Read Online Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness by Joel Goldman - Free Book Online Page A

Her bleached blond hair was pulled back tight enough to raise her chin to her lower lip, freezing her mouth in a scowl, though she might have just made an awful face as a child and it froze that way.
    According to the tag on her blouse, her name was Margaret. He rejected the likelihood of a conspiracy by the World Federation of Margarets to make his life miserable but clenched his smart-ass impulse just in case.
    “Good morning,” he told Margaret. “I’m Lou Mason and I’m here to see my client, Wilson Bluestone.”
    He handed her his driver’s license, his Missouri Bar Association membership card, and one of his business cards.
    Margaret scanned Mason’s card collection like a bouncer checking for fake IDs. “You didn’t sign the back of your bar card. I can’t accept it without a signature,” she said, handing the bar card back to Mason.
    Mason felt the first wave of intemperance ripple through his back and neck. He resisted the urge to vault the counter separating them and smiled instead.
    “Of course. Sorry about that,” he said as he signed his name and handed the card back to her.
    Margaret held the bar card alongside Mason’s driver’s license, comparing the two signatures like a Treasury agent looking for counterfeit twenties.
    “Bar card is expired. Can’t take an expired bar card. You should have paid your dues.”
    She handed the bar card back to Mason. He gripped the counter with both hands to keep them from her throat and decided to appeal to her sense of reason.
    “Margaret, consider what you’re saying. The bar card only means that I’m a member of the Missouri bar. It’s a form of identification. There’s nothing in the law that requires me to belong to the bar association or even be a lawyer to visit an inmate. Now, it happens that I am a lawyer and I have a client who’s locked in a cell upstairs who is entitled to the effective representation of his chosen counsel. If he’s deprived of that representation because you won’t let me see him, the judge will have to dismiss the charges. My client happens to have been charged with murder, which most people think is a pretty serious deal. So why don’t you call the prosecuting attorney and tell him that his case is going to get dismissed because you, Margaret, are refusing to let me see my client because my bar card has expired?”
    “Jeez. Are you a tight-ass or what? I’m just doing my job here. Pay your damn dues like everybody else.”
    “Trust me, Margaret. I’ve paid my dues. Now, open up.”
    Mason passed through a series of security checks that fell one pat down short of a body-cavity search and was ushered into a cramped room divided by a narrow countertop that served as a table. A reinforced double pane of glass cut the room completely in two. A circular metal screen was mounted in the glass, which allowed conversation to be heard on both sides.
    Mason stood, pacing in the small room until Blues entered through a door on the inmates’ side. They looked at each other for a full minute. Mason saw a defiant man, ramrod straight, ragged coal black hair hanging over his tawny brow, piercing eyes searching Mason for good news. Blues touched his closed fist to the glass, holding it there, Mason returning the gesture.
    “They’re going to offer you a deal.”
    “I won’t take it.”
    “I know that.”
    “How do you know they’re going to offer me a deal?”
    Mason couldn’t tell Blues what had happened in the parking lot. If Blues knew that taking a deal would protect Mason, he might agree. Mason assumed that whoever had sent him the message was counting on his relationship with Blues as one more source of pressure that would bring this case to a quick conclusion.
    “Patrick Ortiz invited me to his office to talk about it. I turned down the invitation. Are you ready to ride this thing out?”
    “All the way. I’m innocent and I’m not going to let somebody railroad me. Besides, no matter how many of them there are, you