“I don’t give a shit what the law says, he’s only eighteen years old.”
Graham’s face tensed. “Funny talk coming from a lawyer, an officer of the court.”
“The law’s a sieve I have to slip my facts through, because my facts always suck.”
“They’re scum. Come out of the womb looking to hurt people. We oughta start building baby prisons before the sonsofbitches can really hurt anybody.”
“Jerome Hicks’s entire life can be summed up — ”
“Right, blame it on his piss-poor childhood,”
Graham interrupted. “Same old story.” “That’s right, same old story.” Graham smiled and shook his head. “Look, I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth, okay? Wanta know my secret? I worked my ass off. If I can do it, they damn well can too. Case closed.”
Fiske started to walk off and then looked back. “Let me take a look at the arrest report and I’ll call you.”
“We got nothing to talk about.”
“Killing him won’t get you the AG slot, Bobby, you know that. Aim higher.” Fiske turned and walked away.
Graham twisted the cigarette between his fingers. “Try getting a real job, Fiske.”
* * *
A half hour later, John Fiske was at a suburban county jail meeting with one of his clients. His practice often took him outside of Richmond, to the counties of Henrico, Chesterfield, Hanover, even Goochland. His ever-expanding pool of work was not something he was particularly pleased about, but it was like the sun rising. It would continue until the day it stopped for good.
“I’ve got a plea to talk to you about, Derek.”
Derek Brown — or DB1, as he was known on the street — was a light-skinned black, with tattoos of hate, obscenity and poetry running down his arms. He spent enough time in jail to be buffed; wormy veins split his biceps. Fiske had once seen Derek playing basketball in the jail’s recreation yard, shirt off, well muscled, more tattoos on his back and shoulders. It looked like a damn musical score from a distance. Rising from the air like a jet on takeoff, gliding smooth, held up by something Fiske couldn’t see, the guards and other cons turning to look in admiration, the young man slammed the ball home, finishing with high-fives all around. Never good enough, though, to play college ball, much less NBA. So here they were looking at each other in the county lockup.
“ACA’s offered malicious wounding, Class Three felony.”
“Why not Class Six?”
Fiske stared at him. These guys were in and out of the criminal system so often they knew the criminal code better than most lawyers.
“Class Six is heat of the moment. Your heat came the next day.”
“He had a gun. I ain’t going up against Pack when he got his shooter and I ain’t got mine. What, you stupid?”
Fiske wanted to reach across and wipe the man’s attitude right off his face. “Sorry, the Commonwealth isn’t budging from Class Three.”
“How much time?” Derek said stonily. His ears were pierced, by Fiske’s count twelve times.
“Five, with time already served.”
“Bullshit. Five years for cutting somebody a little with a damn pocketknife?”
“Stiletto, six-inch blade. And you stabbed him ten damn times. In front of witnesses.”
“Shit, he was feeling up my bitch. Ain’t that a defense?”
“You’re lucky you’re not looking at murder in the first, Derek. The docs said it was a miracle the guy didn’t bleed to death right there on the street. And if Pack weren’t such a dangerous slimeball you wouldn’t just be looking at malicious wounding either. You could’ve been looking at aggravated malicious wounding. That’s twenty to life. You know that.”
“Messing with my bitch.” Derek leaned forward and popped his bony knuckles to emphasize the absolute logic of both his legal and moral positions.
Derek had a good-paying job, Fiske knew, albeit an illegal one. He was a first lieutenant for the number two drug distribution ring in Richmond, hence his street name of DB1. Turbo was the boss, all of twenty-four years old. His empire was well organized, discipline enforced, and included the facade of legality with dry-cleaning operations, a café, a pawnshop, and a stable of accountants and lawyers to deal with the drug funds after they had been laundered. Turbo was a very smart young man, good head for numbers and business. Fiske had always wanted to ask him why he didn’t try running a Fortune 500 company. The pay was almost as good, and the mortality rate was considerably lower.