For the Defense

By J.R. Chapel

Power, class, race, and the search for justice: these are the elements that fuel For the Defense, a murder mystery about Jimmy Poe. Jimmy is a poor, 18-year-old African-American boy who has overcome numerous obstacles on his way to obtaining a full academic scholarship to the University of Virginia, but whose world is shattered when his baseball bat and school I.D. are found at the scene of the brutal slaying of Jefferson Price, the popular, white mayor of Jimmy’s hometown and the father of Jimmy’s beautiful girlfriend. Jimmy’s fate is placed in the hands of his public defender, Nolan Kilbride, who must cross lines he never thought he would in his quest for an acquittal, culminating in a heart-pounding climax at Jimmy’s capital murder trial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483507644

Book preview

9781483507644

I.

Killing Jefferson Price turned out to be quite simple. Three swift strikes to the head and Price’s once formidable body fell lifeless, like a dripping wet towel, onto the rich mahogany floor of his study. The first crack sounded like an ax hacking into a mighty Virginia oak, while the last two were more like a wooden mallet pounding a spoiled watermelon.

Jefferson Price had been the Mayor of the historic city of Alexandria, Virginia, located just across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. Now, he was just a sack of flesh, bone, and increasingly less blood as the crimson flow continued unabated, pooling around his head like a hellish, red halo.

Mayor Price’s killer slowly backed away so as to ensure he didn’t get any of the incriminating liquid on his shoes, all the while gripping the well-worn aluminum baseball bat that had just become an instrument of death. As it was the first time he had ever killed anyone, the killer wasn’t entirely sure how to react. The thought of killing Jefferson Price had consumed him of late, and he had wondered whether he would be able to go through with it when the time came. As it happened, he turned out to be astonishingly capable when the moment of truth arrived. Not a single word passed between them as he bashed in the Mayor’s head. The fact that the Mayor remained seated as he turned to see who was entering his study had made it all the easier to get in three unobstructed shots. The Mayor had called out his teenage daughter’s name just before the killer rushed into the room, evidently laboring under the tragically false assumption that his beloved only child had returned home unexpectedly early from her lacrosse game and was rushing in to see her father.

The killer knew he didn’t have much time to admire his handiwork, but he couldn’t help wondering if there was anything going on behind the Mayor’s glassy, blue eyes as they gazed emptily up at the ceiling. There was no doubt he was dead, but the killer nevertheless wondered if the Mayor had experienced even the slightest glimmer of what was happening to him, or who was responsible.

Just as the killer took another step away from the ever-advancing sea of red around the dead Mayor, he heard the front door of the mansion open and then slam shut. Someone else was home . . . .

II.

The Mayor’s been murdered!

Those words would have alarmed most people, but Nolan Kilbride was more annoyed than anything else as he heard them on the other end of the telephone. He spent his entire workday with murderers, rapists, armed robbers, petty criminals and everything in between, including the occasional innocent person. So, when he retired to his easy chair in the evening he only wanted to do two things: get a little drunk and watch his team, the Washington Nationals, win a ballgame. He knew that most nights there was very little chance of the latter happening, but he could always count on achieving the former.

Did you hear me? came the voice again on the phone. Mayor Price is dead! Somebody killed him tonight!

Damn it, Sheila, don’t you know the Nats game is on, Nolan replied wearily.

Sheila Waheed-Jones was the Public Defender for the City of Alexandria, and thus, Nolan’s boss. She almost never called Nolan at home, which was why he reluctantly answered the phone when he saw her name and number on the caller I.D. Now that he heard what she had to say, he resolved never to answer the phone again during a Nationals game even if God Himself was calling.

How can you be watching a baseball game right now? Sheila asked. Flip over to Channel 4 right now!

No chance. Zimmerman’s up with two men on in the ninth and we’re down by one, Nolan said as he sucked on his Sam Adams Boston Lager.

Are you out of your mind?

At that moment, the Nationals All-Star third baseman popped a high fastball into the air for an easy final out as the ball dropped lazily into the glove of the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman. Yet another loss for the Nationals went into the books.

Son of a buck! Nolan exclaimed. You know, I must be out of my mind. I watch these guys every night, but it’s always the same lousy ending.

Would you put on the news you lunatic! Sheila yelled.

Keep your shirt on, Nolan said as he took another sip of beer and reached into the cushion of his easy chair for the remote. Where the hell is it? he muttered to himself as his hands fumbled around between the cushions. Quake, have you seen the remote?

Nolan’s friend, personal assistant, bodyguard, and basement tenant, Glenn Earthquake Sutherland, looked up quizzically from his copy of Mad Magazine.

Huh?

The remote, have you seen the remote?

Oh, yeah, it’s right here, Earthquake said as he wrapped his beefy, black left hand around the remote on the coffee table in front of him.

Can you change it to Channel 4?

But the post-game show’s about to come on.

I know, I know. Trust me, I’m not happy about it, Nolan said.

Sweet Jesus! exclaimed Sheila over the phone. Are you kidding me?

I’m gonna’ hang up this phone if you don’t settle down, Nolan said. This is exactly why I never answer the phone when the Nats are playing.

I’m so sorry to interrupt you, Sheila said dryly, wondering how it could be that the best lawyer in her office apparently had no interest in the biggest crime story to hit Alexandria in decades.

As Earthquake flipped the channel, the familiar ruddy face of Channel 4 News Reporter Mike Rollins filled the screen. Rollins had been the police reporter for the local NBC affiliate for 20 years and was famous for his melodramatic delivery at crime scenes. Tonight, he was in rare form.

Maureen, Rollins said with a dramatic pause as he addressed the anchor in the studio, the crime scene has been described to me as horrific. There is no doubt that the Mayor of Alexandria, Jefferson H. Price, was murdered here tonight in his very own home.

Jesus. Who did it? Nolan asked Sheila.

How would I know? she replied.

Wait a second, are you telling me they don’t have a suspect in custody?

Not that I know of.

Did you do it, Sheila? Nolan asked.

What?

Did you kill the Mayor?

Shut up, Nolan.

Well I know I didn’t do it. Earthquake, did you kill the Mayor tonight?

I’ve been here with you all night, Earthquake replied, looking up wide-eyed from his magazine.

That’s right, you have, and I didn’t notice you leaving here at any point to go out to kill the Mayor, Nolan said. Hmmm, that only leaves Charlie, but I’m pretty sure he’s been upstairs studying all night. You don’t have any reason to believe my nephew was involved in this do you, Sheila?

Why do you have to be such a jerk? I have no idea who killed the Mayor, Sheila replied.

Then why are you calling me? Nolan demanded. When you call my house about a crime I expect it to be a crime that involves one of our clients, or one that you committed, or one that you think someone in my household committed. Short of that, I’m not sure why you’d be calling me about this.

It’s the biggest crime to hit Alexandria in our lifetimes! How can you not be interested in this?

I’ve got enough to worry about with the crimes committed by my clients, Nolan said. I really don’t need to start paying attention to other people’s crimes.

"You mean the crimes allegedly committed by your clients," Sheila added.

Sheila was a true believer who worked from the presumption that, until she learned otherwise, all her clients were innocent. Nolan, on the other hand, worked from the presumption that all his clients were guilty and it was his job merely to cast doubt on whatever evidence of guilt the prosecution managed to find.

"Right, allegedly committed by my clients, Nolan replied with an exaggerated eye roll. So, until one of my clients is alleged to have killed the Mayor, I don’t much care—"

At that moment Mike Rollins raised his voice.

Maureen, I’ve got breaking news to report here from outside the home of Alexandria Mayor Jefferson H. Price. I’m being told that the police have a suspect in custody and that the man’s name is . . . .

Nolan’s head nearly burst as Rollins played out his signature pregnant pause.

Come on spit it out Rollins! This guy deserves an Emmy for best dramatic performance. I swear he can’t just report the news, he has to—

Shut up! Sheila said as she waited for Rollins to finally reveal the suspect’s name.

. . . Jimmy Poe, an 18-year-old man from the notorious Berg section of Alexandria. I’ve just been told that Mr. Poe was taken into custody moments ago.

Son of a buck! Nolan exclaimed, spilling the last couple ounces of his Sam Adams in his lap as he nearly fell out of his seat.

You know this kid? Sheila asked. Is he one of ours?

Yeah, you could say that, Nolan said, still staring in disbelief at the television as he wiped the beer off his shorts.

Yes! Sheila exclaimed. I can’t believe it!

I’ve gotta’ go, Sheila, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

Wait, no— Sheila said before Nolan hung up the phone.

Nolan slumped back into his seat for a moment as Mike Rollins continued the melodrama.

We are awaiting further details on the suspect, this Jimmy Poe, but Maureen, for the moment . . . it looks like a killer may be off the streets of Alexandria and a slain leader may get some measure of justice, albeit . . . from the grave.

Jeez, Rollins, how do you still have a job? Nolan said as he turned off the television and got up out of his seat to put on a pair of shorts that didn’t have beer stains on them. Quake, you think you can drive me down to the police station in a couple minutes?

Sure, I’ll go downstairs and put on my shoes, Earthquake said as he laboriously unfurled his six-foot-eight, three-hundred and fifty pound frame from its spot on the couch. Nolan hated to make Earthquake drive him around at this late hour, and if he was going anywhere else he might not have done it, but since he was heading to the police station he thought it would be unwise to drive there himself in light of his beer consumption that evening.

As Earthquake walked through the living room to the basement stairwell just off the kitchen, Nolan walked upstairs to his bedroom. When he reached the top of the stairs he paused for a moment at the open doorway that led to his nephew Charlie Espinosa’s room.

Charlie, I’ve gotta’ go interview a client so Quake and I have to head out for a couple hours.

Charlie was seated at his desk beneath one of the windows in his room. His tan skin was already starting to get darker as the weather got warmer, but was not nearly as dark as it would be by the end of the summer. He owed his tan skin to his late father’s Cuban heritage, but his late Irish-American mother was 100% responsible for the dimples in his cheeks as he looked up at his Uncle Nolan. The digital clock on the desk indicated it was 11:15. True to form, Charlie was still hard at work studying for his final exams, which had been going on all week and finally ended tomorrow.

Client interview? he said as he turned around in his chair. Kinda’ late for that isn’t it?

Yeah, somethin’ just came up. No rest for the weary, ya’ know, Nolan said with a grin.

He decided that he was not going to mention that Charlie had known this particular client since he was a child. He had enough to think about with his exams winding down and Nolan decided it was best not to mention that one of his boyhood friends had been picked up that night for murder. He would undoubtedly read about it in tomorrow morning’s Washington Post, so best to let him find out that way after he’d gotten all of his studying done.

How’s the studying coming?

Oh, not bad, Charlie said. I’m just about done I think.

Which exams have you got tomorrow?

History and Calculus, Charlie said.

It went without saying that they were Advanced Placement exams, as were all of Charlie’s finals. Charlie had already been accepted to attend MIT in the fall, but as he’d always done, he was preparing for these last exams with deadly seriousness even though they were only meaningful insofar as they would help secure his place as Valedictorian.

Hard to believe you’re gonna’ be done with high school after tomorrow, Nolan said. We’ll have to do somethin’ fun tomorrow night.

"Maybe I can get a beer with you at O’Donnell’s?" Charlie said with a grin.

Now that would be illegal, my dear boy. But we’ll see if Paddy can be talked into it anyway, Nolan added with a wink, referring to O’Donnell’s proprietor. Don’t stay up too late, kid, alright.

Alright, love you.

Love you too, kid.

Nolan walked down the hall to his room and looked through his dresser for a clean pair of cargo shorts. None were to be found, so he put on a pair of faded blue jeans and sneakers. The t-shirt he had on was his jersey for the Public Defender’s softball team. It was a Carolina blue shirt that had the team’s name, Devil’s Advocates, emblazoned across the front with the team motto underneath: Nobody Talks, Everybody Walks. That seemed particularly appropriate for his trip down to the station tonight, and since the t-shirt had been spared any beer spillage he opted to keep it on. As he stood up after putting his sneakers on, Nolan caught a glimpse of himself and was a little startled by the old man staring back at him. His black Irish hair was still all there for the most part, but his goatee was beginning to show flecks of gray and the crow’s feet at the corners of his pale blue eyes were more pronounced than ever. He’d also begun to develop a bit of a paunch as his once religious running habit had given way in direct proportion to the quantity of beer he consumed. Nolan slapped his expanding belly and said, Alright, champ, let’s get to work.

In moments Nolan was outside in the passenger seat of his Ford F-250 pickup truck.

We goin’ straight to the police station? Earthquake asked as the engine rumbled and he pulled out of the parking spot in front of their bungalow on Wyatt Avenue.

No, let’s go to the gas station first. I’m going to need some smokes for this.

You sure? It’s not Friday night yet.

It’ll be Friday in about 20 minutes. Close enough, Nolan replied.

Nolan quit smoking every Monday morning, and would not break down and buy another pack until at least Friday of the same week. It had become something of a ritual for him, and Earthquake was nothing if not attuned to Nolan’s routine.

After stopping at the Shell Station on Mount Vernon Avenue for a pack of Marlboro Lights, Nolan hopped back into the truck and Quake continued west on to the residential streets of Monroe Avenue before taking a left onto Russell Road.

What’s notorious mean? Quake asked.

Notorious? It means famous, but not in a good way, Nolan replied as he took a long drag on his cigarette.

Oh, I guess that makes sense, Earthquake said.

What do you mean?

The newsman said The Berg is notorious, Earthquake said, referring to his old neighborhood and Jimmy Poe’s home. Famous, but not in a good way sounds about right.

The Berg was a relatively small, 15-block neighborhood in a pocket of North Old Town Alexandria. It was founded by ex-slaves who fled north and settled in the city after it was occupied by Union troops in 1861. The Berg remained a predominantly black neighborhood throughout the next century and a half, with its most prominent landmark being the 100-unit conglomeration of red-brick government row houses that made up most of the neighborhood. Alexandria was generally considered an affluent area, but The Berg stood in stark contrast to the million dollar homes that lined King Street and much of Old Town. It was a rough neighborhood in an otherwise peaceful city, and Earthquake knew it all too well as he had spent many a cruel night in the cramped home he shared as a child with his six siblings, an assortment of cousins, and other transient family members and friends.

The Berg gets a bad rap if you ask me, Nolan said. Anytime there’s a crime in this city, the first place people start looking for a suspect is in The Berg.

That’s where I’d go first if I was lookin’ for criminals, Earthquake said.

Nolan grinned and flicked his cigarette out the window as they drove past the majestic Masonic Temple that sat atop Shooter’s Hill at the very center of the city. Shooter’s Hill had been the first choice for Capitol Hill back when the Founding Fathers were looking for a place to situate their new country’s capitol city, but General Washington nixed the idea since he knew it would expose him to charges of favoritism to place the capitol so near his varied business interests in Alexandria. Hence, a new city was born on some swamp land a few miles north in what would come to be known as the District of Columbia.

Why don’t you cut through the metro parking lot and get over to Duke Street, Nolan instructed Earthquake.

Will do, Earthquake replied as he continued ruminating about his old neighborhood and the road that had taken him from The Berg to the driver’s seat of Nolan Kilbride’s truck.

Earthquake had spent the first 18 years of his life on the corners of The Berg, mostly enduring abuse from older kids, including his own siblings, who tormented him for being fat. The teasing ended, however, by the time he got to high school and was simply too big and fearsome to tease anymore. By the age of fifteen, he was no longer known as Pigpen Glenn, but Earthquake. The football coaches immediately took an interest in him, and despite his shy and gentle demeanor, they convinced him that his ticket out of The Berg was a football scholarship. Given his severe learning disability, they were right, and so long as he continued to pancake defensive ends and keep his quarterback’s jersey clean, they would see to it that his G.P.A. never slipped below 2.0 even though he could never read beyond a sixth grade level.

The football coaches at the University of Virginia were equally solicitous of their star left tackle, where he was able to help the usually hapless Cavaliers to a Fiesta Bowl berth during his sophomore year. NFL scouts had begun to take notice as well, but his short-lived football career suddenly came to an end the day a blitzing linebacker fell on his leg, rolled up his left calf, and in the process mangled his knee, thus ensuring that he would never set foot on a football field again.

As quickly as Glenn had gone from Pigpen to Earthquake, he was suddenly just plain old Glenn. With no tutors hired by the football team to do his homework anymore, it was less than a semester before he flunked out of UVA and was back in The Berg. With no money and no prospects, it was easy for his older brother Lionel to convince him that he should make use of his prodigious size and become an enforcer for his loan sharking and gun running business. It wasn’t long before Earthquake found himself in a holding cell at the Alexandria Circuit Court awaiting a preliminary hearing on a felony malicious wounding charge. Earthquake didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but he had somehow allowed his need for money and shelter to drive him to beat a man senseless at his brother’s behest. As he sat wondering what had become of his life, Nolan Kilbride entered his cell and introduced himself as his lawyer.

Nolan typically had little sympathy for his adult clients’ circumstances, but he could sense that Earthquake was a man who didn’t belong in jail. After convincing the prosecutor, who was a UVA grad and ardent football fan, to bump the charge down to unlawful wounding in exchange for an autographed Earthquake Sutherland Cavaliers jersey, Nolan asked Earthquake how he intended to make a living. When he had no answer, Nolan invited him to come live at his house and work as a handyman of sorts. Earthquake would be expected to take care of all household chores, shop for groceries, drive Nolan around town, and in return he would receive free room and board in the basement of Nolan’s Del Ray neighborhood bungalow as well as a decent salary. Even though he only made an Assistant Public Defender’s meager wages, Nolan had come in to quite a bit of insurance money when his sister and brother-in-law suddenly died, leaving him responsible for raising his nephew, so he was easily able to afford it. That was ten years ago, and now Nolan and Earthquake were seen together so much that more than a few of their neighbors around their Del Ray neighborhood wondered if they were a couple.

Within minutes of passing the Masonic Temple they had driven past the federal courthouse across the street from the King Street Metro station and were on Mill Road adjacent to the Beltway. Traffic on the Beltway heading into Maryland was light at this late hour on a Thursday night, but construction in the westbound lanes had the Virginia side moving at a crawl.

I tell ya’, if there’s one thing you can always count on it’s that traffic on the Beltway’s gonna’ suck no matter what time it is, Nolan said.

You don’t miss it? Quake asked.

Not for one second, Nolan replied, thinking back for a fleeting moment to his long mornings on the highway during the commute to his old job at a major national law firm in D.C.

In fact, Nolan was lying. He did miss it every single day. Not the drive, of course, or his old job, but his old life, before his wife and daughter died. He allowed himself to stroke his wedding ring for a moment before he drew himself back. If he lingered too long on those memories, he worried he might not be able to pull himself back out again. He had already languished for too long in that pool of despair and self-pity, and he had no desire to return.

Here we are, Earthquake said as he pulled the truck into the parking lot outside Alexandria Police Headquarters.

Looks like the media’s here, Nolan said with a sigh, pointing at the reporters and cameras milling around on the sidewalk outside the station. Do you wanna’ come in?

Sure, it’ll be nice to walk in there without handcuffs on, Earthquake replied.

Yeah, and I may need the back-up, Nolan said as he hauled himself out of the truck. I have a feeling the boys in blue are not going to be overjoyed to see my smiling face.

The police don’t know we’re coming?

Nope, we do not have an invitation.

As Nolan and Earthquake approached the front door of Police Headquarters, the throng of about a dozen reporters and their cameramen approached.

Do you know Jimmy Poe?

Are you his lawyer?

Why did Jimmy Poe kill the Mayor?

Nothing to see here folks, Nolan replied, we’re just the janitors.

What are your names?

What are you doing here?

My name is Pope Benedict, Nolan said, and this is my friend Barack Obama. Yes, I know, we look very different in person.

Come on, who are you and what are you doing here? asked a frustrated young reporter with a Channel 9 microphone in his hand.

As persistent as the reporters were, none of them dared get in Earthquake’s way as he marched along cutting an imposing path through the crowd. Nolan dutifully followed behind him like the halfbacks once did at UVA, and in moments they were at the front door of Police Headquarters clicking the buzzer.

This is Sergeant Jepsen, whaddya’ want? came the crackling voice of a male police officer over the speaker.

I’m Jimmy Poe’s lawyer, let me in, Nolan barked.

Whose lawyer?

The black kid who you guys are beating with a rubber hose in the back room, that’s whose lawyer, now let me in damn it!

Sergeant Jepsen remained silent for a moment, which was a moment too long for Nolan.

If you don’t let me in I’m going to tell these reporters what my client told me you all have been doing to him all night, and trust me, you don’t want that splashed all over the newspapers tomorrow.

Nolan was, of course, bluffing. He hadn’t spoken to Jimmy Poe in months, much less that evening, and while he didn’t always approve of the Alexandria Police force’s methods, for the most part he didn’t have a bad word to say about them.

Three more seconds of silence passed before Officer Jepsen clicked the button to open the front double doors of the building.

Nolan and Earthquake slipped inside the building as two large police officers on the other side of the door fended off the reporters and made sure none of them followed inside. Once they were past the main guards, Nolan and Earthquake were met by an officer seated behind a large front desk.

Sergeant Jepsen, where’s my client?

Just wait right there, I’ve got an officer coming down to escort you up.

That’s alright, I know the way, Nolan replied as he headed for the staircase beyond Sergeant Jepsen’s desk.

You can’t go up there unescorted! It’s against protocol!

And you can’t question my client without his lawyer present! It’s against the Constitution! Nolan barked back.

Nolan started up the staircase before realizing that Earthquake wasn’t following him.

Quake, get your ass up here, that desk jockey doesn’t tell us what to do.

Okay, Earthquake said as he looked past Officer Jepsen’s hard glare and disobeyed a police officer for the first time in his life without having to run away as fast as he could.

As Nolan and Earthquake made their way up the stairs, Officer Jepsen picked up the phone at his desk, quickly dialed and said, They’re on their way up unescorted, I couldn’t stop them.

Within moments, Nolan and Earthquake were at the top of the staircase where they were met by the inhospitable gaze of about a dozen police officers huddled outside a witness room.

Hi everyone, the party pooper’s here! Nolan announced as he flashed his most obnoxious grin. Is my client still here or have you buried him alive out back yet?

Hey, Kilbride, said a beefy uniformed officer at the center of the cabal. What are you doing here at this hour?

Nothing much, Gilberto. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in to see if you were questioning any young murder suspects without their lawyer present.

Before Officer Gilberto Nunez could respond, the door to the witness room opened up and the Chief of Police, Jake Parker, emerged. He was a short, rotund man with a white standard-issue police officer mustache, thinning gray hair, and thick glasses. He looked more like Wilford Brimley than a thirty-year veteran of the police force, but he was proof that looks are deceiving.

Hello, Nolan, I’m surprised to see you here. Mr. Poe told us he didn’t have a lawyer.

"Mr. Poe’s an eighteen-year-old kid, Jake. I just hope you haven’t already screwed up the Commonwealth’s prosecution by getting an illegal confession out of him. That would really break my heart, I’ve gotta’ tell ya’, it truly would."

Chief Parker just grinned. "Aw, come on, you know me better than that, Nolan. I’ve got a signed Miranda waiver here." As he said this he waved a piece of paper back and forth in front of Nolan’s face.

Yeah, well, we’ll see if that holds up in court, Nolan replied, knowing full well there wasn’t a judge in Alexandria who would fail to honor a written Miranda waiver absent some evidence that Jimmy had been coerced into signing it. Now can I talk to my client?

Well, like I said, Nolan, the kid told me he doesn’t have a lawyer, so I’ll have to ask him if he wants to see you at all. Just give me a second.

As Chief Parker opened the door to go back into the witness room, Nolan jumped up behind him as high as he could and yelled, Jimmy, it’s Nolan Kilbride out here and your Momma will whoop your ass if you don’t talk to me!

Chief Parker turned around, highly agitated, and said, I though you said you were this kid’s lawyer? What authority do you have coming down here if the Public Defender hasn’t been appointed to this case yet?

Appointed? You arrested the kid five minutes ago, how the hell could we have been appointed already? I’ve defended this kid before and I know him and his whole family, Nolan said. I also don’t need to wait for an appointment from the court when I know you guys are down here trying to get him to talk to you like he’s on Oprah’s couch. Now are you going to let me in there to see him or not?

Chief Parker looked Nolan up and down for a moment and then looked at Earthquake. Why’d you need Glenn to drive you down here? Are you drunk again?

Nolan rolled his eyes. Maybe, but you’re ugly and in the morning I’ll be sober, so who’s got the better end of that deal?

I’m not letting a drunk lawyer into my witness room.

For Pete’s sake, me drunk is better than most lawyers sober. And I only had a few beers during the Nats game anyway Nolan replied. You’ve seen me drunk before and you know it’s a whole hell of a lot uglier than this.

Did the Nats win? Chief Parker asked.

Of course not, we lost by one. Zimmerman popped out to second with two men on in the ninth.

Christ, this night just keeps getting worse, Chief Parker replied.

At least you didn’t have to watch the game like I did. Now are you going to let me in there or am I going to have to include in my Motion to Suppress that the Chief of Police personally prevented this kid from talking to his lawyer?

Chief Parker pursed his lips, stepped away from the door and said, You’ve got ten minutes. Then we’ve got to get him booked and processed.

You’re a prince, Nolan said. Then he turned to Earthquake. "He said I’ve got ten minutes in