Witness 8 (Eddie Flynn, 8) - Softcover

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Steve Cavanagh is the bestselling and award-winning author of several books, including the Eddie Flynn series and Kill for Me, Kill for You. A former lawyer, he was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, where he still lives. Find out more at SteveCavanaghAuthor.com.

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Chapter One: Eddie

CHAPTER ONE Eddie

In the beginning, and in the end, it all comes down to money.

New York City runs on the stuff like no other place on earth. Everything is about the green. What you can make. How you can get over. Kickbacks and greenbacks. Everything. And everyone.

All the damn time.

Before I became a lawyer, I was a con artist. When I worked the bars, the hotels, the businesses, seeking out my targets for short cons, I looked for men who wanted to make a fast buck and didn’t care who they hurt in the process. I went after those who had taken a wrong turn in life and never looked back. As a lawyer, I was on the lookout for the same kind of people.

Once you realize that cash is king in this city, things get a lot easier and much clearer.

The case in front of me right now had to be looked at through the lens of this city. My client Jayden Carter and his pal Smokehouse had been driving through the Bronx late one night in Jayden’s brand-new Lexus. Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t gotten very far before they saw the flashing berries and cherries of a cop car behind them. A single whoop of the siren was all it took for Jayden to pull over. The cops said the rear of his Lexus was dirty, obscuring the license plate. A valid reason for a stop. Jayden had washed the car that morning. Far as he was concerned, this was bullshit.

Officers Ben Gray and Linton Coffee, already pissed off that they were on the lobster shift at their precinct, searched the vehicle and found an unlicensed firearm in Jayden’s car. He was arrested, charged, and—after being stupid enough to carry an illegal weapon, even if it was just for protection—he made the right decision.

He called me.

That was six weeks ago.

Jayden sat beside me at the defense table in a brand-new navy suit, white button-down shirt, and a navy tie. He was twenty-six. Single. Ran his own business: a furniture store in East Tremont. Smokehouse, Jayden’s childhood friend, sat in the gallery beside my assistant and secretary, Denise. He wore his best Canadian tuxedo: a baggy denim jacket and matching oversized blue jeans with a white tee beneath. His real name was Philip Martin, but he preferred Smokehouse, on account of his burgeoning hip-hop career. Both Jayden and Smokehouse were college graduates, well-read, smart. And they had both done the right thing during the traffic stop: they complied with the NYPD instructions and let their lawyer do the fighting later.

Denise was in her black pantsuit and white blouse. She dressed up whenever I needed her to come help me in court. Always professional, smarter than me and most lawyers.

“Mr. Flynn, you have a motion before the court?” said the judge.

His Honor Judge Leonard Hightower was one of the best judges in the city. He wasn’t a genius. He didn’t even have a particularly brilliant mind. The respect he had among the defense attorneys of the New York legal profession stemmed from two factors.

His interpretation of the law was accurate.

He wasn’t biased in favor of the district attorney.

Not much to ask from a judge, really. But the fact that he fulfilled these basic requirements put Judge Hightower in the top rank of the judiciary in New York City.

“I do have a motion, Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet.

At this point, the assistant district attorney, Thomas Baker, broke from the prosecution table and came over to see me.

“If we could have just one moment, please, Your Honor,” he said.

Baker was a young, hungry ADA with three years in the office and a thousand convictions under his belt. His fresh face and brassy blue eyes were zeroed in on a senior position.

He didn’t want to try this case. Didn’t want me to make this motion. Baker wanted to settle.

“Last chance, Flynn,” he whispered. “Two-hundred-dollar fine, two years’ parole, no jail time.”

Criminal possession of a firearm without a license is a felony in New York. If Jayden was convicted, he would go to prison. This was a sweet deal. The last offer I got from Baker was a five-hundred-dollar fine, ninety days’ prison time, and two years’ parole, but this was the best deal I’d ever been offered by a prosecutor.

A small fine. No prison time. Two years’ parole.

It wasn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card, but it was the next best thing. Baker had two cops waiting in the wings to testify that the license plate was muddy, obscuring some of the lettering. If they could prove the stop was legal, Jayden was going to jail.

Easy. Two veteran cops. Their word against the word of Jayden and Smokehouse, who said the plate was clean. You didn’t need to be a legal expert to know which way this was going to play out.

Only problem was the offer.

Baker didn’t want this case to settle. He really wanted it to settle.

That was what made me uneasy about the case right away. My suspicions were confirmed once I’d gotten all the paperwork from Jayden: his arrest sheet and all the legal docs that come with it, property seizure of the firearm, and the towing receipt.

That was all I needed.

“Hey, man,” said Jayden, “that’s not a bad deal. No jail time?”

“It’s your call,” I said. I looked over at Baker. He was talking to his first witness. Officer Ben Gray. Only, he was no longer Patrolman Gray. The three blue stripes on the arm of his uniform meant he had gone up in the world since this stop.

That clinched it.

“If you want my advice, we fight. You won’t do time with this deal, but you’ll be a convicted felon. That brings a ton of shit that you have to carry around. You can’t ever legally possess a firearm, you won’t get a loan or credit card, you won’t get a mortgage, you’ll lose your driver’s license—and that’s just the beginning.”

He nodded, said, “I hear you, man, but this white judge is never going to believe that license plate was clean. Not when there’s two white cops saying my plate was dirty.”

“I agree,” I said.

“You what?”

“You’re right. He won’t believe you over two white cops.”

“So why are we fighting this?”

“Because I’m not going to call you as a witness to testify that your license plate was clean. We’re going to get one of the cops to do it for us.”

Jayden looked at me like I’d just told him I’d bought the Brooklyn Bridge for a nickel.

I asked him to trust me. He nodded.

“Mr. Baker, Mr. Flynn,” said the judge. “Are you ready to proceed?”

“I am, Your Honor. Mr. Baker has agreed to call Officer Ben Gray to speak to the single issue in this case. I will have questions for the officer afterwards.”

“Proceed,” said Judge Hightower.

The tall cop in the new sergeant’s stripes came forward, took the oath, sat down, and gave fast, clean answers to Baker’s questions. Gray and his partner were on the night shift. They saw a Lexus drive past with mud on the license plate, obscuring the lettering. They stopped the car, informed the driver why he’d been pulled over. Got his license and registration and ran a check on both.

“During the stop, Sergeant...