"I need some peace and quiet, Kevin. If you promise to shut up, I'll let you have a little nose candy."
Booth's brain told him it was dangerous to use in public. It was also a form of suicide to use any of Rafael's cocaine before the deal went through, because Rafael would weigh the dope if it was returned. Booth thought about turning down Mammon's offer, but his need overcame all objections and he leaned for-ward greedily as the white powder cascaded onto the mirror to form a small mound. Booth separated the white powder into several thin lines, then rolled a ten-dollar bill tight and inserted it into his nostril. Using the bill like a straw, he sucked up the coke, then leaned back to enjoy the rush.
Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, "Freeze," and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Chapter FOUR.
Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.
"Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail."
"The jail? Where is that?" Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.
"It's a block from the courthouse," the secretary told him, shaking her head.
Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.
"Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?"
"How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?"
IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.
The so-called library consisted of two handmade wooden bookshelves containing a one-volume edition of the Oregon Criminal Code, a one-volume edition of the evidence code and a worn set of Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases. A high window with thick, escape- proof
was provided by two bulbs that let - enough light into the room. The wire hung hung from the ce ling In wire cages.
Peter sat on a metal folding chair in front of a rickety wooden table with his back to the far wall, waiting to meet his first criminal client. His fingers nervously were drumming a solo on Mammon's case file when the door to the interview room opened. Peter stood. A guard stepped aside and all the light from the hall was obliterated by the man who filled the doorway.
"Knock when you want me, " the guard said. Then, Peter heard the lock on the thick metal door snap shut, trapping him inside the overheated coffin of a room.
Christopher Mammon moved under one of the caged lightbulbs and Peter sucked in a breath. He was used to large men. His father was large, Amos Geary was large.
But Christopher Mammon was bizarre. Curly black hair hung down over his high, flat forehead and cascaded over his massive shoulders. Tufts of hair stuck out of the collar of an orange jail-issue jumpsuit that was stretched taut across his gargantuan chest. The jumpsuit had short sleeves and Peter could see snake and panther tattoos rippling along Mammon's forearms and biceps whenever he moved. About the only parts of Mani-mon that were not grotesquely big were his cold blue eyes, which were narrow and focused like a predator's, and his ears, which were tiny and delicate.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Mammon. I'm Peter Hale, the attorney the court appointed to represent you," Peter said nervously, holding out one of Amos Geary's business cards. The card disappeared in Mammon's hand.
He examined it, then examined Peter.
,If you're my lawyer, why isn't your name on this card?" Marmnn asked in a voice that was velvety smooth and very scary. it was the sort of purr that might issue from a hungry leopard while it was deciding what part of a staked goat to eat first.
"Well, actually, the court appointed Amos Geary.
In fact, I've just started. My cards are on order," Peter He'll represent you, if we go to trial. I work with him.
babbled, managing a tiny smile he hoped would convey his perfect harmlessness and the fact that he should be considered a friend and not dinner.
"I see," Mammon said, returning Peter's smile with an ominous glare.
"Mr. Geary is in Blaine County this afternoon. He wanted me to conduct the first interview. Why don't you sit down and we can get started."
Peter sat on his folding chair and took a pen and pad out of his attach case. Mammon remained standing.
Clara had placed an interview form on the left side of the file. Peter scanned some of the questions on the form, then, without looking up, he said, "There's some background information I'll need. Can you give me your date of birth?"
Marmnlon tilted his head to one side and read the interview form upside down.
"Can I see that?" he asked, pointing at the form.
Peter hesitated, then took the form out of the file and handed it to Mammon. Mammon studied the form for a moment, then slowly ripped it into tiny pieces.
"If Geary's my lawyer I'll talk to Geary and not some flunky."
As Mammon let the pieces of the form flutter from his fingers like a minisnowstorm it suddenly occurred to Peter that he was locked in the interview room and there was only wooden table separating him from a a very dangerous wild animal.
"Yes, well, I'm an experienced attorney and anythin You tell me is confidential. I'll only talk about our contempt to steer his client out of the world of ultraviolet, versation to Mr. Geary)') Peter told Mammon in an at kung fu flicks and graphic slasher movies. t "Just how experienced are You, Peter?" Mammon asked.
"I've been a lawyer for four years."
"And how many criminal cases have you handled P, "Well, none, but, uhm, I have tried many complex legal matters and I .. ."
Mammon held up his hand and Peter stopped talking.
Mammon rested his hands on the table and it buckled.
Then, he leaned across the table until his face was inches from Peter's.
"You just lied to me, didn't you, Peter?"
Peter turned pale. His voice caught in his throat and all he could manage was, -1 ... 1.. ."
Mammon held him with his eyes for a moment. Then he went to the door and pounded on it. The locks snapped open and Mammon walked out of the room. It took a moment for Peter to realize that he was still alive.
Peter's only other visit to Whitaker had been spent humiliating and browbeating a local attorney and his client. After the deposition, Peter had celebrated at the Stallion, a bar Popular with the students at Whitaker State, where he met a nurse named Rhonda something whom he fascinated with his descri tion of the devastap tion visited on his adversary. The the'xt morning, Rhonda had written her name and phone number on a piece of a motel stationery before she left for the hospital. Si ince the Stallion provided the only good memory Peter had of Whitaker, it was here that he ran as soon as he escaped the Jail. oing to do?" Peter asked himself, as he "What am I g started on his second Jack Daniel's. He could not endure another encounter with a Mammon-like individual. It was out of the question. But what was his alternative?
Being a lawyer was all Peter knew and no one except Amos Geary would offer him a job after the Elliot fiasco.
Peter longed for his condo, now owned by a Merrill, Lynch exec who had gotten it at a fire-sale price because of Peter's sudden descent into poverty, and his Porsche, I which he had been forced to trade in for a used Subaru.