It struck me on my latest birthday that I’ve now reached the same age at which my father left this life, much too soon. He was a physician who specialised in obstetrics, a five-foot-tall “baby doctor” in more ways than one. He was revered by his staff and colleagues, and absolutely adored by his patients. To this day, I run into people who, upon learning that his last name and mine are not mere coincidence, scream with delight, “Oh, my God. He delivered my children!” or occasionally “He delivered me!”
Not that my father was without faults, by any means. He was a driven over-achiever in everything he did, which meant getting the best grades in school, baiting a fishhook just so and running out a grounder on the baseball diamond at full speed. He was a true perfectionist, an early-day obsessive-compulsive.
He was, in a word, a Jaywalker.
Joseph Teller was born and raised in New York City. After graduating from law school, he spent three years working undercover for the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. For the next thirty-five years he was a criminal defence lawyer. Not too long ago he decided to “run from the law” and began writing fiction. The Tenth Case, his first novel for MIRA Books, will be followed by further Jaywalker titles.
Also by Joseph Teller
The Tenth Case
Bronx Justice
Depraved Indifference
Overkill
The
Tenth Case
Joseph Teller
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am indebted to my editor Leslie Wainger and executive editor Margaret O’Neill Marbury, as well as assistant editor Adam Wilson, for their faith in me and their excitement over my alter ego, Jaywalker. I am grateful to my literary agent and friend Bob Diforio for having been smart enough to put us together.
My wife, Sandy, deserves credit for nearly gagging when I told her about a terrific idea I had for a book, and making me trash it and write this one instead.
And to my friends and former colleagues down at 100 Centre Street, many of whom I still hear from, I thank you for the camaraderie you showed me in the trenches, and for the stories you shared with me over the years, some of which may even have crept into these pages.
1
A SPONTANEOUS ACT OF GRATITUDE
“We turn now to the issue of what constitutes an appropriate punishment for your various infractions,” said the judge in the middle, the gray-haired one whose name Jaywalker always had trouble remembering. “Disbarment certainly occurred to us, and would no doubt be fully deserved, were it not for your long years of service to the bar, your quite obvious devotion to your clients, as well as your considerable legal skills, reflected in your current string of, what was it you told us? Ten consecutive acquittals?”
“Eleven, actually,” said Jaywalker.
“Eleven. Very impressive. That said, a substantial period of suspension is still in order. A very substantial period. Your transgressions are simply too numerous, and too serious, to warrant anything less. Bringing in a lookalike for a defendant in order to confuse a witness, for example. Impersonating a judge to trick a police officer into turning over his notes. Breaking into the evidence room in order to have your own chemist analyze some narcotics. Referring to a judge, on the record, as—and I shall paraphrase here—a small portion of excrement. And finally, though by no means least of all, receiving, shall we say, a ‘sexual favor’ from a client in the stairwell of the courthouse—”
“It wasn’t a sexual favor, Your Honor.”
“Please don’t interrupt me.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“And you can deny it all you want, but my colleagues and I have been forced to watch the videotape from the surveillance camera several times through—complete, I might add, with what appears to be you moaning. Now I don’t know what you would call it, but—”
“It was nothing but a spontaneous act of gratitude, Your Honor, from an overly appreciative client. She’d just been acquitted of a trumped-up prostitution charge. And if only there’d been a sound track, you’d know I wasn’t moaning at all. I was saying, ‘No! No! No!’”
Actually, there was some truth to that.
“Are you a married man, Mr. Jaywalker?”
“I’m a widower, sir. As a matter of fact, I’d been distraught over my wife’s death.”
“I see.” That seemed to give the judge pause, though only briefly. “When did she die?”
“It was a Thursday. June ninth, I believe.”
“This year?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“Last year?”
“No.”
There was an awkward silence.
“This millennium?”
“Not exactly.”
“I see,” said the judge.
Sternbridge, that was his name. Should have been easy enough for Jaywalker to have remembered.
“The court,” Sternbridge was saying now, “hereby suspends you from the practice of law for a period of three years, following which you shall be required to reapply to the Committee on Character and Fitness.” He raised his gavel. But Jaywalker, who’d been to an auction or two with his late wife, back in the previous millennium, beat him to it just before he could bring the thing down.
“If it please the court?”
Sternbridge peered at him over his reading glasses, momentarily disarmed by Jaywalker’s rare lapse into court-speak. Jaywalker took that as an invitation to continue.
“In spite of the fact that I knew this day of reckoning was coming, Your Honor, I find I still have a number of pending cases. Many involve clients in extremely precarious situations. These are people who’ve put their lives in my hands. While I’m fully prepared to accept the court’s punishment, I beg you to let me see these matters through to completion. Please, please, don’t take out your dissatisfaction with me on these helpless people. Add a year to my suspension, if you like. Add two. But let me finish helping them.”
The three judges mumbled to each other, then swiveled around on their chairs and huddled, their black-robed backs to the courtroom. When they swung back a minute later, it was the one on the right, the woman named Ellerbee, who addressed Jaywalker.
“You will be permitted to complete five cases,” she said. “Provide us with a list of those you choose to retain by the end of court business tomorrow, complete with a docket or indictment number, the judge to which each case is assigned, and the next scheduled court date. The remainder of your clients will be reassigned to other counsel. As for the five cases you’ll be keeping, you’ll be required to appear before us the first Friday of every month, so that you can give us a detailed progress report on your efforts to dispose of them.”
Dispose of them. Didn’t she understand that these weren’t diapers or toilet paper or plastic razors? They were people.
“Understood?” Judge Ellerbee was asking him.
“Understood,” said Jaywalker. “And—”
“What?”