The Arraignment by Steve Martini Page B

it between the four of us.”
    “I think my partner would prefer to stay,” I tell him.
    “We could do this downtown,” says Ortiz.
    “In which case I’ll get my coat,” says Harry.
    Ortiz looks at him from the two dark sunken holes in his skull.
    “Last time I looked, my state bar card was still good,” says Harry.
    “Is there a reason you would need a lawyer?” Ortiz asks me.
    “You tell me.”
    “You’re not under any suspicion, as far as we know,” he says.
    “That’s good to hear. I’ll make a note,” says Harry.
    The cop doesn’t smile, but he says, “Fine.” First skirmish to our side.
    “We just have a few questions,” he says. “I suspect you know why we’re here?”
    “Why don’t you tell us?”
    Every once in a while my eyes drift toward the handheld device on the desk. I’d like to reach for it casually and just sweep it into one of the drawers of my desk. But I don’t dare.
    “I’m sure you’re aware of the shooting outside the federal courthouse earlier this week. A double homicide.”
    He waits to see what I will say. Maybe some lame thing like I’ve read about it in the paper. I don’t say anything.
    “From what we understand you knew both of the victims, a Mr. Nicholas Rush and a Mr. Gerald Metz.”
    “Is that a question?”
    “Sure.”
    “I knew Mr. Rush. I was acquainted with Mr. Metz, having met him once.”
    “Good. Thank you.” A pat on the head from Ortiz. “And I take it you were aware of the shooting?”
    “I am.”
    “How did you find out about it?”
    I look at him. We duel with eyes.
    “I’d like an answer.”
    “I heard the shots.”
    “You were there?” he says.
    “I was across the street, about a half a block awaywalking the other direction when it happened. By the time I turned to look, it was over.”
    “Did you see the car, the vehicle with the shooter?” asks Ortiz.
    “Just for an instant. It was going the other way, away from me. What I remember is that it was a dark sedan. I couldn’t tell you the make or model. I didn’t get that good a look.”
    “And of course you didn’t see a license number?”
    I shake my head.
    “You probably wouldn’t,” he says. “We don’t think it had any plates. They were removed by whoever stole it, before the shooting. We found the vehicle late last night abandoned on the other side of town. I’m sure you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper,” he says.
    “Did you get any fingerprints?” says Harry.
    “That you won’t read about,” says Padgett.
    “How well did you know Mr. Rush?” says Ortiz.
    “We did business from time to time. Referred clients. That sort of thing.”
    “Were you close socially?”
    “We would get together for lunch once in a while. See each other at bar meetings.”
    “We’ve been told that you talked with him the morning he was killed.”
    “We had a brief conversation.”
    Padgett takes out his notepad.
    “Can you tell us what it was about?” asks Ortiz.
    “In general terms?”
    “We can start there.”
    “It was business. A client who was referred to me by Mr. Rush.”
    “Would that client have been Mr. Metz?” asks Padgett.
    “I’m going to suggest that he not answer that,” says Harry.
    “I thought you were just watching and listening.” Ortiz looks at him over his shoulder.
    “Sometimes I hit the ball back,” says Harry.
    “Fine. Why shouldn’t Mr. Madriani answer my question?” he says.
    “The identity of a client, before there has been any public representation,” says Harry, “is a matter of attorney-client privilege.”
    I smile at Ortiz. “Aren’t lawyers a pain in the ass?”
    “Does that mean you represented Mr. Metz?” says Ortiz.
    “No. It means that I’m not going to answer your question.”
    “Why not? What’s to hide?” says Padgett.
    “The identity of a former client,” says Harry.
    “Who is dead,” says Padgett.
    “Assuming that that client was Mr. Metz,” says Harry, “which is the very question you’re