“Ain’t saying anything, Sebastian. Except good-bye and thanks for keeping this a secret. I’ll check in later.”
I wrap myself in a blanket and sit outside on the small terrace. It’s cold and dark and the streets far below are quiet and empty. In moments like these, I wonder why I became a criminal defense lawyer. Why have I chosen to spend my life trying to protect people who, for the most part, have done horrible things? I can justify it on the usual grounds, but at times like this my heart is not really in it. I think about architecture school, my second choice. But then, I know some architects and they have their own issues.
First scenario: Swanger is telling the truth. In that case, am I bound by ethics and duty to stay quiet? Hand in hand is the question, am I really his lawyer? No and yes. We signed a contract, but he breached the contract by paying with a bad check. No contract means no representation, but it’s never that clear. I met with him on two occasions, and during both he considered me to be his lawyer. Both were clearly lawyer-client meetings. He asked for advice. I gave it. He followed most of it. He confided in me. When he told me about the body, he certainly thought he was talking to his lawyer.
Second scenario: Let’s say I’m his lawyer, I never see him again, and I decide to tell the police what he told me. It would be a serious breach of client trust, probably enough to get me disbarred. But who will complain? If he’s on the run, or dead, how much trouble can he cause me?
Third scenario: Plenty. If the body is where he says it is, and I tell the police, then Swanger will be hunted, found, tried, convicted, and given death. He would blame me, and he would be correct. My career would be over.
Fourth scenario: I cannot tell the police, under any circumstances. They don’t know what I know, and I’m not about to tell them. I think about the Kemp family and their nightmare, but there’s no way I can break a confidential relationship. With luck, the family will never know that I know.
Fifth scenario: Swanger is lying. He seemed too anxious to tell me. He’s playing games and sucking me into some awful scheme that will only end badly. He knew the check would bounce. His poor mother has never seen $5,000 in her life, nor has he.
Sixth scenario: Swanger is not lying. I can leak the information to Nate Spurio, my mole deep in the department. The body will be found. Swanger will be caught and put on trial and I will be nowhere near the courthouse. If he killed the girl, I want him locked up.
I kick around several other scenarios and things get foggier, not clearer. At 5:30, I put on the coffee. While it brews I rack all fifteen balls and break with a rather soft shot. The neighbor next door has complained about the noise of clacking balls at weird hours, so I work on my finesse game. I run the table, sink the 8 ball in a corner, pour a cup of strong coffee, and run the table again. Another rack, and I leave the 4 ball an inch from the pocket. Thirty-three in a row. Not bad.
Vasectomy reversals?
The police follow me, but halfheartedly. Partner says they’re tailing me about half the time, that they got fired up when Swanger met me in the van, but that was over a week ago. Partner drops me off at Ken’s Kars, a cheap secondhand lot in the Hispanic part of town. I’ve done some work for Ken, kept him out of jail, and he and I both know that our tag-teaming days are not over. He loves shady deals, the darker the better, and it’s just a matter of time before a SWAT team shows up with another arrest warrant.
For twenty bucks cash, per day, Ken will “lease” me a serviceable car from his sad inventory, no questions asked. I do this occasionally when I think I’m being watched. My black Ford cargo van is quite easy to spot. The dented Subaru wagon Ken has selected for me, however, will never attract attention. I spend a few minutes with him, swap some insults, and hit the road.
