Read Online Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clifford Irving
Tags: Fiction, General, LEGAL, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense
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look at. So… I'm not saying it's true or not, but here's this Indian woman who's going to get on the witness stand and point a finger in your face and state that she saw you running away from the scene of the crime. And the HPD ballistics expert is going to say that the gun you had in your hand an hour after the murder was the gun that killed this Vietnamese man. That's bad, very bad. Do you see all that, Hector?"
Quintana nodded gravely.
"Now, what have I, as your defense lawyer, got to tell the jury? I can't tell them you were somewhere else when the murder was committed, because I can't produce a single live body who can verify it. I can't say you're a peace-loving citizen, because in the first place you're not a citizen, which is neither here nor there, but in the second place you were caught robbing a convenience store with a gun. Not a peace-loving act. You were drunk, but that won't help you. Hector, what I'm trying to tell you is — you are in deep shit.
Mierda profunda,"
he added, translating literally.
This was usually the moment when the defendant lowered his head, gripped the metal mesh until his knuckles turned white, and then said, with immense and bitter effort — because the world was pressing in on him and he finally understood the terrifying price he had to pay for his sins and no doubt his stupidity — "What can you do for me if I plead guilty?"
That Hector Quintana was guilty of murdering Dan Ho Trunh, Warren had almost no doubt. The qualifier was there not only because he liked Quintana — he was all too wary now of the consequences that might arise from liking a client — but because he thought he saw in the man's face a kind of peaceable gravity he had seen on the faces of many poor men in Mexico. Men who might get pissy-eyed drunk on Saturday night and lie down in the cobbled streets and bay at the moon, but not men who would kill unless they were seriously insulted or had a vision that some fool was making a public pass at their woman. No psychotic Mexican climbed to the top of a university tower with a high-powered rifle and sprayed random bullets. None butchered his wife and children and then slit his own throat. There were plenty of murders down there in the drug trade, but usually if men robbed you it was because they were poor — they took your money and split to go home to their Rosa or Carmencita or get drunk with their compañeros. The conquistadors and then the hacienda owners had whipped most of them into a state of subservience. Machismo, which they'd lapped up with their mother's milk, didn't equate with violence.
But there must be exceptions, Warren thought, and maybe Quintana was one of them. The evidence certainly suggested it. As a lawyer, and with the best interests of his client in mind, Warren had to deal with the evidence.
He had one more idea, sprung from his thoughts about the men he had sometimes seen sprawled in the early hours of Sunday morning outside the
cantinas
of San Miguel de Allende.
"Hector, I know that when men get drunk they do things they wouldn't do otherwise. They get crazy. I'm not saying it's true, but maybe you bumped into this Vietnamese guy in that parking lot. Maybe he was a stupid son of a bitch, and he insulted you — said something nasty to you about your being a Mexican, a wetback. Is that possible?" Warren felt his cheeks warm up with enthusiasm. "If it is, then I can get up there and explain a lot of things to the judge" — a picture of Lou Parker on the bench popped into his mind, and quickly he amended that — "or to the jury, because if we plead guilty we have the right to ask for a jury to do the sentencing. And if you're straight with me, and I'm straight with them, the jury will understand why what happened happened ..." Realizing that his client was barely listening, he shrugged. "… if it happened."
Quintana said in his soft voice, "There will be a trial?"
Warren ground his teeth. This was some stubborn bastard.
"There can
Quintana nodded gravely.
"Now, what have I, as your defense lawyer, got to tell the jury? I can't tell them you were somewhere else when the murder was committed, because I can't produce a single live body who can verify it. I can't say you're a peace-loving citizen, because in the first place you're not a citizen, which is neither here nor there, but in the second place you were caught robbing a convenience store with a gun. Not a peace-loving act. You were drunk, but that won't help you. Hector, what I'm trying to tell you is — you are in deep shit.
Mierda profunda,"
he added, translating literally.
This was usually the moment when the defendant lowered his head, gripped the metal mesh until his knuckles turned white, and then said, with immense and bitter effort — because the world was pressing in on him and he finally understood the terrifying price he had to pay for his sins and no doubt his stupidity — "What can you do for me if I plead guilty?"
That Hector Quintana was guilty of murdering Dan Ho Trunh, Warren had almost no doubt. The qualifier was there not only because he liked Quintana — he was all too wary now of the consequences that might arise from liking a client — but because he thought he saw in the man's face a kind of peaceable gravity he had seen on the faces of many poor men in Mexico. Men who might get pissy-eyed drunk on Saturday night and lie down in the cobbled streets and bay at the moon, but not men who would kill unless they were seriously insulted or had a vision that some fool was making a public pass at their woman. No psychotic Mexican climbed to the top of a university tower with a high-powered rifle and sprayed random bullets. None butchered his wife and children and then slit his own throat. There were plenty of murders down there in the drug trade, but usually if men robbed you it was because they were poor — they took your money and split to go home to their Rosa or Carmencita or get drunk with their compañeros. The conquistadors and then the hacienda owners had whipped most of them into a state of subservience. Machismo, which they'd lapped up with their mother's milk, didn't equate with violence.
But there must be exceptions, Warren thought, and maybe Quintana was one of them. The evidence certainly suggested it. As a lawyer, and with the best interests of his client in mind, Warren had to deal with the evidence.
He had one more idea, sprung from his thoughts about the men he had sometimes seen sprawled in the early hours of Sunday morning outside the
cantinas
of San Miguel de Allende.
"Hector, I know that when men get drunk they do things they wouldn't do otherwise. They get crazy. I'm not saying it's true, but maybe you bumped into this Vietnamese guy in that parking lot. Maybe he was a stupid son of a bitch, and he insulted you — said something nasty to you about your being a Mexican, a wetback. Is that possible?" Warren felt his cheeks warm up with enthusiasm. "If it is, then I can get up there and explain a lot of things to the judge" — a picture of Lou Parker on the bench popped into his mind, and quickly he amended that — "or to the jury, because if we plead guilty we have the right to ask for a jury to do the sentencing. And if you're straight with me, and I'm straight with them, the jury will understand why what happened happened ..." Realizing that his client was barely listening, he shrugged. "… if it happened."
Quintana said in his soft voice, "There will be a trial?"
Warren ground his teeth. This was some stubborn bastard.
"There can
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