Chapter 11: First Mover - Lucidity

“I CAN’T DO THIS,” MORTON WHISPERED.

“Sure you can,” Fremmer said. “You have to.”

Morton had just gotten off the phone with Ronald and they were still standing in the waiting room of the police station. Now Morton was visibly upset.

“I don’t think you understand something, Max,” he said, loosely covering his mouth with his right hand to muffle his voice. “I have two kids. I have an ex-wife. I have to pay child support. And if I don’t pay it, I become a deadbeat dad. I don’t want to become a deadbeat dad. So, you know what that means?”

“I do,” Fremmer replied, also covering his mouth.

They looked like a pitcher and catcher conversing on the mound, hiding their lip movements with their gloves, except they had no gloves, just hands.

“That means I have to make money,” Morton said. “And in order to make money, I need clients who have money and are actually willing to pay me with money. The guy in there has no money and has no ability to pay me. And that is why he will get a fine public defender to defend him. I can’t afford to do pro-bono work. Is that clear?”

“We’re going to do this,” Fremmer said. “Just hear me out.”

“We? How did this become we?”

“I’m going to help you. I may not be a practicing lawyer, but I passed the bar in New York and I’ve kept up the CLE requirements and paid my bar dues every year. I’m fully accredited.”

“OK, now I get it,” Morton said. “This is really about you. You want to defend this guy. Well, you go right ahead.”

“You know I can’t do that. But I can help. And I can get you money.”

That got Morton’s attention.

“How are you going to do that?” he asked.

“I’ll get it. Trust me. This is going to be good for you.”

“You have no idea what’s involved in a case like this, Max. The time. The cost. We’d have to hire expert witnesses to evaluate him. I’ve never done an insanity defense.”

“So you’re going to spend your whole life doing divorces, DUIs, and defending assorted other petty criminals?”

“You’re one to talk. If we’re talking barrel scrapings, I think you’re the low man on the board. You make a living gussying up people’s dreck and publishing it. I got news for you, it’s still dreck.”

“I’m more partial to drivel,” Fremmer said. “But I like your use of ‘gussy up.’ It’s an underused verb slash preposition.”

“I’m serious, Max. I don’t want to represent this guy.”

“Yes, you do. I told you, he didn’t do it.”

“Come on. Stop it.”

“Just think about this for a minute. My client told me she knew something real bad about someone and she feared for her safety. I didn’t believe her at the time, but the fact is that’s what she told me. And then a couple weeks later she gets pushed in front of a car by a homeless guy. Really? Does that make sense to you?”

“Coincidence,” Morton said. “Negative attitude. People bring bad things upon themselves.”

Fremmer cocked his head a little to the left, made a face.

“I’m telling you there’s something very strange going on here,” he went on. “You need to be a first mover on this. You need to get in there and help this guy. This is how you make a name for yourself. You get in front of the cameras, get some press. Yeah, I understand the concept of building a reputation gradually and with care. But you’re what, forty-five, forty-six—”

“I just turned forty,” Morton said.

“Well, you look like shit.”

“I just went through a divorce.”

“The client I met with a few hours ago did, too. And look at him. He wrote a novel. Just banged it out, the novel he’s always wanted to write. Now it’s your turn. This is your novel, Carlos. This is your game changer.”

Morton pondered all that for a moment.

“They’ll deny him bail,” he said, thinking aloud. “Probably take him downtown. The Tombs.”

“Well, you gotta get in there now and introduce yourself. He needs to see a face. Even if it’s for a minute. I’ll wait for you outside. I’m going to sell some books.”

“Sell some books?” Morton said, suddenly alarmed.

“I gotta speak to the media. I’ve gotta let them know about Candace’s books and frame them correctly. It’s going to get out there eventually. We might as well own it.”

“Do not do that, Max. As your counselor, I advise you not to speak to the press.”

“I have to. Not for me. But for her kid. She’s gonna need the money.”

“That’s a really bad idea. Now’s the time to protect their privacy.”

Just then a police official dressed in plainclothes, a community affairs officer, approached them. They were clearing the waiting room.

“Sir, I need you to leave,” he said to Morton.

“I can’t leave,” Morton declared. “You’re holding my client.”

“Who’s your client?” the officer asked.

“The guy everybody’s outside for. Ronald Darby. I need to speak with him now. He’s entitled to see his attorney.”

“I thought you were his attorney,” he said, motioning to Fremmer.

“I was. Now I’m Mr. Darby’s. I spoke to him on the phone a few minutes ago. Go ask him. Morton’s my name. Carlos Morton.”

The officer clearly wasn’t sold on Morton’s story, but he also wasn’t ready to dismiss it. In the end, he settled for removing just Fremmer, who gathered up his scooter and backpack and headed for the exit.

“Don’t do it, Max,” Morton said as he left.

“Thanks again for coming,” Fremmer replied without looking back. “Despite what your ex-wife said in that deposition, you’re a good man. Text me after you get out.”