Free Last Chance for Glory by Stephen Solomita Page B

Hiding from the bullies, the jocks, the girls.
    Oscar snapped his fingers and a second waiter appeared at his elbow. “Hennessy, for Mister Blake, Ryan.”
    Ryan nodded his understanding and both men walked away, confirming Blake’s impression of his own status. He was worth a drink, but lunch was out of the question.
    “Martin, you’re Irish, yes? Maybe I should dispense with the Yiddish?”
    Blake grinned, tapped the table with a forefinger. “Don’t tell that to my mother. She’s sure that I’m Jewish.”
    “Your mother’s a Jew?” Steinberg’s mouth dropped open. “Then you’re a Jew. According to the law.”
    “According to whose law? Jewish law? Jewish law is not my …”
    Steinberg’s eyes narrowed. “According to Nazi law. Hitler law. And it doesn’t stop, Martin. You see how the Germans are now? Auslander raus! Very nice. If there were still Jews in Germany, it’d be Juden raus! Maybe worse.” He leaned across the table, touched Blake’s sleeve. “In this country, the Jews are lucky. The blacks take the heat for us. But you wait, Martin. Our day will come.”
    Blake nodded thoughtfully, thinking, I better not tell this clown that my father’s mother was German.
    The lawyer sat back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head slowly. “Do you care that I’m taking my time getting to the point? That I’m plotzing along like an old drunk?” He waved off Blake’s polite reply. “But if you can’t celebrate a victory, you might as well be dead, right? Today, I got a rapist off the hook.”
    The second waiter, Ryan, reappeared with the Hennessy. Blake took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed dutifully.
    “So, Blake, you know how I know this rapist was a rapist? He tells me, that’s how. He comes waltzing into my office and says, ‘The cops are looking for me. I committed a rape. Get me off the hook.’”
    “Just like that?” Blake looked at his brandy, shuddered, turned back to Steinberg.
    “Well, maybe not exactly like that. But words to that effect. Told me all about it, every detail.”
    “So what’d you do.”
    “Me? I rubbed my thumb across the tips of my fingers. ‘Moolah, baby,’ I tell him. ‘Dinero, gelt.’ He dicks me around for a few minutes, pissing and moaning about his financial problems. ‘Slow down a second,’ I say. ‘I wanna ask you a few questions. First, this woman you raped was your best buddy’s girlfriend, right?’
    “‘Yeah,’ he says.
    “And you went to her apartment intending to have sex with her. Whether she liked it or not.’
    “‘Yeah, well … uh.’
    “And she refused and she tried to fight you off. Correct?’
    “‘Yeah.’
    “‘And you fucked her anyway.’
    “‘I don’t see what you’re gettin’ at.’
    “‘What I’m getting at is this: no discounts for rapists. You want off the hook, you gotta come up with the price of whatever freedom I can arrange.’”
    Blake fought a revulsion bordering on nausea. Not every criminal lawyer accepted rape cases, especially from clients as guilty as the one Steinberg had just described.
    “Once he understands my position, we have no trouble coming to an understanding. Seventy-five, large, plus expenses, which he gets from his rich daddy. Me, I start throwing money in all directions. I find two big-time MDs who’ll swear the vaginal bruising could have come about through normal sex. And she’s had plenty of that, been around the block so many times her head spins when she’s standing still. The ex-boyfriends are ready to swear she liked it kinky and her being in analysis since she was thirteen isn’t gonna help the prosecution’s case one bit. Then I start with the evidence which mainly consists of torn underwear. Turns out the letter of transmittal from the duty officer at Midtown South to the forensic laboratories at One Police Plaza can’t be found. Boom, out go the panties, out goes the bra. Now, I’m just waitin’ for the bastards to