Free Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? by G. M. Ford

the underdog and a grating, abrasive manner seldom seen this far west. Jed
was interested in rights. It didn't matter whose rights, just rights. No cause
in rights. It didn't matter whose rights, just rights. No cause was too
unpopular. No infringement too slight. To my knowledge, if you counted appeals,
he was undefeated.
    Judges, when faced with the prospect of presiding over one of Jed's cases,
had been known to hastily disqualify them selves on obscure technical grounds
in favor of a couple of weeks of tranquil trout fishing in the eastern part of
the state.
    The district attorney's office, after years of having its best and brightest
ground into fodder, had wisely taken to utilizing Jed's peculiar talents to
cull their own ranks of deadwood. Many a marginal prosecutor, ineffective but
immovable because of the arcane civil service statutes, had been jettisoned
either into private practice or into a completely new career path after being
buried in court by Jed James.
    Most of the experienced local attorneys, rather than trotting their
thousand-dollar suits into open court only to be hammered mercilessly by this
obnoxious little guy spouting lyrical phrases with the Brooklyn accent, usually
settled out of court. Contrary to rumor, there are some things that attorneys
won't do for money. Not coincidentally, Jed was also my attorney.
    "James, Junkin, rose, and Smith." A cheery little voice.
    "Jed James, please."
    "Can I tell Mr. James who's calling, please?"
    "Leo Waterman."
    "Leo, it's Cynthia. How are you doing?"
    "Cynthia, I thought you'd retired to full-time child rearing."
    "I have. But Suzanne had a baby last Thursday. I'm filling in for a few
weeks till she gets back on her feet."
    "What did she have?" I asked.
    "A boy, and catch this, eleven pounds three ounces."
    I winced. " Sounds painful."
    "No kidding."
    "She home yet?" I asked.
    "Oh, sure. They let her out Monday."
    "Let me have her address. I'll send her something." She read me an
address up in Snohomish County.
    "Let me get Jed for you. He's been trying to get me to call you every
fifteen minutes. You know how he gets." I knew. Type A all the way.
"I, on the other hand, know you'll check in when you get damn good and
ready."
    "One of the perks of the self-employed."
    "I'll get him for you." I waited on the line as the Embalmed Strings
sawed their way through a particularly turgid instrumental rendition of
"Moon River." The line clicked.
    "Leo, you slime, I've been looking for you."
    "You'll have to take a number, like a bakery."
    "I knew fame would spoil you, Leo. I knew it."
    "The only thing that's going to spoil me, Jed, is that music you play
over the phone system. Is that the best you can do? I mean ‘Moon River,' give
me a break." I made gagging noises.
    "It's soothing, Leo," he chuckled. "We do criminal defense
work, remember. I don't think ‘Stairway to Heaven' is what most of the people
calling here are looking for."
    "Point well taken, Jed. What can I do for you?"
    "I've got a kid accused of a drive-by shooting over in Medina. He -
"
    "A drive-by shooting in Medina? Come on, Jed. You sure it wasn't more
like a drive-by snubbing? That would be more like Medina."
    Medina is the Beverly Hills of the Greater Seattle area. Spacious homes
bordering Lake Washington, Japanese gardeners tending acres of nature
landscaping, estates set back a quarter mile from the road. The only way you
could stage a drive-by in that neighborhood would be with a Mercedes-seeking
cruise missile.
    "I swear to God, Leo."
    "I can't handle it this time, Jed."
    "Sure you can. He's black, so naturally he's guilty."
    "I'm swamped."
    "Find a way. I need you."
    "No can do. Send one of those eager young associates of yours."
    " ‘Fraid not, friend. I already sent one of the neophytes on a foray to
ferret out the friends."
    "How do you do that?"
    "What?"
    "Make up whole sentences using the same letter."
    "It's a gift. How about it?"
    "I'm working for Tim Flood." This slowed even Jed