I’m glad that we’ve cleared the jail. Threats against judges, even those in jest, don’t go down well with the local constabulary.
Harry is now checking his wallet, counting the cash that was there when he was booked, bill by bill. Such is his trust of the cops. Jail does not seem to have shaken him much. I think that, like the Man of La Mancha, Harry sees this little episode as part of some noble quest.
The usual throng of humanity is gathered on the steps outside the jail. These are mostly relatives, or significant others of those inside, deciding whether to spring for bail, or to pay next month’s rent.
Harry and I make our way through this army of jailhouse regulars and onto the sidewalk in front of the building. We head toward my car a block away.
Hinds is grousing that he needs a shower. It seems he could not bring himself to use the communal things offered in the jail.
“After all these years I’d like to remain a virgin,” he tells me. Like most defense attorneys, even Harry has his standards. Defending these people is one thing, showering with them is something else.
I tell him we’ll pick up some clothes at his place on the way. He can shower and shave at the house before dinner. My wife, Nikki, will thank us for this thought.
Harry falls behind, finally stopping at the newsstand on the corner. He joins the little mob hustling the vendor for a paper. He hits me up for four bits. It seems the jail budget doesn’t include a daily newspaper. Harry wants confirmation that the world has carried on without him for the past forty-eight hours.
“I’ve got to pick up Sarah at the babysitter’s in ten minutes,” I tell him.
“It’ll just take a minute,” he says. Harry burrows his way into the loosely formed line, not in the British fashion of properly queuing-up, but with head down, right shoulder used as a wedge. Harry in line is like a mole in rutting season. My guess is he’s after the sporting green. He’s probably placed bets on the pay phone from the jail. He shoves the guy next to him in line a bit. The fellow gives Harry a dirty look, then focuses on me like maybe I’m Hinds’s trainer for this bout.
This face staring at me is something from the past. We each stand there. One of those awkward moments. He is older, but I suppose he would say the same of me.
After ugly seconds of silence, he says: “Mr. Madriani. A long time.”
There is nothing overtly hostile in this. But his tone tells me that if he had his way, he would nudge me off the curb, under one of the fast-moving buses now churning by in the rush hour.
We stand there, Harry lost in his paper. I’m not sure whether I should introduce them. The mixture of Adrian Chambers and Harry Hinds could be volatile.
“It’s been a few years,” I say.
“Ten to be exact,” he says.
I’ve not seen Adrian Chambers since his conviction for suborning perjury, and his removal from the practice of law. In his late forties, he has aged well beyond those years. Of the hair that I remember, generous brown waves, he now has only a gray fringe ringing his head above the ears. This is cropped close to the head, military style. He is, after all, a former marine. Around his forehead there are the subtle shadows, a few age spots like amoebas creeping under the skin. In the handful of times that he has graced me with it, I have seen a tight-lipped thin smile. It always had the appearance of being forced. It is not that the man is without humor so much as that his chief amusement comes from denigrating others. Adrian is a bundle of scorn, tightly strung.
After all these years, if I were to pass him on the street I might not recognize him at all-except for two abiding features, his penetrating dark eyes, cold as steel, and a hard athletic body, the lean and mean obsession of a former gyrene. Studying him here as we each take the other’s measure, I note that Adrian Chambers looks like nothing so much as Robert Duvall’s incarnation of the Great Santini.
“They tell me you left the DA’s office.” He says this like he’s been asking questions about me.
“Some time ago.” He’s talking about the Capital County District Attorney’s Office where I haven’t worked in more than a decade.
“That’s too bad. I was looking forward so, to seeing you in court again,” he says. “I’ve waited a long time.”
“I still get there,” I tell him. “I’m just on the other side now, at the defense table,” I say.
“Oh, but it wouldn’t be the same,” he says.
I am giving him puzzled looks, like what difference could it possibly make to a disbarred lawyer.
“The place is open to the public,” I tell him. “Come, sit in the audience. Hiss if you like.” I give him a little grin like this unpleasant conversation is coming to an end.
Harry has found what he was looking for in the paper. From his look he could have saved himself the effort, and me fifty cents.
“Oh, they didn’t tell you?” says Chambers.
He waits for me to say something, but I don’t bite.
“I’m practicing law again. I thought they would have told you, of all people,” he says, “being that you took such a personal interest in my case.”
I think my vacant gaze gives him some satisfaction, that I am hearing this for the first time.
“Oh yes, several years now,” he says. “Contrary to popular belief, there is life after disbarment. The state supreme court says I’m rehabilitated.”
“Ah.” I would congratulate him, say that I was glad to hear it, but it would be a lie. What’s worse, he would know it. It is this suspension from the practice of law, more than anything else, even the time spent behind bars, that I think is the basis of his animus toward me. Chambers spent nine months in the county jail, courtesy of an indulgent judge at sentencing. Though his crime was a felony, the court took note of the fact that he was a lawyer, one of the fold, with no prior history of wrongdoing. Special rules for special folk. A non-lawyer for the same offense would have done hard time, I think.
“Practice isn’t quite the same,” he says. “A little smaller, less ambitious,” he says. What he means is not like the days of yore, before the Walter Henley case, when he had a dozen associates in a high-toned office across from the courthouse, and a partner who walked off with everything when Chambers was jailed.
Harry has finally tuned in to our conversation. Standing beside me, Chambers looks at him. Since Harry is in a wrinkled suit and has a stubbled face, I am sure Chambers takes him for one of my clients, and my practice for something seedy.
“Oh, no hard feelings,” he says. “I want you to know that I don’t harbor grudges. What happened, happened,” he says. “Water under the bridge,” he says. “Just one of those things,” he tells me.
“Sure,” I say.
“Let bygones be bygones,” says Harry. “Forgive and forget.” Harry wrinkles his eyebrows, trying to think of a few more. “Bear no malice,” he says. “Bury the hatchet. Blessed are the meek,” he says.
Chambers looks at him, like who is this asshole?
Not one to leave him in doubt, Harry sticks out his hand. “Harry Hinds,” he says.
Chambers looks but doesn’t touch.
“Forgiveness is good for the soul,” says Harry. “Do hard time, did you?” Hinds is cultivating him. I think he senses commercial opportunities, maybe a future client.
“No.” Chambers looks at him with an expression you might reserve for something run over on the road. “And you?” he says.
Harry looks down at his suit coat, wrinkled and dirty, like something the homeless would wear. “Oh no,” he says. “Just trying to crack the Coconut,” says Harry.
Chambers’s expression is quizzical. He is wondering, I think, if maybe Harry’s run afoul of a local ordinance designed to protect palm trees and their fruit.
“But I commend your attitude. It’s the first step toward rehabilitation,” says Harry.
“And what’s that?” says Chambers.
“Honest remorse,” says Hinds. “It works good at sentencing, too. It’s what I tell all my clients.”