Rogue Lawyer Read online

  my sister is back in the will, or so we think.

  Anyway, I was preparing to break up with Judith when she gave me the crushing news that she was pregnant. I assumed I was the father, though I didn’t ask that loaded question. Later I learned the brutal truth that she was already seeing Gwyneth. Talk about a shot to the gut. I’m sure there were clues that my dearly beloved was actually a lesbian, but I missed every one of them.

  We got married. Mom said she changed her will and I would get not a penny. We lived together off and on for five wretched months, were technically married for fifteen more, and split to save our sanity. Starcher arrived in the middle of the war, a casualty from birth, and we’ve been sniping at each other ever since. This ritual of meeting once a month for drinks is our homage to forced civility.

  I think I’m back in my dear mother’s will.

  “And what does Mummy plan to do with my child?” she asks. It’s never “our” child. She has never been able to resist the little digs, the sophomoric cheap shots. She picks at the scabs, but not even in a clever way. It’s almost impossible to ignore, but I’ve learned to bite my tongue. My tongue has scars.

  “I think they’re going to the zoo.”

  “She always takes him to the zoo.”

  “What’s the harm in going to the zoo?”

  “Well, last time he had nightmares about pythons.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her to take him somewhere else.” She’s already causing trouble. What could be wrong with taking a fairly normal seven-year-old boy to the zoo? I don’t know why we meet like this.

  “How are things around the firm?” I ask, my curiosity similar to that of watching a car wreck. It’s irresistible.

  “Fine,” she says. “The usual turmoil.”

  “You need some boys in that firm.”

  “We have enough problems.” The waiter notices both glasses are empty and goes for another round. The first drinks always disappear fast.

  Judith is one of four partners in a firm of ten women, all militant lesbians. The firm specializes in gay law—discrimination in employment, housing, education, health care, and the latest: gay divorce. They’re good lawyers, tough negotiators and litigators, always on the attack and often in the news. The firm projects an image of being at war with society and never backing down. The outside fights, though, are far less colorful than the inside brawls.

  “I could join as the senior partner,” I say in an effort at levity.

  “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.” No man would last ten minutes in their offices. In fact, men avoid them zealously. Mention the name of her firm and men run for the hills. Fine fellows caught screwing around jump off bridges.

  “You’re probably right. Do you ever miss sex with the opposite sex?”

  “Seriously, Sebastian, you want to talk about straight sex, after a bad marriage and an unwanted child?”

  “I like straight sex. Did you ever like it? You seemed to.”

  “I was faking.”

  “You were not. You were pretty wonderful, as I recall.” I know two guys who slept with her before I came along. Then she ran to Gwyneth. I’ve often wondered if I was so lousy in bed that I drove her to switch teams. I doubt it. I must say she has a good eye. I loathed Gwyneth, still do, but the woman could stop traffic on any street in town. And her current partner, Ava, once modeled lingerie for a local department store. I remember her ads in the Sunday newspaper.

  The second drinks arrive and we grab them.

  “If you want to talk about sex, I’m leaving,” she says, but she’s not angry.

  “I’m sorry. Look, Judith, every time I see you I think about sex. My problem, not yours.”

  “Get help.”

  “I don’t need help. I need sex.”

  “Are you propositioning me?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “You have fights tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, and I don’t resist.

  “I do.”

  “You’re sick, you know. That’s such a brutal sport.”

  “Starcher says he wants to go.”

  “You take Starcher to the cage fights and you’ll never see him again.”

  “Relax. I’m just joking.”

  “You may be joking, but you’re still sick.”

  “Thank you. Have another drink.” A shapely Asian in a short, tight skirt walks by and we both have a look. “Dibs,” I say.

  The alcohol kicks in—it takes longer for her because she is naturally wound tighter—and Judith manages a grin, the first of the evening. Could be the first of the week. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, her tone noticeably softer.

  “Not since we last met,” I say. “It’s been all work.” My last girlfriend said good-bye three years ago. I get lucky occasionally, but I’d be lying if I said I was on the prowl for a serious woman. There is a long, heavy gap in the conversation as we get bored. When we’re down to the last few drops of our drinks, we go back to Starcher and my mother and the next weekend that we both now dread.

  We walk together out of the bar, dutifully peck each other on the cheek, and say good-bye. Another box checked off.

  I loved her once, then I truly hated her. Now I almost like Judith, and if we can continue these monthly meetings, we might become friends. That’s my goal, because I really need a friend, one who can understand what I do and why I do it.

  And it would be much better for our son, too.

  7.

  I live on the twenty-fifth floor of a downtown apartment building, with a partial view of the river. I like it up here because it’s quiet and safe. If someone wanted to bomb or burn my apartment, it would be difficult without taking down the entire building. There is some crime downtown, so we live with plenty of video surveillance and guards with guns. I feel secure.

  They fired bullets into my old apartment, a duplex on the ground floor, and they firebombed my old office five years ago. “They” have never been found or identified, and I get the clear impression the cops aren’t looking that hard. As I said, my line of work inspires hatred and there are people out there who’d love to see me suffer. Some of these people hide behind badges.

  The apartment has a thousand square feet, with two small bedrooms, an even smaller kitchen, seldom used, and a living area that’s barely big enough to hold my only substantial piece of furniture. I’m not sure a vintage pool table should be classified as furniture, but it’s my apartment and I’ll call it what I want. It’s nine feet long, regulation size, and was built in 1884 by the Oliver L. Briggs company in Boston. I won it in a lawsuit, had it perfectly restored and then carefully reassembled smack in the middle of my den. On an average day, or when I’m not away in cheap motels dodging death threats, I rack ’em up time after time and practice for hours. Shooting pool against myself is an escape, a stress reliever, and cheap therapy. It’s also a throwback to my high school days when I hung out at a place called The Rack, a real local dive that’s been around for decades. It’s an old-fashioned pool hall with rows of tables, layers of smoke, spittoons, cheap beer, some petty gambling, and a clientele that acts tough but knows how to behave. The owner, Curly, is an old friend who’s always there and keeps it running smoothly.

  When the insomnia hits and my walls are closing in, I can often be found at The Rack at two in the morning playing nine ball alone, in another world and quite happy.

  Not tonight, though. I glide into the apartment, floating on the whiskey, and quickly change into my fight clothes—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bright, shiny yellow jacket that snaps at the waist, practically glows in the dark, and screams “Tadeo Zapate” across the back. I pull my slightly graying hair into a tight ponytail and stuff it under the T-shirt. I change glasses and select a pair rimmed in light blue. I adjust my cap—also a bright yellow that matches the jacket, with the name Zapate across the front. I feel sufficiently disguised and the evening should go well. Where I’m going the c
rowd is not interested in misfit lawyers. There will be a lot of thugs there, a lot of folks with legal troubles past, present, and future, but they’ll never notice me.

  It’s another sad fact of my life that I often leave the apartment after dark with some sort of disguise—different cap, glasses, hidden hair, even a fedora.

  Partner drives me to the old city auditorium, eight blocks from my apartment, and drops me off in an alley near the building. A crowd is swarming out front. Loud rap booms across the front plaza. Spotlights sweep maniacally from building to building. Bright digital signs advertise the main event and the undercard.

  Tadeo fights fourth, the last warm-up before the main event, which tonight is a heavyweight contest that is selling tickets because the favorite is a crazy ex-NFL player who’s well known in the area. I own 25 percent of Tadeo’s career, an investment that cost me $30,000 a year ago, and he hasn’t lost since. I’m also betting on the side and doing quite well. If he wins tonight, his cut will be $6,000. Half of that if he loses.

  In a hallway, somewhere deep under the arena, I hear two security guards talking. One is claiming the evening is a sellout. Five thousand fans. I flash my credentials and get waved through another door, then another. I enter the dark locker room and the tension hits like a brick. Tonight we’re assigned to one half of a long room. Tadeo is moving up in the world of mixed martial arts, and we’re all beginning to sense something big. He’s lying on a table, on his stomach, naked except for his boxers, not an ounce of fat on his 130-pound body. His cousin Leo is massaging his shoulder blades. The lotion makes his light brown skin glisten. I ease around the room and speak to Norberto, his manager, Oscar, his trainer, and Miguel, his brother and workout partner. They smile when they speak to me because I, the lone gringo, am viewed as the man with the money. I’m also the agent, the guy with the connections and brains who’ll get Tadeo on a UFC card if he keeps winning. There are a couple of other relatives in the background, hangers-on who have no discernible role in Tadeo’s life. I don’t like these extras because they expect to be paid at some point, but after seven wins in a row Tadeo thinks he needs the entourage. They all do.

  With the exception of Oscar, they’re all members of the same street gang, a mid-level organization of El Salvadorans who run cocaine. Tadeo has been one of the gang since he was initiated at the age of fifteen but has never aspired to a leadership position. Instead, he found some old boxing gloves, discovered a gym, and then discovered he had freakishly quick hands. His brother Miguel also boxed, but not as well. Miguel runs the gang and has a nasty reputation on the street.

  The more Tadeo wins the more he earns, and the more I worry about dealing with his gang.

  I lean down and speak softly to him. “How’s my man?”

  He opens his eyes, looks up, suddenly smiles, and pulls out the earphones. The massage ends abruptly as he sits on the edge of the table. We chat for a few moments and he assures me he’s ready to kill someone. Attaboy. His prefight ritual includes avoiding a good shave for a week, and with his scraggly beard and mop of black hair he sort of reminds me of the great Roberto Duran. But Tadeo’s roots are in El Salvador, not Panama. He’s twenty-two, a U.S. citizen, and his English is almost as good as his Spanish. His mother has documents and works in a cafeteria. She also has an apartment full of kids and relatives and I get the impression that whatever Tadeo earns gets divided many ways.

  Every time I talk to Tadeo I’m thankful I’m not forced to face him in the ring. He has fierce black pupils that scream angrily, “Show me the mayhem. Show me the blood.” He grew up on the streets, fighting anyone who got too close. An older brother died in a knife fight, and Tadeo is afraid he’ll die too. When he steps into the ring, he’s convinced someone is about to be killed, and it won’t be him. His three losses were on points; nobody’s kicked his ass yet. He trains four hours a day and he’s close to mastering jujitsu.

  His voice is low, his words slow, the usual prefight jitters where fear clouds all thoughts and your stomach churns. I know. I’ve been there. A long time ago, I had five Golden Gloves boxing matches. I was 1–4 until my mother found out about my secret career and mercifully brought it to an end. But I did it. I had the guts to step into the ring and get the shit knocked out of me.

  However, I cannot imagine the guts it takes to crawl into the cage with another fighter who’s superbly conditioned, highly skilled, well trained, hungry, nasty, and terrified and whose only thoughts are how to rip your shoulder out of its socket, mangle your knees, open a gash, or land a knockout punch on the jaw. That’s why I love this sport. It takes more courage, more in-your-face raw guts, than any sport since the gladiators battled to the death. Sure, many others are dangerous—downhill skiing, football, hockey, boxing, car racing. More people die on horses each year than in any other sport. But in those you don’t willingly enter the game knowing you will get hurt. When you walk into the cage, you will get hurt, and it could be ugly, painful, even deadly. The next round could well be your last.

  That’s why the countdown is so brutal. The minutes drag by as the fighter fights his nerves, his bowels, his fears. The waiting is the worst part. I leave after a few minutes so Tadeo can go back into his zone. He told me once that he’s able to visualize the fight and he sees his opponent on the mat, bleeding and screaming for mercy.

  I weave through the maze of corridors in the depths of the arena, and I can hear the crowd roaring in echoes, thirsting for blood. I find the right door and step inside. It’s a small administrative office that’s been hijacked by my own little street gang. We meet before the fights and place our wagers. There are six of us, and membership is closed because we don’t want any leaks. Some use their real names, others do not. Slide dresses like a street pimp and has served time for murder. Nino is a mid-level meth importer who served time for trafficking. Johnny has no criminal record (yet) and owns half of the fighter Tadeo will face tonight. Denardo drops hints of Mafia ties, but I doubt his criminal activity is that well organized. He aspires to promote MMA events and longs to live in Vegas. Frankie is the old guy, a local fixture in the fight scene for decades. He admits he’s been seduced by the violence of cage fighting and now is bored with old-fashioned boxing.

  So these are my boys. I wouldn’t trust any of these clowns in a legitimate business deal, but then we’re not doing anything legitimate. We go down the card and start the betting. I know Tadeo is going to kill Johnny’s fighter, and evidently Johnny is worried. I offer $5,000 on Tadeo, and no one will take it. Three thousand, and no takers. I chide them, cuss them, ridicule them, but they know Tadeo is on a roll. Johnny has to wager something, and I finally haggle him into a $4,000 bet that his fighter won’t make it to the third round. Denardo decides he wants some of this, for another $4,000. We cover the card with all manner of wagers, and Frankie, the scribe, records it all. I leave the room with $12,000 in play, on four different fights. We’ll meet in the same room later when the fights are over and settle up, all in cash.

  The fights begin and I roam around the arena, killing time. The tension in the locker room is insufferable and I can’t stand to be in there as the clock ticks along. I know that by now Tadeo is laid out on a table, motionless, covered by a thick quilt, saying his prayers to the Virgin Mary and listening to filthy Latin rap. There is nothing I can do to help, so I find a spot on an upper level, high above the ring, and take in the show. It is indeed a sellout, and the fans are as loud and crazed as ever. Cage fighting appeals to the savage instinct in some people, including me, and we’re all here for the same reason—to see one fighter annihilate another. We want to see bleeding eyes, gashes across the forehead, choke holds, bone-ripping submissions, and brutal knockout punches that send the corners scrambling for the doctor. Mix in a flood of cheap beer, and you have five thousand maniacs begging for blood.

  I eventually work my way back to the locker room, where things are coming to life. The first two fights ended with early knockouts, so the evening is moving quickly. Norberto,
Oscar, and Miguel put on their glowing yellow jackets, same as mine, and Team Zapate is ready for the long walk to the cage. I’ll be in the corner, along with Norberto and Oscar, though my role is not as important. I make sure Tadeo has water while Norberto yells instructions in the fastest Spanish you’ll ever hear. Oscar tends to the facial wounds, if any. From the moment we hit the floor, everything becomes a blur. Along the tunnel, drunk fans reach for Tadeo and scream his name. Cops shove people out of our way. The roar is earsplitting, and it’s not all for Tadeo. They want more, another fight, preferably one to the death.

  Outside the cage, an official checks Tadeo’s gloves, applies oil to his face, and gives him the green light. An announcer yells his name over the PA, and our man bounces into the cage in his bright yellow trunks and robe. His opponent tonight goes by “the Jackal,” real name unknown and unimportant. He’s a submission specialist, a tall white guy without much bulk, but looks are deceiving. I’ve seen him fight three times and he’s guileful and crafty. He plays defense well and looks for a takedown. He wrapped his last opponent into a pretzel and made him scream for mercy. Right now I loathe the Jackal, but deep down I admire the hell out of him. Any man who can climb into the cage has far more spine than the average guy.

  The bell rings for round 1, three minutes of fury. Tadeo the boxer bores in straight ahead and immediately has the Jackal backing up. Both jab and spar for the first minute, then tie up but there’s no damage. Like the other five thousand fans, I’m yelling my head off, though I have no idea why. Any advice is useless and Tadeo isn’t listening anyway. They go down, land hard, and the Jackal has him in a scissors hold. For a long minute, the action dies as Tadeo squirms and wiggles and we hold our breath. He finally breaks free and manages a sharp left jab to the Jackal’s nose. Finally, there’s blood. There’s no question my man is the better fighter, but it just takes one mistake and you’ve got an arm twisted to the breaking point. Between rounds, Norberto unloads a torrent of instructions, but Tadeo isn’t listening. He knows much more about fighting than any of us, and he’s got the guy figured out. When the bell rings for round 2, I grab him by the arm and yell into his ear, “Take him in this round and there’s an extra two thousand bucks.” This, Tadeo hears.

  The Jackal lost the first round, so, like many fighters, he starts pressing in the second round. He wants to get inside, to get his wiry arms fixed into some manner of vile death grip, but Tadeo reads him perfectly. Thirty seconds in, Tadeo does a classic left-right-left combo and knocks his opponent squarely onto his butt. Tadeo then makes a common mistake as he attempts to launch himself like an idiot onto the Jackal, much like a manic dive-bomber lunging for the kill. The Jackal manages to kick with his right foot, a brutal blow that hits Tadeo just above the crotch. He stays on his feet as the Jackal scrambles to his, and for a second or two neither man pushes the action. They finally shake it off and begin circling. Tadeo finds his boxer’s rhythm and begins peppering the Jackal with unanswered jabs. He opens a cut