Rogue Lawyer

1.

I fight the panic. I tell myself my son is safe, and I believe this. But the situation is so urgent that it is impossible to think rationally. Partner and I go to a coffee joint where we huddle in a corner. I walk through the various scenarios as he listens.

There is really no choice. The only important thing here is the safety and deliverance of my son; everything else fades in comparison. If I divulge the secret and lose my license to practice law, I’ll survive. Hell, I might even prosper somewhere else, and I certainly won’t be dealing with the likes of Arch Swanger again. This could be my ticket out of the profession, my one beautiful opportunity to walk away from the law and to search for real happiness.

I want that little boy in my arms.

Partner and I debate whether I should call Judith and bring her up to date. I decide not to, not now anyway. She will add nothing but stress and complications. And, much more important, she might let it slip to someone else that Kemp and associates have pulled an inside job. Reardon warned me to keep it quiet.

I call Judith anyway, just to check on her. Ava answers the phone and says Judith is in bed, medicated, and not doing well. The FBI just left the house. There is a swarm of reporters out in the street. Things are just awful. As if I don’t know.

At 7:00 p.m. Sunday, I call Reardon and say we have a deal.

It takes an hour to get a search warrant. Obviously, the police have a friendly judge on standby. At 8:30, Partner and I leave the City, with one unmarked car in front of us and one behind, which is nothing unusual. By the time we get to Dr. Woo’s sign, the police are there in force. Spotlights, two backhoes, at least two dozen men with shovels and sticks, and a canine squad of dogs in crates. I’ve told them everything I know, and they’re examining the ground next to the rows of corn. State troopers guard the shoulder of the interstate, waving off any driver who might get curious.

Partner parks the van where they tell us to park, a hundred feet away from the sign and the action. We sit and watch and hope as the first few frantic moments slip away and the long hours begin. They methodically poke into every square inch of soil. They make a grid, comb through it, then make another one. The backhoes are not used. The dogs stay calm.

On the other side of the sign there are several unmarked black cars bunched together in the darkness. I’m sure Assistant Chief Kemp is waiting in one of them. I loathe him and would like to personally drill him between the eyes, but right now he’s the man who can deliver my son.

And then I remember what he’s been through: the horror, the fear, the waiting, the final resignation when he and his wife realized Jiliana was not coming home. Now he’s sitting over there praying his men will find some bones, something for him to bury properly. That’s the best he can expect—a skeleton. My expectations are far greater and certainly more realistic.

By midnight, I’m cursing Arch Swanger.

2.

As they work through the night, Partner and I take turns nodding off. We’re starving and desperate for coffee, but we’re not about to leave. At 5:20, Reardon calls my cell and says, “It’s a dry run, Rudd, there’s nothing here.”

“I’ve told you everything I know, I swear.”

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

“You can leave now. Get back on the interstate, head south to the Four Corners exit. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”

As we pull away, the searchers are packing up their gear. The dogs are still in their crates, resting. Arch Swanger is probably watching and laughing. We head south, and twenty minutes later Reardon calls again. He says, “You know that truck stop at Four Corners?”

“I think so.”

“Park at the gas pumps but don’t buy any gas. Walk inside, the restaurant is on the right, and at the far end, away from the counter, is a row of booths. Your kid will be there eating ice cream.”

“Got it.” I want so badly to say something as stupid as “Thanks,” like I owe someone a debt of gratitude for kidnapping my child, not hurting him, and then giving him back. Truthfully, though, I am overcome with relief, joy, gratitude, anticipation, and a strange disbelief that this abduction just might end on a happy note. This never happens.

A minute later, my phone buzzes again. It’s Reardon and he says, “Look, Rudd, there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing this matter, asking a bunch of questions, running to the press, chasing cameras, you know, your typical routine. We’ll take care of the press and leak it that you pulled off a dramatic rescue, after an anonymous phone call. Our kidnapping investigation will continue but will turn up nothing. Are we on the same page here, Rudd?”

“Yes, I’m with you.” I’ll agree to anything at this point.

“The story is that someone snatched your kid, got fed up with the brat because he probably acts a lot like you, and decided to ditch him at a truck stop. You got the story, Rudd?”

“Got it,” I manage to spit out as I bite my tongue to keep from unloading every vile word in the book.

The truck stop is awash with lights and crowded with rigs stacked in neat rows. We park by the pumps and I walk quickly inside. Partner stays in the van to watch for anyone who might be watching us. The restaurant is busy with the breakfast crowd. The smell of thick grease hangs in the air. The counter is lined with beefy truckers devouring pancakes and sausages. I turn a corner, see the booths, pass one, two, three, and there in the fourth booth, all alone, is little Starcher Whitly, grinning from behind a large bowl of chocolate ice cream.

I kiss him on top of his head, tousle his hair, and sit across from him. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess.”

“Did anyone hurt you?”

He shakes his head. No.

“Tell me, Starcher. Did anyone do anything to hurt you?”

“No. They were very nice.”

“And who is they? Who has been with you since you left the park on Saturday?”

“Nancy and Joe.”

A waitress stops at the booth. I order some coffee and scrambled eggs. I ask her, “Who brought this kid in here?”

The waitress looks around, says, “I don’t know. Some woman was here just a minute ago, said the kid wanted a bowl of ice cream. She must’ve left or something. I guess you’re paying for the ice cream.”

“Gladly. Do you have surveillance cameras?”

She nods at the window. “Out there, but not in here. Something the matter?”

“No. Thanks.”

As soon as she leaves I ask Starcher, “Who brought you in here?”

“Nancy.” He takes a bite of ice cream.

“Look, Starcher, I want you to put the spoon down for a moment, and I want you to tell me what happened when you went into the restroom at the park. You were racing your boat, you had to pee, and you walked to the restroom. Now, tell me what happened.”

He slowly sticks the spoon into the ice cream and leaves it there. “Well, all of a sudden, this big man grabbed me. I thought he was a policeman because he was wearing a uniform.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“I don’t think so. He put me in a truck that was right behind the restroom. There was another man driving the truck and they drove away real fast. They said they were taking me to the hospital because something bad had happened to my grandmother. They said you would be at the hospital. So we drove and drove and then we were out of the City, way out in the country, and that’s where they left me with Nancy and Joe. The men left, and Nancy said my grandmother was going to be okay, and that you would stop by real soon to get me.”

“Okay. That was Saturday morning. What did you do the rest of Saturday, and all day yesterday, Sunday?”

“Well, we watched television, some old movies and stuff, and we played backgammon a lot.”

“Backgammon?”

“Uh-huh. Nancy asked me what games I liked to play and I said backgammon. They didn’t know what it was, so Joe went to the store and bought a backgammon board, a cheap one. I taught them how to play, and beat them too.”

“So they were nice to you?”

“Real nice. They kept telling me you were at the hospital and couldn’t leave.”

Partner finally comes inside. He is relieved to see Starcher and gives the kid a pat on the head. I tell him to find the manager of the truck stop and locate the surveillance cameras; inform the manager that the FBI will want the footage, so take care of it.

My eggs arrive and I ask Starcher if he’s hungry. No, he’s not. He’s been eating pizza and ice cream for the past two days. Anything he wanted.

3.

Since I’ve never been invited into Starcher’s home, I decide that I will not take him there. I don’t want the drama and theatrics. Half an hour from the City, I finally call Judith with the news that her son is safe. He’s sitting on my lap as we ride up the interstate. She is almost too stunned to speak, so I give Starcher my phone. He says, “Hi, Mom,” and I think she has a complete meltdown. I give them a few minutes, then take the phone back and explain that I got a call and was instructed to pick him up at the truck stop. No, he had not been harmed in any way, except maybe too much sugar.

The parking lot outside her office is still empty—it’s only 7:30—and we wait in peace before the storm. The black Jaguar slides into the lot and brakes hard next to the van. I step out with Starcher as Judith gets out and lunges for the kid. She grabs him, bawling and clawing, and right behind are her parents and Ava. They take turns squeezing the kid; everybody’s crying. I can’t stand these people, so I walk over to Starcher, tousle his hair again, and say, “I’ll see you later, bud.”

He’s being smothered and doesn’t respond. I ask Judith to step aside for a moment, and when we’re alone I say, “Can we meet here with the FBI later in the morning? There’s more to the story.”

“Tell me now,” she hisses.

“I’ll tell you when I want to tell you, and that’s with the FBI listening. Okay?”

She hates it when she’s not in control. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and manages to say, “Sure.”

I walk away, refuse to acknowledge her parents, and get in the van. As we drive away, I look at Starcher and wonder when I’ll see him again.

4.

At 9:00 a.m., I’m in court for a preliminary hearing. By then, the news is out, courtesy of a leak by the police, that my son has been found and returned to his parents. The judge grants me a continuance and I hurry out of the courtroom. I have a handful of lawyer pals and several of them want to chat and offer congratulations. I’m just not in the mood.

Fango ambushes me in the hallway, just like he did three weeks ago. I keep walking and refuse to look at him. He falls in beside me and says, “Say, Rudd, Link is getting pretty anxious about the money. I told him about your kid and all, and, by the way, he sends his concerns.”

“Tell Link to worry about his own problems,” I snap as we march stride for stride.

“He is, and one of his problems just happens to be you and the money.”

“Too bad,” I say and walk even faster.

He labors to keep up with me, labors to think of something clever to say, and makes a big mistake with “You know, your kid just might not be that safe after all.”

I wheel around and throw a tight right cross that lands perfectly on his chin. He walks into it and doesn’t see it until it’s too late. His head jerks so violently that I hear the crunching of bones somewhere, and in the first split second I think I’ve broken his neck.

But his neck is fine; he’s been hit before, plenty of times, and has the scars to prove it.

Fango sprawls across the marble floor, and when he finally comes to rest he doesn’t move. Out cold. A perfect knockout punch that I could never replicate. I’m tempted to kick him in the head a few times for good measure, but out of the corner of my eye I see a sudden movement. Another thug is moving toward me and he’s reaching for a pocket and a weapon. Someone yells behind me.

The second thug goes down as hard as Fango when Partner whacks him over the head with a stainless steel baton he carries in his coat pocket. The baton is designed for just such occasions. When contracted it’s about six inches long, but when whipped out properly it extends to eighteen inches and is equipped with a steel knob at its tip. It can easily crack a skull, is in fact designed to do so. I tell Partner to give it to me and disappear. A security guard runs over and looks at the two unconscious thugs. I hand him my bar association ID card and say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. These two goons just tried to jump me.”

A crowd gathers. Fango wakes up first, mumbling and rubbing his jaw, then he tries to stand but can’t find his feet. Finally, with the help of the security guard, he gets up, still wobbly, and wants to leave. A cop makes him sit on a nearby bench while an EMT tends to his buddy. Eventually, the second guy wakes up, with a very large knot on the back of his head. They ice it for a few minutes, then put him on the same bench with Fango. I stand close and glare at them. They glare right back. The EMT gives me an ice pack for my right hand.

Getting punched is nothing for these two and they’re not about to press charges. That would require paperwork, a lot of questions, and no small amount of prying by the police. They work for Link Scanlon and they don’t answer questions. Right now they can’t wait to get out of the building and back on the streets, where they make the rules.

I tell the police that I, too, have no desire to press charges. As I walk away, I lean close to Fango and whisper, “Tell Link that if I hear one more word out of you, or him, I’m going to the FBI.”

Fango sneers as if he might spit in my face.

5.

I suppose some days are meant to be spent with the FBI. I walk into the lobby of Judith’s firm a few minutes after 11:00 a.m. The receptionist is smiling and chatting with a paralegal. They smile at me and gush with congratulations. I don’t realize it immediately, but they think I’m some sort of hero. A lawyer sticks her head out of her office door and says congratulations. The mood is almost jubilant, and why not? Starcher has been rescued and is safely at home, where he belongs. We were all numb, shell-shocked, terrified, and waiting for the nightmare to become a tragedy. Instead, we got lucky.

Judith is in a large, well-appointed conference room with two FBI agents, Beatty and Agnew. Though my right hand is swollen and throbbing, I manage to shake their hands without any evidence of pain. I nod at Judith, say no to coffee, and ask how Starcher is doing. Just fine. Everything is swell.

Beatty, the talker, explains that Judith called the FBI late Saturday afternoon, but they had not officially entered the investigation. Agnew, the note taker, scribbles away and nods his head; whatever Beatty says is exactly true. The FBI does not get involved in kidnappings until the local police invite them in, or there is evidence that the victim has been moved across state lines. He prattles on for a while, smug with his importance. I let him go.

“Now,” Beatty says, looking at me, “you wanted to meet?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I know exactly who kidnapped Starcher, and I know why.”

Agnew’s pen stops in mid-stroke as everyone freezes. With her eyebrows arched, Judith says, “Do tell.”

So I tell the story, all of it.

6.

The elation Judith felt upon our son’s return dissipates halfway through my narrative. When it becomes apparent that the abduction was a direct result of another one of my notorious cases, her body language shifts dramatically and her mind starts racing away. Now, finally, she has clear proof that I am a danger to Starcher. She’ll probably file papers this afternoon.

I avoid eye contact with her, but the vibes are strong enough to spike the tension in the room.

When I finish, Beatty seems stunned. Agnew has burned through an entire legal pad with his chicken scratch.

Beatty says, “Well, I guess there’s a good reason the police didn’t want us involved.”

Agnew grunts his agreement. Judith asks, “How can you prove any of this?”

“I didn’t say I could prove it. Proof will be difficult, if not impossible. There may be surveillance footage of Nancy at the truck stop, taking the kid in, but I bet she’s disguised in some way. I doubt if Starcher could identify the guy who grabbed him at the park. I don’t know. You have any suggestions?”

She says, “It seems pretty far-fetched, the theory that the police would abduct a child.”

“So you don’t believe me?” I fire back.

The truth is that she wants to believe me. She wants my story to be true; because then she can use it as evidence against me when she drags me back to court. She won’t answer my question. “So what’s next?” I ask Beatty.

“Wow. I’m not sure. We’ll have a chat with our supervisor and go from there.”

I say, “I have a meeting this afternoon with an investigator with the police. They’ll seem concerned, ask a lot of questions, but it’s going nowhere. They’ll close the case by the end of the week and be happy with a good outcome.”

Beatty asks, “And you want us to open an investigation?”

I look at Judith and say, “Perhaps we should talk about it first. I’m inclined to pursue Kemp. What about you?”

She says, “Let’s talk.”

Beatty and Agnew take their cue and stand to leave. We thank them and Judith walks them to the front door. When she returns to the conference room, she sits across from me and says, “I don’t know what to do. I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

“We can’t allow the police to do this, Judith.”

“I know, but don’t you already have enough trouble with them? If Kemp is desperate enough to snatch a child, he might do anything. Now do you understand why I get nervous when Starcher is with you?”

I can’t really argue with this.

“Do you think Swanger killed the girl?” she asks.

“Yes, and he’s probably killed others.”

“Great. Another lunatic out there gunning for you. You’re a train wreck, Sebastian, and you’re going to get someone hurt. I just hope it’s not my child. We got lucky today, but maybe not tomorrow.”

There’s a knock on the door and Judith says, “Come in.” The receptionist tells her there is a reporter with a cameraman out front. Two more have called the office. “Get rid of them,” she says, glaring at me. What a mess I’ve created.

We finally agree to do nothing for a few hours. I’ll cancel the meeting with the police detective; the investigation is a sham anyway. As I leave I tell her I’m sorry, but she wants no part of an apology.

I sneak out a rear door.

7.

Reporters are looking for me, but I have had enough of the story. Others would like to find me: Link and his boys; Roy Kemp when he hears I’m talking to the FBI; perhaps even Arch Swanger, who’s likely to phone in at any moment and ask why I sang to the police.

Partner takes me to Ken’s Kars and I drive away in a dented Mazda with 200,000 miles on it. No lawyer, regardless of how impoverished, would be caught dead in such a vehicle. I know one who was leasing a Maserati when he was forced into bankruptcy.

I spend the rest of the day in my apartment, hiding and working on two cases. Around five o’clock, I call Judith to check on Starcher. He’s fine, she says, and the reporters have gone away. I check the local news where the “dramatic rescue” is the lead story. They use some old footage of me walking into the police station and make it sound like I risked my life to save my son. The fools are swallowing all the bait the police give them. This too shall pass.

Because I’ve slept about six hours out of the last seventy-two, I finally collapse on the sofa and fall into a coma. Just after 10:00 p.m., my cell phone rings. I check the caller ID, then grab it. It’s Naomi Tarrant, Starcher’s teacher, the gorgeous young thing I’ve been fantasizing about for months. I’ve asked her to dinner five times and have been hit with five noes. But, the rejections have been progressively softer. I have neither the talent nor the patience for the usual mating rituals—the stalking, the accidental encounters, the blind dates, the silly gifts, the awkward phone calls, the referrals from friends, the endless Internet chatting. Nor do I have the guts to go online and lie about myself to strange women. And, I fear I’m forever scorched and gun-shy from the Judith disaster. How can one human possess so much meanness?

Naomi wants to talk about Starcher, so we do. I assure her he was not harmed in any way. He’ll never understand what really happened, and I doubt anyone will tell him. Frankly, he was pampered for about forty-five hours by two people he viewed as buddies. He’ll be at school tomorrow and he needs no special attention. I’m sure his mother will arrive with a long list of demands and concerns, but that’s his mother.

“What a bitch,” Naomi says, dropping her guard for the first time. I’m surprised by this, but love it nonetheless. We spend a few minutes thoroughly trashing Judith and Ava, who we agree is an airhead, and I haven’t had this much fun in years.

From left field she says, “Let’s do dinner.” Ah, the life of a hero. The power of celebrity. The reporters claim I risked my neck to save my son and women are throwing themselves at me.

We establish a few rules. The date has to be a big secret. The school does not expressly forbid its unmarried teachers dating unmarried parents, but it’s certainly frowned on. And why ask for trouble? If Judith found out, she would probably file a complaint or a lawsuit or something from her bottomless bag of dirty tricks.

We meet in a dark, low-end Tex-Mex joint the following night. Her choice, not mine. Since no one speaks English no one will be listening. No one cares, especially me. Naomi is thirty-three years old and rebounding from a divorce. No kids, no discernible baggage. She begins by telling me all about Starcher’s day at school. As expected, Judith brought him early and had some instructions. All went well; no one mentioned his little ordeal. Naomi and her classroom aide kept a close eye on him, and, as far as they could tell, nothing was said by his friends. He seemed perfectly normal and went about the day as if nothing had happened. Judith picked him up after school and grilled Naomi, but it was hardly out of the ordinary.

“How long were you married to her?” she asks in amazement.

“The paperwork says less than two years, but we could live together for only the first five months. It was unbearable. I tried to tough it out until the kid was born, but then I found out she was already seeing her latest girlfriend. I fled, he was born, and we’ve been fighting ever since. Getting married was a horrible mistake, but she was pregnant.”

“I’ve never seen her smile.”

“I think it happens about once a month.”

The margaritas arrive in tall, salty mugs and we dive in. We briefly touch on her marriage, then move on to more pleasant matters. She’s been dating, there are lots of calls, and I can understand why. She has soft, beautiful brown eyes that are hypnotic, even seductive. The kind of eyes you can gaze into for hours and wonder if they’re real.

Me, I don’t date much, don’t have the time, too much work, and so on. The usual disclaimers. She seems fascinated by my work, the unpopular cases, the notoriety, some of the thugs I represent. We order enchiladas and I keep chatting away. I soon realize, though, that she follows the one rule of a great conversationalist: Keep the other person talking. So I push back and ask about her family, college, other jobs she’s had.

I order a second margarita, she’s half finished with her first, and we go back and forth with stories about our past. A platter of enchiladas arrives and she hardly notices. Judging by her figure, she has the appetite of a bird. I can’t remember the last time I had sex, and the longer we talk the more I am consumed with that subject. By the time I finish both the food and the booze, I’m fighting the urge to lunge across the table.

But Naomi Tarrant is not impulsive. This will take time. It’s Tuesday, so I ask her what she’s doing Wednesday. No go.

“You know what I’d really like?” she asks.

What? Anything.

“This may seem a bit odd, but I’m really curious about mixed martial arts.”

“Cage fights? You want to go to the cage fights?” I’m stunned.

“Is it safe?” she asks, and mentions the little episode involving the riot and Starcher’s close call with disaster. Judith sued me again and Naomi got a subpoena to testify.

“If there’s no brawl, it’s pretty safe,” I say. “Let’s go.” The truth is, at least half of the fanatics who show up at the fights and scream for blood are women.

We book a date for this coming Friday. I’m thrilled because there is another young fighter I need to evaluate. His manager has contacted me and needs some financial backing.

8.

Not surprisingly, Doug Renfro has not done well since his wife was murdered by one of our SWAT teams. The civil trial is two months away, and Doug is not looking forward to it. He’s had his day in court and he’s not ready for another one.

I meet him for lunch in an empty deli, and I’m startled by his appearance. He’s lost a lot of weight, pounds that he needed. His face is gaunt and pale, and his eyes convey the pain and confusion of a defeated and lonely man.

He nibbles on a chip and says, “I’ve put the house on the market. I can’t stay there, too many memories. I can see her in the kitchen. I can feel her sleeping in the bed next to me. I can hear her laughing on the phone. I can smell her body lotion. She’s everywhere, Sebastian, and she’s not going away. Worst of all, I can’t help but relive those last few seconds, the gunfire and screams and the blood. I blame myself for so much of what went wrong. I often leave at midnight and go find a cheap motel where I pay sixty bucks and stare at the ceiling until sunrise.”

“I’m sorry, Doug,” I say. “It certainly wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. But I’m not rational. Plus I hate this damned city. Every time I see a cop or fireman or a garbage worker I start cursing the City and the fools who run it. I can no longer pay taxes to this government. So, I’m outta here.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ll see them whenever I need to. They have their own lives to live. I gotta take care of me this time, and that means I need a new start somewhere.”

“Where are you going?”

“It changes every day, but right now it looks like New Zealand. As far away as I can get. I’ll probably renounce my citizenship so I won’t have to pay taxes here. I’m a bitter old man, Sebastian, and I have to get away.”

“What about the civil trial?”

“I’m not going to trial. I want you to settle it as soon as you can. Hell, the City’s liability is only a million. They’ll pay that, won’t they?”

“Yes, I assume. I haven’t talked settlement with them, but they don’t want to go to trial.”

“Is there a way to get more than a million?”

“Maybe.”

He slowly takes a sip of his tea and stares at me. “How?”

“I’ve got some dirt on the police department. Some crap that’s pure filth. Extortion is what I’m thinking.”

“I like it,” he says with a smile, the first and only. “Can you move fast? I want to get outta here. I’m sick of this place.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

9.

When my cell phone buzzes after midnight, it’s never a call I want to take. At 12:02 I pick it up and see that Partner wants to talk. “Hey, Boss,” he says in a weak voice. “They tried to kill me.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really. I’ve got some burns but I’ll be all right. I’m at the hospital, Catholic. We need to talk.”

I strap a Glock 19 under my left armpit, put on a heavy coat and a brown fedora, and hustle down to the parking lot to retrieve my worn-out Mazda. Ten minutes later I enter the ER wing of the hospital and say hello to one Juke Sadler, one of the sleaziest lawyers in town. Juke roams the City’s emergency rooms trolling for injured clients. Like a vulture, he loiters in the hallways watching for distraught relatives too panicked to think clearly. He’s been known to have lunch and dinner in hospital cafeterias while passing out cards to those with broken bones. Last year he got in a fistfight with a tow truck driver who was hustling the family of a fresh car wreck victim. Both were arrested but only Juke got his photo in the newspaper. The bar association has been after him for years but he’s too slick.

“Your man’s down the hall,” he says, pointing like one of those retired hospital volunteers in pink jackets. They actually caught him once wearing that jacket and posing as a greeter. They also caught him wearing a white collar and black jacket and pretending to be a priest. Juke is an unrepentant slimeball, but I admire the guy. He operates in the dark, murky waters of the law, where we have much in common.

Partner is in a gown, sitting on an exam table, his right arm covered in gauze. I take a look and say, “Okay, let’s have it.”

He was leaving an all-night chicken carryout restaurant with a snack for him and his mom. He got in the van, put it in reverse, and the damned thing blew up. A bomb, probably of the gasoline variety, probably stuck to the fuel tank and remotely detonated by someone sitting in a car nearby. Partner managed to scramble out and remembers hitting the pavement with his jacket on fire. He crawled away and watched the van turn into a fireball. Soon there were cops and firemen everywhere, a lot of excitement. He couldn’t find his phone. A medic cut his jacket off and they loaded him into an ambulance. As they rolled him into the ER someone handed him his phone.

“Sorry, Boss,” he says.

“Not exactly your fault. As you know, that van is heavily insured, for occasions just like this. We’ll get a new one.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says, grimacing.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, Boss. Maybe we get something that’s not quite so conspicuous, so easy to spot and follow. Know what I mean? Like, just the other day I was driving along the expressway and I got passed by a white cargo van owned by a flower delivery service. Standard white job, about the same size as ours, and I think to myself, ‘That’s the way to go. No one ever notices a white van with lettering and numbers painted on the sides.’ And it’s true. We got to blend in, Boss, not stand out in the crowd.”

“And what exactly do we paint on the side of our new van?”

“I don’t know, something fictitious. Pete’s Parcel. Fred’s Flowers. Mike’s Masonry. Doesn’t really matter, just something to go with the flow.”

“I’m not sure my clients would appreciate a generic white van with a fake name painted all over it. My clients are very discerning.”

He laughs at this. The last client to step into my van was Arch Swanger, a likely serial killer. A young doctor suddenly appears and steps between us without a word. He examines the bandages and finally asks Partner how he feels. “I wanna go home,” he says. “I’m not staying overnight.”

This is fine with the doctor. He loads Partner down with bandages, gives him some samples of painkillers, and disappears. A nurse has the discharge instructions and paperwork. Partner puts on his unburned pants, socks, and shoes and walks out with a cheap blanket wrapped around his upper body. We leave the hospital and drive to the fried chicken restaurant.

It’s almost 2:00 a.m. and a police cruiser is still parked near the crime scene. Strands of bright yellow tape surround the van, which is nothing but a smoldering, blackened frame. “Stay here,” I say to Partner and get out of the car. By the time I walk forty feet and stop at the yellow tape, a cop is coming toward me.

“That’s far enough, pal,” he says. “This is a crime scene.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Can’t say. It’s under investigation. You need to back away.”

“I’m not touching anything.”

“I said back away, okay?”

I pull a business card out of my shirt pocket and hand it to him. “I own the van, okay? It was a gasoline bomb stuck to the gas tank. Attempted murder. Please ask your investigator to call me later this morning.”

He looks at the card but is unable to put together a response.

I return to the car and sit in silence for a few minutes. “Want some chicken?” I finally ask.

“No. Not much of an appetite now.”

“I think I’d like some coffee. You?”

“Sure.”

I get out of the car again and walk into the restaurant. There are no customers, the place is dead, and the obvious question is, why does a chicken place stay open twenty-four seven? But that’s a question for someone else. A black girl with steel in both nostrils is loitering by the cash register. “Two coffees please,” I say. “No cream.”

This pisses her off but she starts moving anyway. “Two forty,” she says as she grabs a pot, one that probably hasn’t been touched in hours. As she sets the two cups on the counter, I say, “That van out there belongs to me.”

“Well, I guess you need a new van,” she retorts with a sassy smile. How clever.

“Looks like it. Did you see it blow up?”

“Naw, didn’t see it, but I heard it.”

“And I’m betting that you or one of your co-workers ran outside with a cell phone and caught it all on video, right?”

She’s nodding smugly. Yes.

“Did you give it to the police?”

A grin. “Naw, don’t do nothing to help no PO-lice.”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you’ll e-mail me the video, and I won’t tell a soul.”

She whips her phone out of her jeans pocket and says, “Gimme your address and the cash.”

We do the deal. On the way out I ask, “Any surveillance cameras outside?”

“Naw. PO-lice already asked about that. Man who owns this place is too cheap.”

In the car, Partner and I stare at my cell phone and watch the video, which is nothing more than the fireball he’s already described. At least two fire trucks answered the call and it took a while to douse the flames. The video runs for fourteen minutes and, while entertaining because it is my van, it reveals nothing useful. When the screen goes blank Partner asks, “Okay, who did it?”

I reply, “I’m sure it’s Link. We punched out two of his thugs on Monday. Tit for tat. We’re playing hardball now.”

“You think Link’s in the country?”

“I doubt it. That would be too risky. I’ll bet he’s close by, though, Mexico or the Caribbean, someplace just out of reach but someplace that’s easy to get to and from.”

I start the engine and we drive away. I’m impressed with how much Partner has talked tonight. The excitement of getting blown up has loosened his tongue. I can tell he’s in pain but he would never admit it.

“You got a plan?” he asks.

“Yes. I want you to find Miguel Zapate, Tadeo’s brother. Now that the promising MMA career is over, I’m sure Miguel is devoting all his time to peddling drugs. I want you to explain to Miguel that I need some protection; that I’m representing his little brother on a murder rap for free, completely pro bono because I love the kid and he can’t afford to pay me; and that I’m getting squeezed by some thugs who work for Link Scanlon. Fango is one, though I’ve never known his real name.”

“They call him Tubby. Tubby Fango, but his real name is Danny.”

“Impressive. Who’s the other one, the one you plunked with your little baton?”

“Goes by Razor, Razor Robilio, real name is Arthur.”

“Tubby and Razor,” I say, shaking my head. “When did you take care of this bit of research?”

“After the altercation on Monday, I decided to snoop a little. Wasn’t that hard, really.”

“Nice work. So give the names to Miguel and tell him that he needs to contact these boys and tell them to back off. Miguel and his boys are running coke, something Link had control of thirty years ago. It’s unlikely Tubby and Razor have crossed paths with Miguel, but you never know. There are always strange connections down in the sewers. Please make it clear to Miguel that I don’t want anyone hurt; just some intimidation. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss.”

We’re in the projects. The streets are dark and empty. However, if I stepped out of my car at this moment and showed my white face, I would immediately attract some unpleasant types. I made that mistake once before, but, thankfully, I had Partner with me. I pull to the curb outside his building and say, “I assume Miss Luella is waiting.”

He nods and says, “I called her, told her it was just a scratch. She’ll be all right.”

“You want me to come in?”

“No, Boss. It’s pushing three. Go get some sleep.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“You got it, Boss. Are we shopping for a new van tomorrow?”

“Not yet. I have to deal with the cops and my insurance company.”

“I need some wheels. Mind if I start looking online?”

“Go right ahead. And take care.”

“You got it, Boss.”

10.

Since I cannot, at this moment, stand the thought of being in her presence, and she certainly prefers to avoid looking at me, Judith and I decide to hash things out over the phone. We begin somewhat pleasantly with the latest update on our son. He’s doing well, no damage, no desire to really talk about last weekend. With that out of the way, we get down to business.

Judith has decided that she does not want to pursue an FBI investigation into Roy Kemp and the kidnapping. She has her reasons and they are solid. Life is good. Starcher is fine. If Kemp and company are desperate enough to snatch a kid in return for information, then who knows what else they might do. Let’s leave them alone. Besides, proving Kemp was involved seems impossible. Can we really trust the FBI to go after a high-ranking law enforcement official? Plus, her trial calendar is packed. She doesn’t want the distraction. Why should we complicate our already stressful lives?

Judith is a fighter, a tough gal who backs down from nothing. She’s also a conniving tactician who avoids the dangers of unintended consequences. If we push an investigation into Kemp, we have no idea what might happen next. And since we’re dealing with a tough guy who’s not thinking clearly, it’s smart to assume retaliation is likely.

To her surprise, I do not argue. We reach an agreement, a rare occurrence in our relationship.

11.

Our mayor is a three-term guy with the imposing name of L. Woodrow Sullivan III. To the public and the voters, he’s simply Woody, a smiling, backslapping, friendly sort who’ll promise anything for a vote. In private, though, he’s an abrasive, sour prick who drinks too much and is fed up with his job. He can’t walk away, though, because he has no place to go. He’s up for reelection next year and it appears as though he has no friends. Right now his approval rating is around 15 percent, low enough to force any proud politician to quit in disgrace, but Woody’s fought back before. He’d rather do anything than suffer through the meeting we’re about to have.

The third man in the room is the city attorney, Moss Korgan, a classmate of mine in law school. We despised each other back then and things have not improved. He edited the law review and was headed for a gilded career in a fancy corporate law firm, one that imploded and left him scrambling for lesser work.

Woody and Moss. Sounds like an ad for hunting gear.

We meet in the mayor’s office, a splendid room on the top floor of City Hall, with tall windows and views in three directions. A secretary pours coffee from an old silver pot as we take our places around a small conference table in one corner. We struggle through the obligatory chitchat and make ourselves smile and act relaxed.

Through discovery in the civil trial, I have let it be known that I intend to subpoena both of these guys to the witness stand. This fact hangs over the table like a dark cloud and makes professional politeness almost impossible.

Woody brusquely says, “We’re here to talk about a settlement, right?”

“Yes,” I say, and remove some papers from my briefcase. “I have a proposal, one that is rather lengthy. My client, Doug Renfro, prefers to settle all claims and get on with his life, what’s left of it.”

“I’m listening,” Woody says rudely.

“Thank you. First, the eight city cops who murdered Kitty Renfro must be fired. They have been on administrative leave since the murder, and—”

“Do you have to use the word ‘murder’?” Woody interrupts.

“They haven’t been convicted of anything,” Moss adds.

“We’re not in a courtroom, okay, and if I want to use the word ‘murder,’ then I’ll use it. Frankly, there is no other word in the English language adequate enough to describe what your SWAT boys did. It was murder. It’s embarrassing that these thugs have not been terminated and that they’re still getting their full salaries. They have to go. That’s number one. Number two, the chief has to go with them. He’s an incompetent jerk who should not have been hired in the first place. He oversees a corrupt department. He’s an idiot, and if you don’t believe me, then ask your voters. According to the last poll, at least 80 percent of the people in this city want him fired.”

They nod gravely but cannot make eye contact. Everything I’ve said has been said on the front page of the Chronicle. The city council passed a no-confidence vote by three to one against the chief. But the mayor won’t fire him.

The reasons are simple and complicated. If the eight warrior cops and their chief are terminated before the civil trial, they would likely become hostile witnesses against the City. It’s best if they remain united in their defense against the Renfro lawsuit.

I continue, “Once the lawsuit is settled you can finally terminate them, right?”

Moss says, “Need I remind you that our liability is capped at $1 million?”

“No, you need not. I’m very aware of that. We’ll take the million as a settlement, and you immediately fire the eight cops and the chief.”

“Deal!” Woody practically yells across the table as he slaps it with a palm. “Deal! What else do you want?”

Even though the City is on the hook for a measly million bucks, these guys are terrified of another trial. During the first one, I exposed in dramatic detail the gross malfeasance of our police department, and the Chronicle broadcast it on the front page for a week. The mayor, the police chief, the city attorney, and the council members were in bunkers. The last thing they want is another high-profile trial in which I humiliate the City.

“Oh, I want a lot more, Mayor,” I say. Both look at me with blank faces. Slowly, fear begins to form in their eyes. “I’m sure you remember the story of my little boy getting kidnapped last Saturday. Pretty frightening stuff but a good ending and all that happy horseshit. What you don’t know is that he was kidnapped by members of your police department.”

Woody’s tough-guy facade melts as his face droops and turns pale. Moss, a former Marine, is proud of his perfect posture, but right now he can’t keep his shoulders from sagging. He exhales as the mayor sticks a fingernail between his teeth. Their eyes meet briefly; identical looks of terror.

With a bit of drama, I drop a document on the table, just out of their reach. I say, “This is a ten-page affidavit, signed by me, in which I describe, under oath, the kidnapping, an abduction orchestrated by Assistant Chief of Police Roy Kemp, in an effort to coerce me to divulge the location of his missing daughter’s body. Arch Swanger was never my client, contrary to what you’ve read and what you believe, but he did tell me where the body was supposedly buried. When I refused to pass along this information to the cops, my son was kidnapped. I caved, told Detective Reardon what I knew, and a full-scale dig took place at the location last Sunday night. They found nothing; the body was not there. Kemp then released my son. Now he wants me to forget all about it, but that’s not going to happen. I’m working with the FBI. You think you have problems with the Renfro case, just wait until the City finds out how rotten your police department really is.”

“Can you prove this?” Moss says with a dry throat.

I tap the affidavit and reply, “It’s all right here. There is surveillance footage from the truck stop where I found my son. He has been able to identify one of his abductors, a cop. The FBI is hot on the trail and chasing leads.”

This is not entirely true, of course, but how could they know? As in any war, the truth is the first casualty. I remove another document from my briefcase and place it next to the affidavit. “And this is a rough draft of a lawsuit I plan to file against the City for the kidnapping. Kemp, as you know, is on administrative leave, still on your payroll, still an employee. I’ll sue him, the department, and the City for a crime that will be front page from coast to coast.”

“You want Kemp fired too?” Moss asks.

“I don’t care if Kemp stays or goes. He’s a decent chap and a good cop. He’s also a desperate father who’s going through hell. I can give him a break.”

“Mighty nice of you,” Woody mumbles.

“What’s this got to do with the settlement?” Moss asks.

“Everything. I’ll bury the lawsuit and forget about it, get on with my life, and keep a closer eye on my kid. But I want another million bucks for Renfro.”

The mayor rubs his eyes with his knuckles as Moss sags even lower. They are overwhelmed and for one long minute cannot piece together enough words to respond. Finally, Woody mumbles a rather pathetic “Holy shit.”

“This is extortion,” Moss says.

“It certainly is, but right now extortion is a few notches down the pole. At the top is murder, followed by kidnapping. You don’t want to start a pissing contest with me.”

The mayor manages to stiffen his spine and say, “And how are we supposed to find another million bucks to pass along to you and Mr. Renfro without someone leaking it to the press?”

“Oh, you’ve moved money around before, Mayor. You’ve been caught a couple of times, got embarrassed with the scandals, but you know the game.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“I’m not a reporter, so knock it off. Your budget this year is 600 million. You have rainy-day funds, discretionary funds, slush funds, reserves for this and for that. You can figure it out. The best route may be to deal with the city council in executive session, pass a resolution to reach a confidential settlement with Renfro, and handle the money offshore.”

Woody laughs but not because of anything humorous. “So you think we can trust the city council to keep this quiet?”

“That’s your problem, not mine. My job is to get a fair settlement for my client. Two million is not fair, but we’ll take it.”

Moss gets to his feet, looking dizzy. He paces to a window and stares out at nothing. He stretches his back and paces around the room. Woody seems to grasp the reality that the sky is falling and asks, “Okay, Rudd, how much time do we have?”

“Not much,” I reply.

Moss says, “We need some time to investigate this, Sebastian. You come in here, drop a bomb like this, and expect us to believe everything. There are a lot of moving parts here.”

“Indeed, but an investigation will only cause leaks. And where will it take you? You’re going to call in Kemp and ask him if he kidnapped my son? Gee, I wonder what he’ll say. You can dig for months looking for the truth and you won’t find it. And, I’m not in the mood to wait.” I slide the affidavit and the lawsuit across the table in Woody’s direction. I stand and grab my briefcase. “Here’s the deal. Today is Friday. You have the weekend. I’ll be here at ten Monday morning to wrap things up. If you boys can’t figure it out, I go straight to the Chronicle with that little pile of papers. Imagine the story, the damage. Headlines on cable around the clock.”

Woody is pale again. He says lamely, “I’m in Washington Monday.”

“Then cancel. Get a bad case of the flu. Ten Monday, gentlemen,” I say as I open the door.

12.

Naomi is not too impressed with my rented Mazda. As we make our way downtown toward the auditorium, I explain what happened to my other vehicle. She is shocked that there are bad guys loose in the City who would attach an explosive device to my van to intimidate me and kill Partner. She wants to know how soon the police will catch these guys and bring them to justice. She doesn’t understand when I explain that (1) the police have no real interest in catching them because I am who I am and (2) the police can’t catch them because these guys don’t leave behind clues.

She asks if she’s safe in my company. When I tell her I have a gun strapped to my torso and wedged just under my left armpit, she takes a deep breath and gazes out the window. Sure, we’re safe, I promise her.

In an effort at full disclosure, I tell her about my last office and the firebombing. No, the police have not solved that crime either, primarily because they were probably involved in the act. Either them or some drug dealers.

“No wonder you struggle with women,” she observes. And she’s right. Most of them get spooked early in the game and gravitate toward safer men. Naomi, though, has a gleam in her eye and seems to enjoy the threat of danger. After all, the cage fights were her idea.

I’ve pulled strings and our seats are ringside, third row back. I buy two tall beers and we settle in to watch the crowd. Unlike the theater or cinema, or the opera or symphony, or even a basketball game, the fans arrive in a rowdy mood, many of them already half-drunk. It’s another nice crowd, probably three to four thousand, and I marvel at the speed with which the sport has gained popularity. I also think of Tadeo, a talented kid now sitting in jail when he should be at the top of tonight’s card. His trial is just around the corner and he still expects me to pull a miracle and walk him out, a free man. For Naomi, I recount, in great graphic detail, the night not too long ago when Tadeo attacked the referee and this entire place turned into a riot. Starcher thought it was cool and wants to return for more fun.

She thinks that’s a bad idea.

A trainer recognizes me and stops by for a chat. His kid is a 150-pounder who fights in the second match and has not lost in his last six. As he talks he can’t keep his eyes off Naomi. Because she’s a knockout and dressed fashionably, she’s getting plenty of looks.

The trainer thinks his kid has a future and they need some backing. Since I’m viewed as a big-shot lawyer with plenty of cash, at least in this world, I’m a player who can make a career. I tell the guy we can talk later. Let me watch the kid for a couple of fights and then we’ll meet. The trainer asks about Tadeo and shakes his head sadly. What a waste.

When the place is packed, the lights go down and the crowd becomes frantic. The first two fighters enter the cage and introductions are made.

“You know these guys?” Naomi asks excitedly.

“Yes, just a couple of brawlers, not much talent. Street fighters really.”

The bell sounds, the brawl is on, and my hot little schoolteacher sits on the edge of her seat and starts yelling.

13.

At midnight we’re in a pizza dive, tucked into a narrow booth and sitting very close together. There has been some touching and hand-holding and there seems to be a mutual attraction. I certainly hope it’s mutual. She nibbles on a slice of pepperoni and prattles on about the main event, a heavyweight blood-fest that ended with a vicious choke hold. The loser stayed on the mat for a long time. Eventually, she gets around to the kidnapping and wants to know how much I know. I explain that the FBI is digging and I can’t say anything.

Was there a ransom demand? I can’t say. A suspect? Not that I know of. What was he doing at that truck stop? Eating ice cream. I’d like to give her the details but it’s too early; maybe later, when everything is settled.

As we drive back to her place, she says, “It might be difficult to have a relationship as long as you’re wearing a gun.”

“Okay. I can lose it. But it will always be close by.”

“I’m not sure I like that.”

Nothing else is said until I park outside her condo. “I had a great time,” she says.

“So did I.” I walk her to the door of her condo and ask, “So when can I see you again?”

She pecks me on the cheek and says, “Seven tomorrow night. Right here. There’s a movie I want to see.”

14.

Partner picks me up in another rental, a shiny new U-Haul cargo van with “$19.95 a Day—Unlimited Mileage” splashed on both sides in bright green and orange paint. I look at it for a minute or so before finally getting in. “Nice,” I say.

“I thought you’d like it,” he says, grinning. His bandages are hidden under his clothing; there’s no evidence of his wounds. He’s too tough to admit soreness or pain.

“I guess we’d better get used to it,” I say. “The insurance company is dragging its feet. Plus it’ll take a month to get a new one customized.” We’re moving through downtown traffic, just a couple of delivery boys with a van full of furniture. He stops in front of City Hall and parks illegally. A U-Haul van with such vivid colors is bound to attract a swarm of traffic cops.

“I chatted with Miguel,” he says.

“And how did that go?” I ask, my hand on the door handle.

“Okay. I just explained things, said you were getting squeezed by some tough guys and needed a little protection. He said he could take care of it, said it was the least he and the guys could do for you and all that happy crap. I emphasized that no one gets hurt, just a friendly hello to Tubby and Razor so they’d get the message.”

“What do you think?”

“It’ll probably work. Link’s gang is pretty thin these days, for obvious reasons. Most of his muscle is gone. I doubt if his boys want to mix it up with a drug gang.”

“We’ll see. Back in thirty minutes,” I say as I get out.

Woody canceled his trip to Washington and is waiting in his office with Moss. Both look as though they’ve had a bad weekend. It’s Monday and my goal is to ruin the rest of their week. There are no handshakes, no forced pleasantries, not even the offer of coffee.

I jack up the tension with “Okay, boys, do we have a deal? Yes or no? I want an answer now, and if I get the wrong answer I’ll leave this building and walk down the street to the Chronicle. Verdoliak, your favorite reporter, is waiting at his desk.”

Woody stares at the floor and says, “Deal.”

Moss slides across a document and says, “This is a confidential settlement agreement. The insurance company will pay the first million now. The City will kick in half a million this fiscal year, same for next. We have a litigation reserve fund we can manipulate, but we need to split the two payments between this year and next. It’s the best we can do.”

“That’ll work,” I say. “And when will the chief and the SWAT boys get the ax?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Moss says. “And that’s not in this agreement.”

“Then I won’t sign the agreement until they are terminated. Why wait? What is so difficult about getting rid of these guys? Hell, the whole city wants them canned.”

“So do we,” the mayor says. “Believe me, we want them out of the picture. Just trust us on this, Rudd.”

I roll my eyes at the word “trust.” I pick up the agreement and read it slowly. A phone buzzes on the mayor’s imposing desk but he ignores it. When I finish reading, I drop it on the table and say, “Not one word of apology. My client’s wife is murdered, he gets shot, then he gets dragged through a criminal trial, faces prison, goes through hell and back, and not one word of apology. No deal.”

Woody utters a bitter “Shit!” and jumps to his feet. Moss rubs his eyes as if he might start crying. Seconds pass, then a full minute, with nothing said. Finally, I glare at the mayor and say, “Why can’t you man up and do what’s right? Why can’t you call one of your press conferences, just like you do for every other minor crisis, and start with an apology to the Renfro family? Announce a settlement in the civil case. Explain that after a thorough investigation it’s now clear that the SWAT team disregarded all rules of procedure and safety and that the eight cops are being terminated, immediately. And their boss goes with them.”

“I don’t really need your advice when it comes to doing my job,” Woody says, but it’s a lame response.

“Maybe you do,” I say. I’m tempted to storm out again, but I don’t want to lose the money.

“Okay, okay,” Moss says. “We’ll redraft it and throw in some language addressing the family.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow, after the press conference.”

15.

I meet Doug Renfro for lunch in a coffee shop near his home. I explain the settlement, and he is thrilled to be getting two million. My contracted fee is 25 percent, but I’ll cut it to only 10 percent. He is surprised by this and, at first, wants to argue. I’d like to give him all the money, but I do have some overhead. After I split with Harry & Harry, I’ll net around $120,000, which is low for the time I’ve spent on the case, but still a decent fee.

As he takes a sip of coffee, his hand starts shaking and his eyes suddenly water. He sets the cup down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just want Kitty,” he says, lips quivering.

“I’m sorry, Doug,” I say. What else?

“Why did they do it? Why? It was so senseless. Kicking in the doors, guns blazing like idiots, the wrong house. Why, Sebastian?”

All I can do is shake my head.

“I’m outta here, I’ll tell you that right now. Gone. I hate this city and the clowns who run it, and I gotta tell you, Sebastian, with these eight cops now out of work and pissed off and looking for trouble, I don’t feel safe. You shouldn’t either, you know?”

“I know, Doug. Believe me, I think about it all the time. But then, I’ve pissed them off before. I’m not one of their favorites.”

“You’re a helluva lawyer, Sebastian. I had my doubts at first. The way you came on so strong while I was still in the hospital. I kept thinking, ‘Who is this guy?’ I had other lawyers try and hustle the case, you know? Some real clowns poking around the hospital. But I ran them off. Glad I did. You were great at trial, Sebastian. Magnificent.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Doug, but that’s enough.”

“Fifteen percent, okay? I want you to take 15 percent. Please.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. My house sold yesterday, nice profit. We’ll close in two weeks. I think I’m going to Spain.”

“Last week it was New Zealand.”

“It’s a big world. I might go everywhere, live on a train for a year or so. See it all. Just wish Kitty could be with me. That girl loved to travel.”

“We should get the money soon. I’ll see you in a few days and divvy it up.”

16.

I watch the press conference in my apartment. At some point in the last few hours, Mayor Woody has made the calculated decision that groveling might get him more votes than stonewalling. He stands behind a podium, and for the first time in recent history there is no one behind him. Not a soul. He’s all alone: no city councilman hamming it up for the cameras; no wall of thick-necked uniformed officers; no grim-faced lawyer frowning as if in hemorrhoidal agony.

He explains to the small group of reporters that the City has settled its legal claims with the Renfro family. There will be no civil trial; the nightmare is over. Terms confidential, of course. His deepest apologies to the family for what happened. Mistakes were made, obviously (though none by him), and he has made the decision to act decisively and bring this tragedy to a close. The chief of police is fired, as of now. He is ultimately responsible for the actions of his officers. All eight members of the SWAT team are also terminated. Their actions cannot be tolerated. Procedures will be reviewed. And so on.

He wraps it up nicely with another apology, and at times looks and sounds as though he’s ready to cry. Not a bad acting job for Woody and it might even win him some votes. But any fool can read the polls.

Gutsy move, Woody.

Now, as if my life is not already complicated enough, there are eight more ex-cops loose on the streets mumbling my name and looking for some type of revenge.

The money arrives soon enough and Doug and I do our business. The last time I see him he’s getting into a taxi headed for the airport. He said he’s still not sure where he’s going, but he’ll figure it out when he gets there. He said he might stare at the departure board and throw a dart.

I’m hit with a twinge of envy.

17.

Tadeo insists that I stop by the jail for a visit at least once a week, and I really don’t mind. Most visits include a conversation relating to his upcoming trial and others that have nothing to do with anything but surviving in jail. There is no gym or place to exercise—he’ll have those in prison but we don’t talk about this—and he is frustrated in his efforts to stay in shape. He’s doing a thousand sit-ups and push-ups each day and looks fit to me. The food is terrible and he says he’s losing weight, which of course leads to a discussion about his preferred fighting weight once he gets out. The longer he stays in jail and the more free legal advice he gets from his cell mates back there, the more delusional he becomes. He’s convinced he can charm a jury, blame it all on a quick bout of insanity, and walk. I explain, again, that the trial will be hard to win because the jury will see the video at least five times.

He’s also begun to doubt my belief in him, and on two occasions he’s mentioned the involvement of another lawyer. This won’t happen because he’ll have to pay a fat fee to someone else, but it’s still irritating. He’s beginning to act like a lot of criminal defendants, especially those from the street. He doesn’t trust the system, including me because I’m white and part of the power structure. He’s convinced he’s innocent and wrongly locked up. He knows he can sway a jury if given the chance. And I, as his lawyer, need only to work a few tricks in the courtroom and, just like on television, he’ll be a free man. I don’t argue with him but I do try and keep things realistic.

After half an hour I say good-bye and am relieved to be away from him. As I work my way through the jail, Detective Reardon appears out of nowhere and almost bumps into me. “Say, Rudd, just the man I’m looking for.”

I’ve never seen him at the jail before. This encounter is not accidental. “Oh, yeah, what’s up?”

“Got a minute?” he says, pointing to a corner away from the other lawyers and jailers.

“Sure.” I don’t really want to spend time with Reardon, but he’s here for a purpose. I’m sure he wants to drive home the point that our suspended assistant chief of police, Roy Kemp, continues to be deeply concerned about keeping the kidnapping just between us boys. When we’re alone, he says, “Say, Rudd, I hear you got in a scrape with a couple of Link Scanlon’s thugs in the courthouse last week. Witnesses say you poleaxed both of them, knocked ’em cold. Too bad you didn’t put a bullet between their eyes. Wish I coulda seen it. Hard to believe you got the balls to slug it out with a couple of leg breakers.”

“Your point?”

“I figure Link sent word to you that he wants something, probably money. We know about where he is; we just can’t get to him. We think he’s broke and so he sends a coupla goons to put the squeeze on you. For some reason you don’t want to be squeezed. They push, you coldcock them in broad daylight outside a courtroom. I like it.”

“Your point?”

“Do you know these two guys? I mean, their names?”

Something tells me to play dumb. “One is called Tubby, no last name. Don’t know the other. Got time for a question?”

“Oh sure.”

“You’re Homicide. Why, exactly, are you concerned with Link and his thugs and me having some fun with them?”

“Because I’m Homicide.” He whips open a file and shows me an eight-by-ten color photo of two dead bodies in some sort of trash heap. They’re lying facedown, with their wrists tied tightly behind them. The backs of their necks are caked with dried blood. “Found these two stiffs in the city landfill, wrapped in an old piece of shag carpet. The bulldozer shoved it down a small embankment and Tubby and Razor rolled out. Tubby is Danny Fango, on the right there. Razor, on the left, is Arthur Robilio.” He shuffles the deck and pulls out another eight-by-ten. The two bodies have been rearranged and are lying faceup, side by bloody side. The black boot of a cop is in the picture, next to the mangled head of good old Tubby. Their throats have been cut wide and deep.

Reardon says, “Each got two slugs back of the head. That plus a switchblade from ear to ear. Does it every time. So far, clean killings, no prints, ballistics, forensics. Probably a common gang thing, no big loss to society, know what I mean?”

My stomach flips as acid fills my throat. There is a strong urge to vomit, along with a light-headedness that could mean a quick faint. I turn away from the photos, shake my head in disgust, and tell myself to try, if humanly possible, to act unconcerned. I manage to shrug and say, “So what, Reardon? You think I rubbed these guys out because they jumped me in the courthouse?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking right now, but I got these two Boy Scouts on the slab and nobody knows nothing. As far as I know, you were the last person to get in a fight with them. You seem to enjoy operating down in the gutter. Maybe you got some friends down there. One thing leads to another.”

“You can’t even sell that to yourself, Reardon. Weak as water. Go accuse somebody else because you’re wasting time with me. I don’t kill. I just defend killers.”

“Same thing if you ask me. I’ll keep digging.”

He leaves and I find a toilet. I lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and ask myself if it’s possible.

18.

We park the U-Haul in a slot at a hot-dog drive-in and order sodas from a cutie on skates. Neither of us has an appetite. She brings the drinks and Partner rolls up the window, by hand, the old-fashioned way. He takes a long sip, and staring straight ahead says, “No way, Boss. I made myself real clear. Scare ’em but don’t touch ’em. Nobody gets hurt.”

“They’re not in pain,” I say.

“But, Boss, you gotta understand how things work in the gutter. Say Miguel and his boys track down Tubby and Razor and manage to create a confrontation. They make threats, but let’s say Tubby and Razor are not bothered by threats. Hell, they’ve been making ’em for thirty years. They don’t appreciate the intrusion and let it be known. Miguel has to stand his ground. Words get heated, more threats are made, and at some point things get outta hand. Takes just one punch to start a brawl and before long somebody pulls a gun or a knife.”

“I want you to talk to Miguel.”

“Why? He’ll never admit it, Boss. Never.”

I sip through the straw and force down the beverage. Everything seems to be locked up—from throat to bowels. After a long gap, I say, “We’re assuming it’s Miguel. It could be someone else. Tubby and Razor have spent a career breaking arms, maybe they pushed the wrong guy this time.”

Partner nods and manages a weak “Could be.”

19.

I’m awake at 3:37 a.m. when my cell phone begins vibrating. Slowly, I pick it up. Caller unknown, the worst kind. With great reluctance I say, “Hello.”

I’d recognize the voice anywhere. “This Rudd?” he asks.

“It is. Who’s calling?”

“Your old client Swanger, Arch Swanger.”

“I was hoping I’d never hear from you again.”

“I don’t miss you either, but we gotta talk. Since you can’t be trusted and don’t hesitate to sacrifice your clients, I’m assuming your phone is tapped and the cops are listening.”

“Nope.”

“You’re a liar, Rudd.”

“Fine, hang up and don’t call me back.”

“Not that simple. We gotta talk. That girl is alive, Rudd, and bad things are going on.”

“I don’t care.”

“There’s an all-night pharmacy at the corner of Preston and Fifteenth. Buy some shaving cream. Behind a can of Gillette Menthol you’ll find a small black phone, prepaid. Take it but don’t get caught shoplifting. Call the number on the screen. It’s me. I’ll wait thirty minutes, then I’m leaving town. Got it, Rudd?”

“No, I’m not playing this time, Swanger.”

“The girl is alive, Rudd, and you can bring her back. Just like you rescued your kid, now you can be the real hero. If not, she’ll be dead in a year. It’s all you, buddy.”

“Why should I believe you, Swanger?”

“Because I know the truth. I may not always tell the truth, but I know what’s going on with the Kemp girl. It ain’t pretty. Come on, Rudd, play along. Don’t call your thug and don’t use that goofy U-Haul van. Seriously? What kind of lawyer are you?”

The line goes dead and I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. If Arch Swanger is on the run, and I know for a fact that he is because he’s number one on our cops’ most wanted list, Link Scanlon being number two, then how in the world could he know that I’m buzzing around town these days in a rented van? And how could he purchase and hide a prepaid cell phone?

Twenty minutes later I park in front of the pharmacy and wait until two winos move away from the front door. This is a sketchy part of town and it’s not clear why this company, a national chain, would select this neighborhood for an all-night drugstore. I walk inside and see no one except for the clerk, who’s flipping through a tabloid. I find the shaving cream and the phone, which I quickly stick into a pocket. I pay for the shaving cream, and as I drive away I punch in the number.

Swanger answers with “Just keep driving. Hit the interstate and go north.”

“To where, Swanger?”

“To me. I want to look you in the eyes and ask you why you told the cops where I buried the girl.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You will.”

“Why did you lie, Swanger?”

“It was just a test to see if you can be trusted. Obviously you cannot. I want to know why.”

“And I want to know why you can’t leave me alone.”

“Because I need a lawyer, Rudd, plain and simple. What am I supposed to do? Take the elevator up to the fortieth floor and confide in a guy in a black suit who charges a thousand bucks an hour? Or maybe call one of those bozos you see on the billboards begging for bankruptcies and car wrecks? I need a real guy from the streets, Rudd, a real slimeball who knows how to play dirty. Right now you’re the man.”

“No I’m not.”

“Take the White Bluff exit off the interstate and go east for two miles. There’s an all-night burger joint currently advertising a double-patty melt with real Velveeta cheese. Yum-yum. I’ll watch you go in and take a seat. I’ll make sure you’re alone and nobody’s following you. When I walk in you won’t recognize me at first.”

“I’ll be packing some heat, Swanger, permit and all, and I know how to use it. Nothing funny, okay?”

“No need for that, I swear.”

“Swear all you want to, but I don’t believe a word you say.”

“Makes two of us.”

20.

There is a lack of ventilation and the air is thick with the smell of greasy burgers and fries. I buy a coffee and sit at a table in the center for ten minutes as two drunk teenagers in a booth giggle and talk with their mouths full. In a far corner an obese, elderly couple gorge themselves as if they’ll never see food again. Part of this joint’s marketing brilliance is that the entire menu is half price from midnight to 6:00 a.m. That and the Velveeta.

A man in a brown UPS uniform enters and does not look around. He buys a soft drink and some fries and is suddenly seated across from me. Behind round frameless glasses I finally recognize Swanger’s eyes. “Glad you could make it,” he says, barely audible.

“A real pleasure,” I say. “Cute uniform.”

“It works. Here’s what’s happening, Rudd. Jiliana Kemp is very much alive but I’m sure she wishes she were dead. She had her baby a few months back. They sold it for fifty thousand bucks, on the high end. The range, I’m told, is twenty-five to fifty, for a little Caucasian thing from good stock. The darker ones go cheaper.”

“Who is they?”

“We’ll get to it in a minute. Right now she’s working long hours as a stripper and hooker in a sex club a thousand miles away. She’s basically a slave, owned by some nasty types who’ve got her hooked on heroin. That’s why she can’t leave and that’s why she’ll do whatever she’s told. Don’t suppose you’ve ever dealt with human trafficking?”

“No.”

“Don’t ask how I got involved. A long sad story.”

“I really don’t care, Swanger. I’d like to help the girl but I’m not sticking my nose into it. You said you needed a lawyer.”

He picks up a single fry and examines it as if looking for poison, then slowly puts it into his mouth. He glares at me from behind the fake lenses, and finally says, “She’ll work the clubs for a bit, then they’ll decide to breed her again. They pass her around, you know, and when she gets pregnant they’ll get her off the drugs and lock her away. The baby’s gotta be healthy, you know. She’s one of eight or ten girls on their payroll, mostly white but a few brown ones, all from this country.”

“All abducted?”

“Of course. You don’t think they volunteered?”

“I don’t know what to think.” I hope he’s lying but something tells me he’s not. Either way, the story is so repulsive I can only shake my head. I can’t help but see the images of Roy Kemp and his wife on the news pleading for a safe return of their daughter.

“Real tragic,” I say. “But I’m losing patience here, Swanger. First, I can’t believe anything you say. Second, you said you needed a lawyer.”

“Why did you tell the cops where she was buried?”

“Because they kidnapped my son and forced me to cough up what you’d told me.”

He likes this story and can’t hold back a smile. “Really? The cops kidnapped your son?”

“They did. I caved, told them, they raced out to the site, wasted an entire night digging, and when it became apparent you were lying, they released my kid.”

He crams three fries into his mouth and chomps like he’s working an entire pack of bubble gum. “I was in the woods, watching, laughing my ass off at those clowns. I was also cussing you for telling my secret.”

“You’re a sicko, Swanger. Why am I here?”

“Because I need money, Rudd. It ain’t easy living on the run like this. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I have to do to generate cash and I’m sick of it. There’s about 150 grand in reward money sitting in a pot somewhere in the police department. I figure if I can get the girl back to her family, then I should get some of the money.”

I don’t know why I’m shocked by this. Nothing this idiot says should surprise me. I take a deep breath and say, “Allow me to make some sense of this. You kidnapped the girl a year ago. The good people of our city donated their cash for a reward fund. Now you, the kidnapper, would like to return the girl, and for this act of great humanity you think you should get some of the reward money, the same money now being held to solve the crime you committed. Right, Swanger?”

“I got no problem with that. It works on all fronts. They get the girl; I get the cash.”

“More of a ransom deal, I think.”

“Call it what you like. I don’t care. I just gotta have some cash, Rudd, and I figure a lawyer like you can make it happen.”

I jump to my feet and say, “What you need is a bullet, Swanger.”

“Where you going?”

“Home. And if you call me again I’ll call the cops.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Our volume has increased and the drunk teenagers are staring at us. I walk away and manage to get outside before he catches me and grabs my shoulder. “You think I’m lying about the girl, don’t you, Rudd?”

I quickly grab the Glock 19 from the holster under my left armpit and grip it with my right hand. I back away as he freezes, staring at the pistol. I say, “I don’t know if you’re lying and I don’t care. You’re a sick puppy, Swanger, and I’m sure you’ll die an awful death. Now leave me alone.”

He relaxes and smiles. “You ever hear of a town called Lamont, Missouri? No reason to, really. Podunk place of a thousand people, an hour north of Columbia. Three nights ago a twenty-year-old girl, first name of Heather, disappeared. The whole town’s in a panic, everybody’s in on the search, stomping through the woods and looking under bushes. No sign whatsoever. She’s all right, I mean at least she’s alive. She’s living in the same warehouse with Jiliana Kemp, west-central Chicago, getting the same abuse. Check it out online, Rudd, the Columbia paper ran a small story this morning. Just another girl, this one five hundred miles away, but these guys are hard-core traffickers.”

I grip the pistol even tighter and resist the urge to raise it shoulder high and put a couple into his skull.