studied them. “I make four hundred dollars an hour.”
Shelly drew back. “I make four hundred dollars a
week.
”
“Surely not.”
She waved. She was exaggerating but not by that much. “Obviously, Alex can’t pay that.”
“Find out what he has, Shelly.”
She held her look on him. She understood rationally, but could not accept emotionally, that his representation might actually depend on how much money he would make.
“This is a for-profit operation,” he added, the closest he would come to apologizing.
“I’ll find out,” she said, quickly shaking his hand and leaving.
“Shelly,” he called to her. “Take a little more advice from me?”
She dropped her arms, closed her eyes. “Sure.”
“Sometimes kids—people—go bad. You don’t understand why. It doesn’t make sense. You do what you can to help them. And when you’re done, when you’ve done your best, you go to bed at night, and you sleep. Because after you’ve done your best, there’s nothing else you can do.”
They have to let you help,
she thought. She thanked him and headed for the elevator.
10
Schemes
A LEX B ANIEWICZ HAD been transferred from the police station to the adult detention center on the southwest side, which would be his permanent pretrial home, confined in a special juvenile section for those under eighteen held for adult crimes. Shelly was not informed of the transfer until she reached the police station, so she didn’t reach Alex until lunchtime.
She caught Ronnie on the way out. He was more dressed up than when she met him last night, now in a button-down shirt and slacks, hair well-combed. His eyes were bloodshot and he was crying. She figured he stifled his sobbing until he was out of Alex’s presence. She had caught him at the release point.
She put her hands on his shoulders. “We’ll figure something out for him. You need to keep up your strength, Ronnie.”
Ronnie swallowed hard and straightened himself. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me what to do and I’ll help. I’ll do anything.”
“Great. I may need that. I’ll talk to you soon.” She realized, after she left him, that Ronnie was supposed to be in school right now. Come to think of it, she was supposed to be at work, too.
She sat with Alex in a holding room. The table, to which Alex’s hands were shackled, was a thick piece of wood on metal legs. The chairs were a hard plastic and bolted to the floor. For some reason, the walls were a pale orange. She wondered who would have made that choice, then wondered why she was even thinking about that. It was amazing how the mind worked, howrandom thoughts entered the radar screen even during difficult moments like this.
“You and Ronnie have a nice talk?” she asked. Alex gave her a look, as if she had said something challenging. Maybe she had. It was probably the wrong way to start, under the circumstances, but she had less information than anyone and knew that had to change.
“Well,
I
had a nice talk,” she added. “With the F.B.I.”
Her client looked exhausted. His skin had a yellowish tint that gave the impression of illness. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark rings to the point that he almost appeared to be wearing makeup. His reaction to her words was slow, two unfocused eyes eventually meeting Shelly’s. She tried to shake the thought that she might lose this kid before it was over.
“I wish you’d told me when it happened,” she said. “Instead of shutting me out.”
Alex coughed quietly.
“This cop—Miroballi—you knew him.”
Alex nodded.
“He was coming after you, Alex?”
He stretched his arms—with some effort, considering his hands were shackled to the table—and cracked his knuckles. “That’s what they’re saying?”
“They seem to think it’s a possibility, yes. Alex, if you shot him because you thought he was going to shoot
you,
you acted in self-defense. You know that, right?”
“You said
if
I shot him.”
“Right.
If
you shot
Shelly drew back. “I make four hundred dollars a
week.
”
“Surely not.”
She waved. She was exaggerating but not by that much. “Obviously, Alex can’t pay that.”
“Find out what he has, Shelly.”
She held her look on him. She understood rationally, but could not accept emotionally, that his representation might actually depend on how much money he would make.
“This is a for-profit operation,” he added, the closest he would come to apologizing.
“I’ll find out,” she said, quickly shaking his hand and leaving.
“Shelly,” he called to her. “Take a little more advice from me?”
She dropped her arms, closed her eyes. “Sure.”
“Sometimes kids—people—go bad. You don’t understand why. It doesn’t make sense. You do what you can to help them. And when you’re done, when you’ve done your best, you go to bed at night, and you sleep. Because after you’ve done your best, there’s nothing else you can do.”
They have to let you help,
she thought. She thanked him and headed for the elevator.
10
Schemes
A LEX B ANIEWICZ HAD been transferred from the police station to the adult detention center on the southwest side, which would be his permanent pretrial home, confined in a special juvenile section for those under eighteen held for adult crimes. Shelly was not informed of the transfer until she reached the police station, so she didn’t reach Alex until lunchtime.
She caught Ronnie on the way out. He was more dressed up than when she met him last night, now in a button-down shirt and slacks, hair well-combed. His eyes were bloodshot and he was crying. She figured he stifled his sobbing until he was out of Alex’s presence. She had caught him at the release point.
She put her hands on his shoulders. “We’ll figure something out for him. You need to keep up your strength, Ronnie.”
Ronnie swallowed hard and straightened himself. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me what to do and I’ll help. I’ll do anything.”
“Great. I may need that. I’ll talk to you soon.” She realized, after she left him, that Ronnie was supposed to be in school right now. Come to think of it, she was supposed to be at work, too.
She sat with Alex in a holding room. The table, to which Alex’s hands were shackled, was a thick piece of wood on metal legs. The chairs were a hard plastic and bolted to the floor. For some reason, the walls were a pale orange. She wondered who would have made that choice, then wondered why she was even thinking about that. It was amazing how the mind worked, howrandom thoughts entered the radar screen even during difficult moments like this.
“You and Ronnie have a nice talk?” she asked. Alex gave her a look, as if she had said something challenging. Maybe she had. It was probably the wrong way to start, under the circumstances, but she had less information than anyone and knew that had to change.
“Well,
I
had a nice talk,” she added. “With the F.B.I.”
Her client looked exhausted. His skin had a yellowish tint that gave the impression of illness. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark rings to the point that he almost appeared to be wearing makeup. His reaction to her words was slow, two unfocused eyes eventually meeting Shelly’s. She tried to shake the thought that she might lose this kid before it was over.
“I wish you’d told me when it happened,” she said. “Instead of shutting me out.”
Alex coughed quietly.
“This cop—Miroballi—you knew him.”
Alex nodded.
“He was coming after you, Alex?”
He stretched his arms—with some effort, considering his hands were shackled to the table—and cracked his knuckles. “That’s what they’re saying?”
“They seem to think it’s a possibility, yes. Alex, if you shot him because you thought he was going to shoot
you,
you acted in self-defense. You know that, right?”
“You said
if
I shot him.”
“Right.
If
you shot
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