be very disappointed if your reasons are less than kosher.”

“They are excellent reasons, Your Honor,” I replied.

“Well, let me hear them, then.”

“Your Honor, in the course of my investigation into this case, I recently uncovered two witnesses who were not listed by the State, but whom I considered vital for my defense of this case. Subpoenas for deposition have gone out to those witnesses, and they should be receiving them today or tomorrow, at the latest. If the State agrees to make the witnesses available for deposition today, then we could start jury selection tomorrow morning; otherwise, I’m afraid I will have to request a continuance, since the depositions are set for within a week, as the rules of criminal procedure require.”

The confidence disappeared from the prosecutor’s face. He turned his head toward me, while tapping the podium with his Mont Blanc. Then the judge said to me, “Well, Mr. Lewis, if you could tell the State who those witnesses are, maybe we can still have a trial this week.

“Certainly, Your Honor.” I reached for my briefcase, opened it on top of the podium, deliberately slowly, then pulled a copy of a subpoena. “The witnesses are: Officer Bob Garcia of the Miami Police Department, and a civilian by the name of Claudia Canetti.”

Another ripple of whispers filled the courtroom, this time louder. The bailiff stood up and ordered, “Silence, please!!”

The noise died down a few decibels, but it was still loud enough for the judge to get up, pound his gavel, and threaten, “You will be quiet right now, or I will clear the courtroom!”

This finally succeeded. However, the prosecutor was still stunned. He looked at the judge, then at me, then back at the judge. It reminded me of the hearing in Budapest. Finally, the judge asked him, “State, will you be able to produce the witnesses?”

“Your Honor,” he said, his voice trembling, “may we approach the bench?”

“With or without the reporter?” the judge asked.

“With the reporter, Your Honor,” I interjected. “I’d prefer that everything be taken down.”

“I’d rather not have the reporter Your Honor….”

“That’s impossible, State. Mr. Lewis has requested the court reporter, and I must comply. So, you may approach, but everything will be of record.”

“OK, sir.”

I quickly started walking toward the bench and positioned myself to the right of the judge, at the end of the bench, with my back to the audience; the judge had pulled his chair toward the steps. The prosecutor was forced to lean against the wall, to the left of the judge, and facing the courtroom. The court reporter placed herself in the middle, with the shorthand machine between the prosecutor and me.

“Well….” the judge said, in a low voice.

“Your Honor, I will request that defense counsel make a proffer as to what information he expects to elucidate from the witnesses’ testimony.”

“Counsel….” the judge looked at me.

“Judge, if I knew that, I wouldn’t need a deposition. Besides, I don’t think I should be required to divulge to the prosecution what my strategy for trial will be.”

“Why are you asking for this proffer, State?”

The prosecutor looked pale. He sighed, rolled his eyes and said, “Judge, the second witness is my wife.”

Judge Tyson got up from his chair as if propelled by a spring. Then, obviously upset, he yelled, “In chambers, both of you, right now!!”

I started going to the podium to get my briefcase, when the judge grabbed me by the arm. “Mr. Lewis, I mean right now.” The court reporter started quickly picking up her machine, but the judge stopped her also. “You go to your seat. We’re not going to need you.”

We entered his chambers through the back door, not through his office. He slammed the door behind us, took off his robe, and without sitting down said, “Could someone tell me what the hell is going on here!”

I was not about to volunteer; the prosecutor clearly did not want to say anything either. The judge was really furious at our silence.

“Mr. Lewis, I don’t know you as the kind of lawyer who would pull a stunt in my courtroom, so please tell me how is this man’s wife’s testimony relevant to this case? I have seen most of the pleadings in this case and nothing, nothing indicates that she is a first-hand witness. If you’re trying to play hardball, you’ve met your match, ’cause I will make sure that you regret it for the rest of your life.”

The prosecutor was still standing, with his head lowered. “Judge…” he attempted to say, but he was cut off by the judge.

“Shut up. I want to hear what defense counsel has to say. It better be darn good.”

I was trying to keep my composure, and at the same time I was trying to pick my words carefully. I took a deep breath and said, “Your Honor, I have uncovered information that Miss or Mrs. Canetti—I really don’t know how to refer to her—Ms. Canetti—was on the other end of one of the conversations that was destroyed. That makes her a material witness, and as uncomfortable as it is, I have the obligation to follow that lead to its ultimate consequences.”

The judge slumped himself into his chair, looked at the prosecutor, and in almost a whisper said,     “Guys, you know what you have to do.”

We went back to the courtroom, and as soon as the judge came in, without even reaching his chair, he said, “Defense continuance granted. Next case.”

I looked at the prosecutor, hoping that he would say something to me; however, he was picking up his things from the podium, looking down, and would not even make eye contact. I felt pity for him, perhaps the first time that I felt empathy for an adversary. In Viet Nam the sergeants taught us to avoid thinking about the enemy, lest our soldiers become emotionally involved. That philosophy had carried on to my career; but there I was, hoping that the prosecutor, someone whom I had despised since our first conversation, would find strength to deal with the turn of events.

After I finished picking up my own things, I left the courtroom. On the way out, I was patted on the back by several attorneys who were waiting in line for their cases to be called. I did not look at anyone or say anything. Joshua was behind me; he did not look too good himself. I told him to call me in a week’s time, after the depositions. He nodded affirmatively, then said something about getting together for a round of golf. I didn’t say anything, just waved goodbye and went to the parking garage to get my car.

On Friday I gave my staff the afternoon off. Angie stayed until 2:00 p.m. anyhow and would have stayed longer if not for my telling her that I needed the office for personal matters; she then picked up her things quickly and left. The detective arrived a little after five. He was wearing plain clothes, but I noticed that he was carrying his regulation weapon. I asked him to wait in the reception area for a minute, went back into my office, and put my own 9 mm. Beretta in the top drawer, well within my reach in case of an emergency. I also suspected that he was wired, which would make me choose my words carefully. I then went out to the reception area and invited him into my office. We sat down, across from each other, with my desk between us.

“Thank you for coming, detective,” I said.

“I hope it’s worthwhile, counsel.”

“That will be up to you.”

“Well, then, tell me what this is all about.” He sounded impatient.

“Detective Pescatore, I know it all. I know that you told the technician to destroy the tape.”

I paused and waited for his reaction; he was immutable. “Who told you such thing, Sam?” he countered.

“Let’s just say that it’s a reliable source who is willing to testify in court; unfortunately I’m not in a position to divulge the name right now.”

“That’s not gonna get us very far. For all I know you’re fishing.”

“I hate fishing, detective, and if you look at the development of this case, you can easily conclude that I have known all along. But I understand your skepticism. Maybe this will convince you that I already have all the information I need; besides you, there were four other people that Saturday morning in the van: the prosecutor, the intern, the technician, and officer Garcia. You can count the prosecutor out, so that leaves you with three. One of them is my witness.

The detective lowered his head, raced his left thumb across his forehead, and cursed something that I could not understand. He stayed like that for a few seconds, then looked at me and said, “And what do you plan to do, Sam? I mean, I don’t see how this could help that prick you have for a client.”

“You’re completely wrong. Actually there are two ways that I could use this information to help Mr. Newman beat this case; which one I choose will depend solely on you.”

“OK, what are those two ways?”

“I could simply file a Motion to Dismiss before Judge Tyson, based on prosecutorial misconduct. There is plenty of evidence to support that. It would be a very brief hearing, I guarantee you. Of course that would bring down a few people with it, people that I don’t want to hurt, but you can be sure that I’ll do it without blinking.”

“And the other? I suspect I’ll be more interested in that one.”

“The other is the reason you’re here. As you can tell, I didn’t need to tell you about this if I intended to do the first option, except that I thought it would be unfair to not give you an opportunity to mend things up. I’ll be candid with you—I don’t really know it all. For example, I don’t know what the prosecutor’s interest is in this case, but I would very much like to know. I hope you can fill in the blanks for me and tell me the whole story.”

“I have to think about this, Sam,” the detective said.

“OK. How much time you need? Five minutes, ten minutes?”

“Oh, come on, I want to sleep on it.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. After you leave here today, I’m going to one of two places: home or to the U.S. Attorney’s office. Believe me, detective, as much as I like you and as much as I wouldn’t want to see you get in trouble, I’m pretty pissed off at you. You lied to me in deposition, and you have been lying to me since the beginning of this case. I don’t like that. One of the reasons you’re here is because you have information that I need. You’ll retire in six months…well, maybe…but I still have many years left to practice, and I’m sure I will lock horns with that prosecutor again. I want all the leverage I can use against that son of a bitch. I want you to tell me the whole story; from what you tell me I will confront the prosecutor and discuss the possibility of dropping the case. Of course, my source will remain anonymous, unless the prosecutor refuses to drop the case. If that happens, I may need your help to persuade him.”

He shook his head in disbelief. He seemed to begin to grasp the predicament he was in.

“OK. Rell me what you do know, and I’ll fill in the rest.

“I know enough, detective. I know that you told the technician to record over that conversation from Lisa’s house, even after he refused. I know that you lied to me in deposition. I know that you can be charged with perjury, obstruction of justice, official misconduct, and a few other things that any good U.S. Attorney could come up with. I know that you will lose your police department pension, so you won’t be able to retire in six months. I know that you may even go to prison. I know that there is a lot more in this case. What I don’t know is why you did this, why you entrapped Mr. Newman, why the prosecutor got involved, why you wanted to destroy that tape. My source doesn’t know that, but you do. That’s a lot of whys, detective, and I need answers. Oh, one thing that I forgot—I also know about Sylvia.”

That was my trump card, and it had an immediate effect on the detective; he looked disconcerted and ready to give in. He furiously slammed his fist on my desk, got up from his chair as if to leave, then went to the window. The last rays of the sun still illuminated Miami Beach. Beneath the window, Brickell Avenue was full of cars and pedestrians going to happy hour. The detective’s hour was anything but. He finally turned around and took his place in the chair.

“Actually, Sylvia had nothing to do with this,” he began. “She was just a stupid abettor. About a year ago, I began to suspect that she was cheating on me, so I hired a private investigator. The information he gathered for me was very sketchy. Sylvia would tell me that she was going to the mall and she would go to this house; later on, I found out that it belonged to that Lisa Fuentes. However, almost every time that Sylvia went there, Mr. Newman would also visit. I had pictures of both going inside the house at different times during the course of the same day, but to me that meant nothing, other than that she was lying to me.

“The last day that I paid the investigator, though, he brought me a very interesting picture. Sylvia was accompanied by another woman. When I looked closer, I saw that it was Claudia, the prosecutor’s wife. The investigator told me that he had seen the woman going into the house many times, but since I hadn’t mentioned anything about another woman, he hadn’t told me anything. I immediately called the prosecutor and told him what was going on. We met at Tobacco Road, and I showed him the picture. I also showed him a picture of Mr. Newman entering the same house. He was not happy, and he swore that he would not stop until he cut Mr. Newman’s balls off. I told him that I felt I could not confront Sylvia with this information, which really only amounted to jealous speculation, so we began devising a plan to collect more solid evidence.

“At first we considered bugging Lisa’s house so that we could hear the conversation inside. Ultimately we decided against that because there were just too many risks involved. In the course of devising a plan to obtain a phone taping warrant for Lisa’s phone, the prosecutor came up with the idea of switching the focus from Lisa to Mr. Newman. We could set him up with the help of an informant so that he would violate the law; we would then tap his phone to be able to listen to his conversations, and if he was involved romantically with either of our wives, then with the help of the informant we would prosecute him for the crime; if Mr. Newman was not involved with our wives, then the prosecutor would not bring charges. It was a good plan, everything would be legal, and we would be killing two birds with one stone.

“I was then put in charge of finding an informant, and the prosecutor was in charge of coming up with the crime. We met again two weeks later, and we had it all figured out. I had contacted an informant in a prison in Northern Florida, and he had agreed to cooperate. Meanwhile, the prosecutor brought a list of possible crimes. He had everything from sodomy to drug trafficking. I was the one who made the decision to go with introducing contraband into a jail facility. If it turned out that Mr. Newman was not involved, it would be easier to dismiss the case; on the other hand, if he was indeed involved, the crime was a felony for which he could face prison time and, for sure, disbarment. We were both satisfied and set out to put the plan in practice.

“Believe it or not, that was the most difficult part, because we had to find a client of Mr. Newman’s who was in jail awaiting trial. The only client he had in jail at that time was Mr. Johnston, and we planted the informant in his cell for a while; at the beginning he was tough to crack, and we even considered asking the informant to hire Mr. Newman. Of course, that would not sit well with the higher-ups in the State Attorney’s Office. Eventually, though, the informant gained the trust of Mr. Johnston, and we put the plan in practice.”

While I listened to this narrative, my emotions changed from surprise and shock to disgust and outrage. How could a seemingly decent human being descend to such vileness? Of course, every deed is only as great or as low as the motivations behind it, but some actions are simply too odious to be conceived.

But the detective had not finished. “As soon as we had the conversation on tape, in which Mr. Newman agreed to deliver the package, we applied for a phone tapping order. We had virtually no resistance from the duty judge, who didn’t even want to listen to the recording; he just wanted to know where he had to sign. After we got the order, we immediately sent Mark to tap Mr. Newman’s phone. We then began our surveillance.

“The first couple of days we spent there were murder. I slept about two or three hours a day because we didn’t want anybody else listening in. Most of the conversations were junk, as you yourself know, but then on Friday evening we saw the number from Lisa’s house appear in the screen. You cannot imagine how I felt, Sam, and I know you must be thinking that we’re crap, but to know that your wife might be talking to a guy, and to know that you’re listening to their conversation, I tell you, it gave me a hard-on. At the same time, I felt ridiculous, having to spy on my wife, but at least I wasn’t alone.

“The prosecutor and I both plugged in the earphones and began listening. It was Sylvia. She told Mr. Newman that Claudia would be arriving soon, that she had had a tough time sneaking out of the house, but since her husband was working late on an important case, Claudia had a little time to be with him. The prosecutor didn’t even blink, Sam. He just listened on. After a while, Claudia got on the phone, and they started talking really kinky stuff, Mr. Newman telling her what he was going to do to her, and she complaining that they would not have time to do it more than once. They talked for about ten minutes, and then Mr. Newman said that he was ready to go over there.

“After they hung up, I took the tape from Mark. The prosecutor was just sitting there, staring at the van window. I asked him what I should do with the tape, but he just looked at me with a blank expression. Then I told him that I was going to erase it, if that was OK with him. He nodded yes. Then I told Mark to erase it. Saturday morning was my turn to be shocked when we started listening to a conversation from Penrod’s at the beach. It was Sylvia, alone this time, but she spent a long time talking to your client. She had told me that she was going to her mother’s house, but obviously she took a detour before getting there. They talked about intimate things, but not pertaining to them together. Turned out that she was not cheating on me with Mr. Newman, but with a friend of his.

“I’m telling you this because there is no point hiding anything anymore, besides, your client will probably tell you, if he hasn’t already told you. After that conversation, I again told Mark to erase it, which he did. Sam, I know that it was dumb to do that, but at the time we were desperate and we thought it was a good idea.”

“Detective,” I finally mustered enough energy to say, “you’re too soft on yourself. That was not dumb, that was criminal at best, and heinous at worst. I’ll be honest with you, if it weren’t that I had given you my word, and my word is the only thing I still have intact, I would go straight to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m glad you’re retiring in six months, because if I ever saw you again in a case, I could not trust you. As for the prosecutor, I will deal with him accordingly.”

The detective left, and I stayed in my office for another forty minutes. I turned on my stereo and put a disc in the player. Listening to the detective’s account had drained me as if I had run a marathon. When the disc was over, I got up from my chair and went to the window where the detective had stood an hour before. The sun was completely gone, and a harvest moon was rising over Miami Beach. Down below, the crowds had vanished. I still had a tough task ahead, one as full of pitfalls as the one I had just finished.

“Terrific,” was my answer.

“This is my wife, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Sam Lewis, defense counsel.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said, with a bit of flirtatiousness.

“Mr. Lewis is one of the good attorneys, honey, even though he’s on the other side.”

I smiled but said nothing.

“Your name sounds familiar,” she said to me. “Have you been in the news lately?”

“No, not likely. It’s just that I have a very common name.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Could be, but somehow it rings a bell,” she said.

“A lot of people tell me that, but except for my wife, I’m really a complete unknown.”

We all laughed.

“It’s like me,” the detective said. “Only the crooks I’ve helped put away can spell my name.”

Once again I smiled but said nothing. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable because I wanted to talk to the detective; however, I did not want to do it in front of Sylvia. After a few seconds of silence, though, she gave me the opportunity. Either sensing that I wanted to be alone with the detective, or just out of pure boredom, she decided to go get a drink from the bar. As soon as she was out of hearing range, I said to Pescatore, “Detective, we need to talk.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Sam, you just took my depo a couple days ago.”

“Yeah, but we need to talk in private. How about you come by my office tomorrow evening?”

“Tomorrow I can’t. But Friday I’m free.”

“OK, why don’t we meet Friday at 5:30? Is that OK with you?”

“All right, Friday at 5:30 in your office. Should I bring the prosecutor with me?”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he was serious; it seemed to me that he knew what I wanted to talk about. Ignoring the insinuation of his question I said, “Detective, you can bring whomever you want, but I’d prefer that you came alone. The things I wanna talk to you about are of a sensitive nature. I’m not sure you even want to tell too many people that you’re meeting me.”

He was about to say something when Sylvia came back. “What kind of a bar is this? They have no White Zinfandel.”

I almost instinctively looked back at her; fortunately, years of training had prepared me for situations like that, so I refrained form turning my head.

“Honey, I’m sure they have all kinds of real drinks there,” the detective said. “Who drinks White Zinfandel anyway?”

“I couldn’t agree more, detective,” was the only thing I could say. After that comment, I felt it was the proper moment to leave. “Well, I have to go now. I have to make a stop at the vet and then go to the florist. I promised my wife I would bring her flowers. Nice to meet you, Sylvia. Detective, I’ll see you.”

“See you, Sam.”

“Bye, Mr. Lewis.”

Circumstantial evidence is cruel. You know almost to a certainty that things are the way the evidence shows; however, the key word is almost. You have a gut feeling that you know the truth, but somehow you don’t have any hard evidence to prove it. There is a little voice telling you that you could be wrong, that there is another possible explanation.

I remember one particular case that I handled years ago. Although there was no uncontroverted direct evidence of the defendant’s involvement, there was plenty of solid circumstantial evidence. It was an armored truck heist in which a shootout between the robbers and the guard had resulted in one of the robbers being critically shot; he would eventually die of the wounds without ever recovering consciousness. The other robber had taken off with more than $100,000.00 in cash. My client was the only person charged. Although neither the armored truck driver nor the guard could positively identify my client in a police lineup a few days after the assault, a year later at trial they seemed to have recovered their memory, and they pointed at him as the other robber.

In addition to that identification, which was contradicted by their failure to identify him at the line-up, the prosecution presented the following evidence: his fingerprints were all over the car used in the crime, several swab samples taken from his hands showed the presence of gun powder residue, he was a close friend of the dead robber, he had a prior conviction for armed robbery, he had purchased a new boat two days after the assault, he had no verifiable alibi for the time of the robbery, and he fit the general description given by a bystander.

It took the jury less than an hour to convict him of armed robbery of an armored truck. While the prosecution’s case seemed solid, it was based solely on circumstantial evidence; the only direct evidence was the witnesses’ identification, which was clearly tainted. The defendant testified at trial that he had stolen the car for a joy ride. He said that he had gone to a party with his girlfriend and another couple in his car, but that his girlfriend had been named the designated driver; at around midnight he wanted to go home, but his girlfriend wanted to stay a little longer, so he decided to leave by himself. When he realized that he did not have the keys to his car, he picked the lock of a car in the parking lot and drove home. He parked the stolen car two blocks away from his house and walked the rest of the way; his girlfriend confirmed his testimony.

He also testified that he had gone target shooting the day before he was arrested; this was corroborated by a receipt from the shooting range. As far as the friendship with the dead robber, he testified that they had lived in the same neighborhood since they were kids—in fact, they lived about a block away from each other—but they had not talked to each other in a long time. He explained the purchase of the boat by showing the receipt of a winning lottery ticket purchased the day after the robbery. Finally, he was 5′11″, 190 pounds, African-American, medium built; a description which fit a large segment of the population. I always believed in his innocence, even if sometimes I caught myself being cynical about it.

After the trial, I was successful in overturning his conviction on appeal because his initial arrest had been based on racial profiling; he was granted a new trial. While he was awaiting trial, the police raided a night club suspected of prostitution activity. In an effort to retain his liquor license, the owner of the place agreed to collaborate with the police in solving other crimes. Apparently unaware that the armored truck robbery case had been “solved” by the police, the owner gave the police detailed information about one of his customers who had been bragging about the robbery and had been throwing money around. The guy was arrested, and he gave a full confession to the robbery. My client was released from jail and exonerated of all charges.

After spending almost a half hour collecting virtually useless background information from the detective, I finally got to the part I wanted. “Detective, how were you able to secure a court order for tapping Mr. Newman’s phone?” I asked him.

“We had enough information from the informant to convince the judge that criminal activity could be afoot.”

“You are aware that some of the recordings were destroyed, right?” I asked him; he nodded affirmatively. “Could you tell me what had been said in those tapes?”

“But counsel, I thought that the tapes had been suppressed, that they were a non-issue…”

“Well, in a sense you’re right, but I think I should find out if the conversations could help my client, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, I see, but in any case, I don’t remember what was said in those tapes. There were several tapes, and none stands out. They were all basically irrelevant, as you saw yourself.”

“If it may help you remember, detective, the two lost conversations were the two longest conversations; in fact, they were the only conversations lasting more than a few minutes. Do you remember now?”

“No, like I said, they were all crap. Long or short, don’t make a difference. I simply don’t remember.”

“What about how the tapes were lost, do you remember that?”

After that question I could sense that he began feeling uncomfortable. He started tapping on the table with the tip of his fingers and on the floor with his foot. “Sam,” he said, “you’re chasing your own tail. This is gonna lead nowhere.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. You may be right, but I still have to try. Do you remember what happened or not?”

“All right, for the record, I hate to reveal other people’s screw-ups, especially good people, but since you insist, I will.”

“Do, please. I promise I won’t use it to cause anyone to get in trouble.”

“All right. Saturday morning we were on surveillance. Mark, the technician, was eating doughnuts that officer Garcia had brought for us. Then a call was incoming from Mr. Newman’s phone. Mark had not prepared the machine and there was no tape inside, so he grabbed one that was lying on the countertop and put it in the machine. When the conversation was over, he took out the tape to put the index sticker on it, and that’s when we realized that it already had a sticker. We looked at the other tapes and we saw another one that was also recorded over. Mark apologized, but the damage was already done. Since it was an honest mistake and really no useful information was lost, we did not think much of it. Besides, Mark has always been a dedicated guy, so we didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Very noble of you, detective, I thought. There are liars and there are good liars. Detective Pescatore was in a class of his own. There wasn’t a single flinch in his face. He sounded as convincing as a priest, and even I doubted for a minute who had spoken the truth. But I was not about to let him off the hook, so I boldly asked him, “You mean to tell me that you did not order the technician to record over the other conversation?”

“What do you mean?” he asked with feigned indignation.

“Very simple, detective: Did you or did you not order the technician to record over another conversation?”

“Why would I do such a thing, Mr. Lewis?”

“Detective, I have known you for several years, and I have the utmost respect for you. I’m not implying that you did or did not do such a thing. All I want to know is if it happened that way.”

“Sir, the detective has already answered your question,” the assistant state attorney intervened. He had been quiet, only introducing himself for the record and not uttering as much as a sigh, but apparently he had seen an opportunity to take center stage, and he had seized it. Of course, I was not about to let him steal my opportunity, especially when he was just a coincidental piece in the whole puzzle.

“Counsel, are you instructing the detective not to answer the question?” I asked.

“No, sir. I’m asking you to move on to another question. Detective Pescatore has clearly told you what happened, so please, move on.”

“It may be clear to you, Counsel, but I’m the one asking the questions here, and I’m not so sure the detective has answered me. I have asked a yes or no question to which I have no answer, so I will ask it until I’m satisfied. Now, you can instruct the witness to not answer my question—that’s your prerogative—but I can assure you that I will not stop asking until I’m fully satisfied with an answer.”

“Mr. Lewis,” Pescatore said, “I need to consult with my attorney.”

It was apparent that Detective Pescatore had begun to realize what a mistake it had been to come without the prosecutor. The poor assistant state attorney was doing the best he could, but his best was short of sufficient. On the other hand, I knew that the balance was sharply leaning in my favor, and I planned to keep that way, even push it a little further to my side.

“Go ahead. We have plenty of time,” I said.

The detective pulled out his cellphone and started to nervously dial. I stopped him in his tracks: “What are doing?”

“I’m calling my attorney.”

“Your attorney is sitting right next to you. You know the rules, detective; you cannot receive outside input after a question has been posed. You can consult as much as you want with the assistant state attorney—that’s what he’s here for—but I will not allow you or anyone to circumvent the rules of procedure. Now, put that phone down and please, for the last time, answer me. Did you or did you not order the technician to record over a previous conversation?”

The detective looked at me as if trying to decipher what I was plotting. I kept my poker face. I was not too sure which would have been better, for the detective to tell me the truth or to flat out lie to me under oath. I really did not care; I was in a win-win situation. This was just groundwork.

After a short pause, the assistant state attorney was about to say something when the detective stopped him. The detective then rested his chin on his right palm, with the closed fist partially covering his mouth. Finally he said, “No sir, I did not order the technician to record over another conversation.”

Ta-dah!

I looked at him straight in the eye. I am not certain what kind of expression I had on my face, but the detective was visible disturbed. Then I slowly picked up my things, put them in my briefcase, and said,     “I have no further questions.”

Holding an exhibit of Cuban artists would seem to be easy, especially in a community where almost fifty percent of the population had Cuban ties; however, that was precisely what made it such a formidable task. Tati was an uncompromising woman, and she had made it a point to include works by artists still living on the island. Many of those artists were either open supporters of the Castro regime or had never publicly expressed their opposition to it. Both attitudes were considered capital sins by the exiled Cuban community. As a result Tati had already received two anonymous letters threatening to blow up the place if the show went forward. That was in addition to the constant attacks in the Cuban-controlled Spanish media.

To make things worse, more than thirty works to be exhibited had been smuggled out of Cuba by art dealers, and the Cuban government had made international claims over them. In all I spent more than five hours reviewing certificates of authenticity, permits, contracts, waivers, covenants, and all kinds of legal documents that I had not seen since law school. I was exhausted, but Tati was beaming with satisfaction. That is the kind of thing you do only for the woman you love.

Friday I didn’t go to the office. In the morning I went straight to Tati’s gallery and started making phone calls. I coordinated with the City of Coral Gables to have two uniformed officers working the security detail. They were aware of the threats and had ready a contingency plan. No group had made application for permission to demonstrate, but we expected trouble. Tati had invited all the public officials from the different municipalities, as well as judges, businesspeople, and dignitaries. Although we did not expect any of the mayors or commissioners to show up (they feared political backlash), at least the Spanish consul, who lived a few blocks from our house in Key Biscasyne, had confirmed his attendance. That made it a security concern for the police.

The opening ceremony started at 6:00 p.m. By 6:30 there must have been around three hundred people inside the gallery, and others walking through the gardens. Catering had been ordered for five hundred, but by 8:00 p.m. there was not much left. Many of my colleagues showed up, and I had to act as co-host for them. There were also about six or seven judges, including Judge Tyson, whom I personally received and introduced to Tati. Joshua did not go.

I took a break from the socializing and went outside. I was leaning on the garden veranda, sipping on a glass of Johnnie Walker, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and there was Mark, a guy who worked for the State Attorney’s office as a technician.

While I could not say that Mark and I were friends, we were very good acquaintances. We had played golf together in a couple of charity tournaments, and we had shared conversation over a drink here and there. He was about my age, a little younger maybe, but not by much. He had been in the State Attorney’s Office almost fifteen years.  A Viet Nam veteran himself, he was wholesome as they come. War at a young age will do that to you.

“Sam, I need to speak with you,” he said without any introduction.

“Come on,” I said. “Your conversation is always fun.”

“I’m afraid this time it won’t be much fun. It’s pretty serious.”

I knew that Mark could not be seeking my legal advice. Workers at the State Attorney’s Office had in-house counsel that they not only could use but had to use if they got in legal trouble. That was part of their bargaining agreement. I did not suspect what he wanted to talk about, so I said, “Oh Mark, we’re having such a good time. If it’s something serious, why don’t you leave it for Monday?”

“Because I don’t know if Monday I will have the courage to tell you, Sam. Those couple of drinks have boosted my testosterone, but if my mind takes control, I don’t think I’ll tell you anything. It’s about the tapes.”

That all but did it. If Mark wanted to get my attention, he surely knew how to do it. Fearing that he might change his mind, alcohol and all, I said quickly, “O.K. tell me. I’m all ears.”

“Let me begin by saying, Sammy, that if I’m telling you this is because I respect you, and also because I’m tired of covering up for cocksuckers at the office, but I must also tell you that I will not corroborate any of this for you, do you understand?”

“No, not really.”

“O.K. what I mean is that I will not be a witness for you. I can’t do that! You can use this information in whichever way you see fit, but don’t call me as a witness ’cause I’ll deny everything. Understand now?”

“Yeah, I got it,” I said.

“O.K. let me tell you the short of it. Those two tapes that were lost were intentionally destroyed.”

I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t. Somehow I was not surprised by the news; I had suspected something like that for a long time, but now it was confirmed.

“How do you know this, Mark?”

“I was there, Sam. It was a Friday evening, and we were in the surveillance van. At around 6:30 I had finished recording an hour-long conversation. As I was about to put the index sticker on the tape, Detective Pescatore stood behind me, took the tape from my hands, and went to the back of the van. He talked briefly with the prosecutor and then came back. I told him that I needed the tape to make sure that it didn’t get mixed up with the others. He then told me to put the tape back into the machine and record the next conversation over it, and then let it roll until the end. At first I refused, but he insisted. He said that sometimes we had to bend the rules to catch scum like that. Then on Saturday morning I recorded another long conversation, and again Pescatore asked me to record over it, which I did.

“I had forgotten all about it, but then a few weeks ago the prosecutor called me to his office. He told me that you had filed a motion to compel production of the tapes, and that I could be called as a witness. He then told me that I should say that I had mistakenly recorded over them. Fortunately, he never called me to testify. I’ve been struggling with this for a long time, Sam, but now I feel much better. I hope you can do something with it.”

“What was on those tapes, Mark?”

“That I don’t know. Basically, we’re not allowed to listen to surveillance conversations. Sometimes they’d let us listen when it’s something funny, but not in this case. And this was a short surveillance; we were there for only a week, so we didn’t have time to get bored.”

“Who else was there, besides the prosecutor and the detective?”

“On Friday there were us three and an intern, and on Saturday, there was the intern and also a uniformed officer who had brought us coffee and doughnuts.”

“Good,” I said.

“Sam, I’m tired of this job. I try to keep perspective, but if it weren’t for my kids, I would have gone to Timbuktu already.”

“I know, Mark. But thank you for telling me this, and don’t worry, whatever happens you won’t be involved.”

“I hope not. You know they would make my life even more miserable if they found out. By the way, give Tatiana my compliments; it’s a hell of a show.”

“Thanks again, Mark; I’ll tell her.”

Mark went back inside, and I stayed by the gardens for a while, thinking about what he had just told me. I had to find a way to use that information without jeopardizing his anonymity, but at the same time I had a strange feeling of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off my back, as if everything had started to fall into place. I finally went back inside too. I found Tati having a great time. It obviously had been a productive evening for both of us.

I spent the first day of depositions at the Dade County jail. My first witness was Mr. Johnston, Joshua’s client. The place smelled like a cave, and the court reporter was evidently affected by it. In addition to the Mr. Johnston and the court reporter, there were a corrections officer and, interestingly enough, the prosecutor. He was there on behalf of Mr. Johnston, who ironically was also charged in the case as a co-defendant. In a sense I was glad that the prosecutor was there, because Mr. Johnston’s attorney, a public defender, did not show up; I have never liked to interrogate witnesses without an attorney present.

Sitting on a stainless steel chair and shackled at the hands and feet, Mr. Johnston told me how the events had unfolded. He said that about ten months before he had been given a cellmate. He said that at first he was surprised, for prisoners charged with first degree murder are usually held in isolation, as he had been for almost two years. However, he welcomed the change. He said that the guy was very polite and did not give him any trouble. However, less than a month later the guy was gone and he was back to being alone. One day, he said, one of the trustees asked him if he wanted to buy something from the jail commissary; he told the trustee that he didn’t have any money in commissary, to which the trustee replied that he did—in fact, he had $200.

Six weeks later, the guy was back in his cell. Mr. Johnston asked him if he had anything to do with the money, and the guy replied that his wife had felt pity for Mr. Johnston and had put it there for him. This time the guy stayed a little longer. One day, the guy asked Mr. Johnston if he could get him some cigarettes, to which Mr. Johnston replied that he didn’t know how. The guy then suggested that Mr. Johnston’s attorney could do them that favor, that all attorneys did that for their clients. The rest is history.

I left the Dade County jail more convinced than ever that there was a personal vendetta behind the whole thing. It was clear that someone had carefully planned the trap, so well that I could not find its seams. Throughout the deposition, the prosecutor seemed inattentive and carefree. I shouldn’t steer from my course, I said to myself; I had to play my cards and forget about speculations. The best way I could serve my client was by beating the prosecutor at trial; sometimes there is poetic justice, and it would be quite poetic if after so much preparation the prosecutor and whoever else was involved in this got beaten at their own game. With those thoughts in mind, I began to prepare for the next deposition; the cellmate’s.

The setting for the next deposition was not as grim as the first one. Whenever possible I tried to use the deposition room at the Justice building, away from the unfriendly confines of the State Attorney’s office; the room was available, so I used it.

The guy was well mannered, polite, and unusually witty. My questions to him had two purposes: understanding how the set-up was planned, and finding faults in his character and actions to impeach his credibility at trial. This is what he said: After being unjustly (his words, not mine) sentenced to twenty-five years in state prison for murder, he had spread the word in law enforcement circles that he was willing to cooperate in whatever capacity to crack any case, in exchange for a petition of leniency before the Parole Board. For months nothing happened, until one day he received a visit from Detective Pescatore, who told him he might need the prisoner’s cooperation in a case.

After listening to the detective’s plan, he agreed to do it. He admitted that he was a little surprised at the nature of the case, but that ultimately, all he cared about was getting out of prison. When I asked him about his profession, he said without a trace of sarcasm that he was a businessman who imported merchandise and distributed it wholesale; that the merchandise happened to be cocaine and heroine was just bad luck, he said. He refused to discuss the murder charge for which he had been convicted, and I did not insist much, for there was little I could get for my troubles.

The guy would not be a good witness for the prosecution, that much was clear. Although he was eloquent and witty, he came across as a cynic, and juries despise cynics. Additionally, he was not exactly a pillar of the community, and his motives to testify were clearly self-serving.

His wife would be next.

My assessment that the woman would be the star witness was confirmed when she arrived for her interrogation. Accompanying her were the prosecutor, an assistant prosecutor, an intern, and a camera operator. That kind of entourage was reserved only for extraordinary circumstances.

The woman was not particularly attractive, but she was dressed in sharp red, with a tight blouse that threatened to pop the poor buttons that somehow managed to keep it fastened; the skimpy miniskirt was there as a mere compliance with legal standards. Every time she would cross her legs, which she did quite often, you could see up to infinity, if you dared to look. I began to understand why Joshua had succumbed so easily. However, I was not about to fall for a cheap trick (no pun intended) that I had seen so many times before. Without much preamble and after she was sworn in, I started to question her: “Ma’am, could you tell me your name and address, please?”

She complied reluctantly, especially regarding her address.

“How far did you go in school?” I asked.

“Until the seventh grade.”

“How do you earn a living?”

“Well, right now I’m unemployed.”

“And before you became unemployed, how did you earn a living?”

“I did some odd jobs.”

“What kind of odd jobs?”

“Well, I did some undercover work for the state, I worked briefly for a bail bondsman, et cetera.”

“Did you get paid for the undercover work you did for the state?” I asked. She looked at the prosecutor, who nodded affirmatively.

“Yes, I did.”

“How much did you get paid?” I continued. She looked again at the prosecutor, but this time he was purposely looking down at his notebook. She then looked at the assistant prosecutor, but all she found was a blank stare. She did not bother to look at the intern.

“About three thousand dollars” she finally answered.

“Ma’am, was it more than three thousand dollars or less than three thousand? You have to be more specific.”

“I think it was more but I don’t remember the exact amount. You see, it was paid in cash, so I just spent it. If it would’ve been a check I would’ve kept records, but I just don’t remember.”

“That’s all right,” I said. I was not about to make a fuss; I had bigger fish to fry, so I resumed my questioning.

“And before you worked for the state, and for the bail bondsman, and for et cetera, how did you earn a living?”

“Before all that, I was a dancer for six years.”

“What kind of dancer ma’am?”

“A very good one, according to what people said.”

“I have no doubt, but what I want to know is if you were a classic dancer, a ballet dancer, a ballroom dancer, or any other kind of dancer?”

“Oh, I see. No, I was a nightclub dancer.”

“You mean a stripper?”

“OK, if you want to call it a stripper, that’s fine.”

“Well ma’am, and before you were a stripper, what did you do for a living?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but I have been advised to invoke the Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, so I refuse to answer that question.”

“Ma’am, I am the one who’s sorry, because whoever gave you that advice was completely wrong. First of all, Fifth Amendment protection is a privilege, not a right, and secondly, you can’t invoke it now. I have asked you, let me see, one, two, three, …ten questions, not counting your name and address, and you have answered all of them, therefore, you have tacitly waived your privilege against self-incrimination, and if you further refuse to answer my question….”

“Answer the question, please,” the prosecutor interrupted me.

The woman looked down, and for the first time in the day there was a trace of insecurity in her eyes. She said, “Before that, I sold drugs.”

“Were you ever criminally charged for those activities?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Have you ever been charged with a felony or misdemeanor, ma’am?”

“Yes I have, sir.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“What were the charges?”

“The first one was soliciting prostitution; the other one was writing a bad check.”

“Were you convicted of either charge?”

“On the check, I was convicted and I did six months’ probation. On the prostitution case I entered a program and the state eventually dropped the charge.”

From that point on the rest of the deposition went smoothly. I spent nearly four hours getting the details of the story, which were consistent with what her husband had told me. However, I had got enough ammunition to discredit her at trial. I began to believe that I had a realistic shot at winning an acquittal; however, I also believed that this would be the right time to start negotiating with the state. I had taken all the depositions, except Pescatore’s, but no one would fault me for starting negotiations without his contribution.

I approached the prosecutor as he was leaving the deposition room and invited him to have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria; he accepted. We walked there without saying anything. I was thinking about how I could be persuasive without sounding desperate, and without revealing too much about my strategy. The prosecutor was probably thinking along those same lines.

The cafeteria was relatively empty for that time of the day. We sat in a corner booth, far from any other customers. I ordered cafe con leche and a toast; he ordered black coffee.

“I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out that you have some problem witnesses in this case,” I said.

“I don’t need good witnesses in this one. I caught the defendant with his hands in the cookie jar, and the jury won’t need much more than that.”

“But you don’t have the tapes, so the strength of the case rests on the testimony, cookie jar or not, and you have to admit that won’t be an easy sell,” I insisted.

“Is your client testifying?” he asked. That question was crucial. Every case I had won at trial had been supported by defendant’s testimony, and all the prosecutors I had talked to would say that they felt they had already won the trial when they found out that the defendant was not testifying. That is why I answered, “We haven’t made a final decision on that, but I’ll let you know with plenty of time.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I always prepare as if the defendant is testifying. I was just curious.”

“Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. What’s your best offer for a plea bargain at this point?”

The prosecutor looked at his notes, searched for something, and then showed me a handwritten scoresheet. “He scores five years in state prison for two third-degree felonies. I can lower it to three hundred sixty six days in county jail for each count, to run concurrent.”

I took out some of the letters I had received from the Nicaraguans, especially the one signed by multiple people, and showed them to the prosecutor. “I don’t think Judge Tyson will sentence Mr. Newman to more than probation, even if we lost at trial. We have about fifty more like that,” I said, tapping on the letters. The prosecutor picked them up and browsed them rather quickly, as if proofreading. He could not conceal a grin of satisfaction. He was probably thinking that if I was now preparing for the sentencing phase, I had already conceded defeat at trial. Of course, that was not the case; he did not know that those letters had found their way to me accidentally.

“Mr. Lewis, there’s nothing at this point that would sway me to offer anything lower than what I said. I believe I have a strong case, I have a corrupt lawyer who needs to be severely punished, and I don’t have any flaws in my case. I think I know what your defenses will be, and I have a good counter for them. So, that’s my offer, three hundred sixty six days in county jail. Convey it to your client and let me know your answer. This offer will be open until trial date. After that I will not offer anything less than the maximum, which is what I will ask the judge at sentencing.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Would you please put that offer in writing and send it to my office?”

“Will do,” he answered. I finished my cafe con leche and left.

When I got to the office, Joshua was already waiting for me. He looked happy, more than I had ever seen him, and I figured it had to do with Ana. We shook hands and I asked him, “How are things with Ana?”

“Who?” he replied.

There was no sarcasm in that question, and I was a bit surprised by it, so I continued, “Ana, the girl who went with you to Islamorada. Tatiana liked her very much….”

“Oh, Ana, yes! I guess she’s fine, I haven’t talked to her since…well, for a while.”

“That’s a pity. She seemed like such a nice girl.”

“No, she is, she is. It’s just that I don’t know….”

I sensed discomfort, so I dropped the subject. I led him into my office, and we got down to business. The first thing I did was to show him the phone log. I had underlined the missing calls.

“Do you know whose phone numbers those are?” I asked him. He looked carefully at the two numbers, looking back and forth, then pointed to one of the numbers. “This one is my friend Lisa’s apartment.”

“Who is she?”

“Lisa is a friend from law school. We go out every now and then, but we are just friends. I mean, there is no intimacy between us. She’s a good friend, though. There is nothing in our conversations that could have relevance in my case, so I can assure you that it is not important. This one…” he was looking at the other number, “I don’t have the faintest idea whose number it could be. I don’t remember it, so it was probably a wrong number.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t talk to wrong number callers for half an hour; look at the length of the calls.”

Joshua looked, then nodding he said, “You’re right. I spent quite a while talking to this person. I really don’t remember the number. I mean, this happened a while ago, but I would have remembered; I always remember, no matter how casual the call. I’ll check my old Rolodex at home, and my Palm Pilot, to see if I have that number somewhere. But, why do you think this is important, Sam? Couldn’t it be that the State really lost the tapes?”

“I don’t know if it’s important or not, but it could be important, so I won’t overlook it. It sounds fishy, that’s all. I don’t leave loose ends untied. If it turns out to be nothing, so be it.”

I had not told him all about my approach to defending his case. I figured it was better that way, to avoid my receiving tainted input from him. In retrospect, I realize that it was a mistake; Joshua would have been more forthcoming with me if he’d known the reason for my apparent meddling in his affairs. At times it seemed to me that he thought I was just snooping into his private life, and this may have caused him to be overly cautious with me.

Joshua left, and I was back to square one. However, the fact that one of the numbers was from a friend’s house with no connection to his case seemed to indicate that the whole affair with the tapes had been an honest mistake by the State. I was still not convinced either way, though, so I called Steve and asked him to check the remaining number for me. Steve called me back an hour later and told me that the other number was a payphone at Penrod’s, a club in South Beach. I made a note of it and didn’t think about it anymore. I hoped that eventually everything would come together.

I spent the next week working on other cases. Depositions on Joshua’s case would begin in a week or so, and trial was still two weeks away. I was ready to begin putting together all the information that I had collected from collateral sources. I had set meetings with Steve and Leslie for Tuesday afternoon, with George for Wednesday evening (for he only did business in the evening over a glass of liquor and in his place), and on Thursday morning with Joshua, to iron out any wrinkles before depositions. However, one afternoon I was sitting in my office chair, sorting though my mail, when Joshua called me on the phone. “What is it, Josh?” I asked rather dryly.

“Sam, I need a big favor from you.”

“O.K. tell me.”

“No, I think I rather talk to you in person. Do you have a couple of minutes? I’m just a few blocks away.”

“Sure. Come over.”

He was in my office in less than ten minutes. He started talking fast. “Sam, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but you’re the only one who could help me.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I’m going to tell you the long and the short of it: when I was in law school, I volunteered for a social services agency that provided free representation to refugees seeking asylum in the U.S. What I did was to screen immigrants who might have a viable asylum claim; there were so many people seeking the agency’s services that they could only take the strongest cases. I saw many cases that had merit but that did not meet the criteria that I had been given, so I was forced to reject them. That bothered me, and I pledged that if I passed the bar exam I would represent those people free of charge. When I started practicing, I took a few of those cases—maybe not as many as I would have liked, but at least a few. But you see, immigration is not like criminal law, where you have a right to speedy trial; in immigration court, cases drag on forever. Well, it turns out that one of those cases is coming up for a hearing, and I don’t think I can represent them.”

“If you are looking for advice, you’re absolutely right in that you shouldn’t appear in court. Other than that, what can I do for you?”

“I can’t let those people appear in court without a lawyer.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“Couldn’t you represent them, Sam?” He was almost begging.

“Josh, I don’t know the first thing about immigration law. I would be committing malpractice. I don’t even know where the immigration court is.”

“Darn it. Couldn’t you just appear to ask for a continuance until they get a lawyer? I’d hate to see them lose their case.”

“Wouldn’t the judge grant them a continuance if they appeared pro se?” I asked him. I sounded like I was trying to get out of it every which way, and in a way, I was. It was not that I didn’t care about those people, but I hated to make a fool of myself, and I knew that appearing in immigration court would be just that.

“Sam, if they appear without a lawyer, they’ll be eaten alive, by the judge, by the government attorney, by the clerk, by the interpreter. They need an attorney!”

“What about other immigration lawyers. Don’t you know any?”

“Yeah, I know a few. But they don’t know me anymore. I already tried that route. Believe me Sam, if I come to you it’s because everybody else has refused. Even my quote-unquote “friends” have turned their backs on me. At the beginning everybody told me that I could count on them, but when I’ve come calling, I’ve found out that all I can count on them for is prayers, and even that I’m not so sure.”

“OK, I’ll do it. When is the hearing?” I said, and to this day I don’t know why I did; what I do know, however, is that I would not regret it.

“It’s tomorrow” Joshua said.

The next day I appeared in immigration court with Joshua’s clients. They were a middle-aged Nicaraguan couple, very nice people, and very soft spoken. Between my broken Spanish and their broken English, we managed to understand one another. Joshua did not show up, following my instructions.

For the first time in decades I felt nervous going into court. I felt like a fish out of water. However, it was all very easy and very short. The judge, a young woman, was very polite with me and continued the case for three months without much argument.

Once we were outside the courthouse, I told the clients that Joshua could not represent them anymore, that they needed to find another attorney. They were disappointed and wanted to know why. I told them the truth, as I had told Joshua I would do if they asked me. After listening to me they asked how they could help. Not wanting to sound rude by telling them that here was nothing they could do, I asked them to write a letter to Judge Tyson telling him about Joshua’s good deeds and character. I told them to send the letter to my office. We parted ways, and I forgot all about them.

Monday, I was drinking water in the secretary’s station when the mailman arrived. He was cursing and protesting. He had a big bag full of correspondence. He put it on top of Angie’s desk and said, “Here is your freaking mail, not for the week, not for the month, but for today. And it ain’t Christmas yet; I hope I’m out of this route by then.”

Inside the bag were about fifty letters, all addressed to Judge Tyson. The contents of the letters were varied, but generally they praised Joshua and asked Judge Tyson to give him a second chance. Most of the letters told the judge that the Nicaraguan community would be left without one of their saviors. One letter in particular was signed by about ten people and it read:

Dear Your Excellency Judge K. Tyson:
We the poor people of the Nicaraguan community implore you to be indulgent to Dr. Joshua Newman. He has been a life saver to many families that otherwise would have been left forsaken. We are sure that any mistakes he may have committed would be small next to his many altruistic deeds.

My next meeting with Steve and Leslie was not very productive. However, I had anticipated that. Steve never mentioned his theory of the case, which put my concerns to rest. Moreover, I was happy that that part of the investigation was over with, so that I could move to the important part of the case: depositions.

There was plenty of information, though, most of it of curiosity value, but also some that would become useful later on. I found out that the prosecutor came from Orangemen families on both his maternal and paternal sides; however, his wife was of Italian descent. Detective Pescatore had worked his way up within the Metro Police Department, from a civilian radio dispatcher to deputy chief detective of the Corruption Unit. Although his name sounded Italian, that was just a small portion of his heritage: he had Hispanic blood, African-American blood, and even some Indian blood. He was twice married and twice divorced, and he had been living with his current live-in girlfriend for the last ten years. She was a police dispatcher herself, about ten years younger than him. He was due for retirement from the force in six months, and he had already submitted his retirement paperwork. There was not much information regarding Judge Tyson, except that he was a bachelor, loved horse races and owned a few horses, and he was a direct descendant of midwest settlers.

As far as Leslie’s work, she could not come up with anything else. She was disappointed, but I was not; her work on the statutes had been very thorough, and it had shed some light, albeit a little dim, into the mystery of the case.

My last preparation stop before depositions was meeting with George. He received me as always, with a glass of sherry in one hand and a glass of brandy for me in the other. He had finished building his model airplane, which was proudly perched on top of his law books collection. I gave him copies of all the memos Leslie had written for me and of all the documents that Steve had uncovered. He also had a duplicate of the discovery package sent to me by the State, and a copy of Judge Tyson’s order suppressing the tapes. He carefully examined all the evidence, and at last he asked, “Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s it. That’s the whole enchilada,” I answered.

“Do you anticipate uncovering any meaningful new information from depositions?”

“Depositions are a Pandora’s box, as you know, but I don’t think I’ll get any insight from them. I’m planning my trial with what I have, and whatever I get from depos will complement rather than supplement this information.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then you have your work cut out for you, ’cause this is very standard, and I thought that you believed this case to have extraordinary implications.”

“And I still do, Judge, but unfortunately, other than the fact that this statute has almost never been used before, I have no other leads.”

I was hesitant to tell him about Steve’s theory because I believed it to be irrelevant, even if it was true. What I needed from George was a sharp angle, something that I might have missed.

“My son,” he said, “this is like a house that smells of fecal matter, but you can’t find the source and even the toilets are clean. You have two choices: Either you put up with the smell or you get out of the house. My advice to you, of course, is to put up with the smell.”

“Looks like that’s what I’m gonna have to do.”

“Well, Sammy, you have a shot at this. I know it’s a longshot, but you have to go with entrapment. Your client was clearly entrapped. You don’t think Judge Tyson would throw the case out on a legal basis, do you?” His question was almost rhetorical.

“No, Judge, honestly I don’t. Maybe if Judge Tyson had balls, he would throw it out, as he should, but his main concern is re-election, not justice.”

“That’s terrible!” he said. “When I was on the bench, I never hesitated to do the right thing.”

“I know that, but State courts are different today, Judge. In your days there was no competition. People only ran against really incompetent judges. Now they run to secure a living.”

“Well, yeah, then maybe they shouldn’t be. Anyway, make your motion for acquittal, and if it’s denied, then take your chance with the jury. The State will have to prove predisposition, and I don’t see anything here that would prove that. Also, with the tapes suppressed you can attack the credibility of the informant, and I’m sure there will be plenty of material for that. If you can find a way to introduce evidence tending to prove lack of predisposition, then who knows.”

“My client has given me a list of witnesses who will testify that they had asked him before to take contraband to their relatives, and my client has refused to take it. Whether I can introduce that testimony is another thing. In my opinion, that’s collateral evidence, but I’ll give it a try. I’d rather not have to win this at trial, because when you get to the jury you already have lost fifty percent of the case.”

“Sammy, if anyone in this jurisdiction can persuade a jury, it’s you. Focus on a way to make them see what you see; internalize the intellectual reasons for a Not Guilty verdict, and take it from there.”

“OK. Do you see any other defenses?” I asked him. He smiled, took a sip from his glass, and spun the blades of the model airplane. He looked at me and said, “Yes, I do. I always save the best for last. You also have a selective prosecution defense! It’s obvious that your client has been targeted by the prosecution, and while you don’t know why, you don’t have to know why, ’cause you don’t have to prove why. I think if a statute is used only once in a year in a particular jurisdiction, it tends to show that the defendant has been selectively chosen to be prosecuted; that is prohibited by the Fourth Amendment. Well, imagine a statute that has been used only once in ten years! Definitely selective prosecution! The beauty of this one is that you can play the jury like a drum, you can exacerbate their fears, you can provoke indignation, and you can make the prosecutor look like Torquemada.

“What’s more,” he added as he took out a file folder from a drawer and gave it to me, “I have done some bill tracking on that particular statute; it shows that initially it was intended to prevent visitors from giving items to inmates that could be turned into weapons. It was then amended to include things that could aid in escape attempts, and the last amendment was intended to provide a healthy environment for prisoners. There is nothing that mentions the crime as being inherently wrong; it was always designed as a preventive measure, so if someone is entrapped into committing the crime, none of the objectives of the legislature is being served. I know that a jury may have a tough time understanding that argument, but you can do it. I think you have a winner in your hands Sam. Go get ‘em, my son.”

I was not as convinced as George was. However, he had given me a clear picture of what I had to do. I felt that all I could hope for was a miracle from depositions, or a miracle with the jury. As it turned out, the miracle would come from an unexpected source.

“I think I found what you were looking for,” Steve said.

“What is it?”

“I think I know why your client was framed. I was at the prosecutor’s office on Thursday, and I saw a few things that tipped me off. I also overheard some conversations. After I left I started to think about it, added two plus two, and, eureka! First of all, the guy has a big poster of the ’72 Dolphins season.”

“What’s so unusual about that? I have a poster of the ’72 Dolphins too.”

“You should have seen the size of this one. It was bigger than real life. But that’s not all; I mean, you may think the guy is a big Dolphins fan, no big deal, right? But then in the bookshelf I saw a book. It was the only book standing up. All the others were shelved. Title of the book? Dragon Slayer.”

“Uh-ha” was all I could say.

“OK, next thing I noticed was a baseball glove signed by non other than Don Larsen. Follow my drift?”

“Frankly, Steven,” Leslie said, “you either are an extremely brilliant guy, which we can pretty much discount, or you’ve lost it completely. I don’t know what in hell you are trying to say. That the pussy prosecutor is a sports fan, but also a reader of bad fiction? Is that it? How does that explain this case?”

“Leslie!” Steve countered, “I guess you are the smart guy, err, excuse me! Gal.”

“Cut it out, you two,” I intervened. “Steve, continue. How is all that relevant?”

“Here comes my clincher. As I was waiting in the lobby, I overheard the prosecutor talking to a federal prosecutor. He was bragging about how he had never lost a trial since coming to the State Attorney’s Office, and how he would do whatever it took to win. He said that was the reason why he left private practice, that he couldn’t take the losing. He quoted a resistance fighter in the Spanish civil war whose motto was something like “Renounce everything except victory.” I checked his claims, and sure enough, his record is 100%, perfect. He hasn’t lost a single trial. The guy is a perfection freak! That explains everything.

“Then I remembered what you had told me— that the case your client was handling was a weak case for the prosecution, and that your client was sure he would win it at trial. That’s when I realized that the prosecutor could not allow your client, a virtual nobody, to beat him in a trial of this importance, so he destroyed him to get him out of the way. He probably knew that the Judge would assign a Public Defender to the case, a Public Defender who would not think twice before plea bargaining the case. And there you have it.”

I must admit that I was not impressed with that explanation. It sounded too simple to be right, but I’ve made it my practice to always listen to everybody; even the biggest idiot may have something important to say, and Steve was no idiot. I looked at Leslie, trying to find direction in her face. She looked intrigued.

“Do you know why he was talking to the federal prosecutor?” I finally asked Steve. “Did you hear the topic of their conversation?”

“Well, it sounded to me like our prosecutor was trying to push his situation with that other guy. I didn’t hear the whole thing, but it sounded like he was looking for a job with the U.S. Attorney’s Ofice, or he wanted support for a judicial nomination, or something like that. He sounded like he was selling himself to this guy. Either that, or he is a very sick egomaniac.”

“So what if he was trying to impress this other guy?” Leslie said, “That’s what anybody would do when trying to get a job, or whatever he was pitching for. That doesn’t explain why he framed Joshua Newman.”

I was glad that Leslie had said that because I was thinking the same thing; however, Steve wasn’t going to give up so easily.

“Sam, how many prosecutors you know who can say they’ve never lost a jury trial? Not many, right? Maybe not even one. If this prosecutor is perfect, that means that he would indeed do whatever it takes, like he said, to prevent losing a case. And that includes getting rid of lawyers who could be potential winners against him. Plus, all the stuff in his office shows that he is obsessed with perfection. I could be wrong, but I have that feeling of certainty in this one that makes me think I’m right.”

“Well, Sam,” Leslie said, “if Steven is right, I advise you to be on the lookout, because if the prosecutor feels that he’s gonna lose this one—and knowing you I know that he’s probably going to lose it—then he’s coming after you.”

“I already thought about that, Leslie,” I said, “and also about the fact that if that was the real motivation for the prosecutor to frame Joshua, then I’m gonna have a tough time making a defense out of that. That really doesn’t help me at all, Steve, so for the time being, we’re going to assume that there is another reason. I don’t mean that you are necessarily wrong, but if you’re right, I’m screwed, so in the interim we have to keep searching for something else, and if we find nothing else then we’ll have to revisit your theory.”

“Hey, Sam, I’m only the messenger. I’ve delivered plenty of happy messages to you, but also tough ones. I hope you’re right, and of course, I’m going to continue in my search. By the way, I also have some of the information you requested. This relates to the prosecutor only. The others I will have for you in about a week.”

I was relieved to know that I would get something more productive from the meeting. He gave me a big manila envelope and said, “The stuff there is not very revealing in my opinion. I’ve got copies of credit cards, driver’s licenses, et cetera. Most of what you asked me. I can tell you that he’s married, has two children, a boy and a girl. He filed for divorce about a year ago, but then he seemed to have reconciled with his wife because he voluntarily dismissed the divorce petition about four months ago. That file is sealed by court order, so I couldn’t see any details. He hasn’t taken a vacation in two years. Last place he went to was Disney World, about three years ago. Everything is there.”

“Good work, Steve,” I said, “and you, Leslie? What did you find?”

“Nothing. Actually, the statute number is not included in most practice manuals, so I had to look in the official codebook. When I found it, I went further than you asked me. Since I couldn’t find anything in the Third and Fifth districts, I searched the whole State of Florida jurisdiction for appellate cases dealing with introduction of contraband into a jail. Nothing there either, not even in the redneck districts. So I searched a database that has all the cases charged by the State in Dade county since 1990. There I found one case; State vs. Joshua Newman. I feel like I’ve wasted your money.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “Sometimes the absence of information is more telling than an abundance of rubbish. Here, take this envelope and review the materials in there. When you finish, bring it back to me. I don’t want to see it until I have the rest of the information, so you can keep it until Steve brings me all of it. But I’m setting depositions for next month, so don’t take long, either of you.”

Leslie and Steve left, and I went back to my office. I was a little concerned about Steve’s theory; if all the prosecutor wanted to get out of Joshua’s destruction was to secure victory in the murder case, then I was chasing a red herring. All the investigations I had started would lead me nowhere. I was paralyzed by that possibility. My greatest fear is to find out that I have been led through the wrong path. Usually when that happens, the case is a sure loser. There is nothing worse than an attorney without a clue. Especially a criminal defense attorney!

I tried to find holes in Steve’s conclusion, but the ones that I found were not convincing enough. The only thing that gave solace was to think that the prosecutor had already succeeded in getting rid of Joshua in the murder case, so if that was his purpose, he would not hesitate in trying to work out the case with me. I would find out in plea negotiations, I thought. However, the prosecutor had behaved in a strange way in the suppression hearing. It looked as if he wanted to make sure that he got a conviction in Joshua’s case. I still believed that it was something personal, but of course, that belief was very self-serving.

I was absorbed in these thoughts when Angie buzzed me on my phone.

“Yes, darling?” I said.

“Mr. Lewis, I’ve got Leslie on line 3; she says it’s important.”

“OK, I’ll get it.”

I picked up the phone and pressed line 3, which was flashing. “What is it, Leslie?”

“Sam, I don’t know if you noticed, but Steve looked weird today.”

“Steve looks weird most days, Leslie,” I said.

“Yeah,” she laughed, “but today he looked weirder than usual. And then all that b.s. about perfection.”

“So you don’t buy it either, huh?”

“To be honest, no. But what worries me is that he was so adamant about it.”

“Yes, I noticed that. Usually he does his job and lets me do my job. I don’t remember him offering a theory of the case before. So, what do you think it all means?”

“I don’t know. I know you trust Steve, and he has worked for you for a long time, but don’t forget he used to be a cop. I never trusted a copper, Sam! They teach them freaky stuff in the academy. And believe me, this has nothing to do with my personal dislike for Steve, which you are well aware of, but…I don’t know, there was something weird about him today. I have always respected his work, but this is so out of line….”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes open. We’ll play it by ear. If down the road it looks like he has a personal agenda in this, we’ll deal with it. Foor the time being, go through all the papers he brought in and, if you find something odd, give me a call.”

That was all I needed! My system was cracking at the seams in one of my most important cases. Important to me anyway. I tried to put those ideas away from my mind. I still had work to do with the information I had collected from Steve and Leslie.

I looked at the notes I had taken at the meeting. So I had been right about that statute being rarely used. That meant something, and I wished to God I knew what it was, whatever it was, good or bad. The uncertainty was crushing me. I got out of my office and went to the secretary’s station. I asked Angie if I had any messages, and she said that Mr. Newman had called to cancel Tuesday’s appointment; he had rescheduled for Friday. That was fine with me.

I felt like talking about sports, or movies, or whatever, and my staff always had plenty of material when it came to those topics, so I sat on Angie’s desk and started talking. Everybody pitched in with some anecdote. For a while the hierarchy collapsed, and we were all just human beings socializing. It was very refreshing, and my staff appreciated it almost as much as I did.

On the way to the highway, we stopped at the local market to buy some snacks and water for the trip. The owner, an old but witty native Floridian, joked with me about how absurd it was for someone who lives on a Key to go on vacation to another Key. I answered that it was not that absurd, considering that the Key where we were going was not inhabited by grumpy fishermen pretending to be savvy businessmen, but in fact it was the other way around. We laughed, and he wished me a good trip.

His wish came true. The drive was very pleasant. I drove all the way nonstop. Tati was in great spirits and talked all the time, which I appreciated. Although the scenery is beautiful, the drive from Miami to the Keys can be a treacherous drive, one that I had made many times by myself when I had cases down there.  When we got to our houseboat, we found a bottle of Dom Perignon in the fridge. I wanted to open it and have a toast, but Tati had other plans. She had ordered the champagne to make mimosas for breakfast. Wasted champagne and wasted Florida orange juice. Go figure.

The houseboat was not a palace, but it was comfortable. It had a large kitchen with a small fridge and a range, one bedroom with a queen size bed, and a small living room with a sofa, a reclining chair and a big TV set. There was also a DVD and CD player, and a satellite dish; most of that we would never use. The bathroom had a toilet that was exactly under the shower; space was a scarce commodity there. However, my favorite feature of the houseboat was the terrace. It had a couple of wicker chairs and a little round table, and it was right on the water, facing the Atlantic Ocean. While Tati finished unpacking, I sat there, looking at the sea, unwinding. Life had been good to me that day.

Saturday morning I was awakened by the smell of cinnamon rolls and the sound of a mixer. My wife was making crepes and preparing the mimosas. I tried to help, but she dismissed me, so I went to the terrace and waited for her. I just sat there, looking at the serene morning sea. There were boats already sailing out of the inlet. An albatross was flying toward the sea, and the seagulls were pecking at the bits of fish that a boat had discharged near the pier. Tati came outside with breakfast; it was delicious. I could see that she was also enjoying herself.

The rest of the morning we spent walking around the pier. At around noon, Joshua called me on my cellular phone.  He had just left Miami and wanted to know how to get to our place.

“You can’t miss it, buddy,” I told him. “It’s in Islamorada, right next to the Tikki Bar. Houseboat row Number 7.”

I figured that it would take him about an hour and a half to get there, so we went to the pier to buy fresh seafood for dinner. We bought ten pounds of stone crabs; they were really fresh. We then went back to our place to wait for our guest. At almost 2:00 Joshua arrived. He was accompanied by a gorgeous girl, not older than twenty. He introduced her as Ana.

In addition to being very pretty, Ana turned out to be very friendly. She and Tati connected immediately, and I was very relieved. They stayed for dinner, which Ana helped make, and after dinner Joshua and I went out to the terrace while the women sat in the living room, talking. I had a glass of Johnnie Walker, and Joshua was drinking beer.

“It is nice here, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yeah, and I needed it too.”

“When I get out of this mess, I may consider moving down here. Miami is getting on my nerves, especially all the nasty people….”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “why do you think the State would target you?”

“That’s irrelevant, Sam. The fact is that I behaved like an idiot and now have to pay the piper, that’s all. I mean, I should have known what was at stake. I don’t wanna sound like I’m justifying myself, because what I did was unjustifiable, but you think about it, my first mistake was allowing the Johnston case to drag on for two years. We all know that a case has to be finished in six months or less, otherwise pitfalls appear. So I went way over the line with Johnston. Then you start feeling bad for the guy, you think you’ve neglected him, and you start making concessions. You know how many times I visited that guy in jail?”

I shook my head No while I took a sip of my drink. “More than sixty times. I have the receipts from the visit slips to prove it. And then you get close to your client, which is a no-no. He starts talking about his family, his life; I mean, what are you gonna talk about? There is only so much that you can talk about a case, even if it’s murder. And then one day he asks for a favor; you initially think it’s preposterous, but then you soften a little bit. What’s a pack of cigarettes going to do to anyone? No big deal. Besides, if you get caught, you say that you didn’t know. And why are you gonna get caught? I swear that in my years of practice I have never taken a case involving introduction of contraband into a jail; never mind taken, I have never heard of a case involving introduction of contraband! That’s one of those sections of the code that are deleted on purpose from the manuals because they are never enforced. Yes, I’ve had clients in jail who have been sent to isolation because they have received contraband, but that’s always been the extent of it; no one has ever been charged criminally. But that’s human folly—thinking that what hasn’t happened will not happen. But here I am, charged with introduction of contraband into a jail facility. Someone should yell bingo.”

“You know, Josh?” I said, “I understand what you’re saying, the part about you behaving like an idiot, but what I don’t understand is why they would set you up like that? It surely wasn’t because they thought you were corrupt! There has to be something else. You must have rubbed someone the wrong way, because they came after you with a vengeance. Do you know how much money and time they must have spent just to set a trap for you? This reeks of personal vendetta. Think about it!”

“Honestly, Sam, there is nothing I can think of. The only case I have against that idiot prosecutor is the Johnston case, and Detective Pescatore has always had a good relationship with me. I’ve poked fun at his golf game, but that wouldn’t be a reason to hunt me down like that.”

“No, I agree. And Pescatore is a nice guy. But there must be something, and I’m going to find it, you can count on it.”

“I don’t know if that would help the case, Sam, but I’m ready to face the consequences. I don’t wanna go to jail, obviously, but other than that, I’m not afraid. I will probably be disbarred anyway, based on conduct alone, and that hurts. Other than that, I think I’ve accepted my fate.”

I was not so sure that he wanted to know the truth. I think more than anything he wanted closure, as if with the case pending something even more horrible could happen. I could see the pain in his face, although his demeanor was still stoic. The lessons he had learned in the trenches of the criminal justice system were paying off at that time of adversity. I tried to cheer him up and said,     “Come on, nothing has been lost so far. Even the Florida Bar may be lenient on you when they find out what really happened. Come on, we’re on a vacation here, we’re supposed to be having fun.”

“Yeah,” he said, “let’s have fun.”

He finished his beer, got up, and went inside. Tati and Ana were immersed in conversation about art and music. Joshua went to Ana and kissed her on her cheek. Then he grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s take a stroll by the pier!”

Ana looked between embarrassed and undecided, so Tatiana got up and said, “Yeah, let’s!”

We all got out and started walking toward the pier. Joshua had picked up Ana and was carrying her in his arms; she was laughing, kicking, and screaming. Tati and I were walking behind them, embracing each other. I said to her,     “They look in love, don’t they?”

“Well, she’s head over heels about him. She thinks that he’s the best thing since sliced bread.”

“Does she know about his problem?” I asked her.

“I don’t think she knows, because she said something about you being his mentor, but she didn’t say anything about you being his lawyer.”

“Me, his mentor?” I laughed. “Maybe he doesn’t want to scare her away, which I’d understand.”

Tati pinched me in the back. They had reached the end of the pier, and we were getting closer to them. Joshua pointed to the sky and said: “See that constellation? That’s Orion, the Hunter. The reddish star in the upper left is Betlegeuse; the bluish star at the lower right is Rigel. The three lined-up stars form his belt, and the other stars descending from the belt trace his sword. That fuzzy light close to the belt is the Orion’s nebula; if we had my telescope I would show you what a beautiful sight that is. And of course,” he said, turning a little to his left, “every hunter has a dog, so that bright star behind Orion is Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, which represents the diamond in the collar of Orion’s dog, Canis Major. Orion gave a diamond to his dog, instead of giving it to his woman. Smart guy!”

Ana punched him jokingly in the arm and said, “What you don’t know, ignoramus, is that he had given her many and bigger diamonds before.”

“Wrong, milady,” he said. “She had run off with another guy, and then she shot him with an arrow and killed him.”

“Wow, that sounds tragic,” Tati interjected.

“It’s only mythology” I said.

“Yes,” Joshua replied, “but sometimes fiction resembles reality all too well.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Luckily it’s only sometimes. By the way, where did you learn about all that?”

“I’ve been places, Sam, remember?”

Suddenly, we heard a splash in the water, toward the middle of the pier. We ran over to see up close. The water was churning with fish, jumping in the air; they were being followed by a large barracuda. Ana looked terrified. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Big fish eating little fish,” I said, anticipating Joshua’s response.

He looked at me with a smile and said, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

They stayed with us until almost midnight. They still had about an hour and a half to drive to get to Key West. After a prolonged goodbye with promises to meet again, they left. Ana was waving good bye until the car disappeared. We went back to our houseboat and went to sleep.

Sunday was a very uneventful day. Breakfast of sushi at the Tikki Bar, seafood buffet for lunch at the Whale Harbor Inn, and dinner on the terrace. The rest of the time we spent tanning ourselves by the pier, or resting in the houseboat. I had made reservations for a fishing trip but cancelled it at the last minute. We went to bed early. Monday at 6:00 a.m. we left for Miami.