a local bodega. The owner of the store had identified his client in a lineup as the one who’d hit him across the face with a gun, fracturing his jaw and knocking out teeth, before jumping the counter and taking several hundred dollars from the cash register. His client, despite having protested his innocence, had had an argument with the store owner the day before, telling him he was going to “come back and get him.”
Although he had witnesses who said his client was with them during the time of the robbery, the A.D.A. claimed the pictures from a closed-circuit camera put his client at the scene. Initially, the hard-nosed assistant district attorney refused to grant bail until Kyle insisted that his client didn’t pose a flight risk. Unfortunately his client’s witnesses weren’t model citizens, all having priors for petty crimes.
Kyle knew there was something his client was withholding from him, but so far he hadn’t been able to crack the hard shell the teenager had affected so as not to appear “soft” to his “boyz.” It wouldn’t matter whether he was hard or soft once he was sent upstate to a prison with men who’d been incarcerated more years than he’d been alive.
There was something about the teenager that reminded Kyle of himself when he’d run with the wrong crowd. Elwin’s “you’ll come to no good end” echoed in his mind. The difference was that at fourteen he was a juvenile and therefore he’d been given a second chance. But if he didn’t find something to prove Rashaun Hayden’s innocence, then the boy would become another one of the growing number of young men warehoused in state prisons.
A slight frown creased his forehead. Leaning over, he punched the speaker button on the telephone console. “Cherise, please get in touch with A.D.A. Clarkson and tell him I need a set of photos from the Hayden robbery.”
“I’m on it, Kyle.”
“Thank you, Cherise.”
Kyle had glanced at the grainy photos, but thought they needed closer examination. He closed the file. The trial was scheduled to begin in another month, but four weeks wasn’t enough time to prepare a case when most of the evidence pointed to Rashaun’s guilt.
He went through the other files, reading the updates until Cherise returned to tell him that everyone had gathered in the conference room. “I’ll be right in.”
Pushing to his feet, Kyle gathered the files, walked out of his office and into the conference room where he held meetings and met with clients and their family members. A gleaming cherrywood table and eight leather-covered chairs sat in the middle of the large room. One wall of built-in shelves was stacked with law books and journals. A trio of tall windows occupied another wall, while the remaining two were brick, one with a large working fireplace. An assortment of breakfast breads, fresh fruit, pitchers of freshly squeezed juice and carafes of coffee and hot water for tea filled a corner table.
The office manager had gotten the staff to donate a few dollars each week to have breakfast in the office to offset the exorbitant prices for specialty coffees and sweet breads until Kyle instructed her to take the money out of the office petty cash.
He filled a cup with coffee, adding a dollop of cream, and carried it to the table, which had been covered with place mats to protect its surface. Sitting down, he stared at his staff. Kyle marveled at the fact that he’d inherited an intelligent, experienced group of people who came to work on time and utilized their skills to grow the practice. With the exception of Cherise, who’d recently celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, everyone else was older than him.
He opened a file. “We’re going to start with Hector Lonzo’s hit-and-run.” Kyle looked at Mercedes Quiñones, the full-time bilingual paralegal. “Did you get Mr. Lonzo’s wife’s statement?”
Mercedes nodded. She’d recently cut her curly black hair, much to the chagrin of her husband of twenty-eight years, because she claimed long graying hair made her look older. “I spoke to her late Friday night. I have everything on tape, and I just have to translate it.”
Kyle smiled. “Good.”
It took less than an hour to go over the case-file updates, and when everyone stood up to leave the room Kyle asked Cherise to stay. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers to someone.” He scrawled Ava’s name and address on a sheet of paper, handing it to her.
Her reddish eyebrows lifted. “What kind of flowers do you want?”
He thought for a moment. “See if they have peach-colored roses. If not, then pink. The message should read: Hope you are feeling better, and my name.”
“How many roses do you want to send, Kyle?”
“Two dozen and I’d like them delivered before this evening.”
“I’m on it.”
A hint of a smile parted Kyle’s lips at Cherise’s trademark rejoinder. “I know you are,” he said.
She blushed furiously then turned and walked out of the room. Kyle knew he’d embarrassed her but he hadn’t meant to. When he’d bragged to Duncan and Ivan that his employees were superior to theirs it had begun an undeclared cold war among the childhood friends. Kyle felt closer to Ivan and Duncan than to his career-army-officer brother Kenneth, with whom he seldom spoke. Although Kenneth was stationed stateside, it was his sister-in-law who sent Kyle Christmas cards with updated pictures of his school-age nephews. His sister Sandra had a special place in his heart. She’d recently moved to Arizona with her husband and toddlers, and never failed to e-mail pictures of her adorable little girls.
He’d poured his second cup of coffee when Duncan Gilmore walked in. Duncan was the most complex of the trio. An even six feet, he cut an incredibly handsome figure in his Brioni suit and accessories. However, all of the sartorial splendor couldn’t disguise the sadness in Duncan’s beautifully modulated voice and occasionally too-bright smile. Women of all races and ethnic groups were drawn to his olive coloring, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair.
His friend had suffered a series of losses, beginning with his single mother, who died from a blood clot in her lung the year Duncan turned fourteen, to losing his fiancée on September eleventh. Having never known his father, Duncan had gone to live with a schoolteacher aunt in Brooklyn who had recognized his mathematical genius and encouraged him to work beyond his potential. He graduated with honors from Brooklyn Technical High School, then enrolled in Baruch College for a degree in business. He had returned to college five years later to earn an MBA from Pace University.
It’d been eight years since Duncan had lost the love of his life, and he had yet to form a lasting relationship with any of the women he dated. He had been the least commitment-shy of the three, but that had changed.
Kyle was shocked when Duncan had announced after his fiancée’s death that he intended never to marry or father children. Ivan went from being a friend to being a therapist, but Duncan had refused to listen to him. They’d allowed their friend to grieve in private, and nearly eight years later he was still grieving.
The two men bumped fists, a gesture they used when greeting each other. “What’s up, DG?” Kyle asked Duncan.
“That’s what I came to ask you,” Duncan countered. “How was the wedding?”
Kyle smiled. “It was spectacular. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the bridal attendants were luscious-looking.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Duncan asked, smiling.
“The
