Page 30 of Witness 8

‘You do now,’ I said.

‘Oh. My. God! I—’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I said, cutting off Harrison Washington III. He was motionless, staring open-mouthed at his ruined Dolce & Gabbana’s.

‘You all know what to do. Now go for a walk. I’ll see you in ten minutes. And remember, I don’t need lawyers – I need lemmings.’

They dispersed, and went in different directions.

Harrison Washington III didn’t close his mouth until he’d crossed the street.

All I had to do now was go pick a fight with the DA.

The waiting area in the district attorney’s office, just a block over from the Criminal Court building, hadn’t changed in years. There was no budget for décor at 10 Hogan Place. Same old worn seats. Same old stained coffee table.

Same old reception staff.

Herb Goldman had been an old man when I’d first stepped into this office. He was now positively ancient. Liver spots covered his face, but he always looked sharp. Black suit. White shirt. Blue necktie. The only indication Herb was getting older was the flap of loose skin that hung over his shirt collar; it kept getting bigger. Three or four district attorneys had come and gone through his office in just the last few years – resigning or getting kicked out on corruption charges.

Herb would outlast them all. I liked Herb.

‘How are you still alive?’ I asked him.

‘Only the good die young, Eddie. Never mind me – I read the news. How the hell are you still alive?’

‘I’m like you. The devil is keeping me alive for a higher purpose.’

It had been a rough few years. I had the scars to prove it.

‘Do you think I could grab five minutes with Castro?’ I asked.

His face darkened at the mention of the DA.

‘Have you met him yet?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘I seen a lot of assholes come through these doors,’ he said. ‘This guy takes some beating. I even put in for retirement.’

‘How does Mrs. Goldman feel about that?’

‘She’s got a nice place picked out in a seniors’ retirement facility in Florida. Goddamn Florida. It’s like an elephant’s graveyard.’

I winced, said, ‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘I’m praying I’ll have a stroke before it comes to that,’ he said, then picked up the phone and hit a button. He waited until the call was answered.

‘Hi, Maura, Herb here. I got Eddie Flynn with me for the DA.’

He listened in silence. Then put the phone down.

‘Now is not a good time,’ said Herb. ‘Castro is stressed to the balls and he’s on the warpath with everybody.’

‘Sounds like the perfect time for me to see him,’ I said with a smile.

Herb smiled back, said, ‘Go on through. If anyone asks, you snuck past me.’

I pushed through the doors to the outer offices. Islands of desks and stacks of paperwork with assistant DAs, secretaries and paralegals moving files, on the phone, or punching the keys on their workstations. It was hot. Men had loosened their shirts and ties, and I noticed bottles of water on every desk. The DA’s office was at the end of a narrow corridor that began on the otherside of the room. I made my way through the chaos of a busy prosecutor’s department, along the corridor and found the DA’s door open.