A riveting thriller, the debut novel of a high–profile Manhattan public defender with a gift for writing about the law in ways that are vastly entertaining, witty, sardonic and wise.
A beautiful young businesswoman is murdered on the streets of New York after shopping for art in Chelsea, and in her final words to the police, she identifies her assailant. Or does she?
Arch Gold, dedicated public defender, gets the biggest case of his life when he's assigned to represent the accused killer, Damon Tucker, a young black kid from Harlem. Damon claims he's innocent, and Gold puts his reputation on the line to save his client and find the real killer.
Offer of Proof
By Heilbrun, RobertHarperTorch
ISBN: 0060538139Chapter One
Say your life breaks down, or your luck goes bad, and youget arrested, busted, taken into custody for some damn thing here inManhattan. You'll drop out of sight, just disappear. You'll be goingthrough the system, from the precinct where they print you and takewhat they call your "pedigree" information -- which sounds like youwere bred in captivity and are up for sale, but which actually justrefers to your name, address, and date of birth -- then on to centralbooking, where they fax your prints to Albany to see if you have acriminal record, and, finally, to court.
When you do pop up in a jail behind the arraignment court aftera day or two of waiting around in filthy grimy cells with tiled wallslike old bathrooms, sharing a few square feet with a lot of otherdesperate-looking people, you might be pleased to find that your court-appointed attorney is me, Arch Gold, working the night shift.You won't ask yourself why a young man who could have worked ata big corporate firm, making in a month what he makes in a year asa public defender, does this dirty work. You won't ask yourself,doesn't he have anything better to do on a Saturday night? You'll justbe very happy to see me, because my friendly face, and my apparentdesire to help you, whatever your alleged sins, will make you feel better,will give you hope.
I grabbed the top file off the pile of cases the court clerk had justthrown into the wire basket bolted to defense counsel's table. When Ifirst started as a public defender, I used to look through the files andselect the ones that appealed to me, secretly hoping my shift mightrun out before I got to a particularly nasty case that I'd left at thebottom of the basket. Not anymore. After ten years of this work, Ijust take the cases in the order they appear. Picking and choosingisn't part of my job description.
I looked at the name on the first file -- "Kathy Dupont."
When you get arrested, your lawyer is given three pieces of paperwith which to defend you in front of the judge at your arraignment:the criminal complaint, which purports to set forth exactly whatlaws you've broken and exactly how, all in stilted legalese; your rapsheet, based on your fingerprints, which lets everyone know ifyou've got a criminal record, no matter what name you happen toclaim for yourself this time around; and, last, a joke -- the CJA sheet.This is a form filled out by a career pencil pusher from somethingcalled the Criminal Justice Agency, who interviews you, and towhom you're expected to give a home address, your supposed occupationor lack thereof, and your supposed contact person, so thecourt can decide if you have sufficient "community ties" to mayberisk releasing you or setting a bail you could make.
I checked out Kathy Dupont's rap sheet. Twenty-eight years old. Second arrest. She had an open case for assault, just like this newone. The complaint here said she'd stabbed a fellow by the name ofJames Johnson, on Fifty-second Street and Ninth Avenue, at 4:45 inthe morning. The CJA sheet said she was a dancer. Probably notwith the New York City Ballet.
Kathy Dupont's file was a little curious, since the contact personlisted on the CJA sheet was the very same James Johnson whom thecomplaint said she'd stabbed in the ass. Sounded like a complexrelationship.
I walked back to the pens, to the women's interview cage, andcalled out her name. Through the steel bars in the door at the back Icould see into the women's pen. You've probably never been in jaileven for a day or two, locked up behind a courtroom in a twenty-foot-square cell. Right now approximately twenty-five women werepacked into the pen, some sitting on benches, some passed out onthe floor or curled up in the fetal position, all waiting to see thejudge. The women were mostly hookers, shoplifters, and crackheads.These were mixed in with the occasional woman arrested forassault, usually in self-defense against some man who wanted somethinghe couldn't have. The threat of violence didn't hang in the airhere, as it did in the men's pen.
"Kathy Dupont," I yelled out. One of the sleeping figures on thefloor came to life. She was wearing a short skirt over a tight, low-cutblack leotard, stockings, and purple knitted leggings. Her bootswere next to her on the floor. She tiptoed around various sleepingbodies on her perfect little stocking feet and slid into the interviewbooth.
She was a knockout -- big, dark, hurt-looking eyes, high cheekbones,long brown hair, and a body that appeared to have everythingjust where it was supposed to be.
"Aren't you sweet."
She had a real Southern drawl. I passed her a cigarette throughthe bars. I don't smoke, but I've found that a cigarette often eases thedifficult discussions that are inevitably central to my job. For somereason, people who get arrested tend to smoke way more than thegeneral population. There were probably a million reasons why,none of them good. She put the cigarette between her lips andleaned forward, her big eyes checking me out as I lit it for herthrough the bars.
"You my lawyer, cutie?"
She leaned back and took a long drag.
"Yes, I'm your lawyer. My name's Arch Gold. Who's JamesJohnson?"
"An asshole that used to be my boyfriend."
Continues...Excerpted from Offer of Proofby Heilbrun, Robert Excerpted by permission.
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