Free Last Chance for Glory by Stephen Solomita Page A

faint, graying orange laid over a yellow-white fringe.
    But the wig, itself, the physical wig, was the least of it. If it had stayed in one place (if he’d bothered to fasten it down) Steinberg would have been just another vain, aging fool. But it didn’t sit still, not for a second. It jiggled to the right, then to the left, dropped far back, then slid forward to drape his forehead. Chewing made it shuffle from side to side. Consternation (such as might be reserved for the testimony of an especially damaging prosecution witness) set it to bouncing like spit on a hot grill.
    “Hey, guy.”
    Blake turned to find a cup of coffee sitting on the bar. “Four bucks.”
    “Thank you for sharing that with me.” He handed over a five, left the cup where it was, turned back to watch a young man with a toothy smile and a suit good enough to make his soft, fat body presentable approach the great man. The kid spoke rapidly, but Steinberg didn’t look up. The wig was draped over the attorney’s forehead, a sure sign of dismissal.
    What Steinberg wants, Blake thought, is a tough guy he can push around. No, not push around—manipulate. He has to be on top. Even if being on top ruins him.
    After his meeting with Joanna Bardo, Blake had gone directly to Manhattan Exec’s computer room, where he’d entered Maxwell Steinberg’s name into a data base called NEWSSEARCH. Ten minutes later, he had three articles in his hand, two from newspapers, The New York Times and The Daily News, and one from The New York Trial Lawyers’ Journal. The newspaper profiles had dealt with the flamboyant Steinberg, noting that he’d been thrice divorced, twice filed for bankruptcy, once disciplined by the New York Bar Association. The wig had played prominently, of course, but both articles had noted that when the occasion demanded it (when Steinberg, for instance, was eye-to-eye with a jury), the buffoonery dropped away and the real Steinberg emerged, a radiant prince out of a frog’s body. The News had compared him to Svengali; the more sedate Times to Clarence Darrow.
    The Trial Lawyers’ Journal, on the other hand, had paid lip service to the courtroom theatrics, then proceeded to what, in their opinion, really made Steinberg a great trial lawyer. Steinberg, according to the Journal, began to battle the moment he took on a client. Meticulously prepared motions flew at judges and prosecutors like confetti at a Broadway parade. Every piece of evidence was challenged with two aims in mind: first, to exclude it from the trial; second, to establish a basis for appeal should his client be convicted. Expert prosecution witnesses were met with Steinberg’s own, even more-expert experts. On one particularly memorable occasion, he’d found a Ph.D. from Oregon willing to swear that lead fragments removed from the brain of a homicide victim might have come from a pencil.
    Blake took a deep breath and kicked himself into gear. He put a little bounce into his walk as he crossed the room, a little confident athleticism. He needn’t have bothered. Steinberg didn’t look up until Blake was standing at his table.
    “Mr. Steinberg? I’m Marty Blake.”
    Steinberg’s eyebrows rose, sending the wig back a good two inches.
    “Boychick, take a seat, please.”
    A waiter appeared at Blake’s elbow, pulled out a chair, even managed a thin smile. Blake sat.
    “Oscar, a brandy, please, for my friend, Martin Blake. We’re drinking cognac this afternoon, Martin. By way of celebrating. This morning, I got a rapist off the hook. Good for the legend, bad for the world. L’chayim.”
    Blake nodded, took a moment to study the lawyer’s face. It was homely, alright, just the way a Daily News reporter had described it—unkempt, salt-and-pepper eyebrows overhanging shrewd, black eyes; prominent fleshy nose dominating a thin mouth with a pronounced underbite. Blake made the lawyer for one of those sad kids who’d spent his childhood in the corners of the school yard.