Gravewriter Read Online Free Page B

‘Idiots, such as yourself, may find the Constitution an inconvenient document, especially the parts about getting a speedy and fair trial, and the right to speak your mind in the newspapers. Well, fuck you. I will defend Peter Shadd because he is a man, a human being, presumed innocent, with rights of equal weight, in the eyes of the court, to you or me or the goddamn Pope’—uh, Carol, don’t put ‘goddamn’ before Pope .’ ”
    â€œMm-hm,” she said, scribbling.
    â€œ ‘So in conclusion,’“ Martin said, “ ‘take a civics class and then kiss my ass.’ ”
    â€œShort and sweet,” Carol said.
    â€œSigned ‘Martin J. Smothers,’ blah, blah, blah—you know the rest.”
    â€œMm-hm.”
    â€œOh, and add a postscript. ‘When I say kiss my ass, I don’t mean the smooth white outer regions.’ ”
    â€œOf course not.”
    Martin plopped hard on his desk chair and tore open his McDonald’s bag. He bit into his burger and squirted shredded lettuce onto his blotter. “Uhhhhh!” he moaned in delight.
    â€œYou sound like an addict getting a fix.”
    â€œRead back to me what you got,” Martin said, grease shining on his chin. “Please.”
    â€œ ‘Dear sir,’“ Carol said, reading her shorthand. “ ‘Thank you for expressing your opinion to me. What a delight it is to engage in robust debate. As a private defense attorney and a former public defender, I believe in the value of providing all citizens charged in a crime with a vigorous defense, as prescribed by the United States Constitution. Though you and I may disagree on the matter at hand, be assured that I respect your opinion and will take your comments to heart. Sincerely, Martin J. Smothers.’ ”
    The telephone rang on Carol’s desk.
    Martin grumbled, “At least you got the Constitution in there.”
    Carol grinned as she stepped to the phone. “Martin Smothers, attorney at law,” she said, using her polite but icy professional voice. Her eyes turned hard to Martin. “Oh—hi, Nicki,” she said, suddenly sounding breezy.
    Martin gagged and spit cow into the trash.
    â€œI’ll check,” Carol said, and then put the call on hold.
    â€œHow does that woman know every time I’m eating meat?” Martin cried.
    â€œBecause she’s been your wife for thirty-five years.”
    â€œI’ll be sleeping alone on the sofa for a month.”
    Carol laughed. “Your own fault for marrying into PETA.”
    â€œTell her I’m having a salad—no, too obvious and unspecific. A falafel! Extra humus! And I’m not here. I already ate and you found the wrapper on my desk. Please!”
    â€œYou know I don’t like to lie.”
    Martin stiffened, indignant. “Who says you gotta like everything you do to work here? I defend killers and rapists. Do you think I goddamn like it?”

four
    â€œP ovich! You brilliant son of a bitch! I’m glad I found you at work.”
    Billy could almost smell the whiskey through the telephone.
    â€œPhil?” he asked, checking his desk clock. “It’s almost two in the morning. Are you hammered?”
    â€œThere are anvils that don’t get as hammered as I am right now,” admitted Phil Nussel, the paper’s lead investigative reporter, sounding like he had a mouthful of Novocain.
    Billy laughed.
    Nussel explained: “So I’m sitting here an hour past deadline with the Madam Vroom column, and I’m blocked, man. Fuckin’ blocked.” Billy heard a bottle hit the table. “Whoops! Hang on… . Anyway, I’m working on my column and I asked my buddy Jim Beam for some ideas and, goddamn it, he’s fresh out, too. So I thought I’d call my old partner, Billy f’ing Povich. ‘Cause there’s nobody cleverer than him.”
    As an investigative reporter, a