Chapter 2
As he climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor walk-up apartment, Matt considered what he knew about the man he was going to see: Leonard "Lenny" Jackson. Before the accident that left him blind, Matt had seen Lenny spar with his dad, Jack, many times. He no longer remembered what the man looked like – not after years of total blindness. But he still retained an impression of the quickness and agility that earned Lenny his professional moniker: "The Leopard." After a long day of training, Jack used to complain that Lenny was "slippery." Matt smiled at the memory.
Matt reached the fourth-floor landing and turned toward the apartment with an open door. The man standing in the doorway called out to him, "Over here, Matty!" Matt made his way to Lenny, who took a step back and clapped both his hands on Matt's shoulders. He held Matt at arms' length and exclaimed, "Look at you! Little Matty Murdock, all grown up, and a lawyer, by god!" Matt smiled and held out his hand. After they shook hands, Matt folded his cane, then took Lenny's arm and allowed Lenny to lead him into the apartment. The space was small, but clean and uncluttered. They sat across from each other in wing chairs in front of the bricked-up fireplace.
"Thanks for coming, Matty," Lenny said. "I've been so worried . . . ." He buried his face in his hands.
"How can I help?" Matt asked softly.
Lenny raised his head. "I don't know, you're the lawyer. You know what they're saying . . . what they're saying he did?"
Matt nodded. "Yeah, a little – just what Curtis told me and what was in the paper."
"I know Maleek didn't kill that girl. He doesn't have it in him. And his lawyer, the one the court gave him, won't give me the time of day. He won't tell me anything. If you could just find out what's going on . . . ."
"That I can do," Matt agreed. "What's the lawyer's name?"
Lenny pulled out his wallet and shuffled through some papers before finding a business card. He read from it. "Brendan O'Connor, at Legal Aid."
Matt smiled. "Brendan O'Connor?" he asked.
"That's right."
"I know him. He's a good guy and a hell of a lawyer. We had a case together last year, representing co-defendants. Maleek's in good hands."
"You think so?"
"I know so," Matt said flatly.
"But I don't know what's happening, he won't talk to me. . . ."
Matt interrupted, holding up a hand. "May I speak frankly?"
"Sure."
"You're not Brendan's client, Maleek is. His job is to defend Maleek, not hold your hand. And every minute he spends talking to you is a minute he's not working on Maleek's case. You need to let him do his job."
"OK," Lenny said doubtfully.
"But if it will put your mind at ease," Matt continued, "I'll talk to him."
"You'd do that?"
"Yes, of course."
Lenny leaned forward and took both of Matt's hands in his. "Thank you, thank you." After he dropped Matt's hands and leaned back in his chair, he added, "You know, I was surprised when Curtis mentioned you were working out at the gym. I always thought Jack didn't want you to fight."
"He didn't," Matt agreed. "But in my line of work, I can't very well hit the other lawyer, or the judge – or my client." He smiled wryly. "So I hit the heavy bag instead."
"Good thinking," Lenny said as he stood up. "But I've taken up enough of your time."
Matt stood up and followed Lenny out of the apartment. As they walked to the door, Lenny said, "You know, Matty, I always felt sorry for you when you were a boy, losing your sight and your dad like you did. But seeing you now, well, I don't need to feel sorry for you any more."
"No. You don't," Matt said sharply. He unfolded his cane. "Good-bye, Lenny."
As he walked down the stairs, Matt wondered about the tremor he'd noticed when he shook Lenny's hand and held onto his arm. No doubt Lenny was paying the price for his years in the ring. Matt tried not to think about it, but he knew he'd someday pay a price for the punishment he took as Daredevil. Who the hell was he kidding? He was already paying it. He gave a mental shrug. Whatever the price, he'd pay it.
Matt tapped lightly on the frame of the open office door. "Got a minute?" he asked.
"Matt Murdock!" boomed a deep voice – one that commanded the attention of everyone in the courtroom, especially the jurors. That voice, and the ever-present smell of cigarette smoke, told Matt he was in the right place.
"Hey, Brendan," he replied, stepping into the office and heading for the nearest chair. He stopped short when he realized it, like every other surface in Brendan O'Connor's office, was piled high with stacks of file folders and loose papers.
O'Connor hurried to clear away the papers, muttering, "Sorry about that." Matt put his folded cane on the stack of papers and sat down in the newly-vacant chair. O'Connor dragged his own chair out from behind the desk to sit next to Matt. "So what brings you here?" he asked.
"Maleek Jackson."
O'Connor groaned. "Ouch," he said, "that's a bad one. How'd you get sucked in?"
"I knew him a little, growing up in Hell's Kitchen. And his dad and mine, they used to train together. His dad asked me to look into it."
"OK," O'Connor replied. "And let me guess – he doesn't think his court-appointed defense counsel is up to the job?"
"Something like that," Matt admitted. "But I set him straight, after he mentioned your name."
O'Connor chuckled. "I'm sure you did. But if you could see my office, you'd know he's not entirely out of line. My caseload is ridiculous – so is everyone else's in this place." He frowned and shook his head. "Hell of a way to run a so-called 'justice' system."
"Tell me about it," Matt agreed. "So, about Maleek's case – "
O'Connor reached back and picked up a file from the corner of his desk. He flipped through it before answering. "I'm not gonna lie, Matt, it's not looking good for him. Cops found him kneeling next to the victim in an alley. She was almost dead, bleeding out from multiple stab wounds."
"Multiple stab wounds?"
"It's ugly. She was stabbed repeatedly, in the chest, the neck, and the, uh, genital area. She was mutilated pretty badly, down there."
"Son of a bitch," Matt muttered, sickened. When O'Connor didn't continue, he prompted him. "So, the cops found him – "
"Uh, yeah, they claim they identified themselves and told him to freeze, but he went for a gun, and they shot him. After he went down, they found a Tec-9 in his hand. And they claim he confessed."
"I'm guessing he doesn't have an alibi for the time before he found her."
"No such luck," O'Connor confirmed. "He says he was training at Fogwell's Gym that night, but he was the last to leave – stayed late to get in some extra work. Everyone else left at least a half hour before him. He's covered for some of the time the victim was missing, but there are gaps, so . . . ." He shrugged.
"DNA?" Matt asked.
"Still waiting on the results. But the, uh, damage is so bad, they're not even sure she was raped."
"Jesus," Matt swore under his breath. "Do they have the weapon?"
"No, it wasn't found at the scene," O'Connor replied.
"Any connection between Maleek and the victim?"
"None known. Her name was Candace Conway, 16 years old, a runaway from Macon, Georgia. Other girls on the street told the cops she'd been working in Hell's Kitchen for about six months."
"What about the other prostitutes who were killed?" Matt asked.
"They don't have enough to charge him. Not yet, anyway. But they're not looking at anyone else for them, either."
Matt frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn, this looks bad," he said. "What does Maleek say?"
"He says he was walking home from the gym and heard a sound from the alley. He went to check it out and found her. Someone shined a flashlight in his eyes and yelled at him, then shot him. He didn't have a gun, was pulling out his phone to call for help. Next thing he knew, he woke up in the jail ward at Metro-General. He also says he told the cops he didn't do it, he never confessed."
"He'd say that, of course," Matt observed.
"Yeah," O'Connor agreed, "but there are some things that don't add up. Like I said, the cops allege Maleek waived his Miranda rights and confessed. They turned over what they claim is a transcript of his interrogation. But you know, protocol says all interrogations have to be recorded, and – "
"Let me guess," Matt interrupted, "the recording just happens to be 'lost' or 'accidentally deleted'."
"Bingo. So that set off my bullshit detectors. And there's something else: Maleek says he didn't have a gun, it was planted. Cops say his prints were on it, but there are only a few, not like what you'd expect if it was his gun and he handled it regularly. Most of the surfaces were clean, as if they'd been wiped. And the gun was untraceable."
"What about the cops who arrested him?"
"That's another thing that's fishy. When I asked for records of any disciplinary actions or citizen complaints, the NYPD claimed there weren't any."
Matt gave an incredulous snort. "No complaints? For cops working in Hell's Kitchen? Give me a break."
"You got that right," O'Connor agreed. He looked at Matt thoughtfully, then said, "You knew Maleek. You think he could have done this?"
Matt didn't answer right away. He got up and made his way over to the window and stood there, leaning on the windowsill as if he was looking out. Finally, he turned toward O'Connor and answered him. "I don't know. I only knew him as a kid, and I was a kid, too, so . . . ." He shrugged, holding his hands out. "I don't know who he is now."
"And no one ever knows, in cases like this," O'Connor commented. "There's a monster living next door, and they all say they can't believe it, he's such a nice guy."
Matt pondered what O'Connor had told him. If he was going to learn the truth, he needed to talk to Maleek, in person. "You OK with me talking to Maleek?" he asked.
"Sure, no problem. I'll email you an authorization and get you on his visitors' list."
Matt picked up his cane and unfolded it, then turned to face O'Connor. "Thanks, man. I'll let his dad know." He held out his hand, and O'Connor shook it. "I'll be in touch."
Matt followed a Correctional Officer to an attorney-client room at Riker's. Jail visits were a necessary part of his job, but he dreaded them. It took all of his skill to manage the sensory onslaught. The sounds washed over him: inmates yelling between cells and squabbling over a card game in the day room, gangbangers issuing challenges, the moans and word salad of the mentally ill who were warehoused there without treatment, the clanking of weights in the weight room, the COs barking orders, the hum of the electricity that powered the place. But the worst part was the smell of too many men caged in too small a space – testosterone, stress sweat, jizz, urine and shit – overlaid by the odors of industrial disinfectant and what passed for food in there. And under them all was a smell Matt identified simply as "fear."
When the CO escorted Maleek into the room, Matt could tell there was something "off" about him. His heart rate and adrenaline were a little high, and he winced and groaned softly when he sat in the chair opposite Matt.
"Uncuff him," Matt ordered.
"You sure?" the CO asked. "You're – "
Matt interrupted him. " – blind. Yeah, I know," he snapped. "Uncuff him."
The CO's heartbeat betrayed his anger as he grabbed Maleek's hands and uncuffed him, more roughly than necessary.
After the CO closed the door, and Matt made sure he wasn't staying outside the room to listen in, Matt turned to Maleek and asked, "You OK, man?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I'm healing."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I mean it's nothin', a coupla guys jumped me, but I handled it."
"Who were they?"
"No one I knew. They weren't from the Kitchen – from somewhere uptown, I think."
Matt considered this briefly, then asked, "Your dad told you I was coming to see you?"
"Yeah," Maleek replied. He studied Matt for a moment, then added, "Damn, Matty, how long's it been? Ten years?"
"Something like that," Matt agreed. "I heard you're married, have a kid."
"Yeah, a daughter, Malia. She's five." He rubbed his hands over his face. "It's killing me, being in here, away from her and her mother."
"So tell me: what happened that night, when you were arrested?" Matt prompted gently.
As Maleek recounted the events leading up to his arrest, Matt focused on him. Maleek's heart rate was steady, and his story was consistent with what he'd told O'Connor. He was telling the truth. He didn't kill Candy. Relieved, Matt said,"I believe you, Maleek."
"Thank God," Maleek said. "I know you told my dad the guy from Legal Aid is a good lawyer – "
"He is. The best."
" – but I need someone who believes in me. Will you be my lawyer, Matty?"
Matt considered this. Knowing Maleek had not killed Candy – something that O'Connor couldn't know for certain – gave him an advantage no other lawyer would have. He wouldn't have to be content to play defense. He could do more than merely try to raise a reasonable doubt by poking holes in the DA's case. Since Maleek was not the killer, he knew there had to be evidence somewhere that would prove it, maybe even expose the killer. All he had to do was find it. He nodded. "I'll talk to my partners. If they agree, I'll be your lawyer, Maleek."
Matt stood up, unfolded his cane, and started toward the door.
"Hang on a sec, Matty," Maleek said. "There's something I gotta say."
Matt turned back toward him.
"I was a real asshole to you, when we were kids – picking on you, stealing your backpack or your lunch money. And I kept doing it after your accident, after you lost your sight. When you couldn't find your cane at school, that was me. I hid it. Then I'd use it to try to trip you up." He shook his head. "I can't believe I was such a dick."
"But you stopped," Matt pointed out.
"Yeah, after my dad found out what I was doing and gave me the worst whupping of my life. But just between you and me, I decided to stop before that. I was tired of getting my butt kicked by a blind kid. How'd you learn to fight, anyway?"
"The nuns brought in an old blind guy to train me."
"You're shittin' me. The nuns got a guy to teach you to fight?"
Matt chuckled and shook his head. "No. They thought he was teaching me 'life skills.' They never knew what he was really teaching me."
Maleek laughed. "What d'you say, when I get out of here, we go a few rounds at the gym, after hours, like?"
"You're on."
"Great. But, fair warning, you better keep your guard up. I'm a southpaw, you know."
"Our guys got to Jackson," Carlo Morelli reported as he entered the office and sat down across the desk from Rosalie Carbone. "They gave him a pretty good beatdown, but he was able to handle them. He's a professional boxer, after all."
"Damn," Rosalie muttered, shaking her head. "They'll try again?"
"Not those two. They got moved to a different cellblock. I'm working on putting a couple other guys in with Jackson, but it's gonna take some time."
"When you do, make sure they understand what they're supposed to do," Rosalie instructed. "I don't want them beating up on him, I want him gone." She waved her hand. "And it has to look like a suicide so Jackson looks guilty, and the case goes away. That's how we protect Nick."
"You got it, boss."
When Morelli stayed where he was, Rosalie asked, "You got something else?"
"Yeah. One of our COs got word to me that Jackson had an attorney visit, but it wasn't his assigned attorney, O'Connor. It was Matthew Murdock."
"Shit," Rosalie said. "What's Murdock doing, sniffing around this case?"
Morelli shrugged. "Beats me. But Jackson's a boxer, and Murdock's old man was a boxer. Maybe there's a connection there."
"I don't like it. Murdock and his partner – Nelson, the one who ran for DA – went after Wilson Fisk twice. And we both know where Fisk is now."
"Yeah. Attica supermax."
"I want to know why Murdock's interested in Jackson's case. See what you can find out," Rosalie ordered. "You still have eyes on Nick?"
"Always," Morelli assured her.
"Well, make sure you do. If he grabs another girl and kills her while Jackson is in jail, we're fucked."