“You also went to college while working as a cop.”
Fiske impatiently tapped his fingers against the car window. “Good old Virginia Commonwealth University, the Stanford of the next century.”
“And you read for the law.” Fiske looked at her angrily. “Please don’t get upset, John. I’m just curious.”
Fiske sighed. “I apprenticed to a Richmond criminal defense attorney. Learned a lot. Got my certificate and passed the bar.” He added dryly, “It’s the only way to become a lawyer if you’re too dumb to score high enough on the LSATs.”
“You’re not dumb.”
“Thanks, but how would you know?”
“We watched you do a trial.”
He turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”
“Over the summer, Michael and I came down to Richmond and watched you do a trial in circuit court.” She was not going to mention her second trip to watch him in court. “Why didn’t you let me know you were there?”
Sara shrugged. “Michael thought you’d be upset.”
“Why would I be upset at seeing my brother?”
“Why are you asking me? He was your brother.” When Fiske said nothing, Sara continued, “I was really impressed. I think you might have motivated me to become a criminal defense lawyer someday. At least for a while, try it out, see what it’s really like.”
“Oh, you think you’d like to do that?”
“Why not? The law can still be a noble calling. Defending the rights of others. The poor. I’d love to hear about some of your cases.”
“Would you really?”
“Absolutely,” she said enthusiastically.
He settled down, pretended to think hard. “Let’s see, there was Ronald James. That was his real name, but he preferred to be called Backdoor Daddy. That referred to his sexual position of choice with the six women he brutally raped. I plea-bargained that one, even though all six women identified him from a police lineup. I had some leverage, though. Four of the women couldn’t face Backdoor in court. That’s what terror will do for you. Or to you. The fifth victim had a few nasties in her past that maybe we could’ve used to attack her credibility. The last woman wanted nothing less than to crucify him. But one good witness isn’t the same as a half dozen. Bottom line: The prosecutor got cold feet and Backdoor got twenty years with a shot at parole.
“Then there was Jenny, a nice kid who put a cleaver into her grandmother’s skull because, as she tearfully explained to me, the old, dumb bitch wouldn’t let her go to the mall with her friends. Jenny’s mother, the daughter of the woman little Jenny butchered, is paying my legal bill in installments of two bucks a month.”
“I think I get the point,” Sara said tersely.
“Now, I don’t want to disillusion you. The guy I just got off for burglary paid my bill in full, probably with the cash he got from fencing the property he stole. I’ve learned not to ask. So my rent’s paid for the month, and I haven’t had to pull a gun on one of my clients in a long time. And tomorrow’s always a new day.” Fiske leaned back. “Go get ’em, Ms. Evans.”
“You really enjoy shocking people, don’t you?”
“You asked.”
“So why the hell do you do it, then?”
“Someone has to.”
“That wasn’t exactly the answer I was expecting, but let’s just drop it,” she said harshly. “Thanks for bursting my balloon, though, I really appreciate it.”
“If I burst your little balloon, you should thank me,” he said angrily. Then he added more calmly, “Look, Sara, I’m no white knight. Most of my clients are guilty. I know that, they know that, everybody knows that. Ninety percent of my cases are plea-bargained for that very reason. If somebody actually came to me proclaiming their innocence, I’d probably die of a heart attack. I’m not a defender of anybody, I’m a negotiator of sentencing. My job is to make sure that the prison time is fair relative to what everybody else gets. On the rare occasion I do go to trial, the trick there is to blow enough smoke around that a jury just loses the energy to figure it all out and gives up. Like they really want to sit around debating the fate of somebody they don’t even know, and could give a shit about.”