The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [121]
He glanced down at the two little girls sitting next to him. Boo and Pajamae turned their eyes up to him, the way he had often turned his eyes up to Butch in this very church. He remembered his father’s words again, and he slid forward and knelt.
And he prayed for help.
A mile away, Bobby Herrin was sitting in his dingy office drafting a trial brief. The front door was propped open because the landlord didn’t turn on the air-conditioning on Sundays. He inhaled and caught the scent of cheap cologne. He looked up. Standing in the door was a white man, bald, burly, and thick-necked. Delroy Lund.
Carl’s more thorough background check on Delroy Lund had revealed a DEA career checkered with reprimands for unnecessary use of force. Carl said he was digging deeper, but he hadn’t reported back yet.
Bobby tried to maintain his composure, but flinched when Delroy reached into his coat.
“Don’t try anything, Delroy! I yell out, Joo-Chan will come over—and he knows karate!”
Delroy chuckled. “That gook knows how to make donuts—but not on Sunday. You’re all alone, Herrin.”
But Delroy didn’t pull out a gun; he pulled out an envelope. Bobby exhaled with relief. Delroy tossed the envelope on the desk. Bobby opened it; inside was a check made payable to Robert Herrin, Esq., for the sum of $100,000. Bobby suddenly felt better about his standing in the legal profession: finally, he was important enough to be bribed. He examined the check.
“Bank check issued by a Cayman Island bank. That’s cute, Delroy. Not traceable back to McCall.”
“We ain’t stupid.”
“That’s open for debate.”
“Here’s the deal, Herrin. That little fuckup Clark ain’t gonna cheat his dad out of the White House, alive or dead. So you got a choice: take the money and get out of town or get arrested.”
“For what?”
“Dealing drugs.”
“I don’t have any drugs.”
“You will when I’m finished. I’ll call my buddies at the DEA and they’ll bust your ass.”
“With your record at the DEA? I don’t think so. I’ll tell them you planted the drugs, take a polygraph, and they’ll arrest you. So, what, McCall thinks Scotty can’t defend her without me? Scotty doesn’t need me.”
“He proved that before, didn’t he?” Delroy grinned. “You’re the only conscience he’s got, according to Burns.”
Bobby replaced the check and tossed the envelope to Delroy.
“Get out.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“Won’t be the first time. See you at the trial, Delroy.”
“Sorry, I can’t make it.”
“Sure you can.” Bobby picked up a subpoena, wrote Delroy Lund in the witness blank, and tossed it to Delroy. “You’re served, asshole.”
As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Bobby knew he had pushed Delroy’s button—and that he shouldn’t have. Delroy bent over and picked up the subpoena from the floor. He glanced at it; his face changed. He came over to Bobby, grabbed Bobby by the shirt, and yanked him halfway out of his chair. Delroy’s mouth was about six inches away from Bobby’s face when he said, “You little mother—”
“Hey, hombre!”
Standing in the door was Carlos Hernandez. Carlos was six feet tall, weighed maybe one-ninety, and was dressed for church: black leather pants, black pointed boots, a black T-shirt tight on his muscular tattooed arms, and two-inch silver bracelets on each wrist. His black hair was slicked back.
“Get your stinkin’ hands off my lawyer, gringo!”
The two men glared at each other. Finally, Delroy chuckled, released Bobby, walked a few steps, then turned back.
“Oh, your star witness took her check. She figured a vacation was better than being fish bait in Galveston Bay.”
Delroy laughed as he walked out the door past Carlos’s mean face. When he was gone, Carlos broke into a big grin and said, “Good thing you got me bail, huh, Mr. Herrin?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Carlos.