The Enemy Inside

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I saw it in the paper this morning,” says Harry. “Sounds like a barbecue without the tailgate. Driver flambéed behind the wheel in her car. If you like, I’ll take it off your hands, but why would we want the case?” To Harry it sounds like a dog.

I ignore him. “The cops are still trying to identify the victim,” I tell him.

Harry Hinds is my partner of more than twenty years, Madriani amp; Hinds, Attorneys at Law, Coronado near San Diego. Business has been thin of late. For almost two years we had been on the run, hiding out from a Mexican killer named Liquida who was trying to punch holes in us with a stiletto. This is apparently what passes for business in the world of narco-fueled revenge. And the man wasn’t even a client.

For a while, after it ended and Liquida was dead, the papers were full of it. Harry and I, along with Herman Diggs, our investigator, became local celebrities.

Everything was fine until the FBI stepped in. They announced publicly that they were giving us a citizen’s award for cooperation with law enforcement. For a firm of criminal defense lawyers, this was the kiss of death, Satan giving Gabriel a gold star.

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