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  “Virginia Darling,” she said with a nod. “I’m surprised someone from McHale, Parrish is even bothering with this case. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  “Just looking for some practical experience,” I replied with a shrug.

  She studied me more closely for a moment, then turned to one of the other attorneys as the prisoners were marched in for the morning session. I spotted Lamon right away as he looked nervously around the courtroom. He spotted me, tried to wave, and then remembered his hands were still cuffed to his waist.

  The judge arrived a few minutes later and the court settled into its regular routine. Most cases were dealt with quickly, with barely more than a few words being uttered by any of the parties involved. I waited in the benches until Lamon’s case was called. I swapped places with the previous defense attorney while Darling took her place at the prosecution’s table.

  “Assaulting a police officer,” the judge read aloud as he looked over the file. “Plea?”

  “No plea, your honor,” I replied. “We’re asking that the charges be dismissed.”

  The judge, a black man in his sixties with a shaved head and a pair of thick glasses perched on the end of his nose, looked up in surprise. It was the first unexpected moment in the day so far, and I couldn’t decide if he looked interested or put out.

  “Dismissed,” the judge repeated as he looked towards the prosecutor.

  “Your Honor, there’s no doubt that the defendant assaulted a police officer,” Darling said in an irritated voice. “If he wants to argue that he has a defense to his actions, he can do that in court like anyone else. There’s no need to dismiss the case.”

  “Ran over the officer’s foot,” the judge mused as he glanced at the file again, then back at me. “Seems pretty simple.”

  “Perhaps, Your Honor,” I replied. “But the police failed to follow proper procedures when arresting my client.”

  Darling finally turned to look at me and she looked like she just spotted a snake slithering towards her in the grass.

  “Is that so?” the Judge asked.

  “My client was never informed that he was under arrest, and he wasn’t informed of the charges against him for several hours after he was taken into custody,” I explained. “The Miranda warning wasn’t given until the police informed him that he was being moved to Rikers.”

  “But he was informed of his rights,” Darling snapped. “And clearly he took advantage of his right to an attorney.”

  “The law requires that the defendant be informed of his status, the charges, and his rights within a reasonable time,” I continued.

  “Which happened here,” Darling insisted.

  “Several hours after the alleged incident,” I said. “And, as I stated, no one has ever officially said he was under arrest.”

  “Is this true?” the judge demanded as he looked at Darling.

  “I… I haven’t asked,” Darling replied. “I just assumed… This is the first time anyone has mentioned this to me.”

  “I find it hard to believe that no one bothered to tell this man he was under arrest,” the judge sniffed. “Are any of the officers involved here today?”

  “No,” Darling admitted. “This is just a routine hearing.”

  “We would be happy to hear from them, Your Honor,” I replied. “I understand that both of the officers involved in this are on duty today, including Officer Jenkins.”

  The judge glanced at the file again and then gave me a short grin.

  “Officer Jenkins is back on duty today?” the judge asked.

  “He is, your honor,” I replied as Darling consulted her own copy of the file.

  “We don’t know for a fact that he is,” Darling insisted as she realized who we were talking about.

  The judge studied Lamon for several moments, then turned to eye the prosecuting attorney.

  “Do you really want to go forward with this case?” he asked.

  “Your honor--” Darling began then hesitated.

  “I’m asking because this seems like something that will get kicked out of court before it goes anywhere,” the judge added.

  “The law doesn’t require that the defendant be notified of the charges against him at the time of his arrest, or that he’s even under arrest,” Darling replied as she gathered herself.

  “But it does require that the defendant be notified within a reasonable period of time, as soon as it is practicable,” I pointed out. “My client offered no resistance, not even when he was left sitting in the back of the patrol car for an extended period of time. He was then left alone in a cell for several hours, and was only informed of the charges and his Miranda rights when an officer told him he was being moved to Rikers. Surely, in all that time, there was an opportunity to inform him before that? And, I’ll point out, at no point, between the incident and his arrival in court today, was he ever officially informed that he was under arrest.”

  “Your Honor, we would like to confirm these accusations,” Darling interjected.

  “The defendant doesn’t have any other record,” the judge noted. “Not even another parking ticket.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Darling admitted.

  “There was no malice here,” I said. “My client was attempting to obey an order given by Officer Jenkins. He didn’t realize that the Officer was too close to the car.”

  “This is not Officer Jenkins’ fault,” Darling snapped.

  “It was an accident,” I said. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  “You know the law doesn’t work that way,” the judge snorted. “But you’re right about the notification requirements. I could order your client held over until we sort out what he was told and when.”

  “As you noted, Your Honor,” I replied, “My client is not some hardened criminal. He’s a law abiding citizen who wanted to help out a friend. He made a right turn on a red light, which he admits. He will happily pay the fine for that action. He will not, however, plead to assaulting a police officer.”

  The judge turned to look at the prosecutor, whose cheeks slowly turned red as a stray strand of hair drifted in front of her face. She puffed up her cheeks, but she didn’t respond.

  “I’d take that money if I were you,” the judge said. “I don’t think you want anyone looking too closely at how well procedure was followed here.”

  The prosecutor exhaled noisily which made the stray hair flutter in front of her. She turned to look at me again, and I could see her calculate what her options were.

  “Fine,” Darling agreed in exasperation. “We’ll drop the assault charge and take the penalty for the traffic violation.”

  “Done and done,” the judge declared. “That’s a one hundred and fifty dollar fine. Your client can pay at the clerk’s office on his way out.”

  Lamon, who had sat quietly at the defense table through the entire proceeding, leapt to his feet with a huge smile on his face. He snatched my hand as I returned to the defense table and shook it for several moments. Relief filled his face, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure he would let go of my hand.

  “Next case,” the judge warned.

  “The bailiff will take you in back to undo the cuffs,” I told my client. “I’ll meet you in the hallway in a few minutes, and then we’ll go take care of that fine.”

  Lamon nodded and allowed himself to be led away as the next defendant took a seat at the table.

  “Hey, man, you wanna be my attorney?” a young hispanic man asked. “Mine was an accident, too.”

  “Right, three shots to the chest was an accident,” the defendant’s attorney muttered as he opened his briefcase.

  I slipped away before either man could say anything else. Darling gave me a curt nod as I brushed by her, but her mind was already on the next matter. I pushed through the double doors and stepped into the linoleum lined hallway. Lamon followed a few moments later, his face a study in pure joy.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” he said as he joined me.

 
; “Well, let’s make sure we pay that fine,” I replied as I started to walk back towards the elevator. “The last thing we want is to get on the judge’s bad side by not paying.”

  “Sure, sure,” Lamon said. “They take credit cards, right?”

  “They do,” I agreed.

  We took the elevator back to the ground floor, and made our way into the clerk’s office. Though the New York City legal system was notoriously behind the times in a lot of areas, the one thing they kept up to date on was the collection of fines. Lamon’s deal was already entered into the system by the judge’s clerk by the time we made it to one of the windows, and Lamon happily handed over his Visa card when the woman pulled up his file. A few minutes later, Lamon was officially a free man.

  “I guess I just need to find my car,” Lamon sighed as we stepped back outside.

  “I checked,” I assured him. “It wasn’t towed, so it should still be there.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Morgan,” Lamon replied as he shook my hand again.

  “Mr. Morgan makes me sound like an old man,” I laughed. “Call me Hunter.”

  “Okay, Hunter,” Lamon agreed. “That’s a cool name, Hunter.”

  “There’s a long line of them in my family,” I explained.

  “Cool,” Lamon replied.

  “Well, you have my card, so call me if they give you any more problems over this,” I said.

  “I will,” he assured me.

  We both took off in opposite directions then, with Lamon determined to recover his car and me on my way back to the office. The office was close enough that I could walk, and I strolled along through the pleasant spring weather as I took a moment to enjoy my success.

  The office, like the subway, still plowed along. Noble had arranged his first team meeting, and I spent most of the afternoon in one of the conference rooms with nearly twenty other Parish, McHale attorneys and paralegals. The second request, as Mark had warned, looked daunting, but I also knew that many of the people gathered around the table had the experience to pull this off. It was, as Ovitz had point out, an excellent learning opportunity for me, and I told myself to take advantage of that, even if I didn’t have any interest in remaining in corporate law.

  As I turned my attention to the second request and what I needed to do to help the firm ramp up, I put Anthony Lamon out of my thoughts. Long nights at the office became even longer, and the days were filled with conference calls with the client’s IT department, the company CEO, the temp agencies tasked with finding enough JD’s and paralegals, and even the company that managed our building as we scrambled to find enough space to put everyone.

  It was nearly a week later, with the second request expected to be sent in another day or two, when the phone rang in my office. It was late, and I’d been waiting for the service desk to call with the car for my ride home to Brooklyn, so I didn’t even bother to check the phone number.

  “Morgan,” I said as I looked over another string of emails from our litigation support department.

  “Hey, Mr. Morgan,” a quiet voice said.

  It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t the service desk calling, and another moment to realize that I knew the voice.

  “Anthony?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Lamon agreed. “Um, I need your help again.”

  “Okay,” I said as I sat up straighter in my chair. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve been arrested,” Lamon whispered.

  “Are they trying to charge you with assault again?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Look, I’d rather talk about this in person. It’s too complicated to discuss over the phone.”

  I didn’t say anything right away as I considered the implications of what Anthony Lamon had just told me.

  “Mr. Morgan?” Lamon asked. “I could really use your help again.”

  “Of course,” I replied as I remembered Ovitz’s warning. “Where are you now?”

  “Um, the precinct on Astoria Boulevard,” Lamon said.

  “I know it,” I replied. “I’ll be there soon. Whatever you do, don’t say a word to anybody about anything until I get there. If they ask you anything, or even talk to you at all, just tell them you have an attorney and you won’t speak until you’ve met with me first.”

  “Got it,” Lamon said as he heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Have you talked to anyone yet?” I asked.

  “No,” Lamon replied. “Not really. All I’ve said is that I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “Don’t even say that,” I reprimanded.

  Lamon promised to follow my instructions, then hung up. I called the taxi desk to change the car trip to include a stop at the precinct, then gathered up everything I thought I would need. By the time I had shut down the computer, the woman on duty that night called back with the car number.

  I scrambled to the elevator and waited impatiently for one to arrive. It seemed to take forever for the familiar ding to sound, and I couldn’t understand why the elevator was moving so slowly when the building was mostly empty. At least the ride to the lobby was quick, with only one stop along the way to pick up a hefty man who already had his airpods in his ears.

  I sprinted across the lobby and through the door to the line of cars waiting out front. My driver was just pulling up and I ran towards the car before he had even finished parking.

  “Geez, you’re in a rush,” the driver noted as I yanked the door open. “You Morgan?”

  “I am,” I said as I slid into the back seat. “Did the taxi desk let you know that we’re making a stop along the way?”

  “Sure,” the driver replied as he made a notation on a clipboard. “No skin off my nose if I have to wait. I get paid either way.”

  The drive to Astoria Boulevard was quick though there was still plenty of traffic on the roads. I tried to imagine what Lamon was involved in now and I realized I should have pressed him for more details. But, then again, he may not have had very many of the details himself. What puzzled me was why he was in a Queens precinct. It didn’t seem likely that the cops in the one fourteenth would have heard about Jenkins’ injured foot, much less taken an interest in exacting any sort of revenge on the alleged perpetrator. By the time we pulled up in front of the building, I’d gone through any number of ideas but had to admit I was at a loss.

  “I can’t park here,” the driver said in his nasal voice. “I can find a spot down the road. When you’re ready to leave, call my cell phone, and I’ll come back.”

  With that, he handed me a business card. I accepted the square shaped card with a picture of a stretch party limo, then opened the door and stepped into the street. I darted towards the main doors of a building that could best be described as workmanlike. It was functional and unimposing, and could just have easily been a school, a library, or any other bland government building.

  “Who are you here for?” the woman on the desk asked as she took in my appearance.

  “Pardon?” I asked.

  “You’re somebody’s lawyer,” she replied. “Which one?”

  “Anthony Lamon,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” she sniffed.

  She picked up the phone and called someone in the depths of the building. After a quiet conversation with whoever was on the other end, she hung up and turned her attention back to the various stacks of paper that she was sorting and stapling. I watched this process for several minutes until the door into the back opened and a detective peered around the lobby.

  “You Morgan?” he asked when he realized I was the only one there.

  “I am,” I agreed as I stepped towards him.

  “Come on back,” the detective replied. “Your client won’t say anything until he’s talked to you.”

  “And he shouldn’t,” I pointed out as I slipped past the detective. “Um, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Detective…”

  “Gomez,” the man replied. He was in his forties and had given up on concealing his rapidly recedin
g hairline. He probably carried a few extra pounds as well, but it was hard to tell for sure beneath the shabby suit he wore.

  “Has my client been charged with anything?” I asked as we walked past closed doors and empty offices.

  “Not yet,” Gomez replied as we turned down a small hallway. “But the crime scene unit is still gathering evidence.”

  We stopped in front of a door and Gomez opened it to reveal the standard interrogation room of gray walls, gray table, and uncomfortable chairs. Lamon sat in one of the chairs with a bottled water in front of him. He picked at the label with studied concentration and ignored the other person in the room, a beat cop with a head full of corn rows and skin the color of dark chocolate.

  “His attorney’s here,” Gomez announced as he stepped back so I could enter the room.

  “Good,” the beat cop said as she stood up. “I could use some more coffee.”

  “All recording devices need to be off, and no one is allowed to listen to our conversation,” I reminded the pair as I looked towards the two-way glass.

  “We know the rules,” the woman cop said as she brushed past me. “We’ll be just down the hall in the bullpen when your client wants to talk.”

  I waited until the door had closed before I took the chair that had been vacated by the beat cop. I didn’t say anything at first, just studied the man in front of me. He looked tired, and the dark spots under his eyes looked more like bruises. He wasn’t panicking, though, and he seemed happy enough to see me. He rubbed his eyes, then offered me a muted smile.

  “Bet you didn’t think you’d see me again so soon,” he chuckled.

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t,” I replied. “I mean, you’re a perfectly nice guy, but from a professional standpoint, you calling me is not a good sign.”

  “Man,” he muttered. “This has been the crappiest week of my life. I can’t believe I got pulled in again.”

  “Another traffic violation?” I asked though I knew that whatever they were going to charge him with this time was a great deal more serious than a traffic violation.

  “Traffic violation,” he said. “I wish.”

  “So, tell me what they want to charge you with,” I suggested. “And then you can tell me the rest of the story.”