“Seen enough of it, your honor,” was the reply.
“Me too. Turn that damn thing over there off, will you?”
Liarakos did, then dropped into a chair. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and extracted the contents, which he handed to the judge.
Snyder reluctantly folded the newspaper and laid it in front of him on his desk. He perused Liarakos’ document.
“The prosecutor seen this?” the judge asked curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’d he say?”
“Well, he didn’t want a say. Said he would abide by your decision.”
“I know he’ll abide by my decision. I want to know if he wants to argue before I make it.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“Well?” the judge said, holding the sheets between thumb and forefinger and waving them gently back and forth.
“It’s a personal problem. I just don’t think I can adequately represent Aldana and I want to be excused. There are dozens of competent, experienced criminal lawyers in this town and Aldana can afford any of them. Hell, he could hire ’em all.”
“Why?”
“It’s personal.”
“Had some young puppy in here last week with a motion like this. It all came down to the fact he thought his client was guilty. This isn’t any damned silly nonsense like that, is it?”
“No. It’s personal.”
“You sick?”
“No.”
“In trouble with the law?”
“No, sir.”
“Motion denied.” Snyder tossed the paper back across the desk. It landed in front of Liarakos, who stared at it.
“It’s my wife. She’s a cocaine addict.”
“Sorry to hear that. But what’s that got to do with this motion?”
Liarakos raised his hands, then lowered them. He opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at his hands. “I want out. I can’t in good conscience defend Aldana. He’s entitled to a good defense and I can’t give it to him.”
“Horseshit,” Judge Snyder said. “How many lawyers are there these days who haven’t had a friend become addicted to something? All these damn fools used pot in college. They go to parties and somebody has a sugar bowl full of powder for the guests who are ‘with it.’ I may be an old fart but I know what the hell goes on. Half the bar has your problem or some version of it.”
Seeing the look on Liarakos’ face, Judge Snyder’s tone softened, “Now look. If I approve that motion, Aldana’s new lawyer will think up fifty reasons why he needs a ton of extra time to study the government’s case and file motions and I’ll almost have to give it to him. Yet the government wants Aldana tried as soon as possible, for a lot of reasons that have to do with foreign policy and our relations with Colombia. Those reasons are good ones, in my opinion. I suggest you talk to your client. Tell him what you’ve told me. If he wants to get another lawyer, that’s his business. It’s his ass. But the new lawyer will get not one more day than you’ve got. Tell Aldana that too.”
“I’ve already talked to him,” Liarakos said. “He wants me.”
“Did you tell him your wife was a cocaine addict?”
“Yes. I did.”
The judge very much wanted to ask what Aldana’s reaction to that revelation was, but he refrained. Attorney-client privilege. He contented himself with readjusting his fanny in his chair and easing the pressure on his scrotum. He also raised an eyebrow.
“He just grinned,” Liarakos muttered. He stood up and walked around the room.
He was examining a law book when he said, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I will. My impression is that it really doesn’t matter to Chano Aldana who his lawyer is. Apparently the man thinks he’ll never go to trial.”
“Had a dog like that once,” Judge Snyder said, and lazily stretched his arms out as far as they would go. “Kept shitting on the carpet. His education was painful, but he finally got the message.”
At two o’clock that afternoon Vice-President Quayle held a news conference. Television rating services later reported that more people watched this news conference than any previous one in the history of television.
When Quayle first walked into the glare of the television lights and looked at the sea of faces of the waiting media, he handled it well, his aides offstage thought as they watched him on a monitor. He looked calm, properly somber, in charge. He began by reading a short statement that expressed the nation’s outrage at the person or persons who had attempted to take the President’s life and the government’s resolve to bring the perpetrators to justice. The aides nodded with every phrase. The Vice-President had rehearsed this little speech for a quarter hour, and it came off just right, they thought.
The first question was unexpected, however, and horrified the aides and William C. Dorfman, who stood among them staring at the monitor with his tummy hanging over his belt and a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Mr. Vice-President, a group calling themselves the Extraditables, who are known Colombian narcotics traffickers, has just claimed credit for shooting down President Bush. Does the government have any evidence to support or refute that claim?”
It was here that the worldwide audience got another look at that blank, frozen, wide-eyed stare that an inspired reporter had once dubbed “the deer in the headlights look.”
“I … I hadn’t heard that,” Quayle said after a few seconds. “Did it just come in?”
“Yessir. From Medellín, Colombia.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Quayle said lamely. “We are investigating — looking at evidence and all — I don’t know. Ahh … of course, nut groups and criminals can say anything. We’ll see.”
The same reporter had a follow-up question. “What will be the United States government’s response if the Extraditables’ claim proves to be true?”
“Well, I don’t know that it is true. As I said, criminals can say anything. If it’s true, I don’t know. We’ll … ahh … I guess I don’t want to … ahh … speculate about what we might do.”
Offstage Dorfman nodded vigorously. He had impressed on the Vice-President the necessity of not committing himself or the government to any particular course of action on any matter. So far so good.
“Why,” another reporter asked, “haven’t the people who did this been apprehended?”
Quayle was ready for this one. “The various law-enforcement agencies are doing everything within their power to find the people who shot down the President. I am satisfied with the manpower and methods they are using. We will announce results when we have some that can be publicized without jeopardizing the ongoing investigation.”
“Do you feel,” a woman reporter asked, “that you are capable of properly fulfilling the heavy responsibilities that you have just assumed?”
“Well … I … I think I can do what needs to be done. I’m hoping right along with everybody else that George Bush recovers quickly and can reassume the responsibilities of his office.” Here the Vice-President spoke sincerely, and quite effectively, Dorfman thought. This response had been carefully rehearsed. “No one wants George Bush to get well more than I do. I’m praying for him and I hope everyone else in America is too.”
When it was over Dorfman led the entourage back toward the office spaces as he snarled at his executive assistant, “Get me a copy of that damned Extraditables press release. And get the CIA and State Department people over here on the double. I want to know what the fuck is going on and why the hell the press got it before we did. I want to know now!”
At the conference in the cabinet room that followed, Quayle sat at the center of the table where Bush normally sat and said little. Arranged around the table were the directors of the FBI, CIA, and DEA, the assistant secretary of state — the secretary had died in the helicopter crash that had injured the President — the attorney general, and the head of the Secret Service. Dorfman sat beside Quayle and did the talking. As usual, he was blunt.