Free Against the Wind by J. F. Freedman Page B

answers, tight-lipped. “I hope you make a lot of money off this one, Will. You might have to live off it a long time.”
    He turns and walks out. Andy and I are left.
    “Too bad it couldn’t’ve been him with the elbow problem,” I offer.
    He shrugs. “Too bad? Who’s to say? But it’s your problem, and from the looks of things I don’t see you solving it.” He pauses. “Quite the contrary.”
    “Maybe I will.” And maybe I won’t.
    He looks at me. He doesn’t have to say anything more. I’ve lost him; rather, we’ve lost each other. He leaves me alone. I don’t want to be here right now. I tell Susan I’m leaving, and exit through the side door. Nobody sees me.
    ROBERTSON UNCHARACTERISTICALLY KEEPS me waiting half an hour. When I finally get in to see him he isn’t alone; Frank Moseby’s with him at the opposite side of the room, leaning against the credenza. He smirks at me.
    Frank Moseby is an asshole who wears a face. He’s tall, stoop-shouldered, overweight, doughy, with chronic B.O. His shirts always tell you what he ate for lunch, and to top it off he’s a racist. Most New Mexicans are fiercely proud of their Spanish cultural heritage, but down south, where Moseby comes from, it’s still strictly redneck; land-grant families that’ve been important in the state for hundreds of years are cholos.
    Despite what for most people would be lethal drawbacks, Frank’s become the top gun in the prosecution division. Sure, it’s partly attrition; most good criminal lawyers his age have moved into private practice, but he likes the action he gets in his job; and his personality would kill him in the real world. But there’s more to it than that. He’s a hard-shell Christian who believes with all his heart that most people are scumbags and criminals, and that it’s his job, his duty, his holy obligation to put as many of them away as possible. He’s a lay preacher in one of the local conservative churches, and he brings the fervor of the preacher into the courtroom. It’s corny sometimes, it probably wouldn’t play in New York or Los Angeles, but out here it’s effective as hell, even in a supposedly sophisticated oasis like Santa Fe.
    What makes it all perversely effective is that Moseby knows and cultivates it. He’s reveled in being the lone redneck homeboy among a covey of slick modern lawyers for so long it’s second nature now.
    His presence here means two things: he’s being assigned to this case, and Robertson’s taking it seriously.
    “My compliments to your tailor,” I tell him.
    He flips me the bird. If there’s one thing about Frank I do like, it’s that you know exactly where you stand with him.
    “When are my clients going to be charged?” I ask Robertson, getting to the point of my visit. He’s sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair like a slim blond Buddha, staring up at me through narrow-lidded eyes.
    “When I’ve got something to charge them with,” he answers calmly.
    “And when will that be, pray tell?” I ask, wishing he wasn’t being so cute. Bail can’t be set until they’re charged, and he can request denial of bail; with the new criminal justice code it’s easier to do, especially in a capital case with defendants who have records and bad reputations: defendants like mine.
    “Well,” he says, leaning forward, “the statute says it has to be pretty soon. Unless I can talk the judge into extending,” he adds.
    Which means if he doesn’t have enough hard evidence to take to the grand jury by then that’s exactly what he’s going to try to do.
    “You’re not playing by the rules, John,” I say.
    “Whose rules?” he asks.
    “How about the state of New Mexico’s?”
    “Little early in the game to tell me I’m doing something wrong, isn’t it, Will?”
    “I just want to see how the land lies.” I glance over at Moseby. He’s still wearing his smirk, flashes it at me.
    “Like this,” Robertson answers. “I think these parasites