The Kraken Project

45

Melissa walked out of the police station into the hot sun, took out her wallet, and counted the money. They had a grand total of three hundred and thirty dollars. She looked around. No surprise: the sheriff’s department was surrounded by shabby bail bond shop fronts and a low building that looked like it used to be a motel with a sign that read LAW OFFICES.

She scanned the sign and its list of attorneys, each with his or her own little practice, it seemed. How to choose? Male or female? Irish? Italian? Hispanic? WASP? Jewish? She picked a name the way she picked horses at the racetrack — the one that sounded nice. Cynthia J. Meadows, Esq.

Walking across the heaved-up tarmac, she scanned the doors and found Meadows’s. She knocked and went in. It was a small, two-room office, with a tiny waiting room and reception area. An open door led to a dim office in the back.

“Can I help you?” said the girl behind the reception desk, in between blowing on her freshly painted nails.

“I need a lawyer.”

“What’d you do?”

“My, ah, husband was just arrested for driving without a license and not signaling.”

“Fill this out, please.” The receptionist pushed a piece of paper at her with the tips of her fingers, being careful not to disturb her fresh polish.

Melissa took the paper over to a chair, sat down, and glanced over it. Right at the top it listed retainer fees for various services. The lowest fee, for basic moving violations, was a thousand dollars. But the office was empty, and it didn’t look like Meadows had many clients — maybe the rate would be negotiable.

Melissa filled out the rest of the sheet, making up a name for Price’s wife, using the Santa Fe address. She gave it to the girl, who carried it into the inner office. A moment later, she came out.

“Ms. Meadows will see you now.”

Melissa entered the dim office and was surprised to find a reasonably professional-looking woman in her fifties, with gray hair done up in a tight bun, wearing a gray suit, no makeup, her only jewelry a string of simple pearls. Her face, however, had a hard-bitten edge, with thin, mean lips and the raddled skin of a longtime smoker. This was no grandma. But she wanted a tough lady.

“Please sit down,” said Meadows. Melissa sat and waited while the attorney scanned the sheet she had filled in. After a moment she laid it down. “Tell me what happened.”

Shepherd told the story of being robbed in New Mexico, then pulled over for no reason while driving on the interstate, her husband jailed. The woman nodded sympathetically as she talked.

When she was finished, Meadows spoke. “I handle these cases every day,” she said. With a gesture taking in the shabby ex-motel, she added, “We all do.”

“The problem is,” Melissa explained, “we’re in a big hurry. We’re trying to get to the Bay Area before … my mother-in-law dies of cancer.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Price. But you’re going to have to get yourself in a big unhurry. It’s probably too late to get your husband out of detention this evening. This is going to take at least twenty-four hours. And it’s going to be expensive.”

“How much?”

“It starts with the tow. Six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred for a tow? It’s only five miles!”

Meadows went on: “Then there’s my retainer of one thousand dollars. The moving violation fine, plus driving without a license — that’s a biggie in Arizona — another six hundred dollars. Court costs, fees, and so forth, about four hundred. Total: twenty-six hundred dollars.”

“All I have is three hundred and thirty.”

An unpleasant silence. The look on Meadows’s face changed, her lips contracting in a way that produced a hundred nasty wrinkles. “Do you have access to more? Debit or credit card? Without money, I can’t do anything.”

Melissa thought about who she might get money from. Clanton? But he was surely being monitored, so any communication with him would be intercepted. Any money wire would be traced. She had no other real friends beyond a few coworkers — who would also be monitored. Who could Ford contact without tipping off the FBI? But he was in jail.

This was not good.

“I don’t think I can get more money right now.”

“No relative or friend who might send you a MoneyGram? Mother, grandmother, brother, sister?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s unfortunate.” An expression of contempt gathered on the lawyer’s face. “I’m sorry.” The phony sympathy Melissa noted in her voice was now gone, replaced by crisp annoyance.

Melissa looked at Meadows. This had been a bad choice, after all. She recalled that she never won money at the racetrack, either. “What if I were to give you the three hundred and thirty dollars now, just to get things started? I’d pay you the rest later — you have my word.”

“I don’t work on promises. And even if I worked pro bono, your husband isn’t going to get out of here without paying their fees and fines. Anyone who wants admission to the legal system of this country needs money. Lots of money. That’s the bottom line.”

“What do poor people who are pulled over do?”

“They do their thirty days. Just like your husband will have to if he can’t raise the money. Now, Mrs. Price, I have work to do.” The gray bun bobbed as she gathered papers together.

“How is it that the sheriff is even allowed to pull people over on the interstate? This seems like some sort of scam.” She didn’t add: and you’re part of it.

“It’s the county sheriff. They share duties with the state police. But that’s irrelevant. Without ready funds, we’re done here.” Her tone was now bristling with contempt for a person without access to “ready funds.”

Melissa glanced at the clock. Almost four P.M. They should have been in Half Moon Bay two hours ago. “I just thought of a person I could call. May I use your phone? Our cell phones were stolen, too.”

A long silence. “Might this person be able to provide you with funds?”

“Yes,” Melissa lied.

“Be my guest.”

It was now exactly four. Melissa hoped to hell the lawyer’s clock was accurate. She picked up the phone and dialed the number Dorothy had given her.