Watch Me Go

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AMONG DOUGLAS “DEESH” SHARP’S well-guarded thoughts was the idea that his public defender, Lawrence Gerelli, might win more often if he’d now and then iron a shirt. Worse, Gerelli had a tendency to show his hand by letting himself go sour-faced, and here Gerelli was, doing that again as he sat across the table in the small white room and said, “Mostly, Mr. Sharp? You have a belief problem.”

“As in you don’t believe me?” Deesh asked.

“As in we need twelve jurors to believe you, and they’re going to be hard to find.”

“So you’re saying plea bargain.”

“The plea bargaining’s already begun, Mr. Sharp. The prosecution here in the Bronx is talking about sending you back to Pennsylvania — where, unlike here, people are still relatively comfortable with the death penalty.”

And there was that sour face again, and Deesh found himself leaning back in his folding chair to say, “Man, nobody gets to twelve without first having two in this room.”

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