Depraved Indifference

Finally, there was the chance that one of the benefits of representing Carter Drake might be Amanda Drake. Then again, what a conflict of interest that would be! Jaywalker allowed himself a chuckle as he imagined a slew of new charges from the disciplinary committee. He could picture the presiding justice snarling down at him with righteous indignation. “So, Mr. Jaywalker, we conclude that you deliberately made certain that your client would remain locked up for as long as possible, just so you could continue to have an affair with his wife.”

Well, that was one benefit that might just have to be curtailed. But what a shame.

That night, in the privacy of his own place, Jaywalker thought things over. Unlike Amanda Carter’s four-bedroom triplex just off Fifth Avenue, Jaywalker’s apartment wasn’t much more than a furnished room. What it was, was a fourth-floor walk-up studio in what real estate agents tend to write off as a developing neighborhood, much the same way economists might refer to a developing nation. Implicit in both terms is the suggestion that the entity being described still has a long way to go before qualifying for actually being developed. So as he pondered the advisability of getting involved in Carter Drake’s case, Jaywalker stretched out on his sofa, which doubled as his bed, and also served from time to time as his laundry sorter, work surface and exercise mat.

A criminal case begins, as Jaywalker well knew, with an investigation, followed by an arrest. Or sometimes it’s the other way around, an arrest followed by an investigation. By the time a defense lawyer gets contacted, selected, and either hired by the family or appointed by the court, that lawyer already finds himself playing catch-up. It had already been three weeks since Carter Drake’s arrest, and based upon the little that Jaywalker remembered from the newspaper accounts, the only representation Drake had had in that time was from the business lawyer who’d surrendered him, followed by some local guy who’d stood up for him when he got to court. It would be another seven or eight months before Jaywalker would be allowed to practice again. That would mean an eight-month head start for the prosecution, an all but insurmountable advantage.

So what was Jaywalker to do in the meantime? He couldn’t contact the D.A.’s office or the state police, or risk calling either of the lawyers who’d been representing Drake; any one of them could turn him in for doing so. Yet he couldn’t just sit on his hands and watch his future client languish in the hands of a couple of incompetents while the prosecution perfected its case, could he?

He found a half-smoked joint, fired it up and inhaled deeply. Ever since he’d given up drinking, Jaywalker had resorted to the old devil weed for occasional inspiration. It soothed him, relaxed him, helped him see things a bit more clearly, and brought on a moderate case of the “munchies”—an indispensable aid to a man who, to the envy of most men and every woman he knew, had serious trouble keeping his weight up. With no known adverse side effects and no possibility of a lethal overdose, it was, as Martha Stewart might have put it, a good thing. Little wonder, thought Jaywalker, that the government had criminalized it, or that the last administration had chosen to make it the primary target of its war against drugs.

It didn’t take long for Jaywalker to hatch a plan. What he’d do would be to have Amanda hire him as a private investigator for her husband. That would allow Jaywalker to go into jail and talk with Drake, gather police reports and other documents, locate and interview witnesses, and generally snoop around. His DEA background more than prepared him for the job, and his law degree qualified him, much the same way it permitted lawyers to act as real estate brokers and notary publics without having to undergo additional training or licensing. It was all part of the genius behind the scheme of having laws that are written by lawyers, enforced by lawyers who’ve become judges, for the benefit and protection of lawyers.

Now, did the little matter of Jaywalker’s suspension disqualify him from availing himself of those benefits and protections? No, he decided; that would be overthinking it. He was still a lawyer, albeit one who was temporarily incapacitated. Kind of like how a baseball player who was on the disabled list was still a baseball player, no? A perfect analogy. So as long as Jaywalker were to stick to investigating, he wouldn’t really be practicing law, would he be?

He allowed himself another hit of the joint.

Yeah, investigating would be just fine.

He broke the news to Amanda two days later. They met at the same luncheonette they’d gone to from the library. She looked every bit as stunning as he’d remembered her, and he found himself powerless to keep his eyes off her. He managed somewhat better when it came to his hands, but it was hard. Keeping his hands off her, that is.

This time they had lunch instead of just coffee, she a fancy wrap of some sort, he a tuna-fish sandwich. As they ate, he outlined his plan, and Amanda was quick to approve it. And that was pretty much it. Unlike the events of two days earlier, they didn’t follow things up with a cab ride to Amanda’s apartment. And if Jaywalker was disappointed in that nonde-velopment, and surely he was, he was at least consoled by the fact that he came away from the meeting with a check in the pocket of his jeans in the amount of five thousand dollars, exactly twice what he’d asked Amanda for. He’d instructed her to make it out to “Harrison Jay Walker, Private Investigator,” and had made her fill in the Memo blank with the words “Not for legal services.”

You could never be too careful.

But even if he was only an investigator for the time being, Jaywalker knew better. He was back in the game.

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