Free Immoral Certainty by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

it had started. He couldn’t remember, which was odd in itself, because Felix kept a meticulous record of all his appointments and accomplishments in a series of small, black notebooks, going back to high school. She had just appeared one week and after that, she was always there once or twice a month, forever.
    He stood up, shakily, and at once the telephone rang again. It was his lawyer from Queens, a morose little man named Dudnick.
    “Mr. Tighe,” said the lawyer in his precise, dry voice, “I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
    “Yeah? Well, I been busy. What do you want?”
    “I wanted to remind you that your trial begins in four days. There are a number of things we need to discuss beforehand.”
    “What things? I’m getting off, right?”
    Dudnick cleared his throat. Criminal law at this level was not really his specialty. The white-shoe law firm that Mrs. Tighe used for her business and trust dealings retained him as a convenience for its distinguished clientele. The bulk of his practice consisted of arguing for leniency in cases where wealthy people had gotten drunk behind the wheel or bought marijuana from the wrong person. He had racked up thousands of hours of community service sentences. This was different.
    “Well, in fact, Mr. Tighe, I have been in contact with the Queens District Attorney and he appears willing to accept a plea of guilty to breaking and entering and felony assault, which is quite an advance for us. The indictment is for attempted first-degree murder and burglary.”
    “Does that get me off?”
    “Not exactly, Mr. Tighe. We would expect a sentence of from three to five years in—”
    “Three to five! You’re outta your mind, three to five!”
    “Of course, in all probability you would only have to serve eighteen months.”
    “Fuck me, eighteen months! Listen, asshole—I’m not serving eighteen minutes. I want off, understand! I’m not going to goddamn prison on the say-so of some dumb nigger cop. They got nothing on me.”
    “Well, actually, Mr. Tighe, as I’ve tried to explain to your mother, they have quite a bit on you. You actually were caught red-handed, so to speak, in that they were able to remove samples of that policeman’s blood from your hands and clothing.”
    “That don’t mean shit. They could of made it all up just to frame me.”
    “Yes, but that’s something we can discuss at our meeting. Now when would you like to come by? Mr. Tighe? Hello, Mr. Tighe?”
    Felix slammed down the receiver, shaking the phone and making it ring faintly. He went back into the bedroom, fuming. Felix had never been a clever burglar, just a lucky one. And considering the priority given in recent years to low-grade burglaries by the police in New York, he did not even have to be that lucky. He’d been picked up a couple of times as a kid, but his Ma had got him off. Since he’d turned eighteen he’d been pulling a couple of jobs a month and never a breath of trouble. Felix was not into self-criticism, but he had to admit to himself that he’d gotten cocky, coming down the ladder like that, with a cop car right under. He’d have to lie low on the burglary business for a while, maybe figure out another scam.
    “So, who was it? You look pissed off,” observed Lutz, who was setting up the weights to do his jerk and press sequence.
    “My fuckin’ lawyer, the dickhead. He says I’m going to have to go up for this piece of shit thing in Queens.”
    “Hey, man, that’s a son-of-a-bitch, ain’t it. So what’re you gonna do? I mean split or what?”
    Felix didn’t bother to answer. He had all he could do to ride out the waves of fury that were rolling through him, blackening his vision and churning his guts. He was furious at the lawyer, of course, and at his mother for hiring the asshole, and at Anna for not having been on the phone instead of Dudnick. He slammed his knotty fist into his thigh. None of those people was immediately to hand. There was only one