Free Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests by Linda Fairstein Page B

of public defenders in our jurisdiction, judges pick from a rotating pool of
     defense attorneys and assign them to defendants who can’t afford legal counsel. And they frown on attorneys who do a less
     than stellar job with the assignment. As luck would have it, I’m at the top of the list this week. I can’t afford to annoy
     the judge, so I swallow my pride. I haven’t had much practice, and the words stick in my throat.
    “Mr. Bass, I apologize. I’m not bored. I’m just eager to get started.”
    Bass studies my face, checking for any sign of deceit. It’s hard to fool an ex-con, but he’s overmatched and he looks away
     after a few seconds. Hey, I’m a lawyer. I’ve had plenty of practice looking sincere.
    Bass brushes his blond hair off his forehead. “What do you want to know?”
    I click on the tape recorder and grab his file. “Let me go over what’s in the police report, then you can tell me your version,
     okay?”
    “Sure.” He glances at my briefcase. “You got any cigarettes?”
    “Sorry. It’s a no-smoking facility.”
    Bass snorts. “Figures. They want me healthy so they can stick a needle in my arm.”
    Like most cons, Bass knows the law. I open the case folder. “You were arrested early this morning at the Shamrock Bar following
     a fight with Cletus Rupp. Rupp died from injuries he sustained during this fight. Witnesses claim you two had been arguing.”
     I peer at Bass over the top of the file. He’s busy scrutinizing something trapped underneath his fingernails.
    “After your arrest, the police discovered a gym bag in your car containing ten thousand, three hundred dollars in cash. They
     also found a hammer covered with blood and strands of hair, a man’s Rolex watch, and a wallet containing sixty-three dollars.
     The driver’s license and credit cards were issued to Steven Toscar.”
    Everyone knows who Steven Toscar is. Was. Toscar made tons of money in real estate. Two years ago, he shut me out of one of
     his projects, costing me a chance for a big score. It upset me at the time, but I got over it. It appears not everyone is
     as forgiving as I am.
    “Toscar’s wife called nine-one-one at eleven thirty-eight p.m.” I rustle the pages until Bass looks at me. “The police are
     checking to see if your fingerprints match the ones found on the hammer. So what’s your story?”
    “Rupp was self-defense. He attacked me. But I swear I didn’t kill Toscar.”
    “The evidence suggests you did.”
    “Cops plant evidence all the time.”
    “Are you saying that’s what happened here?”
    “All I’m saying is I didn’t kill Toscar. Somebody must’ve planted that evidence.”
    A con’s typical defense. I lean back in my chair. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
    Bass rests his hands on the tabletop. They’re large hands, tanned and callused as though they’re used to hard manual labor.
     Like swinging a hammer.
    “Two months ago,” he begins, “I’m sitting in a bar, having a few drinks, minding my own business, when this guy grabs the
     stool next to me and orders a beer. I don’t pay any attention until he pays for it. That’s when I see the hook.”
    “A hook?”
    “Yeah, a hook.”
    I arch an eyebrow. “Like a pirate’s hook?”
    “Not exactly,” Bass says. “It had these pincers that were curved on the end. He didn’t have any problem digging the money
     outta his wallet.” Bass pinces his fingers together. “He was really…”
    “Adroit?”
    Bass frowns. “Huh?”
    I dumb it down a notch. “Skillful?”
    “Yeah, skillful. I never met anyone with a hook. We had a few beers, got to talking. He said his name was Cletus Rupp and
     he owned a swimming pool business. He asked if I wanted a job.”
    “Rupp offered you a job?”
    Bass nods. “I told him I was an ex-con. He didn’t care. There aren’t that many jobs for ex-cons, so I said sure. The first
     contract he gave me was the Toscars’ pool. That’s how I met Eve.”
    I recall a