Free Proof Positive (2006) by Phillip - Jaffe 3 Margolin

BIG MAN WITH A RUDDY COMPLEXION AND gray-streaked curly black hair. He looked more like a heavyweight boxer who'd had his share of tough fights than one of America's top criminal-defense attorneys. Tonight, he felt like Sisyphus, the ancient king of Corinth who was condemned by the gods to roll a heavy boulder up a steep hill in Hades only to have it roll down again each time he reached the top. Frank's hell was a courtroom in Medford, a small city near the California border, where he had spent the past week trying a grueling meth case. Just when it seemed that he'd snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, George Featherstone, the prosecutor, gave an emotional closing argument in which he revealed that the defendant had been convicted for sexually abusing a minor.
    Prior to trial, the judge had forbidden Featherstone to breathe a word of the conviction on the grounds that the jury would not be able to give Frank's client a fair trial if they learned he was a child molester. As soon as the words were out of Featherstone's mouth, Frank had gritted his teeth and moved for a mistrial. The judge had no choice but to grant Frank's motion. Now Frank was condemned to return to Medford in two months to try the case all over again. This had put him in a terrible mood during the five-hour trip back to Portland, and he was still in a bad mood at nine that night when a car pulled into his driveway.
    Frank lived by himself in the Victorian home in the West Hills where he'd raised his daughter and law partner, Amanda. By the time he got back from Medford, he barely had the energy to fix a dinner of scrambled eggs and toast before retiring to his den to watch television in the hope that it would take his mind off the drug case. When the car door slammed, he was in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, nursing a glass of bourbon and watching the current governor of California battle aliens. Frank swore softly and set his glass on the coffee table. He swore even more forcefully when he looked through the window and recognized the burly man who was walking up the driveway.
    Evening, Charlie, Frank said, opening the door before his visitor had a chance to knock.
    Evening, Mr. Jaffe, answered Charlie LaRosa. Sorry to disturb you.
    Charlie LaRosa performed a variety of tasks for Martin Breach, most of which were prohibited by the penal code. Frank had beaten two assault charges for LaRosa.
    What is it this time? Frank asked wearily.
    Hey, no, I'm doing fine, staying out of trouble. This is for Marty. He sent me to get you.
    Tell Martin I'll see him in the morning. I just drove up from Medford and I'm wasted.
    Charlie's nervous look meant that Breach had ordered him to bring Frank back with him.
    It's Artie, Mr. Jaffe. He's in jail. It's serious. Marty said to say as serious as your daughter's problem was.
    Amanda had crossed some very powerful men while representing Jon Dupre, a pimp and accused murderer. They had put out a hit on her, and Frank had gone to Martin Breach for help. He'd come through for the Jaffes. Now Breach was calling in a favor, and Frank couldn't refuse. His shoulders sagged, and he resigned himself to a long evening.
    The Jungle Club was a square pink-and-green concrete box that sat in the middle of a parking lot on a corner of a busy intersection on Columbia Boulevard. A neon sign featuring a naked woman and flashing letters that spelled GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS left no doubt as to what awaited patrons inside. There were a few open spots in the front lot, but Charlie ignored them and parked in a reserved space in the rear of the building. The music from the club was so loud that Frank could feel vibrations in his body when he got out of the car. As soon as the back door opened, he was hit by a wave of sound that almost knocked him over. Martin Breach had the office of the Jungle Club swept for bugs every day, but he was paranoid about surveillance and liked his dancers to disrobe to the loudest music possible, on the theory that it