He clenches his jaw, and the muscles going down his neck tighten, but it’s not a nervous reaction. Then, impressively, he adjusts and relaxes himself. He puts his forearms back on the table and tries to act like he cares about what I’ve got to say.
“You nearly beat that bouncer to death. We’ve been over all that plenty of times before, but I think it needs to be brought up again. There are witnesses who’ll say it was because he was doing his job, not letting you in the club ’cause you already had too much to drink.”
“In his opinion I had too much to drink, which wasn’t the case, and as far as those witnesses go, they all work at the club.”
“Yeah, we’ve been over all that.”
“And what about my witnesses? Dude gave me a hard time just ’cause I was white.”
“Let me finish, here.”
He nods, but just barely, as if I’ve been given approval to continue.
“The government’s gonna have all their witnesses and I’m sure plenty of others that’ll testify that you were disruptive and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’ll say you threw the first punch. We know that part is true, ’cause you even admit to that.”
“Hell yeah, he put his fucking hands on me. I had to defend myself.”
“Some will say that he was just trying to escort an unruly man out. But let’s step back and say, like you mentioned, that you threw the first punch ’cause you were defending yourself. A fight ensued and you even took a couple of nice punches yourself. The problem is you kept throwing punches even after the man was down. It ain’t anything like self-defense if you stopped the threat after, what, the second punch?”
He tilts his head, with what I would take as an inappropriate half smile, as if it’s something he’s proud of.
I continue. “The prosecutor’s not gonna have a hard time convincing a jury that he wasn’t a threat after you knocked him down like that. They’ll say all you had to do at that point was walk away. And trust me on this, Claypole—you sure as hell won’t have a chance of beating the charge if you try to make this into a black-white thing. We both know that ain’t true and all that’ll do is backfire on you, make you look like the racist. So, barring some kinda miracle, you’ll more than likely be found guilty. Come sentencing time, you’ll be looking at five to fifteen. With your history, you’ll get somewhere in between.”
“Man, this is some bullshit.”
“You gotta lose that pride, my man. Pick your battles, forfeit this one.”
“Sheeit.”
“What I’m getting at is you might want to consider the offer you’ve been given. You take the plea and you’ll more than likely get out in less than three, with good behavior, of course.”
“And what does Ms. Costello say about this?”
“I told you, she doesn’t know we’re having this conversation. As far as she knows, I’m here in an effort to find something new, something that might help her during trial. In fact, she’s back at her office preparing to go to trial. I’m just saying, based on all my experience, that this is not a case you want to take to trial.”
“Fucking three years?”
“Including the time you’ve been held, probably less. Shit, that’s nothin’ for someone like you. Eat regular, work those free weights, clean out your body and mind.”
“Yeah, a fucking vacation, right?”
I don’t reply to that.
“Man, I just got back on track with my lady and now this shit,” he says.
“She’s still got her job, right?”
“Yeah, but she’s gonna definitely have to sell my truck now. She had the good credit for the financing.”
“I seem to remember you bought that used.”
“Yeah, but it’s still more money than she can handle every month. She already blown through all the money I made on that construction job I had before I got locked up.”
“What do you owe on it?”
He has to think hard about it, probably because he’s never been the one to take care of the bills.
“Somewhere around eight grand.”
Something comes to me just like that, but I mull it over in my head for a second. Then I say, “What if I tell you I’ll take care of that bill personally, pay it all off on a no-interest loan?”
“What the fuck you wanna do somethin’ like that for?”
“You save us all a lot of time and effort and take the plea offer.”
“That’s crazy, man. You’re talkin’ through your ass.”
“I’m fucking real.”
“Why the hell you want to do something like that for me?”
“I wouldn’t be doing it for you. I'm doing it for Ms. Costello, who doesn’t want a reputation for losing, and I also know she doesn’t want to have to see her client get slammed by the court. Believe it or not, she actually loses sleep over shit like this.”
“I don’t know, man. This is crazy shit. You’re basically offering me a few thousand bucks to take an offer that puts me in prison for a few years.”
“Damn, Claypole, either way you’re not gonna get outta having to do prison time. I’m sitting here trying to save your ass from having to do more, is all.”
“You don’t know that for sure. It goes to trial, I can maybe win this.”