The price you pay. His last foster father, Harley Rust, used to say that. No free meals in this life. Well, the meal had been served. Plenty of crow. And Steve was still paying.
How long would it last? Who knew? But you had to start someplace, and maybe this would be it. Maybe Sienna Ciccone was some kind of good-luck charm. She’s in the office and you get a phone call that has some good money on the other end.
Steve pulled up to the gate and gave his name, driver’s license, and bar card to the guard, who checked Steve off a list and told him where to park. He took a spot next to a black SUV, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. The case had nothing in it but a pad and pen and an apple, but it gave a lawyerly illusion. Steve didn’t want to hand his potential new client an instant reason to say, No thanks, I was actually looking for somebody who seems to know what he’s doing.
Steve was buzzed in and escorted through a heavy steel door, then down a yellow corridor to the attorney room of the prison. It was a rectangular chamber containing four heavy desks with aluminum benches. The beige linoleum floor was well scuffed, testimony to the heavy steps of overworked deputies and midlevel lawyers.
The room was empty as Steve entered, except for a deputy sheriff with arms like rolled up sleeping bags sitting at a special desk with a single, multiline phone. He looked at Steve and made no attempt at conversation. Not that Steve expected any. Here, criminal defense lawyers were considered on the same level as stuff scraped off a farmer’s shoe.
Steve sat at one of the tables, opened his briefcase, and pulled out the pad and pen. He wiped a film of sweat off his forehead. At the top of the page he wrote Johnny LaSalle and the date. The scratching of the pen seemed all the louder for the silence in the room.
For the next five minutes he jotted random notes, so it looked like he was thinking about the situation.
Actually, he was. Johnny LaSalle was finishing a seven-year stretch for armed robbery. According to the research Steve had done the night before, LaSalle had some sort of white supremacist record. Not much more on that, except that he was allegedly a pretty violent guy. Once beat up a Vietnamese busboy in a bar, sending the kid to the hospital. Was charged with a hate crime. Pretty easy to prove when you’re shouting racial slurs as you stomp a guy’s head.
The record didn’t deter Steve in any way. He knew that when you rep criminals you’re not going to get the Vienna Boys’ Choir. The most important thing was the criminal defense lawyer’s number-one rule: Get the fee up front.
A rule he’d forgotten in his representation of Carlos Mendez. But Steve was more than a little desperate at the time. Sort of like now.
Finally the gray interior door opened and a deputy sheriff walked in. Behind him jangled the prisoner.
Johnny LaSalle wore prison whites and was shackled hands and ankles. His hair was reddish, cut short. No skinhead. They didn’t allow that here. His forearms were covered with dark blue prison tats. Blue eyes in deep sockets made him seem older than what he was, mid-thirties. The effects of a hard life were inscribed in lines and crags on a face that, in other circumstances, might have been angelic.
The entire effect, from the very start, was electric. Almost mesmerizing. LaSalle had that rare face that could command—demand—attention just by showing up. A dangerous kind of face to be around for any length of time.
As he slid onto the opposite bench, LaSalle kept his eyes trained on Steve. Disconcerting to say the least. A typical prisoner’s move, Steve knew. Trying to capture the high ground. But even though Steve had seen the move before, it was never as effective as this.
Steve gave him a casual nod. He wanted to make it seem like he could take this case or leave it, even though the thought of a ten-grand retainer kept nibbling at his cerebral cortex, causing twitches.
Steve waited until the deputy attached LaSalle’s wrist shackles to the desk and then left through the same door.
“How you doing?” Steve said.
“The scent of hope slips through my fingers,” LaSalle said with the hint of a smile.
“Excuse me?”
“The scent of hope.”
“Is that Shakespeare or something?”
“Jessica Simpson. You like her music?”
Okay. Weird. Steve had not driven all the way up here to engage in a colloquy about the merits of airhead music. “Mr. LaSalle, you asked to see me.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“It’s good to see you.”
Good to see you? What was that supposed to mean? It felt for a second like the guy wanted to sell a used car or something.
“What can I do for you?” Steve said. “I understand you’ll be paroled in a couple of weeks. You need representation on another matter?”
“It’s much deeper than that.”
“How deep?”
“Real deep, Steve.”
Calling him by his first name. A familiarity the prisoner hadn’t earned. Cynicism crawled into Steve’s gut. This whole thing was starting to feel like a very bad idea.
“I’m not really in a mood to guess what you want,” Steve said. “Can you tell me in twenty-five words or less?”
“Easy,” LaSalle said. “Let me ask you something first. It’s important. I think you’ll see why. Do you believe in God?”
The sharp blue eyes, which seemed to have halcyon sources, bore into Steve. He shifted a little on the hard chair.
“I don’t see how that has anything to do with anything,” Steve said.
“Maybe it does. Maybe it is everything.”
“LaSalle, why don’t you drop the games? You’re starting to hack me off. I can get up and leave, right now.”
A corner of LaSalle’s mouth went up. “Wait, Steve. Wait. You have to believe in God. Life has no meaning without that. Because if you don’t believe in God, you’re not gonna believe the rest of it.”
Steve looked at his watch. “Suppose I give you five minutes to get to the point?”
“Steve, the heart is deceitful above all things.”
“Jessica Simpson again?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Jeremiah?”
“In the Bible.”
“Look—”
“Do you believe people can change?” LaSalle said. “I need to know that.”
“Sometimes,” Steve said quietly. He was not exactly Exhibit A in the character-formation department.
“It’s harder than you think,” LaSalle said. “But it happens. It’s a miracle when it does. Do you know about me?”
“Some.”
“You know that I used to walk in the darkness?”
“Sounds like a reasonably good summary.”
“It’s biblical. Listen, the Word of God says if you hate your brother, you walk in the darkness. That’s what I used to be like, Steve. I hated. People who weren’t my color, I hated. People who were against me, I hated. That’s what gave my life meaning. Hate.”
“What gives it meaning now?”
“Jesus.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe that?”
Steve knew only too well that hard-core prisoners often jump to Jesus as a way to show the parole board what nice little citizens they have become. As soon as they get out, many go back to their merry ways. What Would Jesus Steal?