Free SSC (2011) The Road to Hell by Paul Levine Page A

asked.
    Gina looked around my bedroom for an ashtray. She seemed to consider the question before answering. “Nicky, I think.” She appeared lost in thought. There being neither an ashtray nor Iittala glassware on the premises, Gina dropped the cigarette butt into the mouth of an empty beer bottle. Her eyes brightened. “Sure, they were both sitting in the kiddie pool drinking the mimosas, Nicky trying to charm him. I remember thinking that Nicky must be making progress, maybe getting through to him. Then they walked toward the house together, going into the kitchen. That’s the last I saw him. You’ll have to ask Nicky what happened next.”
    I intended to do just that. As Nicky’s lawyer, I had to be ready for anything. I had to “zealously” defend my client. It’s in the Canons of Ethics , you can look it up. Just now, the lawyer inside me—the guy who sees evil and deception, artifice and mendacity—had a lot of questions to ask. And so would the state attorney, I was willing to bet.
    The death of Peter Tupton was just a bit too bizarre. Words like “inquest” and “autopsy” and “grand jury” were popping into my head. And motive, too. What was it Doc Riggs always said? When there’s no explanation for the death, always ask , cui bono, who stands to gain .
    Hey, Nicky Florio, this may be more trouble for you than just a wrongful-death suit that’s probably insurance-covered anyway. You could be up to your ass in alligators.
    Gina was up and getting dressed. She wriggled into her ultratight jeans and shot me a look. “Jake, why are you smiling?”
    “ Didn’t know I was.”
    “ You were. Your blue eyes were crinkling at the corners, and you had that crooked grin you used to sweep me off my feet.”
    “ So that’s what did it. I thought it was my witty repartee aided by ample quantities of Jack Daniel’s.”
    She was looking around the room for her bra. “No. It was your smile. That and shoulders I could lean on.”
    “ Since then, one’s been separated, the other dislocated, and I’ve torn a rotator cuff.”
    She found the bra, red and frilly, in a tangle of bed sheets. “Just now, you were almost laughing. What were you thinking about?”
    “ The Canons of Ethics .”
    She gave me a shove. “No, really.”
    “ Okay, then. The Ten Commandments, or at least one of them.”
    “ Which one?”
    “ Something about thy client’s wife,” I said.
     
     

Chapter 2
     
    Self-inflicted Pain
     
    “ HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN MR. LASSITER?” ASKED WILBERT FAIRCLOTH.
    “ Since he was a pup,” Doc Charlie Riggs answered.
    “ May we assume that constitutes many years?”
    “ We may,” Charlie said, wiping his eyeglasses on his khaki shirt. His old brown eyes twinkled at me. “When I was chief M.E., Jake was a young assistant public defender. Well, not as young as the others, since he’d spent a few years playing ball, though heaven knows why. He wasn’t very good, and he blew out his anterior cruciate ligaments.” Charlie scratched his beard and shot me a sidelong glance. “Anyway, when he began practicing—law, not football—we were on opposite sides of the fence. I’d testify for the state as to cause of death, the matching of bullets to weapons, that sort of thing, and Jake would cross-examine on behalf of his destitute and very guilty clients. He always did so vigorously, if I may say so.”
    “ No one is questioning Mr. Lassiter’s competence,” Faircloth said.
    Good. Not that it was always that way. New clients, particularly, are suspicious. They want to see your merit badges—diplomas from prestigious universities, photos with important judges, newspaper clippings laminated onto walnut plaques. I don’t have any. No letters from the Kiwanis praising my good works. I don’t have a family, so no pictures of the kiddies clutter my desk. If anyone wants to examine my diploma from night law school, they can visit my house between Poinciana and Kumquat in Coconut Grove. The