Page 93 of The 1 Lawyer

I took a sip of coffee. It was weak and tepid. It made sense that they wouldn’t trust a suspected murderer with a cup of piping-hot brew.

“You want me to read it aloud?” he asked. “I know you know what it says.”

When I didn’t answer, Sweeney cleared his throat and began. “This is a Miranda warning and waiver. I’m filling in the date and place. And the time is”—he checked his watch—“one thirteen p.m. Your rights. ‘Number one. You have the right to remain silent. Number two. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Number three. You have the right to talk to a lawyer—’”

I broke in. “I’m not going to sign it, Sweeney.” No sense in wasting everyone’s time. Even though, admittedly, I had a lot of time to spare.

He continued reading as if I hadn’t spoken. “‘And have him present with you while you are being questioned.’”

I didn’t interrupt again. When he finished reading me my rights, he said, “The waiver of rights states this: ‘I have read this statement of my rights and I understand what my rights are. I am willing to make a statement and answer questions. I do not want a lawyer at this time. I understand and know what I am doing. No promises or threats have been made to me, and no pressure or coercion of any kind has been used against me.’”

He pushed the paper across the table and tapped it with his pen. “Signature line is right here. Detective McGuire and I will sign as witnesses after you execute it.”

He set the pen down on the form. I didn’t touch it. Crossed my arms over my chest.

Sweeney left the form where it lay. “We know you’re well aware of your constitutional rights. Shoot, Stafford Lee, you’re the expert on criminal procedure in this room.” He turned to his partner. “Right, McGuire?”

“Sure.” McGuire looked eager, like he was hungry to bite off a piece of me. “We just figured you’d want to give us your version of the facts.”

Hastily, Sweeney added, “We want to offer you that opportunity, Stafford Lee. Like I always say, there’re two sides to every story.”

I’d never heard him say that. It was bait, just bullshit. Sweeney wasn’t a guy who examined an issue from all perspectives. It was a trap. But though they had waylaid me, I hadn’t completely lost my wits. I kept my mouth shut.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, McGuire said, “We heard about your recent falling-out with the Caro family.”

I almost twitched and raised an eyebrow. Stopped myself in time.

Sweeney said, “There were some angry confrontations. That’s what we heard.”

His partner tipped back in his chair. “At the casino, with Hiram. And later on at Dr. Caro’s clinic. You were on a tear that day, weren’t you? Sounds like you lost it, were out of control.”

I didn’t respond.

“The old man can be hard to get along with, can’t he?” Sweeney’s voice rang with false sympathy. “Stafford Lee, you and me, we’re Old Biloxi. We know Hiram’s background. He was your father’s client, wasn’t he? That time they tried to take Hiram down with the rest of the Dixie Mafia?”

McGuire was impatient. He wanted to bring it back to me. “There were witnesses that day you went to see Hiram. His secretary in the casino business office and two security guards. And there was a whole mess of women inside Daniel Caro’s clinic. They all say you were out of your head, making threats. Acting violent.”

My breath came faster. Had I laid hands on Daniel Caro that day? Maybe I had. To an outsider, a spectator, it would have looked bad.

Sweeney made a mournful face, the corners of his mouth turned down, feigning regret. “Stafford Lee. We know about your history with Iris.”

I stopped breathing then. What?

He went on. “You were romantically involved with her in the past, weren’t you? When you were younger. People don’t forget something like that, Stafford Lee. Not in Biloxi.”

I almost lost my resolve to stay silent because I desperately wanted to deny it. Iris and I hadn’t had a deep romantic connection in the past. We’d gone on a couple of casual dates back in undergrad, and that was the extent of it. And it was more than two decades ago. I didn’t even remember if I’d kissed her.

They stared at me, waiting for me to crack.

Finally, McGuire took a new tack. “Tell us about those flip-flops.”

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“You wore them to court, right? Everyone at the courthouse knows the judge chewed you out about wearing flip-flops. Were they the same ones you wore to your job at the beach?”

Asking about my flip-flops? Really?

“When did you wear them last? Can you recall? If you could share that information with us, it would be helpful. I mean, it could help you out.”

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