Dead Man's Thoughts Read Online Free

no help, Family Court is no help. So she has him arrested for something the cops will take seriously—like a gun. The judge usually gives the guy an ACD, which means the charges will be dismissed in six months, on condition that he moves out. If he doesn’t, the charges are restored. If he does, everybody’s happy. Except that the whole thing’s been a lie and he’s spent a night in jail for a gun he never had. Justice, Brooklyn-style.
    I gave Boynton the spiel about staying away from his wife and told him I’d probably be able to get him an ACD. He relaxed visibly, unclenching his fists and flexing his fingers. “I surely do hope so. I’ll lose my job for sure if I’m not there tomorrow morning. I can’t let that happen.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll do my best.”
    I had one more file. “Digna Gonzalez.” A thin young girl with dark circles under her eyes raised her hand as though I were her homeroom teacher. She was charged with possession of a weapon. It was a big night for guns.
    â€œWho’d you shoot?” I said it lightly, to break the ice. She wasn’t charged with assault, and the idea seemed incongruous, like asking a rabbit if it ate wolves.
    Her eyes filled with tears. She whispered, “I try to shoot myself.” I felt rotten, irrationally angry that the complaint had given me no clue. Once it would have. Once trying to kill yourself was illegal.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMy husband, Ramon, he leave me and go back to Puerto Rico. That is bad enough, because I have no money and the Welfare, they will not help me. But then Ramon brother, he come in the middle of the night and take los ninos , my childrens, to go to Puerto Rico with their father. I cannot live without my childrens, my babies.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll get you out of here.” I was sure Di Anci would let her go. She had no record, and her story would melt a stone.
    Big deal. I could get her out of jail, where she never should have been in the first place. I couldn’t get her back to Puerto Rico or on welfare, or get the kids back. Or stop her being poor and young and helpless.
    That was it. Nathan and I had interviewed everyone in the pens. I stepped out to put my finished cases on the table and glanced at the clock at the back of the courtroom. 11:25. Another hour and a half and we’d be sprung.
    Nathan was before the bench, pleading out a driving-while-impaired, a Puerto Rican with a blue-around-the-edges look of a chronic alcoholic. The defrocked cop was next. He looked panicky, clutching at Nathan’s sleeve just as Nathan moved to approach. I was surprised at his nervousness; I hadn’t figured him for a virgin.
    While I waited for my turn at the bench, I dry-shot a portrait of a young junkie nodding out, a trail of mucus dripping from his nose past his slack mouth onto his T-shirt. I squinted to read the words printed on the front. Then I had it. “I looted this T-shirt.”
    I came back to attention when I saw Di Anci suddenly fly off the bench. He didn’t even call a recess, just took off.
    I looked inquiringly at Nathan, but he only shrugged back, then came over to the table, tossed his files in the box, and sat down. Picking up one of the files, he took his little spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and began to make notes.
    â€œAnother special project?” I asked him, teasing a little. He looked up and smiled. “I think maybe I can get this kid into Hope House.”
    â€œWhich kid?” I asked. “Not the tall, skinny one who ripped off his sister’s TV for dope money?”
    He nodded. “All he needs is to kick dope. He’s not a hard-core criminal.”
    â€œWhat are you?” I laughed. “A lawyer or a social worker? You can’t get all of them into programs.”
    â€œMaybe not,” he shrugged. “But, Cass, you know as well as I do that just