Read Online Against the Wind by J. F. Freedman - Free Book Online

Robertson.” He listens a moment. “Fine.” He hangs up. “Your clients are across the street.” Meaning back in jail.
    “Are they under arrest?”
    “Let’s say they’re under suspicion.”
    “What for?”
    “Aggravated murder and kidnapping.”
    We both know what’s left unsaid: aggravated murder and kidnapping in this state carry the death penalty.
    MY CLIENTS ARE OUTRAGED and they’re not in the least bit trying to hide it. They haven’t been processed yet; it’s been less than thirty-six hours and they’re sitting across the jailhouse table from me again, this time dressed in their colors, which makes them especially fearsome. Lone Wolf leans towards me, his heavily-muscled arms crossed on the table. They’re covered with tattoos, elaborate snakes and hawks and hearts and daggers and blood and roses, all intertwined, a living populist art museum.
    “What in the fuck is going on here?” That soft, whispery voice of Lone Wolf’s is ghost-like, in stark contrast to the gut-level savageness he physically projects.
    “What kind of bullshit lawyer are you, Alexander?” he continues. The threat is palpable, I can feel its pulse: you took our money, you told us you were going to solve the problem. Now we’re back in here.
    “You called me, ace, remember?” Fuck them, if they want another lawyer let them get one. I’ve got enough aggravation that I’ve got to take, the surplus I can do without.
    He stares at me. They’re not used to being called out.
    “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” he says. That sly grin peers out from behind his three-day growth. “We know you’re the best.” He leans back, withdrawing the menace. “Just tell us what’s going on.”
    “What’ve they told you?”
    “They didn’t tell us jackshit. They paraded in where we were eating, picked us up, told us if we didn’t voluntarily come in for more questioning they’d revoke our bond. Didn’t leave us much choice.”
    “Made a big goddam scene about it,” a second one chimes in. His nom de guerre is Roach, he looks like Mick Jagger with a wine-colored birthmark the shape of Florida running up the right side of his neck to his eyebrow. “Scared the shit out of the civilians,” he adds, grinning. He also sports a star sapphire filling on his left eyetooth.
    “They didn’t even let us finish our dinner,” the third one, aka Dutchboy, says. He’s huge, the baby of the group. Red hair in a bowl-cut and freckles: Huck Finn in your worst nightmare. “I’m still so hungry I could eat a virgin.”
    They laugh; I smile along despite myself. Maybe it’s because I share their sentiments that they’re getting screwed.
    “There’re your basic vending machines in the cellblock,” I tell them. “They’ll have to do ’till breakfast.”
    Their faces cloud. This isn’t going to be easy, but easy’s no longer an option.
    “There was a murder in the mountains north of here a few days ago,” I say. “They found the body yesterday.” I pause; there’s no reaction. That’s good.
    “They’re holding you for it.” No point in pussyfooting around.
    They stare at me, almost a classic group double-take.
    “No fucking way.”
    “You didn’t do it.”
    “This is getting old, man.”
    “I had to ask. I told you that. I always have to ask.”
    “Okay. I hear you.” Lone Wolf’s calmer now, an act of will. “We didn’t do it, we don’t know anything about it. That is the truth, man, I swear to God.” He’s staring at me; they’re all staring at me, they don’t blink.
    I look back at them. Not with as much intensity; you have to be somewhat crazy to have that kind of intensity. These men have it in spades. I don’t; I’m glad of that. I can feel the cherries, lemons, grapes, bells tumbling around in my head, the kind of internal slot-machine that plays inside a lawyer’s consciousness that comes together and tells him whether his clients are bullshitting him or being straight. There’s no immediate