Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

his hand resting on the witness chair. Twenty-three grand jurors, solid citizens all, waited for me to answer.

So I did.

I followed Charlie's advice.

Half of it, at least.

I did what I thought was right.

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PREVIEW—"FOOL ME TWICE"

______

"You ever hear the expression 'Fool me once, shame on you?'"

"Sure. 'Fool me twice, shame on me.'"

"No, Lassiter. Fool me twice, you're dead."

______

Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter is back in "FOOL ME TWICE," this time defending Blinky Baroso, a "repeat customer" and unrepentant con man. In lieu of a fee, Blinky forks over stock in Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc., and that's where Lassiter's problems begin. The stock is phony; Blinky's partner is found dead; and Lassiter is the prime suspect.

To find the real killer, Lassiter follows a trail of evidence to an abandoned silver mine under the ski slopes in posh Aspen. That's where a priceless artifact of the Old West may be buried: the missing Silver Queen statue from the 1893 World's Fair. Or is that just a "Maltese Falcon," the stuff dreams are made of?

Either way, a homicidal rancher is after the treasure, and so is Blinky. Then there's Lassiter's ex-girlfriend Jo-Jo, Blinky's sister. Why is she suddenly trying to re-kindle the ancient romance with Jake?

It all leads to an explosive finale underground where Lassiter confronts his checkered past and his precarious future.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR "FOOL ME TWICE"

"Wildly entertaining blend of raucous humor and high adventure." —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

"A fast-paced thriller filled with action, humor, mystery and suspense. —The Miami Herald

"Delicious." —Los Angeles Times

"FOOL ME TWICE" and the entire Jake Lassiter series are available on Amazon Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords.

CHAPTER 1

IN THE SHADOW OF A CORKSCREW

Louis "Blinky" Baroso squirmed in his chair, tugged at my sleeve, and silently implored me to do something.

Anything.

Clients are like that. Every time the prosecutor scores a point, they expect you to bounce up with a stinging rejoinder or a brilliant objection. This requires considerable physical and mental agility, something like prancing through the tires on the practice field while reciting Hamlet.

First, you've got to slide your chair back and stand up without knocking your files onto the floor, and preferably, without leaving your fly unzipped. Next, your expression must combine practiced sincerity with virtuous outrage. Finally, you have to say something reasonably intelligent, but not so perspicacious as to sail over the head of a politically appointed judge with a two-digit IQ. For me, the toughest part is simultaneously leaping to my feet and veiling "objection" while buttoning my suit coat. Sometimes, I slip the top button into the second hole, giving me a cockeyed look, and probably distracting the jurors.

Blinky's eyes pleaded with me. Do something.

What could I do?

I patted Blinky's forearm and tried to calm him, smiling placidly. The captain of the Hindenburg probably displayed the same serene demeanor just before touching down.

"Chill out and stop fidgeting," I whispered, still smiling, this time in the direction of the jurors. "I'll get my turn."

Blinky puffed out his fleshy cheeks until he looked like a blowfish, sighed and sank into his chair. He turned toward Abe Socolow, who was strutting in front of the jury box, weaving a tale of deceit, corruption, greed, and fraud. In short, Honest Abe was telling the life story of Blinky Baroso.

"This man," Socolow said, using his index finger as a rapier aimed directly at Blinky's nose, "this man abused the trust placed in him by innocent people. He took money under false pretenses, never intending to perform what he promised. He preyed on those whose only failing was to trust his perfidiously clever misrepresentations."

Socolow paused a moment, either for effect, or to round up his adjectives. "What has the state proved this man has done?" Again, the finger pointed at my presumably innocent client, and the cuff of Socolow's white shirt shot out of the sleeve of his suit coat, revealing silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs. In prosecutorial circles, this is considered haute couture.

"The state has proved that Louie Baroso is a master of deceit and deception," Socolow announced, answering his own question as lawyers are inclined to do. "Louie Baroso is a disreputable, manipulative, conscienceless sociopath who gets his kicks out of conning people."

I thought I heard Blinky whimper. Okay, now Socolow was getting close to the line. Still, I'd rather let it pass. An objection would show the jury he was drawing blood. But then, my silence would encourage him to keep it up.

"This defendant is so thoroughly corrupt and completely crooked that he could stand in the shadow of a corkscrew," Socolow said with a malicious grin.

"Objection!" Now I was on my feet, trying to button my suit coat and check my fly at the same time. "Name-calling is not fair comment on the evidence."

"Sustained," said the judge, waving his hand in a gesture that told Socolow to move it along.

Unrepentant, Socolow shot his sleeve again, fiddled with one of the tiny handcuffs, and lowered his voice as if conveying secrets of momentous portent. "A thief, a con man, and a swindler, that's what the evidence shows. Both Mr. Baroso and his co-defendant, Mr. Hornback, are guilty of each and every one of the counts, which I will now review with you."

And so he did.

# # #

My attention span is about twelve minutes, a little more than most jurors, a lot less than most Nobel prizewinners. I knew what Abe was doing. In his methodical, plodding way, he would summarize the evidence, all the time building to a crescendo of righteous indignation. While I was half listening, scrupulously not watching Socolow so that the jurors would think I was unconcerned with what he said, I scribbled notes on a yellow pad, preparing my own summation.

I