newspaper and TV stations for several days before the press lost interest. Beyond that anonymous letter, Dowd said, his client had no real evidence tying Greg Castle to Ruth Walker’s murder, nor for his assertion that Castle had fathered Ruth’s baby. The condemned man was merely grasping at straws, hoping to forestall his execution.
“I petitioned for a retrial,” Dowd said. “I argued that the letter introduced sufficient reasonable doubt. My motion, however, was denied. The Ninth Circuit held that the evidence presented by the prosecution was, and I quote, ‘Overwhelming and irrefutable.’ ”
“Sounds like you weren’t able to mount much of a defense.”
Dowd’s mood turned on a dime. “I’m a damn fine lawyer, Mr. Logan. Or perhaps you think people of color got no business in a court of law except wearing ’cuffs and a jumpsuit.”
“I don’t see color, Mr. Dowd. I only see good or bad. I meant no offense.”
“Well, I am offended. I’ve been practicing law in this city for more than twenty-five years, and I don’t much appreciate some flight instructor coming in here, questioning my legal skills.” He snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his scuffed black wing tip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting upcoming with my investigator on another matter.”
I stood. “What was the evidence against Dorian Munz that was so ‘overwhelming and irrefutable’?”
“You’ll find the entire case file over at the clerk of the court. You can read to your heart’s content.” Dowd picked up his phone and waited for me to leave. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Fly safe, Mr. Logan.”
What can I say? Some of us have a knack for offending others without even trying. Call it a gift. I thanked the attorney for his time and turned to go.
Standing in the doorway, blocking my way, was a towering, well-built man with mocha-colored skin. Except for his ears, which were abnormally large for his head, he reminded me of a Doberman pinscher. Same sinewy frame. Same darkly menacing features. His untucked, green silk camp shirt bulged subtly at the right hip of his baggy jean, where his concealed pistol rode in a pancake holster. I made him for Dowd’s aforesaid investigator.
“Who’s this?” he asked Dowd while gazing at me hard.
“This is Mr. Logan. He’s looking into the Munz case ex post facto.”
“Looking into the case for who?”
“The father of the victim. I believe Mr. Logan was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Logan?”
“Surf’s up,” I said to the Doberman. “Wouldn’t want to keep Frankie and Annette waiting.”
His eyes held steady on mine. In a previous life, I can only assume we must’ve crossed swords. Whatever the instinct, it was clear that his dislike of me was as instantaneous as mine was of him. At six-foot-four and 220, he had a good three inches and what looked to be about thirty pounds of steroid-fortified flank steak on me. Ah, but what I gave away in height and weight, I more than made up for in wisdom-rich years. Which is to say that if push came to shove, I was likely going to get my sage, unarmed ass stomped—not without getting in a few good thumps of my own, mind you, but stomped regardless.
“Who’s Frankie and Annette?” He had a grating, raspy voice.
“Original Mouseketeers,” I said. “Annette went on to have a very successful career as a professional virgin.”
The human Doberman smiled frigidly. His teeth looked like something unearthed by a paleontologist. “You’re a regular comedian,” he said.
“My ex-wife would beg to differ.”
“Let him pass, Bunny,” Dowd said sternly.
Bunny? Who names a Doberman pinscher “Bunny”? I wanted to say something snide, but held my fire.
Grudgingly, Bunny stepped aside. “See you around, funny man.”
“Not unless I see you first.”
The receptionist winked at me as I walked out.
I might’ve blushed if only I could’ve remembered how.
T HE CLERK ’ S office of the U.S.
“I petitioned for a retrial,” Dowd said. “I argued that the letter introduced sufficient reasonable doubt. My motion, however, was denied. The Ninth Circuit held that the evidence presented by the prosecution was, and I quote, ‘Overwhelming and irrefutable.’ ”
“Sounds like you weren’t able to mount much of a defense.”
Dowd’s mood turned on a dime. “I’m a damn fine lawyer, Mr. Logan. Or perhaps you think people of color got no business in a court of law except wearing ’cuffs and a jumpsuit.”
“I don’t see color, Mr. Dowd. I only see good or bad. I meant no offense.”
“Well, I am offended. I’ve been practicing law in this city for more than twenty-five years, and I don’t much appreciate some flight instructor coming in here, questioning my legal skills.” He snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his scuffed black wing tip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting upcoming with my investigator on another matter.”
I stood. “What was the evidence against Dorian Munz that was so ‘overwhelming and irrefutable’?”
“You’ll find the entire case file over at the clerk of the court. You can read to your heart’s content.” Dowd picked up his phone and waited for me to leave. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Fly safe, Mr. Logan.”
What can I say? Some of us have a knack for offending others without even trying. Call it a gift. I thanked the attorney for his time and turned to go.
Standing in the doorway, blocking my way, was a towering, well-built man with mocha-colored skin. Except for his ears, which were abnormally large for his head, he reminded me of a Doberman pinscher. Same sinewy frame. Same darkly menacing features. His untucked, green silk camp shirt bulged subtly at the right hip of his baggy jean, where his concealed pistol rode in a pancake holster. I made him for Dowd’s aforesaid investigator.
“Who’s this?” he asked Dowd while gazing at me hard.
“This is Mr. Logan. He’s looking into the Munz case ex post facto.”
“Looking into the case for who?”
“The father of the victim. I believe Mr. Logan was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Logan?”
“Surf’s up,” I said to the Doberman. “Wouldn’t want to keep Frankie and Annette waiting.”
His eyes held steady on mine. In a previous life, I can only assume we must’ve crossed swords. Whatever the instinct, it was clear that his dislike of me was as instantaneous as mine was of him. At six-foot-four and 220, he had a good three inches and what looked to be about thirty pounds of steroid-fortified flank steak on me. Ah, but what I gave away in height and weight, I more than made up for in wisdom-rich years. Which is to say that if push came to shove, I was likely going to get my sage, unarmed ass stomped—not without getting in a few good thumps of my own, mind you, but stomped regardless.
“Who’s Frankie and Annette?” He had a grating, raspy voice.
“Original Mouseketeers,” I said. “Annette went on to have a very successful career as a professional virgin.”
The human Doberman smiled frigidly. His teeth looked like something unearthed by a paleontologist. “You’re a regular comedian,” he said.
“My ex-wife would beg to differ.”
“Let him pass, Bunny,” Dowd said sternly.
Bunny? Who names a Doberman pinscher “Bunny”? I wanted to say something snide, but held my fire.
Grudgingly, Bunny stepped aside. “See you around, funny man.”
“Not unless I see you first.”
The receptionist winked at me as I walked out.
I might’ve blushed if only I could’ve remembered how.
T HE CLERK ’ S office of the U.S.
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