Free Blind Man's Alley by Justin Peacock Page A

difficult for his opponent to win, experience had taught Duncan that in most cases the outcome was not determined by anything the lawyers did, but was rather a largely inevitable application of the law to the facts. There was no magic bullet in Duncan’s arsenal.
    “I understand why you don’t want a public defender, but this isn’t what I do, Rafael. I wouldn’t have the first idea what I was doing in a murder case.”
    Rafael looked at him with a mix of pleading and anger. “But you got that hardcore firm you work for. You got connections. I get some lame-ass free lawyer, I know where that shit’s going to end—me in jail for the rest of my life.”
    Duncan was uncomfortable with letting Rafael down, but he didn’t think it was helpful to be unrealistic. “I hear you, man, I do,” he said. “But it’s not really going to be up to me. My firm would have to sign off on it, and I gotta tell you, I don’t really see that happening.”
    “You won’t even ask?”
    “I’ll ask,” Duncan said. “But you have to promise me you won’t be surprised when the answer I get back is no.”
    There was a knock on the door behind Rafael, which then opened before he had time to respond, two uniformed court officers in the doorway. “We’re ready to take your guy before the judge,” one said to Duncan.
    Duncan had never done an arraignment before. He’d faked his way through plenty of things practicing law, but never an actual court proceeding. He didn’t get to stand up in court very often, so when he did he was always meticulously prepared. Here he was winging it, but he couldn’t back out: Rafael was his client, at least for now, and besides, Duncan had already identified himself as Rafael’s lawyer in order to get to see him. He made his way to the crowded courtroom, sitting in the front row, which was reserved for lawyers. The room was loud, people constantly shuffling in and out, a bored-looking judge spending no more than a couple of minutes on each case.
    Duncan waited a half hour for Rafael’s name to be called, spending the time studying the parade of other arraignments. They were all pretty straightforward, but then again, none of them were murders.
    Finally it was Rafael’s turn before the judge. The ADA, Andrew Bream, was young and blond, with a jock’s body and a frat boy’s smirk. He made his appearance, Duncan then doing the same, stating his name and that of his firm. The judge then turned back to the ADA. “People?”
    “The defendant is accused of killing a former New York City police officer,” Bream said. “An officer who was a witness against him in a prior criminal case. We have an eyewitness, another former police officer who ID’d the defendant the same night as the murder. The People seek remand.”
    “The victim was working as a private security guard, not as a policeman,” Duncan rejoined. “And the prior case was resolved with a disorderly conduct plea. My client lives in public housing. He has no resources to speak of. I’d ask that bail be set at one thousand dollars.”
    The judge appeared to find this funny. “On a first-degree murder charge? The defendant is remanded until trial.”
    And with that they were finished, the court officers set to take Rafael away. “My abuela,” Rafael said urgently.
    “I’ll go see her,” Duncan said, a little disoriented at the speed with which things were moving.
    He’d just stepped out of the courtroom and into the hallway when he heard someone call his name. Duncan stopped and turned around, found himself facing a man he’d never seen before. He looked to be in his thirties, was wearing a tie with khakis, and was showily chewing gum. He wasn’t a lawyer; of that Duncan was sure. Against his better judgment, Duncan shook the man’s outstretched hand.
    “Alex Costello, New York Journal.”
    Duncan barely restrained the impulse to yank his hand away. It was one thing to quietly handle this arraignment before checking in with the