First Degree by David Rosenfelt Page B

“Make a list of everyone who dislikes you,” I say.
    He nods. “Okay.”
    “How many reams of paper will you need?”
    “The guard’ll get me paper.”
    What I think, but don’t say, is, “Oscar, I’m insulting you. I’m your lawyer and I’m insulting you! Fire me!” Instead, I mentally vow to swear off sarcasm for the duration of this case. I’m not sure if I can do it; my addiction goes way back. I wonder if they make a sarcasm patch that I can wear to wean me off it.
    For now I confirm that Oscar wants to plead not guilty, and I tell him that I’ll see him again tomorrow at the initial court appearance.
    I turn and leave. The only thing I’ve learned in this visit is that Oscar is a really easy guy to leave.
    As I walk to my car, I reflect on how depressing this situation is. A lawyer-client relationship, particularly in a murder trial, is close and often intense. Unfortunately, I would rather have warts surgically implanted all over my body than be close and intense with Oscar Garcia. But he’s been wrongly charged, and since I’m not willing to risk my legal career by breaking Stynes’s privilege, the only way I can right that wrong is by defending him.
    When I get in the car, I make a couple of phone calls to determine where my next stop should be. In that regard, I come up with two significant pieces of information. First, I learn that the dry cleaner closes at six. This is good news because I have only three suits and they’ve all been sitting there, no doubt hanging in plastic and feeling abandoned, for weeks. Getting there by six will be no problem, which means I won’t have to wear sweatpants to the hearing tomorrow.
    The next thing I find out is that the assistant DA assigned to the Dorsey case is Dylan Campbell. This takes me out of the good mood that the dry cleaner news had put me in. Dylan would have been my last choice as an adversary on this case, which may well be why they don’t let the defense attorneys choose the prosecutor.
    I know every assistant DA in the county; in fact, more than half had been chosen by my father when he ran the office. To generalize, they are tough, hard-nosed prosecutors whom I can’t stand in a courtroom but like drinking beer with afterward.
    Dylan Campbell does not fall into this category. While his colleagues and I will bend the legal rules and watch the other side bend them back, Dylan bends them until they break and then throws them in your face. He’s smart but unpleasant, and I would much prefer to go up against dumb and affable.
    I call Dylan, and he agrees to see me right away, which means he probably wants to make a deal. I find that plea bargains are most likely to be made either at the beginning of a case or just before trial. Early on, the accused is often scared and shaken, while the prosecutor is standing at the foot of the enormous mountain of work that preparing a case represents. It’s a likely time for compromise.
    Just before trial, the possibility of a bargain being struck again increases, mainly because both sides know that soon it is going to be out of their hands and into a jury’s. That threat of imminent repudiation of one’s position is a major motivating factor toward dealing.
    When I reach Dylan’s office, he catapults himself out of his chair and rushes over to greet me, hand extended. This uncharacteristic and transparent graciousness is another sign he wants to deal. “Andy, good to see you. Good to see you. Here, sit down. Sit down.”
    I’m not sure why he is saying everything twice, but it’s probably to show me how sincere he is. “Thanks, Dylan. Thanks, Dylan.”
    I sit down, and Dylan’s next act as the perfect host is to go to his little refrigerator and ask me what I would like to drink. He’s something of a health nut, so it basically comes down to whether I want American, Swedish, or Belgian mineral water. I shrug, and wind up with Swedish.
    He sits back behind his desk and smiles. “I’ve got to ask you