Rogue Lawyer Read Online Free Page A

works through Partner and they meet in strange places. Partner says he’s about sixty with long, thinning gray hair, bad clothes, a loud, foul mouth, an abrasive nature, and a weakness for the bottle. “An older version of me?” I asked. “Not quite,” came the wise reply. For all his bluster and big talk, the Bishop is afraid of getting too close to Gardy’s lawyers.
    The Bishop says Huver and his gang know by now they’ve got the wrong guy but have too much invested to stop and admit their mistakes. He says there have been whispers from day one about the real killer.

5.
    It’s Friday and everyone in the courtroom is exhausted. I spend an hour haranguing a pimply, stupid little brat who claims he was at the same church service when Gardy called forth the demons and disrupted things. Honestly, I’ve seen the worst of bogus courtroom evidence, but I’ve never seen anything as bad as this. In addition to being false, it is wholly irrelevant. No other prosecutor would bother with it. No other judge would admit it. Kaufman finally announces an adjournment for the weekend.
    Gardy and I meet in the holding room, where he changes into his jail uniform while I offer banalities about having a good weekend. I give him ten bucks for the vending machines. He says tomorrow his mother will bring him lemon cookies, his favorite. Sometimes the guards pass them through; sometimes they keep them for their own nourishment. One never knows. The guards average three hundred pounds each, so I guess they need the stolen calories. I tell Gardy to take a shower over the weekend and wash his hair.
    He says, “Mr. Rudd, if I find a razor, I’m gone.” With an index finger, he does a slashing motion against his wrist.
    “Don’t say that, Gardy.” He’s said it before and he means it. The kid has nothing to live for and he’s smart enough to see what’s coming. Hell, a blind man could see it. We shake hands and I hurry down the back steps. Partner and the deputies meet me at the rear door and shove me into our vehicle. Another safe exit.
    Outside Milo, I begin to nod and soon fall asleep. Ten minutes later, my phone vibrates and I answer it. We follow the state trooper back to our motel, where we grab our luggage and check out. Soon we are alone and headed for the City.
    “Did you see the Bishop?” I ask Partner.
    “Oh yes. It’s Friday, and I think he starts drinking around noon on Friday. But beer only, he’s quick to point out. So I bought a six-pack and we drove around. The joint is a real dive, out east, just beyond the city limits. He says Peeley is a regular.”
    “So you’ve had a few beers already? Should I be driving?”
    “Only one, boss. I sipped it until it was warm. The Bishop, on the other hand, took his cold. Three of them.”
    “And we believe this guy?”
    “I’m just doing my job. On the one hand, he has credibility because he’s lived here all his life and knows everyone. On the other, he’s so full of crap you want to dismiss everything he says.”
    “We’ll see.” I close my eyes and try to nap. Sleep is virtually impossible in the midst of a capital murder trial, and I’ve learned to grab it whenever possible. I’ve stolen ten minutes on a hard bench in an empty courtroom during lunch, just as I’ve paced back and forth in a dingy motel room at three in the morning. I often black out in mid-sentence when Partner drives and the van hums along.
    At some point, as we head back to our version of civilization, I fade away.

6.
    It’s the third Friday of the month, and I have a standing date, if you’d call two drinks a real date. It feels more like an appointment for a root canal. The truth is this woman wouldn’t date me at gunpoint, and the feelings are so mutual. But we have a history. We meet at the same bar, in the same booth where we had our first meal together, in another lifetime. Nostalgia has nothing to do with it; it’s all about convenience. It’s a corporate bar downtown, one of a