Page 60 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Technically, no. It’s Sammy’s. But it’s my investment.”

“Who are you—Warren Buffet? What do you know about investing?”

“Hey, it’s a good ROI,” he said, “unless your asshole business partner drops dead at the wheel, and the goddamn OnStar lady sends Five-Oh. I swear to God, Maggie—that shit was all Sammy’s.”

“What about the four bags they found in your pocket?”

“All right, so maybe I took a little off the top before Sammy started cutting it. One of my best customers has a bachelor party coming up. It was going to be a one-and-done deal.”

“You got thedonepart right. They nail you for this, and you’re looking at ten years upstate.”

“Thank you for your legal expertise, Counselor, but I already lawyered up, which means your ass is in trouble if you get caught talking to me.”

“And if I don’t talk to you, your state-appointed, overworked, underpaid lawyer will give you minutes of their precious time, then give you the good news—my office will let you plead out. And if you take it, I’ll see you in seven and a half years instead of ten.”

I looked out the window. Coniglio and the cop I’d recruited to talk to EMS were still busy. “We don’t have much time to work this out,” I said, “so listen to me, and listen good.”

THIRTY-FIVE

“Docket number five-two-zero-two.” Bailiff Ben Hudson’s deep baritone voice resonated through the courtroom.

Judge Horace Vanderbergen was behind the bench. He had known me since I was ten. Our families went to the same church, his kids went to school with me and Lizzie, and he and his wife, Fredda, had been Friday-night regulars at our restaurant for years.

That doesn’t mean that he cut me an ounce of slack when I appeared before him. In fact, there were times when I thought he’d been tougher on me than he had to be just to assert his impartiality.

But that Christmas Eve morning, with the judge nearing retirement and me on the cusp of motherhood, I’m pretty sure he glanced at me with a faint smile and a warm paternal eye.

The bailiff went on. “John Rollo, charged with criminal possession of a controlled substance in the seventh degree.”

As I’d expected, the judge snapped his head toward the bailiff, then looked down and rifled through the papers in front of him.

A solid minute passed before he looked up again. He smiled at me, and this time there was nothing faint about it. “Good morning, Mrs. Dunn,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I, Your Honor. Hopefully this is my last hurrah before...” I patted my belly. Judge Vanderbergen appreciated brevity.

“Mrs. Dunn,” he said, “possession in theseventh? The people are charging Mr. Rollo with amisdemeanor?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Approach, please.” His voice was stern, the smile gone.

Johnny’s freebie lawyer, Will Tucker, looked at me across the aisle. He was young, green, and visibly nervous. In the grand scheme of things that was better than old, jaded, and callous. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t sure whether the judge wanted me to approach the bench or both of us.

I hand-gestured, and Will followed me.

“Maggie,” Judge Vanderbergen said, his mic turned off, “the defendant has a history of dealing?—”

“Your Honor,” young Will piped up, “my client’s prior?—”

“Zip it!” the judge barked.

Tucker shut up fast.

The judge went on. “They had half a kilo of uncut cocaine in the trunk, and the only thing the people are looking for is a slap on the wrist?”

“Your Honor, if I may...” Tucker said.

“Go ahead, Mr. Tucker.”

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