Criminal Law

Jane

This is going to be tricky. One thing is for sure: the video has to go. The question is, carrot or stick. Plata o plomo. First I'm definitely going to need Jackson out on parole. Maybe he can be the plomo. The judge will be easy. He's a little shit from San Francisco whose never been pressured before. Why would they put a judge whose only been on the bench for two years and only lived here for three onto such a high-profile case? Whatever the reason, I'm thankful. It makes my job a hell of a lot easier. I'll grab a taxi to Wilson's house. He's a sick fuck Neo-Nazi who I've had the distinct displeasure of associating with over the years. I'm not a big fan of the carrot. I'm leaning towards stick.

What a weird name for a guy of that sort. What thug goes by Wilson? Well, I guess he never thought to change it. Why not Adolf? That works perfectly well for a man in his position. I'll only use him if a scalpel doesn't work and I need a sledgehammer. Still, I need to lay some groundwork for this case. I need to know in advance what tools I have at my disposal.

I'm glad I'm packing for this. Wilson's gone off the rails on more than one occasion. Twice he's had to call in favors from me to make those issues go away. Happy to help. That is, as long as he's in my debt, I'm happy to help. The second we break even I'll dump him with a phone call to the station, and I'll surface the overwhelming evidence against him. Photos, fingerprints, murder weapon, the works. My clean team is damn good, but they always give me enough evidence to act as an effective contingency plan. I keep them securely below my floorboards. Cliché, I know, but it does the job.

We pull off onto his shitty side street in Queens. I pay the ambiguously ethnic driver, probably from something-stan, a hefty tip to stay here and wait for my return. I walk up to the wrought-iron, rusted door grate and knock with my umbrella. After a few seconds, Wilson's severe face appears through the grate, as he turns the lock and let's me it. "Jane?", he fumbles in his soft, greasy voice. "Wilson." I reply heavily. I enter past him. "I'm short on time, so I'll cut to the chase. I may need to call in a favor from you. I'm just giving you notice, so don't leave the area any time soon. I will call you with details. You probably won't have to kill anyone, but assault is likely. Use discretion, obviously. I can only get you off if he doesn't see your face." He's still staring dumbly at me. "Do you understand?" I ask, wondering about his current level of sobriety. "Yeah, sugar." he says. Disgusting. Sweat drips down his neck, crossing the snake tattoo that encircles his throat. Not his only ink, the tattoo is faded and blurry, like something done by an amateur. Too elaborate for a prison tat. I wonder what the story behind that is. "Good. I will call you. I have your number." I turn and exit the building, trying not to look hurried. I slide into the cracked green faux-leather bench of the rusty Accord. That went well. I catch my breath.