Balling the Jack

“Winston Garrett?”

“He was at the party, too. Not one of the sick ones, luckily. He’ll back up Regina on her cooking and catering knowhow. His word will look good.”

“Sir, can I ask you something? About Mrs. Garrett?”

“What is it?”

“Well … is it just me, or does her story seem pretty shaky?”

Carter frowns. “Her story is her story, Reasons. And as our client her story is gospel. It’s not our job to poke holes in it. It’s our job to poke holes in the other side. Capisce?”

“Yes, sir. It’s just that … well, don’t you think, given her appearance, and her money, and her—demeanor—that she’s not going to cut a very sympathetic figure at trial? That a jury might side with the hardworking immigrant, and jump at the chance to stick it to a rich old broad?”

Carter rubs his hands. “Ah. Now you’re thinking, Reasons. That is precisely why this case is not going near a jury.”

“Sir?”

“Prego does all right, but he’s no moneybags. Once he realizes what this trial is going to cost him, he’ll settle.”

“But he can’t, sir. Settling would kill his business. Nobody would ever hire him again. His only hope is to save his reputation by winning at trial. He’s got nothing to lose.”

Carter paces again, turning with a bounce at each end of the room.

“Let’s just say there are ways of making him settle.”

“Like what, sir?”

Carter slows. “Okay, Reasons. Welcome to the law as it’s not taught in law school. Think along with me here.”

I don’t like the sound of this.

“Prego is one of these guys with a lot of ties to the home country. Always shuttling over cousins, nephews to work in his place. You know—the whole immigrant shtick.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t think we’ll have to look real hard to find someone in the pack without a green card. Maybe they’re working in his place, maybe for his brother in construction. Either way, we’re talking big fines. And if we want to press it—end of business, deportation, the works. Trust me, Reasons. Between us and Immigration, Prego will settle.”

My stomach hints at starting up on me and I fight it down.

“Which leads me to today. I’ve got a friend over at INS who owes me a favor. I want you to meet with him. Ask him to see what he can dig up. Tell him to start with the niece who worked the party. Wouldn’t surprise me if little Rosie is missing some papers. Tell him not to act on anything he finds, though. For now it stays just between us.”

Back at my desk I stare at the wall. Life sure can be a barrel of shit sometimes. I start in on the depositions, but it’s slow going. Reading over Prego’s testimony I can’t help but think of him back in his shop, mixing his sauces. Full of worry, a crease in his brow, but confident the good lawyers can iron everything out. You don’t know what you’re in for, Giuseppe. In my year here I’ve seen a few cases with the truth on one side and the money on the other.

I don’t like your chances.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_bbf56442-21ee-512e-b30d-104dae038b17)

I’VE TOUGHED out a few hangovers in my time, but this one tops the list. Two days and change. As I walk up the East Side Friday after work, an Oil Can in my hand, I’m just starting to feel human again. Nothing like a little hair of the dog. I’ve yet to have any brainstorms on this Duggan mess, but that will have to wait. First things first—time to pick my game.