Deadlocked

Chapter 26

By the time Mason got to his office, the sun was melting the horizon, long shadows advancing in its wake, an orange volcanic rim around the sky. The pale blue neon spelling out Blues on Broadway above the door to the bar was faint competition for the celestial light. Cars were lined up in front, the bar's cool, dark comfort calling people in off the street.

Blues was playing his baby grand when he came in the back way. The clear notes rode over the bar chatter, air-conditioning for the soul, before slipping out the door. Mason paused for an instant, trying to place the tune. Blues jammed with the bass player, trading riffs. Blues had bought the bar when he got tired of playing someone else's gigs; he now played as much for himself as for the people who paid for the pleasure.

Taking the stairs two at a time, keeping the pace down the hall, fumbling with his key, Mason pushed the door to his office out of the way, not bothering to turn on the light. The pages of the accident report quivered in the fax machine, rippled by the breeze from the open door, Mason's hands trembled as he picked them up.

It was a Missouri Uniform Traffic Accident Report. Said so in large print across the top of the first page. The report was divided into sections, beginning with the names, addresses, phone numbers, sex, race, and age of the driver and passenger. John Mason. White, male, age thirty-three. Linda Mason. White female, age thirty. Next there were a series of boxes to be checked off for every detail. Road conditions- wet. Weather-rain. Time-11:00 P.M. And on it went, Mason scanning and double-checking the multiple choice rendition of life and death, disappointed when he saw that the box for witnesses was empty.

The second page ended with a narrative description by the investigating officer and another box labeled Cause. Mason repeated the officer's conclusion, slumping onto the sofa, not believing the sound of his own voice.

"Intentional," Mason said. "What the hell is that?"

"A word that means on purpose, not an accident. A necessary element of every major felony," Sandra Connelly said from the doorway to Mason's office.

She was wearing slacks and a blouse that passed for business casual during a heat wave, the blouse open at the throat, veins in her neck taut against her skin. Mason looked up, forgetting that he'd told her to meet him at his office.

Dead jurors and missing clients had suddenly become nuisances, as had Sandra's appearance on his doorstep. The meaning of the accident report sliced through Mason. "Intentional," the investigating police officer had concluded, meaning that Mason's father had driven through a guard rail and into a ravine on purpose, the only possible purpose being to kill himself and Mason's mother.

For a moment, he didn't blame Claire for not telling him. Nothing she could have said would have softened the blow. She cast life's harsh realities as the brutal truth, shielding her clients from things that would only curse them, no matter how true they were. That's what she'd done for him.

In the next instant, he rejected her, resenting her for cutting him off from a truth he couldn't have imagined. The man that had given him life had taken his own life and his mother's. The fantasy images he'd conjured as a boy of his grand and glorious pop haunted him in a flash of humiliation.

The scar on Mason's chest tightened, like he was being stabbed again, only this time from the inside out. He slipped his hand between the buttons of his shirt, massaging the scar.

"Lou," Sandra said. "Are you all right? I've seen CEOs doing the perp walk that looked better than you do."

Mason folded the pages of the accident report, and put them in the top drawer of his desk. He was burning up, flushed with shock, anger, and shame. The obvious questions banged inside his head, making him dizzy. How could his father do such a thing? What had happened between his parents? What did it mean for him all these years later?

He took a bottle of water from the refrigerator behind his desk, and drank half of it, stalling for time. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Sandra, or anyone else.

"It's the heat," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the sweat. "I know you wanted to get together, but something's come up. I'll give you a call in the morning. We'll have lunch."

Sandra crossed the room, standing on the other side of the desk. She clutched the strap of the purse strung over her shoulder like it was a ripcord on a parachute, her other hand palm down on the desk, steadying herself. The tremors at the corners of her mouth looked like fault lines.

She shook her head. "Whatever you just shoved into that drawer will have to wait until morning. We need to talk now."

Mason took a deep breath. His parents had died forty years ago. Sandra was in trouble or headed there in a hurry. That was plain. Putting her and his clients on hold while he figured out what had possessed his father wouldn't bring his parents back. He could leave the accident report in his drawer and never take it out again. Or he could try to make sense of it. What he did about his parents and when he did it wouldn't change a thing. Besides, from the look of her Sandra wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay," he told her. "You called this meeting. What's so important?"

"Whitney King has agreed to meet with you."

"Alone?" Mason asked.

Sandra swallowed. "Yes. I'll be there, but in another room."

Mason finished his bottle of water. "Why didn't he take your advice and tell me to pound sand?"

"Because he's got more testosterone than sense. Going one-on-one with you appeals to his puerile instincts. He wants to do it tonight at his office," she said, coming as close to begging as he'd ever heard her.

Sandra carried a knife in her purse. Unlike a lot of women who carried weapons for self-protection, she knew how to use it and wouldn't hesitate. She didn't rattle easily, but she was barely able to stop from shaking.

"You don't have to represent him," Mason said. "You know that. You can quit. Let him find someone else."

"I don't quit, Lou. You know that. Besides, Whitney has a certain charm that comes from having enough money to get into enough trouble to make getting him out of it worthwhile," she said.

"Then why do you look more swept away than swept off your feet? And why were you checking up on my missing client after giving me the lecture on ethics?"

"I didn't break any rules," she snapped. "Mary wasn't home. If she had been, I would have told her to call you."

"But you had to see for yourself, didn't you?" Mason asked her.

"Yeah," Sandra answered. "I always do and sometimes I don't like what I see. Let's get going. I'll drive. I'm parked in front."