prosecutor once from the blind side and twice upside the head in pursuit of Solomon’s acquittal.
I was thinking these thoughts when I heard metal cleats clacking against the Mexican tile floor of the living room, and my nephew Kip came clomping into the kitchen.
“Not chicken-fried steak again.” Whining. I’ve warned him about that. Lassiter men don’t whine.
“Hush up, wash up, and clean up that mud you drug in,” Granny ordered.
Kip was in eleventh grade now and working his tail off to make the football team at Biscayne-Tuttle, a private school on the shores of Biscayne Bay. Unlike his block-of-granite uncle, Kip was gangly and loose-limbed. He had decent speed but only average athletic skills, and currently he was a third-team cornerback.
“How’d practice go, champ?” I asked.
“Two pass breakups and a couple tackles.”
“Good job.”
“Plus I got torched on three long passes.”
“It happens. Always clear your mind after a bad play. Learn from your mistakes, but don’t dwell on them.”
“I know, Uncle Jake. You’ve told me a zillion times.”
“Hurry up now,” Granny said. “Dinner will get cold.”
“We expecting company?” Kip asked.
“No, why?” I said.
“’Cause there’s a guy on the porch. Sitting in the rocker.”
“A guy?”
“A soldier,” Kip said. “Three stripes. That’s a sergeant, isn’t it?”
-12-
Reporting for Duty
I open ed the front door and stepped onto the porch, scattering several green lizards. It was a hot, moist night with the scent of jasmine in the air. The jacaranda tree in the driveway was shedding th e last of its purple flowers, succumbing to the summer heat.
And there was Manuel Dominguez sitting in Granny’s rocking chair on the porch. Buzz cut, square jaw, just the beginning of a double chin. He wore a US Army dress blue uniform. A brass disk with crossed rifles on his collar identified him as a member of the infantry. Gold-braided chevrons on each shoulder marked him as a sergeant. Four gold overseas service bars on his right sleeve indicated he’d served in several combat zones. A fruit salad of colorful ribbons was pinned to his chest. If I had to guess, I’d say they were for various acts of distinguished service and valor. Perhaps in Desert Storm or Afghanistan or maybe the Battle of Gettysburg, for all I knew.
Because none of it was real.
Manuel Dominguez wasn’t really a sergeant. Had never been in the Boy Scouts, much less the army.
He was a former client. A small-time grifter and con man I’d walked out of the courthouse a couple of times and left behind once or twice, too. But his crimes were always nonviolent and his sentences always short. Most recently, I’d gotten him probation for a lottery scam called advance fee fraud.
“Hey, Manuel,” I said. “What’s the charge this time?”
“Nada, jefe.”
“So why you here? You want some chicken-fried steak?”
“Already ate.”
“Lemme guess, The Forge.”
He snapped off a crisp salute. “Scallops ceviche, the bone-in porterhouse with a side of Parmesan truffle fries. Rose Marie went for the caviar and Dover sole. We split a butterscotch soufflé for dessert.”
“You get the Johnnie Walker sauce with that?”
“Is there any other way to go?”
“And who paid?”
“An orthodontist from Topeka. Here on a convention. I limped in, using my cane. And of course Rose Marie had her pregnancy pack under her dress. Looks about eight months, I’d say. The orthodontist sent us a bottle of Cristal, then came over to the table to shake my hand and give me the ‘thanks for your service’ speech. I told him how I dismantled IEDs in Iraq, and about the one I didn’t quite dismantle. Of course, he insisted on paying the dinner tab. Then his wife took a selfie with us to show the folks back home.”
“No photos, Manuel. I’ve told you about creating evidence.”
“Hey, what’s the harm?”
“Actually, wearing those medals is a federal
I was thinking these thoughts when I heard metal cleats clacking against the Mexican tile floor of the living room, and my nephew Kip came clomping into the kitchen.
“Not chicken-fried steak again.” Whining. I’ve warned him about that. Lassiter men don’t whine.
“Hush up, wash up, and clean up that mud you drug in,” Granny ordered.
Kip was in eleventh grade now and working his tail off to make the football team at Biscayne-Tuttle, a private school on the shores of Biscayne Bay. Unlike his block-of-granite uncle, Kip was gangly and loose-limbed. He had decent speed but only average athletic skills, and currently he was a third-team cornerback.
“How’d practice go, champ?” I asked.
“Two pass breakups and a couple tackles.”
“Good job.”
“Plus I got torched on three long passes.”
“It happens. Always clear your mind after a bad play. Learn from your mistakes, but don’t dwell on them.”
“I know, Uncle Jake. You’ve told me a zillion times.”
“Hurry up now,” Granny said. “Dinner will get cold.”
“We expecting company?” Kip asked.
“No, why?” I said.
“’Cause there’s a guy on the porch. Sitting in the rocker.”
“A guy?”
“A soldier,” Kip said. “Three stripes. That’s a sergeant, isn’t it?”
-12-
Reporting for Duty
I open ed the front door and stepped onto the porch, scattering several green lizards. It was a hot, moist night with the scent of jasmine in the air. The jacaranda tree in the driveway was shedding th e last of its purple flowers, succumbing to the summer heat.
And there was Manuel Dominguez sitting in Granny’s rocking chair on the porch. Buzz cut, square jaw, just the beginning of a double chin. He wore a US Army dress blue uniform. A brass disk with crossed rifles on his collar identified him as a member of the infantry. Gold-braided chevrons on each shoulder marked him as a sergeant. Four gold overseas service bars on his right sleeve indicated he’d served in several combat zones. A fruit salad of colorful ribbons was pinned to his chest. If I had to guess, I’d say they were for various acts of distinguished service and valor. Perhaps in Desert Storm or Afghanistan or maybe the Battle of Gettysburg, for all I knew.
Because none of it was real.
Manuel Dominguez wasn’t really a sergeant. Had never been in the Boy Scouts, much less the army.
He was a former client. A small-time grifter and con man I’d walked out of the courthouse a couple of times and left behind once or twice, too. But his crimes were always nonviolent and his sentences always short. Most recently, I’d gotten him probation for a lottery scam called advance fee fraud.
“Hey, Manuel,” I said. “What’s the charge this time?”
“Nada, jefe.”
“So why you here? You want some chicken-fried steak?”
“Already ate.”
“Lemme guess, The Forge.”
He snapped off a crisp salute. “Scallops ceviche, the bone-in porterhouse with a side of Parmesan truffle fries. Rose Marie went for the caviar and Dover sole. We split a butterscotch soufflé for dessert.”
“You get the Johnnie Walker sauce with that?”
“Is there any other way to go?”
“And who paid?”
“An orthodontist from Topeka. Here on a convention. I limped in, using my cane. And of course Rose Marie had her pregnancy pack under her dress. Looks about eight months, I’d say. The orthodontist sent us a bottle of Cristal, then came over to the table to shake my hand and give me the ‘thanks for your service’ speech. I told him how I dismantled IEDs in Iraq, and about the one I didn’t quite dismantle. Of course, he insisted on paying the dinner tab. Then his wife took a selfie with us to show the folks back home.”
“No photos, Manuel. I’ve told you about creating evidence.”
“Hey, what’s the harm?”
“Actually, wearing those medals is a federal
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