Free The Good Lawyer: A Novel by Thomas Benigno Page A

a lawyer with Legal Aid.”
    A broad smile never left Rocco’s face as he kissed me on the cheek.
    “What are you handling, a murder case in here or what?” he asked, pinching the sides of my face. “You know my nephew here never lost a trial.” The two overcoats were now standing beside us. The youngest smirked contemptuously. Fortunately for him, Uncle Rocco didn’t see it. He was busy covering my eyes with his hands as a flash camera went off in our faces. The two young Italians reflexively reached inside their overcoats then casually drew their arms out empty handed as a reporter sped away. “No need for you to be photographed with us Nickie,” Rocco said apologetically.
    I figured, at worst, the flash caught the back of my head. “No problem, Uncle Roc.”
    “Sure Nickie.” There was a glimmer of sadness in his eyes.
    We walked past the huge columns and into the courthouse. An elevator was waiting. All four of us got in. Rocco and his boys were headed for the third floor. I was on my way to the all-purpose Supreme Court Parts on the fourth. When the elevator opened on three, Rocco asked me to step off so we could “talk.” He motioned for the overcoats to wait as we walked down the hallway.
    There was a coarse edge to his voice that softened as he began to speak.
    “Your mother called me. Says you’re workin’ too hard. Everything all right, Nick?”
    I patted his shoulder in a not-to-worry fashion. “Just a tough case. Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry. Really.”
    “You know I only want the best for you. Not, not this.” He nodded at the young Italians so I would understand he was referring to their life—to his life.
    “I know, Uncle Rocco.”
    He was getting emotional and it didn’t suit him, not the Rocco I knew. I wanted to change the subject.
    “So what brings you to the Bronx?” I asked.
    He took a long deep breath. “One of my boys, a neighborhood kid”—he revised his words, but not their import—“got into trouble. So I came to help out the mother. You know how it is.”
    “I’m sure she appreciates it.”
    He smiled, knowing I would ask no more questions. We walked back toward the elevator.
    He pressed the up button for me and kept his arm on my shoulder until the doors opened. Normally this display of affection would have made me feel awkward, but with Rocco it made me feel protected, secure, even at the age of twenty seven. After the death of John Mannino, he was the closest thing I had to a father. Nevertheless, when the elevator arrived and I kissed him on the cheek, I was grateful no one was around to see.
    Brushing the back of my lapel, he said: “We’re all real proud of you, Nickie…Your mom and me. Your dad would’ve been too.” There was love in his eyes.
    I wondered when the time came whether he would rightfully succeed Carmine Capezzi—or be passed over. The ramifications of either alternative saddened me deeply.

Chapter 17
     
    A lthough no more than fifty-five years old, Judge Joseph Graham had the reputation of being an unpredictable and caustic geezer. That’s a polite description—because I liked him. Many thought he was crazy, mostly assistant D.A.’s, few of whom he liked.
    Known in courthouse circles as three-gun Graham, he took the bench with three pearl handled revolvers: two shoulder-holstered, and one behind his back in Peter Gunn fashion. He also had a fourth revolver holstered at his right ankle. It is believed he added this additional artillery sometime after the name “three-gun” was permanently attached.
    Although he was smart as hell, and therefore, receptive to a good legal argument, researching carefully his decisions and quite generous to the defense in plea-bargaining, he was much too discordant as a rule. With his sloppy appearance, and a reputation for eccentricity, he often had to fight for the judicial respect afforded other judges. In the process, he made enemies—on both sides of the bar.
    As I stood before him to take a