Final judgment

FIFTY-TWO

The FBI had converted the phone in Fish’s kitchen into a government party line, the kind where the person on the other end didn’t know he’d been invited to the party. Everything Fish and Sylvia McBride said would be recorded, the text simultaneously appearing on a laptop computer as Pete Samuelson, Kelly Holt, and Mason used headphones to listen. A scruffy technician, his FBI identification tag hanging from a chain around his neck, double- and triple-checked the connections before giving Samuelson and Kelly a thumbs-up.

An order signed by a federal magistrate judge permitting the government to wiretap Fish’s phone lay on the kitchen table, partially obscured by the morning paper, one corner held down and stained by a coffee mug. Mason flinched when he saw the order, instinctively recoiling at the tool the government had so often used like a crowbar to break into his clients’ lives. He picked it up, reading the dry prose that blessed the raw invasion of Sylvia McBride’s life, the government’s allegations of reasonable cause accepted as gospel. Dropping the order on the table, he turned to Fish, motioning him into the living room.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mason asked him when they were alone.

“What choice do I have? They’ve got me by the short hairs and, even at my age, the short hairs can still hurt.”

“There’s always a choice. Some are harder than others.”

“Not this one. That bastard partner of mine got into my shorts for fifty grand. He played me like I was buying a time-share, then made me cry at his funeral. Now the FBI is going to help me balance the books and give me a pass on my indiscretions. That’s not a choice, my friend. That’s an opportunity and America is the land of opportunity.”

Kelly Holt appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. “Let’s get going.”

Fish left him as Mason lingered for a moment, glancing at the mantle above the fireplace where he saw Fish’s tallit and tefillin. The tallit was a prayer shawl worn by Jews during religious services. The tefillin were two small black boxes with black straps attached to them. Some Jews wore them while reciting morning prayers, one box strapped on their head, the other strapped to one arm.

“Don’t worry,” Fish said, looking back at him. “I prayed for both of us this morning.”

“Did God laugh when you mentioned our names?”

“No. He said quit complaining.”

Mason followed Fish into the kitchen. Kelly handed out copies of a photograph of Sylvia McBride taken as she got out of her car in a parking lot, an office building behind her. The picture was stamped with the date it had been taken a month earlier. The sky in the background was cloudy, the pavement asphalt, her car black. Dressed in gray, she was late fifties, early sixties; slender, almost shapeless; her indistinct brown hair cut short. Though the picture had been taken from a distance, the zoom lens had captured her plain face, free of expression, her flat countenance giving nothing away. Only her eyes showed any life, though her gaze was guarded. She was practically invisible.

Mason slipped headphones over his ears, the soft pads muting Samuelson’s last-minute instructions to Fish, who listened patiently, patting Samuelson on the shoulder as if to say, Relax, sonny, and watch me work. Fish was wearing a green warm-up suit that made him look like an overripe bell pepper, but his face was calm, his eyes sharp.

Sylvia answered on the third ring, saying hello in a voice that had the husky resonance of cigarettes and booze. If she wasn’t five years older than Mason had guessed from her picture, her life expectancy was at least that much shorter.

“It’s Avery Fish. How are you, Sylvia?”

She missed a beat in her reply, the hesitation enough to make Samuelson break a sweat. “After all these years. I thought I recognized your number on my caller ID. I’m fine, Avery. My God, it’s been what? Ten years?”

“Give or take, but what’s a decade between old friends? Right?”

“Nothing at all. It’s good to hear your voice. It’s been too long.”

“I should’ve stayed in touch more. I still miss Wayne. It’s been a long time.”

“Me too,” she sighed.

“You remember how he used to imitate my voice, call you up and pretend to be me?”

“It made me so mad,” she said with a laugh. “The two of you were always playing jokes on me.”

“What have you been doing?”

“After Wayne died, I moved up here to be with my sister because she had cancer. I was her only family except for a son and a stepson. Neither one of them had time for their mother. After I buried her, I thought, ‘Well, Sylvia, this is God’s way of telling you to start over.’ So I did. I went to work nine to five. Took some getting used to, but I did it.”

“I don’t blame you a bit. I should have started over too.”

“I saw you on television. I’m sorry for all your troubles.”

“Yeah. I made CNN. How about that?”

“I saw it. You could lose a little weight, Avery. It’s not good for you being so heavy.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got no appetite these days.”

“Keep fighting.”

“I have to. I’m innocent, Sylvia. I had a few unhappy customers like any businessman, and the government is making a federal case out of it.”

“CNN said they found a body in the trunk of your car.”

“Bad luck. His and mine. I had nothing to do with that.”

“I believe you, Avery. You wouldn’t hurt a flea. I hope it all works out for you. It was nice to hear from you, but I’m going to be late for work.”

“Sylvia, give me another minute,” Fish said, adding a touch of desperation. “I need a favor and I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“I work at a call center now,” she said, her voice stiffening. “Eight hours a day of customer service. It’s very boring, but no one comes to me for favors. I told you, Avery. I started over.”

“The government has frozen all my bank accounts, but I’ve got a lot of cash they don’t know about. It’s for my grandkids. It’s too much to leave in a suitcase under my bed. I need to move it, clean it, until this is over.”

“I can’t help you. I wouldn’t know how and I don’t want any trouble.”

“Don’t worry. My phone isn’t tapped. I’ve got a guy who checks it every day. No one is listening.”

“I’m listening. And, I’m not interested.”

“Sylvia, you remember the money I gave you when Wayne died? It was my cut from the last deal we did.”

“I remember. Wayne didn’t leave me much. I’m grateful for what you did, Avery. But that doesn’t mean I owe you.”

“I don’t mean it that way. You’re right. You don’t owe me a thing. But I’ve got more than twenty times that to move. I’ll give you a cut and you can buy your own call center.”

Mason listened as Sylvia hacked-clearing the phlegm from her throat, making way for the bait and hook Fish had tossed her.

“Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to do it. Wayne always took care of the money.”

“Then bury it in your backyard and dig it up when I’m dead. Just promise me you’ll get it to my grandkids. You can take whatever you think is fair for your trouble, but I’ve got to move the money in the next couple of days. I’ve got a hundred grand hidden at home. The rest is in a safety deposit box under a phony name. The feds have me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. I can’t go near the money. You and Wayne are the only ones I could ever trust with something like this, and he’s dead. Will you at least think about it?” His question hung unanswered. “Sylvia? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Well?”

“I’ve got some sick days saved up. I’ll think about it,” she said and hung up.