by Tim Green
"Hey, Chris," rumbled Jeremy Plank, a big, fat offensive lineman from UT whom Chris and Madison also represented.
"Hey, Plank," Chris said in a voice that was friendly enough to let the kid know that Chris still appreciated him as a client but not so much that he'd stop to talk. He saw Trane Jones go by in an exhausted trance that didn't acknowledge him in any way. Then the coaches themselves passed, giving him the blank stares they gave anyone who had somehow slipped into their presence by working through the owner as he so obviously had.
Still there was no Clark. Chris glanced quickly after the remnants of the herd before he realized that Clark was still out on the field churning up more grass and more sweat in the downpour. Ten more sprints he ran on his own before he came gasping and staggering to where Chris stood. He seemed not to even notice him until Chris spoke.
"How come you didn't show up last Thursday?" Chris asked.
"Huh?" Clark said, the words clearly not fitting the scene. It was a Wednesday practice, hardest of the week and closed, yet here was his agent.
"I got hung up," he said, catching his breath. "What're you doing here?"
"Hung up," Chris said contemplatively.
"Yeah. Hey, I got a film meeting. "Vbu gonna hang out until after that?"
Chris thought about the question and wondered which answer would give him the best chance of a candid interview. He decided to play it nice. That was his thing anyway.
"Okay, I'll wait," he said.
"You gonna be upstairs?"
"No. I'll be right here," he said, plainly enough, not wanting to imply that Clark might try to duck him again.
"Okay, I'll see you in a few."
Chris moved out of the rain and under the roof that sheltered the double doors leading into the locker room. There was a bench there and he sat with his legs outstretched and crossed. After a few minutes the chill forced him to jam his hands down tight into the pockets of his windbreaker. It was half an hour before the players started to straggle out of the doors. They looked showered and fresh compared to the way they had gone in, and Chris retracted his stubby legs to let them pass. One by one and sometimes by twos they made their way under the overhang, then dashed across the parking lot for their cars.
When Clark came out he passed right by Chris in a flurry with his head down and a grim look on his face.
"Hey," Chris said, and he could see by his client's face that Clark had honestly forgotten he was there.
"Hey, yeah. Hey, Chris."
"Wanna get a cup of coffee somewhere?" Chris asked.
"How about we go to my place?" Clark said.
"I'll follow you."
Clark's home was in Palos Verdes. It sat high up on an enormous rock overlooking the ocean. As they wound their way up to the top with Chris following in his rental car, out over the ocean the tail end of the low front was ruptured by the sun and the rain that had fallen on the team's practice was quickly replaced by a shower of yellow light. Clark's neighborhood, a gated community on top of the rock called Rancho Palos Verdes, was one of the few places in Los Angeles where the homes had an acre or two between them. It was the only place where Clark felt he could find any semblance of sanity in a city that was such a far cry from the Portland suburb where he'd spent most of his youth. His house was a modest looking three-bedroom ranch with a red tile roof. It was the breathtaking view out the back that made it a multimillion-dollar home. Chris walked through the front door and looked straight through the living room out onto the glorious Pacific as it shed the storm.
Chris sat down at the kitchen table, which also looked out over the Pacific. Clark put on some coffee. They talked about each other's families, Clark's mom and sister and Chris's wife and five kids, until Clark set two steaming mugs down on the plank table and took a seat at its head.
"God has blessed you, Chris," he said with his warm smile.
"He hasn't been too bad to you either," Chris said, waving his mug in the direction of the marvelous view. "How old are you? Thirty-one? This is some place."
"It's nice," Clark admitted.
"Clark ... I know you're probably not thrilled that Madison is representing Trane Jones in this whole thing, but I need to talk with you about it."
"I don't care who Madison represents," he said calmly enough. "She's a good agent. So are you. You've done good for me. I can't control the rest of your lives and what you do."
"You say that like we're doing something wrong."
"Wrong," Clark said, then pursed his lips. "I don't know. Is it wrong? Maybe, probably. But it's not my place to judge you. God will judge you."
Chris bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't about to start defending his or Madison's actions, so he pushed ahead.
"Look, Clark, part of preparing for a trial is to find someone besides the defendant who might have killed the victim. That's just what you do. Now, look, you're our client. That's a sacred privilege. Neither Madison nor I could take any actions against you. We just couldn't. But I need to ask you about this case, about Annie Cassidy, not because I want to, Clark, but because I need to hear it from you that you weren't involved in any way."
Chris held up his hands before Clark could protest and said, "Now, I know you had nothing to do with it at all. But I've got to be totally honest with you. Of the obvious candidates for someone who might have done something like this? Besides Trane? You're number one, my friend ... I need to ask you about Annie."
Clark's face grew pale and long. "Why?" he said, defensively enough to make Chris consider him silently for a moment.
"She was your girlfriend?"
"Was."
"Can I ask you what happened?"
Clark scowled now, and the dark look that crossed his face was something foreign to Chris.
"No. You can't."
Chris shifted uncomfortably.
"You're my agent, right?" Clark said.
"Yes."
'"Vbu're my lawyer?"
"I am."
"Then why are you asking me this?"
Chris sighed heavily and said, "If we prove Trane is innocent, the next person asking you these questions will be from the LA. Police Department. Clark, sooner or later I think people are going to want to know a lot more about what happened between you and this girl."
"Not if Trane did it and they find him guilty," Clark said.
"No, not if they find him guilty," Chris agreed. "But it's my job, and Madison's job, to prove that he's innocent. I'm not talking about myself so much, but Madison? She's got a pretty good track record when it comes to these things."
Here Clark sneered maliciously. "Yeah, I know about it. Who doesn't? Funny, isn't it? You always told me that you and Madison were different. I don't see it. . ."
"Did you know a big part of the reason we're representing Trane is because Ulrich called in a favor Madison owed him from negotiating your contract?"
Clark shook his head that he didn't. This seemed to soften him a bit. "It's still bad business," he said.
"The team seems to be pretty accepting of it," Chris pointed out. "Even you. You haven't stopped blocking for him."
"That's different. In football it doesn't matter about the guys on your team. When you play, you play to win. If the guy's a criminal, that's his business. When you step on the field . . . then that's everyone's business. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that's the way it is."
"But there's no love lost between you and Trane."
"Of course not," Clark scoffed. "I despise everything he stands for. If he-- If he did what they say he did . . . then God will punish him. That's in God's hands, but he'll deserve what he gets. Everyone deserves what he gets. That's how God works it."
"You hate him though, don't you?"
Clark looked at him in a funny way and said, "You're the second person that's said that to me. No, I don't hate anyone. I despise what he stands for. I despise Satan in whatever form he takes, but I don't hate another human being. Christ teaches us to love our enemies."
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Chris just took a sip of his coffee and looked calmly at Clark.
"I didn't kill her, Chris," Clark said.
Chris raised his brow and said, "Did I say you did?"
"No. You don't have to. That's why you're here, isn't it? Not for the way it looks, but for the way you think it might be," Clark said. "I know you used to be a cop. Of course I didn't do it. "Vbu've got to be kidding to even think it."
"Do you have any idea who did?"
Clark burst out in a short, powerful laugh. "Ha! Seems to me and just about everyone else that Trane did it."
"Besides Trane."
"Why, because he's your client?"
"No," Chris said seriously, "because I don't think he did it."
Clark knew by Chris's expression that he meant what he said. "I imagine there were lots of people who would have done it," he said.
"Lots?"
Clark shrugged and took a sip from his mug. Looking out at the ocean he said, "Annie wasn't what she seemed. She was an actress. She played a role with me. She probably did it with other people, too. She played with me the way you'd play with a toy. When she was done, she tossed me away. You don't act that way just once . . . Yeah, there had to be a lot of people that had it in for Annie."
"So you had it in for her?"
Clark turned his gaze to Chris and said, "The difference is, what kind of person are you? If she did what she did to me to someone else, maybe they'd do something about it. You know the kind of person I am. Do you really think that I would do something like that?"
Chris shifted in his chair. "No," he said quietly. "I don't."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I have to ask," Chris told him. "I needed to hear you say it. If you didn't have a clear conscience, I'd know it. Trust me, even if I thought it was you . . . well, I'm not a cop anymore. I'm a lawyer. All it would mean to me was that Madison and I couldn't represent Trane. If I thought you did it, it would be a conflict that neither of us would want to deal with. But someone killed this girl, and I need to find out who."
"Why not just defend him by showing that it wasn't him? Why do you have to find someone else?"
"The evidence against him is strong," Chris said. "Maybe Madison can overcome that, maybe she can't. The best thing would be to find the person who really did it." "Unless it was really him," Clark pointed out. "Yes," Chris said after a pause. "Unless it really was."
Chapter 36
Kurt Lunden sat quietly in front of his computer screen. In his left hand was a tall, cool glass of gin and tonic. With his right he took the lime from the glass's lip and slowly sucked it between his twisted lips. When the juice was gone he dropped it back into his glass and raised the window shade with his free hand. The raging sun outside blinded him and he dropped the heavy material with a curse. The slow pitch and roll of the yacht had no effect on him. He'd been out on the water all week traveling down past Baha in search of sailfish on their southern run. Unfortunately, he'd spent more of his time in front of the damned computer screen than he had in his deck chair latched on to a big fish.
But now the time was right. He could feel it ready to peak. It was a sense he'd developed over the years. He knew he wasn't good at the market when it came to other people's companies. But when it came to his own company, with his own inside information, he knew when to make his move. Besides watching the Zeus stock, he had a satellite dish that gave him the latest fluctuations of the market. Things were happening exactly as he'd predicted. The media attention was starting to fade.
Lunden had watched with glee over the past three weeks while the whole cast of players were splattered all over the screen. But now the novelty was beginning to wear off. There were only so many television shows and so many questions Madison McCall could answer.
She'd been an ingenious touch, Lunden thought to himself. He'd give Conrad that much. Madison lent an air of credibility to an otherwise preposterous display of self-promotion. There was only so much the interviewers could tolerate of Conrad Dobbins and his shameless advertising of Zeus Shoes.
All that work Conrad had put into this thing, only to be left holding the bag when it all collapsed. Well, it would do him good. Dobbins had been screwing people his whole life, preying on simple-minded, ingenuous athletes. But Lunden wasn't an athlete and he wasn't a stargazer. He was a businessman through and through, and this was a business deal. Granted, he'd have to beef up his security after putting the wood to Dobbins. The agent was a vindictive bastard. Lunden knew that. But that was all part of the game, and Lunden had played it before.
He picked up the phone and dialed Tokyo direct. As many big deals as he'd done and as many risky schemes as he'd undertaken, his hands still shook. He gulped down the rest of the drink, ice and all, and felt the cold ache rush to his forehead.
"This is Gimble," said the banker.
"It's Lunden."
"Mr. Lunden, hello," the banker said, suddenly obsequious.
"When it hits thirty-three . . ." Lunden took a deep breath as the stock clicked up another sixteenth to thirty-one and seven- eighths, "sell it to the Japanese for thirty-one."
"How much, Mr. Lunden?"
Lunden could see the banker licking his dry thin lips. The commission on this deal would make him a small fortune.
"Sell it all."
"All five million shares?"
"Sell it."
"If you'd like I can conference you in," Gimble said. The sound of his fingers hammering away on a keyboard was audible over the phone.
"Good . . ."
Lunden stayed on the line. The stock hit thirty-three, hovered, bounced up an eighth, a quarter, and held. On the phone the conference line began to ring.
A Japanese-accented voice answered, "Hello?"
"Mr. Hagato, this is Arthur Gimble with World Trust. My client has given me instructions to offer you the five million shares we've been talking about at thirty-one dollars a share."
"Thirty-one? This stock at thirty-three."
"Mr. Lunden wants you to feel comfortable with the transaction, Mr. Hagato. Selling half his interest in Zeus is a partnership, and this is his way of beginning the partnership on a positive note."
There was silence on the other end.
Finally, Gimble said, "If you're no longer interested, Mr. Hagato, my instructions are to turn this offer over to our Hong Kong branch where we have an anxious buyer. . . Mr. Lunden of course insisted that you have the first opportunity."
"I buy."
"Good. I'll messenger the contracts over to you before noon."
Gimble disconnected the third line.
"Is that it?" Lunden said, his heart racing in his chest.
"That's it."
"Good job, Gimble," Lunden said and hung up the phone. Alone in his stateroom he sat and stared at the screen. He rang for another drink, and by the time it arrived the stock was back down to thirty-one. The Japanese were still getting a deal. A private sale was the only way for Lunden to cash out. If he tried to sell his shares on the market the flood of stock would cause the price to plummet before he could unload it all. Besides, the SEC would be all over his ass. It would be six months before people on the street learned that there was no way Zeus could fulfill its orders for the following year. When that happened, the bottom would fall out. But Lunden would be long gone by then, sitting safely on the sideline with his stock cashed out. Of course he had to keep that information to himself. Word of that kind spread faster than fleas in a pound. If everyone knew it, the stock would never climb out of its hole.
With half his stock now held by the Japanese, his only other objective was to sell the other half through a New York bank to a Saudi prince who had so much money he wouldn't even miss it when Zeus went belly-up. His strategy with each of the buyers was the same: Give them the impression that he was selling half his position to them to raise cash for some personal estate planning reasons. Neither knew about the other, nor would they until it was all over. The prince was a week away
from the deal. If Dobbins could deliver the media surge he'd been talking about, the timing would be perfect. Lunden could easily walk away with three hundred million dollars.
The phone rang.
"This is Lunden."
"The fuck's goin' on, man?" Dobbins wailed.
"I was just thinking about you, Conrad," Lunden said flatly.
"You seen the stock? Shit's fallin like rain, man. What the fuck's goin' on? I'm thinkin about sellin."
The agent's voice, laced ever so slightly with panic, brought a mean smile to Lunden's face. If Dobbins sold his and his clients' shares, the stock could go into a tailspin.
"Sell if you like," he said in a tone that questioned the agent's manhood.
"I don't wanna sell if the shit's goin' back to thirty-two! I wanna sell high- Motherfuckin' shit is down to twenty-fuckin- nine! I just lost three million dollars, man, shit!"
"Conrad, I told you, when the media wears off, the stock will drop. You said you've got a plan. You can bring it right back.
Then maybe you'll sell. If you do what you say you can, you'll drive the price right back up. I wouldn't sell it even then, though. I'm in for the long haul. This company could go to fifty."
"Fifty!"
"We've got a good product, Conrad. People love Zeus Shoes. Trane isn't going away. This thing could just keep growing. The media attention we've had is just the start. What you're seeing right now is profit taking. It will come back, especially if you tweak the media . . ."
Now Dobbins was chuckling on the other end of the line. "I'll tweak it, all right."
Chapter 37
on the fifteenth Sunday of the season the L. A. Juggernauts clinched a playoff berth. Madison and Chris were back in Austin shoring up the rest of their practice before heading back to the West Coast in the middle of the coming week. On Monday afternoon, Madison, who was going over her suppression strategy with her firm's best constitutional lawyer, got an urgent call.
"It's Gary Le Fleur," Sharon said, peeking around the corner of the office door.