Bum Rap Read Online Free Page A

too.
    A: I do not know your laws.
    Q: After illegally entering the country and illegally working, you stole a watch from a customer at Club Anastasia.
    A: Nikogda! Not true. The man gave me as gift.
    Q: Nonetheless, the Miami Beach police arrested you and set this wheel in motion.
    A: I feel like wheel is running over my feet.
    Q: You are facing prison time and then deportation, but I am offering you immunity. I would like you to reconsider my proposition concerning Nicolai Gorev.
    A: I am afraid. Will you give me agent to come along? Maybe someone who speaks Russian, and we will say he is my cousin.
    Q: Spanish speaking, I’ve got. But not Russian. And it’s really not a good idea to take anyone along. It will raise Gorev’s suspicions.
    A: I am not sure I can do this. I am not a professional actress.
    Q: But Ms. Delova, that’s exactly what you are.
    A: I do not understand.
    Q: How much money do you make at Club Anastasia in one night?
    A: Twenty percent of customer’s tab. On some nights, I make two or three thousand dollars.
    Q: See what I mean?
    A: But those were stupid Americans. Salesmen. Dentists. Ordinary men with credit cards.
    Q: So?
    A: Nicolai Gorev is a killer.

-6-
    Interred with Their Bones
    I f there is a more dispiriting place in Miami than the county jail, I haven’t found it . . . and I’ve spent a lot of time at the morgue. Approaching the jail, you can hear the anguished shouts of inmates on the upper floors, yelling through the barred windows at their wives, girlfriends, and homies below. Inside, you’ve got that institutional smell, as if a harsh cleanser has been laced with urine. Buzzers blare and lights flash. Steel crashes against steel as doors bang shut with the finality of a coffin closing.
    Sitting in the lawyer visitation room at the county jail, I said hello to Victoria Lord and nodded at Steve Solomon. I pulled a legal pad from my briefcase, wrote “State vs. Solomon” on the first page, and gave my new customer a stern look. “First rule. You have to tell me the truth.”
    “Jesus, Lassiter. I’m a professional. You don’t have to tell me that.”
    “So we’re agreed. The straight story.”
    “Hell, yes. Like I tell my clients, ‘Lie to your spouse, your priest, and the IRS, but always tell your lawyer the truth.’ ”
    “Lie to your spouse?” Victoria gave him a pained look.
    “Just an expression, Vic.”
    “Second rule,” I said. “Tell me everything. Even stuff that doesn’t make you look good. Clients sometimes tell little lies they think don’t hurt the case, because they’re embarrassed about something. It always comes back to haunt them.”
    “We’re on the same page, Lassiter. A client who lies to his lawyer is like a husband who cheats on his wife. It seldom happens once.”
    “Why all this talk about cheating on spouses?” Victoria asked.
    Solomon waved off the question with the two-handed football official’s signal: incomplete pass.
    “C’mon, Lassiter. How about I just tell you what happened?” Solomon spoke quickly, keeping his eyes on me. He seemed more willing to talk about murder than infidelity.
    “Third rule,” I said, ignoring his request. “In trial, don’t lean over and whisper in my ear.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “You’ll distract me. Plus I won’t be able to hear the testimony.”
    Solomon let out a long, exasperated breath. “You’ve got two ears.”
    “I had multiple concussions playing ball.”
    “Maybe you played too long without a helmet.”
    “I’ve got tinnitus and some hearing loss.”
    Solomon turned to Victoria. “You brought me a deaf lawyer?”
    “Plus I’m bone tired of clients who try to tell me what to do.”
    “A deaf, punch-drunk, burnout lawyer.”
    “When you want me to ask a question on cross, or you need a recess to take a piss, you’ll write a note on a legal pad in legible block letters.”
    “What is this? Fifth grade?”
    “I’ll read your note and decide what to do.”
    Solomon