Contempt: A Legal Thriller

by Michael Cordell

  Thane paused, then threw the knife onto the table. When he released the ponytail, the wide-eyed man collapsed back onto the seat, still gasping.

  Thane and Hannah walked out of the diner and down the sidewalk. Hannah remained quiet for a while, and Thane just stared ahead, walking so quickly that his wife almost had to jog to keep pace.

  “He was just a jerk,” she finally said.

  When Thane didn’t respond, she tried again. “Are you okay? What happened to ‘let it go’?”

  Thane slowed his step, finally leaning his forehead against a streetlight. He clenched his fist, placed it against the metal pole, then relaxed it without taking a swing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve had to deal with that before. I guess I was trying to make up for not being around the last time.”

  “I understand,” she replied. She opened her mouth to speak again, but closed it instead, putting her arm in his and pulling him close.

  “Come on,” she said, “let’s go home.”

  They turned and continued down the sidewalk in silence, stepping away from the glow of the streetlight, back into the shadows.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Thane’s first social event since being released felt even more awkward than expected. On the few occasions that he glanced around, several sets of watchful faces quickly turned away, so he mostly occupied himself with surveying the food display or staring at his shoes. He knew the time down to the minute, since checking his watch offered him something to do besides standing there like a statue.

  Joseph Crowell, his former boss, insisted that he and Hannah attend a gathering in honor of Thane’s vindication, but the sparse turnout confirmed that few people viewed his release as a cause for celebration. It had been five weeks, but the press still trumpeted his freedom as the exploitation of a technicality—or, worse, a total miscarriage of justice.

  Hannah walked up to Thane as he was studying the endless spread of hors d’oeuvres. “You’ve been eyeing these for the last ten minutes,” she said, pointing to the canapes. “Think you’ll actually choose one?”

  “If you must know, I’m avoiding conversation. Trust me, I’m doing everybody a favor.” As he once again looked out into the living room, a former colleague immediately looked away. “You know, we really should get out more. This is a lot of fun.”

  Hannah smiled and nudged him. “It was a nice gesture on Joseph’s part. And at least a few people showed up.”

  “These are all Joseph’s people,” Thane replied. “I’m sure they didn’t have much of a choice.”

  He grabbed a couple of fancy crab puffs that were sprouting some sort of green sprig, just as the kitchen door sprung open and Joseph burst into the dining room, inconspicuous as a bottle rocket. “Eat, everybody! Eat!” Joseph shouted. “There’s enough food in the kitchen to feed an opera.”

  At fifty-eight, Joseph Crowell had the world on a leash. He ran Crowell Architects, the boutique law firm where Thane had worked before his arrest. The firm exclusively courted high-roller developers of high-rise office buildings, helping them to navigate the whitewater rapids of city government bureaucracy.

  Thane watched as Joseph instructed a waiter to refill the wine glasses of two guests, who just a minute ago had been wistfully glancing at their watches. Once they no longer had an excuse to bail, Joseph strode over to Thane and Hannah.

  “My dear,” Joseph said to Hannah, “I need a few minutes with the prodigal son, but whether I give him back in one piece is going to be entirely up to him.” Joseph put his arm around Thane’s shoulder and steered him out of the room, leaving Hannah alone with an entire tray of crab puffs.

  Joseph led Thane through the kitchen and outside onto a massive patio that was built with more stones than a lighthouse and overlooked an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The deep green spotlights shining from the bottom cast the entire backyard in an ethereal beauty.

  “I appreciate you doing this for us tonight,” Thane said, “but maybe it was too soon.”

  “Bullshit,” Joseph said. “Those bastards took five years from you. I won’t let them take one minute more. Not one.” He removed a Cuban cigar from his jacket and lit it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs before finally expelling it into the night air in a thick gray cloud. “Besides, I had ulterior motives for getting you here.”

  He shot a mischievous grin at Thane. “I want you back and working with me. It’s non-negotiable.”

  Thane shook his head. “That’s very generous, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “In all the years you’ve known me, have you ever seen me do a goddamn thing I didn’t want to do? I know I don’t have to do it. I want to do it. And it’s for selfish reasons: you’re the best real estate lawyer I’ve ever worked with, and I don’t settle for anything less than the best.”

  “Imagine how clients will react if you bring me back.”

  “They’ll react how I tell them to react—or they can find another law firm, and trust me, that’s not something they want to do. Listen, you’re the best. Sure, maybe I won’t have you do the presentations for the clients, but you know as well as I do there’s a hell of a lot of work behind the scenes that doesn’t involve dealing directly with the great unwashed. Christ, that should make the job more appealing to you.”

  Thane took a step back, eyeing Joseph warily. His smile never wavered; instead, he gave a single, confident nod—the one he gave when he considered negotiations closed—and extended a hand. Thane looked at the hand for a moment, then slowly reached out to shake it. Joseph snatched it, making sure Thane didn’t have time to change his mind.

  “Excellent,” Joseph said. “As a lawyer, you know this is legal and binding. Or were we supposed to spit in our palms first? I can never remember.”

  After extended goodbyes and thank-yous to Joseph, Thane and Hannah drove down the interstate and back toward the seedier part of the city. Neither one spoke, despite the fact that Hannah was leaning against the passenger door to face Thane, an obvious effort to stare him down. But he couldn’t restrain a smile as he watched her try and fail to outwait him. Finally, when he reached to turn on the radio, she broke, playfully slapping his hand away from the dial.

  “Oh no, you don’t! When you and Joseph came back inside, you looked totally different. What’s up?”

  Thane’s smile dissolved. “Joseph wants me to come back to work.”

  She gasped. “Are you serious? That’s great! I mean—I’m assuming it’s great.” She waited one brief moment for confirmation. “Isn’t it great?”

  “It’s very generous,” he said. “And also very crazy on his part. But you know Joseph. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the whole thing kind of scares me, but being able to go back to work for someone who knows me and believes in me, that’s about as good as it gets. Just the same . . .”

  He fell silent, drifting inside his thoughts.

  Hannah leaned over and threaded her arm through his. “It feels as though things are finally starting to fall our way. When does he want you to start?”

  “Monday.” He stared hard at the road.

  “That’s quick.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Thane drew a breath. Deep down, this was something he had hoped for, but he’d never expressed it aloud. The more he’d thought about it, though, the more it confirmed his take on his former boss.

  When they reached their apartment building, Thane shut off the car and sat for a moment as Hannah opened her car door.

  “Go on up,” he said. “I’m going to take a quick walk around the block, just to clear my head.”

  Hannah paused. “It’s not the safest neighborhood at night, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really. I won’t be long. I’ll be up in probably ten minutes. I just want to sort through all that happened this evening.”

/>   She looked at him, concerned, then kissed him gently and walked inside. Thane stood next to the car for a moment, then turned and crossed the street toward a figure leaning against a mailbox. Although the man had placed himself in the shadows, Thane had spotted him immediately when they pulled up outside the apartment building, recognizing him purely by his silhouette.

  He’d figured at some point he’d have to deal with Russell McCoy, though it bothered him to find the father of the dead girl outside Hannah’s apartment. Thane didn’t slow down as he approached. He knew better than to show fear, something he’d learned early on at Forsman.

  But maybe that was only true in prison. Maybe the rule didn’t apply to grieving fathers.

  Thane kept a sharp eye on McCoy’s hands. If the big man was packing, he would most likely touch the weapon, feeling for it in the dark––or at least that’s how it played out in the prison courtyard. But McCoy’s hands remained motionless. Thane stopped within three feet of him, waiting for him to speak—or throw a punch. McCoy stared back with an expressionless face that could have been carved out of ice.

  “I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned,” he said in a lifeless voice, “there’s a big difference between the justice system and true justice.”

  “I’ve felt the same way for five years,” Thane replied.

  “Just ’cause you found a way to get loose doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her.”

  “You’re right. But I didn’t. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’m saying it anyway.”

  McCoy studied him carefully. Although the two men had never spoken, they saw enough of each other during the trial. Whenever Thane had glanced McCoy’s way, no matter what was going on in the courtroom, McCoy had never seemed to take his eyes off him.

  “I spoke with Stone’s office,” McCoy said. “They won’t confirm one way or the other, but what I’m hearing is they’re not retrying you. My daughter’s killer deserves to die, and if they’re not going to make it happen, I will. Make no mistake about that.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Not tonight. I’m giving the DA a chance to do the right thing and send you back where you belong. But if he doesn’t . . .”

  McCoy pulled back one side of his jacket to reveal a pearl-handled Colt 45 tucked into a shoulder holster. “Killing a man might be a crime against the Lord, but I’ll be comfortable arguing my case after I die.”

  “However this plays out,” Thane said, “keep away from my wife’s apartment. She has nothing to do with this. This is between you and me.”

  McCoy coughed out a laugh. “That’s really something. Are you thinking it’d be difficult if someone you loved—some innocent person you loved—got hurt? You thinking that would be a terrible thing to happen? I suppose you’re right.”

  McCoy turned to leave, then paused and faced Thane again. “It don’t matter what you do. You can move away, change your name, get a gun, it don’t matter. When I decide it’s time—and it isn’t gonna be long, either—then I’m going to kill you. I just want you to know that. Don’t matter what you do.”

  “I didn’t murder Lauren.”

  “Then you better tell me who did. You tell me what I should do with all this hatred. Because right now, buddy . . . you’re it.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Thane walked down Santa Monica Boulevard wearing a blue Hugo Boss suit, a lavender linen shirt, and a silk tie that had maxed out Hannah’s lone credit card. The tie alone cost more than he had earned in six months working in the prison laundry––twenty cents an hour didn’t go that far. As least the ever-mounting credit card bill with its parasitic interest rate would disappear soon, now that he was working again, at his old salary, adjusted for inflation.

  Hannah had insisted he buy a suit that made a statement. He would have preferred something to help him blend in, but Hannah wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept his eyes downward, walking along the crowded sidewalk, feeling exposed in the daylight. Fortunately, nobody seemed to recognize him, the clothes apparently having turned him into just another faceless executive hoofing it to work.

  The office building that housed Joseph’s law firm loomed arrogantly above the other structures in the area. Thane walked into the expansive lobby and headed toward the elevator. A young security guard leaned against the reception desk and swung his keys around his finger as he hit on the obviously uninterested woman answering the phone. Thane’s muscles tensed instinctively; even a rent-a-cop’s uniform reminded him of prison.

  The young man glanced at Thane, refocused his attention on his prey, then twisted around, checking out this guy in the new suit, trying to place the face. Thane had already seen that reaction scores of times. People who had seen his mug shot on the news dozens of times but couldn’t quite make the connection.

  Luckily, in L.A., it wasn’t that uncommon to encounter people from TV.

  Thane nodded at the guard and walked past the desk to the elevator, while the uniformed man continued to study him. He pushed the button for the elevator and glanced back. The receptionist had spun her chair in his direction, too, and she clearly had no trouble placing his face. She spoke rapidly to the guard, whose eyebrows shot up. Even across the lobby, Thane could make out a few words: “prison,” and then, predictably, “murder.”The young man puffed out his chest and patted the gun on his belt, most likely in an effort to reassure the young woman. As he strutted toward the elevator, the door opened, and Thane lurched toward it.

  “Excuse me!” the guard called out. “Sir, hold up a minute.”

  As the guard raised his hand, Thane stepped inside the elevator. He pushed the button to close the doors, hearing the quickening clicks of the guard’s dress shoes on the marble floor as the doors slid shut. He sighed and felt a wave of relief wash over him. He would suggest to Joseph that the security company be notified of his hiring.

  He stepped off the elevator and into the firm’s lobby, the name Joseph Crowell and Associates greeting visitors in conspicuous gold letters. Gold in more than just color: Joseph spared no expense for décor, especially when it came to his own name.

  The receptionist looked like she could have been a model: blonde, blue-eyed, and with teeth a shade of white found only in a toothpaste commercial. She spotted Thane and offered a confident smile.

  She stood and extended her hand. “Mr. Banning, my name is Brianna. I look forward to working with you, sir. Mr. Crowell is in a meeting across town for most of the morning, but he asked me to show you to your office and make sure you get settled in.”

  “Thank you, Brianna.”

  She led him through the door that separated the lobby from the rest of the firm and escorted him down a long office corridor, conversations in some of the side offices abruptly cutting off as he passed. A few of the secretarial staff across the room even took turns peeking over the top of their cubicles like a game of Whack-A-Mole.

  Brianna led him to his office—a large, beautifully decorated space. Photographs of buildings, presumably made possible by the labor of Joseph’s firm, were elegantly framed and mounted along one wall. “Here we are,” she said, stepping to the side. Thane walked over to his desk, surprised to see his reflection in the polished desktop.

  “I could use this thing as a mirror,” he murmured, and Brianna giggled.

  He then walked over to the sleek, ergonomically designed office chair and eased his weight down into it. “Bet you a dollar this cost more than my wife’s car,” he said. “Then again, I could probably say the same thing about the pen.” A sterling silver Waterman pen and pencil stood upright in their holsters, locked and loaded.

  A stack of folders on the gleaming desk awaited his review, the first of what was sure to be an endless torrent of documents he’d need to catch up on after five years of missed business. He swept his gaze around the room, again taking in the expensive furnishing
s, so far removed from his old world of concrete and violence.

  During the first several months of his incarceration, Thane felt confident he would be released. He had to be released: he hadn’t killed anyone. But after a year inside, he stopped dreaming of a moment just like this one. He felt like an imposter, an actor wearing a fancy suit while playing the part of a high-priced lawyer. This used to be his life, but now it felt like it all belonged to somebody else. Like it would all disappear if he closed his eyes.

  “Is there anything you need right now, Mr. Banning?”

  “No, thank you, Brianna. I’m good.”

  Thane stood and stretched after reviewing legal documents for several hours, the minutiae of real estate contracts returning to him like old friends. It helped that he had spent most of the last five years familiarizing himself with the nuances of criminal law which, while obviously different from real estate, still required extraordinary attention to detail.

  He walked over and studied some of the enlarged photographs hanging on his wall, losing himself in one particular picture when Joseph appeared in the doorway.

  “He has returned!” Joseph crowed. “All is right with the company again. So tell me—how’s it feel?”

  “Familiar. And . . . not familiar at the same time.”

  Thane turned back to the photograph of a stunning brick and glass structure with front entrance pillars extending twenty stories high. “My last project,” Thane said. “I never did see how it turned out.” He stared a moment longer. “Very impressive, Joseph.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was hanging in here. These were put up long ago. I’ll have someone switch it out. In fact, I’ll burn that fucking picture myself.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Do you remember it? We were so excited to get that job, something of that magnitude. Now I’m sure we both wish we’d never seen it.”