Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [31]
That had happened once, and it gave Blumberg his big chance to act like a real lawyer. I was hiding a certain gentleman in my old apartment. He told me people were looking for him, but said nothing about those people wearing blue coats and badges instead of business suits. Anyway, while I was out trying to square some other beef, the cops arrived and decided to serve a Smith and Wesson warrant on my premises. They smashed in the door, and Devil met them head on. My client had more than enough time to leave by the back window, and Devil nailed two of the cops before they got smart and retreated until the ASPCA arrived. Those clowns blasted my dog with a load of tranquilizers and carted her off to the pound. By the time I found out what went down, she was already behind bars waiting for adoption or execution, whichever came first. Just like a lot of kids in orphanages.
The ASPCA wouldn’t return her to me at first, saying the Major Case Squad wanted her held for evidence. The jerks—I knew she’d never talk. Anyway, by the time I proved the Doberman was really my dog, they told me she was being held for adoption. I figured they might have been sincere about that, since she was too fine an animal to just stuff into the gas chamber, but I wasn’t ready to give her up that easily. So I went to see Blumberg.
Fortunately, it was already late afternoon by then and night court would soon be in session. I explained the matter to Blumberg and he opened with his usual sensitive probing, “Burke, you got the money, kid?”
“How much, Blumberg?”
“Well, this is a major case, my boy. I know of no legal precedent which covers the issue. We’ll have to make law, take this all the way to the appellate courts, maybe even to the southern district. You and your fine dog have constitutional rights, and there are no rights without remedies. And, as you know, remedies are not cheap.”
“Blumberg, I’ve got a flat yard, period. Not a nickel more. And I want a guarantee I get my dog back.”
“Are you crazy? No guarantees—that’s a rule of the profession. Why, I could be disbarred for even mentioning such a thing.”
“You mean you’re not?”
“That’s not funny, Burke. That matter was dismissed. All the baseless allegations of misconduct on my part have been expunged from the record.”
“What about the allegations that weren’t baseless?”
“Burke, if you’re going to have a negative attitude about this, we simply cannot do business.”
“Sam, come on, I’m serious. I know you’re the best in the business when you want to be. This isn’t some skell who’s going to Riker’s Island for a year. My dog didn’t do anything—and those bastards at the ASPCA are liable to gas her if I don’t get her out.”
“Oh, a death penalty case, is it? Well, normally I charge seven and a half for capital cases, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll take the case for the five hundred you offered. You got it on you?”
“Sam, I said a yard, not five. I’ll make it a deuce—that’s the best I can do. Half in front, half when it’s over.”
“Are you completely insane, my boy? Be reasonable. Where would I be if I allowed my clients to withhold half of the fee until they were satisfied?”
“You’d be working on fifty per cent of your usual gross.”
“I’m going to ignore that comment in view of the fact that you are obviously grief-stricken over the potential loss of your beloved pet. And, my boy, it just so happens you’re in luck. Justice Seymour is sitting in criminal court tonight because of the crowded calendar. Since he’s a judge of the supreme court, we won’t have to wait until morning to bring on your Application for Relief.”
And it went just like Blumberg said. He was too slick to try and put the case on the calendar since night court is only for arraignments, so he waited until he was in front of the judge on a shoplifting case. Before the poor defendant even knew who his lawyer was, Blumberg, the D.A., and the judge had swiftly converted the case to Disorderly