lawbooks and from the cant of sterilized language and practice. The prosecutors were offensive linemen—neat and efficient. They were an orderly phalanx, a disciplined picket line that always deployed in perfect five-meter spreads. In the stylized warfare of the courtroom, the defense lawyers were the guerrillas, the Vietcong.
But in all truth, this business of criminal justice was nothing like the infantry or football. Jesse shook his head without knowing it. He had been shaking his head in disgust for almost fifteen years. Somehow the action comforted him, freed him in some small measure from the war that haunted him. In the morning, after a bout with his nightmares of Vietnam, he would rise from bed shaking his head in sorrow.
Here, in the House of Toast, after a morning in court, he would shake his head in disgust. In this business, even the third- and fourth-stringers played. They were everywhere, maneuvering themselves to get the prettiest law clerk or the next judicial appointment. They had become public defender supervisors without caseloads. They had battered their clients into plea bargains. They had evolved into pipe-smoking elder-statesmen attorneys merely by their presence in the hallways for a decade or so. The Mexicans called such lawyers cagatintas, ink shitters. In the Hall of Justice, there were cagatintas everywhere.
Jesse shook his head once more. This army was top-heavy with deskbound colonels jockeying for judgeships. In this business, it was easy to hide. Beads of sweat began to form on Jesse’s brow as familiar feelings of anger rose up once again. His anger at the cagatintas was becoming muddled, confused with the horrid dreams that had wakened him so early this morning. He took a deep breath to calm himself. His internal heat began to subside only when he looked around the table and reminded himself that he was surrounded by grunts, people whose asses were still in the high grasses. There were no cagatintas here.
Jesse unclenched his fists and closed his eyes to help release the anger. The Veterans’ Administration psychologists had taught him how to distract himself with unrelated thoughts whenever the pangs came.
“Or perhaps,” said Jesse, as his thoughts returned to the circle of defense lawyers, “you want to hear about el Medico Largo, the famous Dr. Long? Remember him? He called himself ‘El Pitón,’ but his favorite alias was Felix Meterpalo.”
Only the Spanish speakers laughed at his puns.
“He was the phony sex therapist who was charged with about thirty counts of rape a couple of years back? He treated sexual dysfunction in older women by administering his now infamous ‘hot beef injections.’ The DA’s problem was that every one of those acts was completely consensual.”
“I remember that one,” said Matt excitedly. “He was a dapper little Mexican guy who wore a toupee and always dressed in a shabby white tuxedo. I was there for the preliminary hearing. I swear, it looked like a goddamn beauty shop in the courtroom with all of that blue hair and rouge, and it smelled like the perfume counter at a drugstore. I seem to recall that not one single victim testified against him.”
“Not a soul,” smiled Jesse. “They all steadfastly refused, and good Judge Moscone wasn’t about to issue a contempt citation to witnesses who looked just like his own dear mother. None of the alleged victims wanted their money back either. El Medico Largo kept saying all along that no one would press charges. After his case was dismissed, Dr. Long left with two of the victims—two widows, twin sisters, I believe. They all climbed into a white Bentley limousine and disappeared toward Daly City. I think he was driving.”
Jesse laughed at his own private joke. In Spanish the verb “to drive,” manejar, can also mean “to screw.”
“Why wasn’t it a hot chorizo injection?” asked Newton.
Jesse grinned. “If he had been Chinese he would have called himself Dr.
But in all truth, this business of criminal justice was nothing like the infantry or football. Jesse shook his head without knowing it. He had been shaking his head in disgust for almost fifteen years. Somehow the action comforted him, freed him in some small measure from the war that haunted him. In the morning, after a bout with his nightmares of Vietnam, he would rise from bed shaking his head in sorrow.
Here, in the House of Toast, after a morning in court, he would shake his head in disgust. In this business, even the third- and fourth-stringers played. They were everywhere, maneuvering themselves to get the prettiest law clerk or the next judicial appointment. They had become public defender supervisors without caseloads. They had battered their clients into plea bargains. They had evolved into pipe-smoking elder-statesmen attorneys merely by their presence in the hallways for a decade or so. The Mexicans called such lawyers cagatintas, ink shitters. In the Hall of Justice, there were cagatintas everywhere.
Jesse shook his head once more. This army was top-heavy with deskbound colonels jockeying for judgeships. In this business, it was easy to hide. Beads of sweat began to form on Jesse’s brow as familiar feelings of anger rose up once again. His anger at the cagatintas was becoming muddled, confused with the horrid dreams that had wakened him so early this morning. He took a deep breath to calm himself. His internal heat began to subside only when he looked around the table and reminded himself that he was surrounded by grunts, people whose asses were still in the high grasses. There were no cagatintas here.
Jesse unclenched his fists and closed his eyes to help release the anger. The Veterans’ Administration psychologists had taught him how to distract himself with unrelated thoughts whenever the pangs came.
“Or perhaps,” said Jesse, as his thoughts returned to the circle of defense lawyers, “you want to hear about el Medico Largo, the famous Dr. Long? Remember him? He called himself ‘El Pitón,’ but his favorite alias was Felix Meterpalo.”
Only the Spanish speakers laughed at his puns.
“He was the phony sex therapist who was charged with about thirty counts of rape a couple of years back? He treated sexual dysfunction in older women by administering his now infamous ‘hot beef injections.’ The DA’s problem was that every one of those acts was completely consensual.”
“I remember that one,” said Matt excitedly. “He was a dapper little Mexican guy who wore a toupee and always dressed in a shabby white tuxedo. I was there for the preliminary hearing. I swear, it looked like a goddamn beauty shop in the courtroom with all of that blue hair and rouge, and it smelled like the perfume counter at a drugstore. I seem to recall that not one single victim testified against him.”
“Not a soul,” smiled Jesse. “They all steadfastly refused, and good Judge Moscone wasn’t about to issue a contempt citation to witnesses who looked just like his own dear mother. None of the alleged victims wanted their money back either. El Medico Largo kept saying all along that no one would press charges. After his case was dismissed, Dr. Long left with two of the victims—two widows, twin sisters, I believe. They all climbed into a white Bentley limousine and disappeared toward Daly City. I think he was driving.”
Jesse laughed at his own private joke. In Spanish the verb “to drive,” manejar, can also mean “to screw.”
“Why wasn’t it a hot chorizo injection?” asked Newton.
Jesse grinned. “If he had been Chinese he would have called himself Dr.
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