John Lescroart Read Online Free

what?”
    â€œYou name it. Malpractice, bribery, theft of client funds, extortion, perjury, drug and alcohol abuse. I can’t believe you don’t know him.”
    Hardy shrugged. “I’ve heard stories, sure. But people tell stories about you, too.”
    â€œThose are legends,” Freeman corrected him. “Logan. Well, you know all the lawyer jokes?”
    â€œMost of ’em.”
    â€œWell, they made them up about Dash Logan, especially the one about the difference between a catfish and a lawyer. One’s a bottom-dwelling scum sucker and the other one’s a fish. Here’s a hint—Logan’s not the fish.”
    â€œYou don’t like him.”
    Freeman chuckled, but he wasn’t amused. “I really believe there’s good in a lot of people, Diz, almost everybody. Almost.” He came forward in his chair again, swirled his wineglass and took a mouthful. “Talking about him almost sours this wine, and that takes some doing.”
    Hardy had taken a glass from the sideboard and held it out. “Let a professional tell you how bad the sour is getting.”
    Freeman picked up the bottle and poured. “What do you smell?”
    â€œTobacco.” He held up a hand—he was kidding—then took a sip and his eyes lit up. “Although I must admit there’s a bit of wine in the aftertaste.” He crossed the room, where he settled himself on the couch. “So if Logan calls back?”
    â€œI’ll tell you a story.” Freeman pushed his chair away from his desk, faced Hardy and crossed one leg over the other. He drank some wine. “Fifteen years ago I gotteamed with Logan on a two-defendant murder case. This was in the days before talking movies, remember, when we had a real D.A.—Chris Locke—who would put people in jail from time to time. Also, this is one of the few times in my illustrious career when I thought my client—Aaron Washburn, I still remember—was mostly innocent. Maybe he was driving the car, but that’s all. He was too young and too chicken to agree to be the wheelman for a hit. In any case, his main flaw was loyalty to the shooter—Logan’s client, a real loser named Latrone Molyneux.
    â€œSo anyway, Locke declares we’re going to have joint disposition of our two defendants—either they both plead or they both go to trial. But he needs fifteen years from my guy. Well, I decide I’m going to trial, one because my boy, Aaron, didn’t do it—he wasn’t the shooter and didn’t know it was going to go down and even if he did, they couldn’t prove it. And two, because that’s who I am. I’m not taking my client’s money and lots of it to plead ’em to half a lifetime in the joint.
    â€œAnd it’s not as though I’ve got to sink Logan’s client, remember. My guy just says he was in the car the whole time and has no idea what happened.” Somewhere in this recitation, Freeman had gotten to his feet, reliving it again. He paced the office, door to window, a caged bear. “All right. Now I’m working on my kid’s defense, keeping my no-good colleague Mr. Logan in the loop because, you know, that’s what we do. But I notice he’s not making too many of our joint motion hearings, he’s got my witnesses spooked—I hear rumors that he’s actually scoring dope off some of these people—the judge is getting pretty pissed off with delays and no-shows and really awful paperwork.
    â€œBut mostly old Dash is walking the walk, I’m giving him the benefit, you know, professional courtesy. We’re taking this thing to trial and he’s got to know what I know, right?
    â€œThen, two weeks before we’re scheduled for jury selection, guess what? No, don’t. I’ll tell you. Logan comesby here, says he’s decided he’s going to plead Latrone. He’s got his fee. He doesn’t have