Selected Short Stories for February 2023

The following is another one the stories in my anthology, Five Uneasy Pieces. It was nominated for a Derringer Award in 2010.

THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

“I hear kudos are in order.”

Mike Finnegan strode into the office he shared with Dan Marinelli, files under one arm and a battered briefcase swinging from the other. He parked the files on his desk and tossed the briefcase into a nearby guest chair. “Way to go, dude. You’re racking up an impressive record on those capital crimes.” He offered Marinelli his upraised hand. Marinelli slapped it in return, feeling Finnegan’s excessive give in response.

Lame-ass, white-boy high five, Marinelli thought. No wonder the brothers make fun of us.

“Thanks. I think I did all right.” Marinelli was having mixed feelings about the case he’d just won for the Culver City State’s Attorney’s Office. Chico Hernandez, a not-so-bright, emotionally-damaged, but sane man in his early twenties, had been accused of shooting a priest, Father Jaime Ramirez, who had allegedly abused Hernandez as a child.

“All right? You got a conviction, despite all that psychological crap the defense tried to raise. I mean, the guy’s got problems, okay. But that doesn’t mean he can go around shooting anyone who messed up his life in the past.”

Marinelli shook his head.

“Maybe it’s just me. You know how I feel about priests. Especially those pedophiles. Hell, it was all I could do to keep from slapping Hernandez on the back and saying, ‘Attaboy,’ when I saw him in court.”

Finnegan looked at him. “Dude. We’re talking about murder. Even a sick, twisted pedophile deserves better.”

“I know.”

“Besides, as the city with the second-highest crime rate in Maryland after Baltimore, don’t you think we could use the win right now?”

“Totally. Still … something doesn’t feel right about this one. Hernandez wasn’t retarded, just kind of slow. And he only spoke Spanish. The court assigned a translator to help Baxter get his story. Even then, she didn’t get much, from what she told me. He wouldn’t deal, but he wouldn’t fight either. So she ended up relying on that psych defense.”

“Well, that’s Baxter’s problem, isn’t it?”

“Sure. So why do I keep wondering what he wasn’t telling her?”

“Again, not your problem. Defendant has the right to remain silent, doesn’t he?”

“That’s not supposed to refer to what you tell your own attorney.”

Finnegan gawked at Marinelli. “Quit worrying about it, you dumb guinea. You did your job and the public defender did hers. You won. End of story.” He grinned. “Now, sit back, smile and wait for your next plum assignment from Big Dick.”

Marinelli nodded. Big Dick Dawson, Culver City State’s Attorney. He’d be happy. There’d be good headlines in the Culver City Chronicle’s morning edition—the kind of headlines that couldn’t hurt a State’s Attorney coming up for re-election in six months. Marinelli sat back and smiled. But he couldn’t seem to stop worrying.