Five Uneasy Pieces

I went through the documentation. Along with what Shanae had given me, I found court filings, DSS forms and other paperwork related to her rehab, Tina’s temporary placement with her father and the subsequent custody proceeding. I indicated what I wanted copied, and Martinez stepped out with the file a moment to find a secretary to handle it.

“Thanks,” I said, upon her return. “So what was your point in bringing all this up?”

“Tina’s had it rough. A mostly absent father. A mother with problems of her own.” Martinez rounded her desk and sat. “She’s reached an age where she’s starting to act out. What she does now could mean the difference between staying straight and going off the rails. This first offense could be a warning.”

“So what’s the bottom line?”

“This is her first offense.” Martinez toyed with the bent corner of another file, smoothing it with her thumb. “But given the violent nature of the crime and her personal history, I don’t want her to get off with a mere slap on the wrist. I’m asking for six months detention, counseling and restitution for the victim’s medical bills.”

I stared at her. “Detention? You’re kidding, rig

ht?”

Martinez shook her head. “I think Tina needs some time in a structured environment. If she’s good, they’ll probably allow weekend visits with mom.”

“Look, I know I haven’t handled a lot of juvenile cases, but I’ve done criminal work. I can think of adults with priors who’ve pled for better deals than this. What about community service?”

Martinez tucked a stray wisp of dark hair behind her ear and leaned forward. “Juvenile crime is a growing problem in this county,” she droned, as if narrating a documentary. “Especially among girls. And this wasn’t a minor crime. An elderly woman was hurt. Tina and others like her need to understand there are serious consequences for that.” She settled back in her chair and resumed rocking. That simple action irritated me. “Besides,” she said. “I think this incident is more than a fluke. I think it’s a cry for help.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But to lock her up? The punishment seems out of proportion to the crime. Would you settle for fifty hours of community service and court-ordered counseling?”

Martinez crossed her legs, giving me that look of smug assuredness that came from knowing the juvenile master would take her word as gospel and I was just another defense attorney. Scum.

“This isn’t negotiable,” she said. “If you don’t like it, you can always make your pitch to Master Cain.”

“You can bet on it,” I said. “I trust Cain isn’t going to add to the overcrowding at detention centers by locking up a kid on a first offense, just because she’s suffered a few hard knocks. Or comes from the wrong neighborhood.”

It was Martinez’s turn to frown. “This has nothing to do with Tina’s neighborhood.”

“No, of course not. Or her race either, I’m sure.” I leaned forward and Martinez stopped rocking. A minor victory. “Just tell me, when was the last time you sent a white, middle-class kid off to juvie jail for a purse-snatching and a first offense at that? Has it ever happened?”

Martinez said nothing. Her assistant came in and handed Martinez the file and the copies. Martinez gave the copies to me.

“I guess that about wraps it up,” she said.

She gave me a prim nod and we both rose and shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

Yeah, right, I thought. I felt blindsided by what Martinez had told me, but it was the kind of thing that would have come out sooner or later. Better to learn it now than the hard way later.

What I didn’t realize was how many more surprises Tina’s case had in store for me.

CHAPTER THREE

I spent a leisurely hour or so in court, watching skittish defendants run through countless guilty plea litanies. Waiting for my client’s case to be called gave him plenty of time to learn his lines. He pled to reckless endangerment after being charged with assault. He had drug-related priors too. The assistant state’s attorney must have felt generous when we worked out the deal, because he sought only probation before judgment and community service. When did prosecutors start being so nice?

Faint anxiety distracted me. I wondered if my erstwhile affair with one of the State’s Attorney’s most senior prosecutors had leaked out. Could it be that other ASAs were treating me with kid gloves because of that? Didn’t seem likely.

My decision to break off the affair with the very-married Ray Mardovich hadn’t been easy. And I felt wary whenever I went to court. I’d catch myself looking for Ray and hoping I wouldn’t see him (while part of me still hoped I would).

My client went through the guilty plea motions with admirable poise. As I gathered my things and turned to leave, I thought I saw the ASA wink at me as the bailiff called the next case. Could have been my imagination or something in his eye. Paranoid thoughts of my relationship with Ray leaking out plagued me again. If there had been a leak, I hoped the prosecutor wasn’t hoping for an encore. Good plea bargains in exchange for good head? What a comforting thought.

If this prosecutor was seeking anything more than professional courtesy, he was wasting his time. My episode with Ray had taught me not to shit where you eat.

As I weaved my way through the courthouse crowd—the usual downtrodden lot in shiny, off-the-rack suits reserved for weddings and funerals—I saw ASA Kaitlyn Farrell approaching, balancing a stack of files. Kait’s one of the good ones—always deals fair and square—and a great source of inside information. I flagged her down and drew her aside for some quick face time.

“Sam!” she said. “You’re not here to see me, are you?”

“Naw. Nothing in your league. A juvenile matter and an assault.” Kait’s forte was major weapons charges. In Prince George’s County, enough gun and drug cases rolled through the system to support a whole unit. “But I’m heading out to meet Walt Shapiro on an interesting case.”