Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin Page A

breath.
    Lisa’s dark eyes were wet and glowing. “Mr. Dane, this guy may not look like much. He doesn’t blow-dry his hair, and his suit could fit better. But make no mistake, sometimes a man ends up at a place in life where Charley Sloan is their last, best hope.” Her eyes gleamed. “Mr. Dane? This is that place. And you are that man.”
    Miles studied her for a minute. Finally, he said, “I got the house appraised a year ago. There’s a bunch of repairs and maintenance that I’ve let slide that have actually caused the place to depreciate. I mean, I’ve got barely any equity left.” He turned to me with a look of awful resignation on his face.
    â€œWhat about your collection?” I said. “The weapons. You told me that shotgun alone was worth, what, eighty grand?”
    Miles stared disconsolately at his fingers. Finally, he blew out a long breath. “What do I have to do?” he said.
    I opened my briefcase, took out a power of attorney form, set it in front of him. “Sign right there. I’ll do the rest.”
    After the meeting was over, Lisa and I walked silently down the corridor. When we reached the elevator, my daughter said to me, “Well, that was just about the worst thing I’ve had to do in a long time.”
    â€œWelcome to the criminal bar,” I said.
    She took out a cigarette, put it in her mouth without lighting it. There was an odd light in her eyes. “You know what, though?” she said. “I’m kind of jazzed.”
    As I mentioned earlier, in a way, Lisa and I barely knew each other. Other than the summer she’d worked for me a few years earlier, I had spent very little time with her since she was three years old. But still there are things, I guess, that you’ll only say to someone who shares the bond of kinship, things too intimate to be spoken outside the circle of one’s own blood.
    â€œYeah,” I said softly. “So am I.”
    She gave me a strange smile—half-regretful, but half-fierce and feral, too.
    Mark Evola—the judge who was handling the arraignment—smiled brightly at me as Miles pleaded innocent, and he continued to smile as I made my long and emotional bail pitch about Miles Dane’s deep roots in the community and his constitutional rights and the sweet breath of justice and a lot of other high-sounding stuff. Evola’s smile hadn’t dimmed by one single watt as he said, “Bail denied.”
    â€œYour Honor,” I thundered, “the state has proferred not one shred of evidence!”
    â€œAs you are well aware, that’s what probable cause hearings are for, Mr. Sloan. This is not a probable cause hearing.”
    â€œWell, I must put you on notice, Your Honor,” I added in the same outraged tones, “that I intend to appeal this injustice, if necessary, to the very highest authorities in the land!” It was all bluster of course. I was trying to give Stash Olesky the impression that Miles Dane was willing to spill vast amounts of treasure on this case in order to clear his name. But the truth was, Mrs. Fenton would print out a canned appeal, I’d sign it, and then I’d quietly let the issue die. When you’re on a budget—and ultimately every defense lawyer is—you pick your battles. The bail issue was a loser.
    â€œKnock yourself out, Mr. Sloan,” Judge Evola said. “I’m setting your client’s probable cause hearing for Monday.”

Thirteen
    I came back to my office and found my new client Leon Prouty in the reception area having a conversation with Lisa. Leon Prouty looked up and grinned, showing off several missing and rotted teeth. “So, the stripper lawyer is your daughter, huh, Chuck?”
    â€œFirst,” I said frostily, “my friends call me Charley, not Chuck. Young man, you are not my friend. You may call me Mr. Sloan. Second, my daughter is neither a lawyer nor a