The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  He sat there, rumpled and handsome and sad as a map. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  “I’ve made other plans.”

  He nodded, like he was turning a page inside his head. “I’d like to hear about them,” he said, jangling his keys from the ignition. “Your plans, I mean.”

  She felt the smile form slowly, wickedly on her lips. “Yeah? Well, gee. I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  He chuckled, lifting his hip to stuff his keys in his pants pocket. “Well played.”

  “Look—”

  “Know why I liked working with you? You not only got it, you enjoyed it. Most of the others, it’s like thinking is physically painful. Don’t tell them I said that.”

  “I’m not telling them anything—know why?”

  “You’ve got promise. I don’t want to see you backslide.”

  “It’s not your problem.”

  “I don’t think of you as a problem.”

  He sounded like he meant it. It scared her. “What’s your story?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We talked about it, me and Angelica especially. She’s got, like, an apocalyptic crush on you—you know that, right? You’re too smart, too good-looking, you dress too nice—no way you’re just a tutor. So what’s your story?”

  He took way too long to answer. “I like tutoring.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Tierney already realized that she’d smell out anything short of honesty and use it as an excuse to blow him off. He also sensed she probably thought of honesty as the consummate sucker move and would blow him off regardless. Still, it was worth a shot.

  “I was a lawyer in San Francisco for a while.”

  She chewed on that for a second. “How long’s ‘a while’?”

  “About twenty years.”

  “That’s a pretty stiff while.”

  The Honda’s windows were dotted with rain and fogged from the warmth of their breath, but through the blur he watched a woman in an oilskin and wellies leash her black Lab to an iron table, then disappear inside the coffeehouse. The dog stared after her like if it concentrated hard enough he could make her come back quicker.

  Jacqi said, “Were you any good? As a lawyer.”

  He smiled. “I spent a couple years right out of law school in the prosecutor’s office in San Francisco and couldn’t have been lousier at the job.”

  “How come?”

  “I lack a killer instinct when it comes to putting poor people in jail.”

  That earned him a grin. “What about after? The next seventeen years.”

  The span of her lifetime, he realized. “I joined a firm that specialized in construction litigation.”

  “Any better at that?”

  “The people who needed to know who I was, knew who I was.”

  She seemed vaguely impressed. “Huh.”

  He shrugged.

  “So why’d you give it up?”

  He looked out again through the misted window at the lonesome dog, ears pricked, waiting in the lousy weather. We’re all dogs, he thought, we’re all trying to figure out the mysterious creature at the other end of the leash, trusting in the simple logic of: if I give her what she wants, I deserve something back.

  Go ahead, he thought. Tell her.

  6

  “Little over three years ago,” Tierney said, “they found what they called a complex mass in my wife’s ovary.”

  “You don’t wear a ring.” Jacqi nodded at his hand. “We all noticed, trust me.”

  “My wife didn’t make it.”

  “Oh.” She looked more chastened than sorry. “It’s that kinda story.”

  “There’s a test called a CA-125 that can help determine whether ovarian tumors are malignant or benign. The day the results were due I was in trial.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.” She pulled her legs up under her, settling in for her story. “I mean, just from what I know.”

  “I was different then. And Roni, my wife, was okay with it. It was an important case.”

  “Important to who?”

  Exactly, he thought. “My firm was defending a developer named Hank Kitson, major player, one of the three biggest builders west of Chicago. He’d slapped up a hundred oceanfront townhouses down in Half Moon Bay that were, to use the technical term, junk. Every time the wind blew they had another problem. Homeowners sued and the case should’ve settled—throw out a number, offer to mitigate, done. But Hank Kitson, he wasn’t the kind of guy you told what to do. So-called self-made man. They’re always the worst.”

  She seemed to enjoy that, and he felt a sudden wave of protectiveness toward her. She was still growing into her bones, and despite the tough-girl attitude a certain helplessness lingered in her face. Her eyes showed the strain of working hard not to be so young.

  “So we march into trial hoping to turn catastrophe into mere disaster. The jury’s not terrible and we’re feeling mildly optimistic as plaintiffs start to put on their case. A construction expert for the homeowner’s association, this empty suit from Phoenix, takes the stand and it’s my job to destroy him on cross. He’s halfway through his testimony when my cell goes off.”

  “Your wife,” she guessed.

  “If her CA-125 comes back under thirty we’re in the clear, the thing’s benign and they can scrape it out—debulking, they call it—chemo and radiation for good measure. Things suck for a while but life goes on. The text, though, just says: Sixty-seven.”

  “That’s, like, bad—right?

  “A death sentence. And I just sat there, numb, holding my phone.”

  Like I could make the number change, he thought, if I just stared hard enough.

  “That sounds more like you,” she said.

  “Meanwhile plaintiff’s counsel has wrapped up his direct and the expert’s sitting there on the witness stand, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me to stand up and start my cross. But I’m on the moon. Everybody’s staring, including Kitson, who’s planted on my left, fuming. Finally Larry Bohn, my second chair, pops up, asks for a recess. The judge looks at me, reads my face, and though trial’s barely started we get our break.”

  The black Lab’s owner reappeared from inside the coffeehouse and the dog shot up like a missile of joy, yipping and wagging its paws.

  “In the attorney lounge Kitson wastes no time. He knew my situation, it was hardly a secret. He comes up, nose to my chin, says, ‘I don’t care if the bitch is on fire—in here, right now, your time belongs to me.’”

  “What a scumbag.” Jacqi tugged her legs a little closer. “Hope you decked him.”

  He sat there a moment, lost in the memory. “I broke his jaw in three places.”

  Her face lit up. “Get outta town.”

  “I’m not proud of it. Christ, I don’t even remember it. One minute I’m smelling his breath and feeling his finger poking my tie and the next he’s on the carpet, writhing around like he’s trying to swim. My hand’s clenched tight and it’s throbbing like hell.”

  “Good for you.”

  “No. Not good. Yeah, I was pissed.” He took a deep breath. “So what?”

  “You had a right to be. Guy was a dick.”

  “It wasn’t just him. I was pissed at fate and cancer and God, pissed at Roni for having to die, pissed at myself for not being there with her. And to the extent I was ticked off at the great Hank Kitson, it was largely because at that moment he was a perfect stand-in for everything I hated about my life.”

  He stared blankly through the hazy windshield at the white brick wall.

  “Just a guess,” she said, “but seems to me you were out of a job at that point?”

  He chuckled. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “You go to jail?”

  “No. My firm worked that part out, plus the stuff w
ith our E&O carrier, all that. I had other things to worry about. Like taking care of Roni, helping her die. By the time that was over I was pretty much in a perpetual daze.”

  A sudden gust of wind raked the car, a patter of rain.

  Jacqi said, “Sounds like you really loved her.”

  Unfortunately, he thought, love doesn’t cure cancer. “That I did.”

  “Why not go back to being a lawyer now?”

  “My bar card’s still in limbo. Ethics board tends to frown on clocking clients.”

  “So what do you do for money?”

  He knew better than to go there with her. He’d help her out—he’d already offered—but she didn’t need to know the rest. “I get by.”

  “Doing what?”

  A wry smile. “I tutor wayward women.” He glanced out at the low winter sky. “I’m about ready for some coffee. You?”

  7

  Jacqi felt a welcoming jolt as soon as they stepped inside, assaulted by the heady scents of nutmeg, espresso, candle wax, cheese. The café bustled lazily, lunch crowd, not the usual morning bunch, all those jittery gargoyles thumbing their gizmos. Jacqi ordered a double cap, Tierney a macchiato, and they moseyed back to a table in a paneled nook out of general earshot.

  Lifting her napkin, she spat out her gum as daintily as possible, then emptied four packets of sugar into her cup, stirring until bitter and creamy and sweet all blended. Tierney watched her like she was giving a demonstration.

  “Getting back to the subject of stories,” he said, “I feel a bit foolish not knowing yours. It wasn’t my place to pry, but still, I should have recognized your name at least.”

  Please God, she thought, don’t go there. “I’m grateful you didn’t. Made it easier for me. If I wanted to talk about all of that I’d be back at Winge-and-Holler House.”

  He smiled behind his cup. “Is that what you guys call it?”

  “It’s what I call it. The others, I dunno, probably think a winchinchala’s some kinda mink.”

  “Would it really be so terrible, going back?”

  She lifted a foamy spoonful to her lips, puckered and blew, like it was soup. Other people in the café were stealing glances—no surprise, given how she was dressed. And she was known here. One mope in particular—white kid in dreads, floppy Rastafarian hat—tried to hide his fascination by pounding away at his Mac.

  I’m just so goddamn interesting, she thought. Like a parrot.

  “You’re in a stronger position than you realize,” he said. “Lonnie knows she let you down.”

  “Had a wack way of showing it.” She licked the foam off her spoon.

  “She’s willing to cut you some slack in the group sessions.”

  “Wow. That’s white of her.”

  “You don’t have to talk about what happened to you if you don’t want. Just ease back into the routine, get off the street, catch your breath.”

  “That my problem? I’m short of breath?”

  She whipped around, mad-dogged the wannabe Rastaman—sure enough, he was staring. He dropped his head, tippy-tapped on his keyboard.

  Turning back, she offered Tierney a timid smile. Maybe I can help out if you’re strapped. Hotshot lawyer fallen from grace—with a ghost on his back—but doing okay from the looks of him. Play this right, she thought, you might be able to hit him up for the whole nut, full ride to Playa Ventura. Meaning no more need to humor Fireman Mike and his dream of a detour to Visalia.

  “How much do you know? About what happened, I mean. To me.”

  “Just what I’ve read.”

  “Which is?”

  “Some stuff on the Internet.” He drained his cup, set it down. “I took a look at your case file.”

  The hair on her neck stood on end. “You read the case file?”

  “It’s public record.”

  “Said like a lawyer.”

  “Former lawyer.”

  “Disrobed lawyer.”

  He smiled. “Disbarred, I think, is the word you’re after. Though even that’s not quite right. But point taken.”

  “You don’t get it, that’s why I liked you. You didn’t know or didn’t care and that made it easy for me. I could relax with you. Well, congratulations. No going back now.”

  “I wanted to understand—”

  “You can’t. You won’t.” She shot another glance toward the goof in dreads but he was too weaselly to get caught staring twice. “I told you already, it’s not your problem.”

  “I’m not trying to box you in to anything. I just want to help.”

  “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

  “Look—”

  “Know how a do-gooder says ‘Fuck you’?”

  He sat back and sighed. “You’ve made your point.”

  Not by a long shot, she thought. “I mean, if you and Lonnie don’t like the idea of me being back on the clock, there’s an easy fix. You wanna step up, help me out on the money front, like you said . . .”

  Christ, she thought, could you have said it worse? Why not just roll him?

  “We can work something out,” he said, a bit more stiff than before. “I mean that. But, again, there’s a court order involved, you can’t just—”

  “I told you already—I’ve made other plans.”

  “That won’t square things with a judge.”

  “I’ll be long gone before that becomes an issue.”

  He cocked his head slightly. “Gone where?”

  “Someplace safe.”

  He nodded, not buying it. “Okay.”

  “You gonna help me or not?”

  “That depends—gone where?”

  “I need two thousand dollars.”

  His eyes tightened. “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “To disappear—where?”

  She stared into her cup, turning it in its saucer, a little this way, then that, like she was working a combination. The magic door. To Mexico. “I’d rather not say.”

  “But you know the price to get there.”

  “I need some distance,” she said. “More than anything. Someplace different.”

  “I can understand that.”

  She glanced up, tried to read him, tried to read his eyes, so coldly blue behind the half-mast lids. It dawned on her then just how much she wanted him to like her. “Meaning what, you’ll help me out?”

  “You’re running away.”

  “I’m starting over.”

  “You sure about that?” He sounded vaguely fed up. “Nine times out of ten, people who run end up right back where they started. Ask Lonnie about it.”

  “Lonnie can drop dead.”

  “You’re wrong about her.”

  “She had the most famous screw-up in town right there, palm of her hand. Turn me around, clean me up, oh man, gotta be some good ink in that. Pick up the phone, make some calls, hit up her donors—”

  “That’s what you think this is about?”

  “You gonna help me or not?”

  “To run away? No.”

  She felt like pitching her cup at his head. “I’m running to somewhere, not from.”

  “The way I see it? That’s a distinction without a difference.”

  It’s not so much to ask, she thought. Help me. Like me. “Then I guess we got nothing to talk about.” She snatched up the napkin with her gum inside and pushed back her chair. Why couldn’t she just grab his ankles, flip him over, shake till the money just dropped? “Good news? There’s somebody else willing to step up. Not just talk about it.”

  “Someone with all the best intentions in the world, I’ll bet.” His voice was calm. It made the mockery worse. “Only wants what’s best for you.”

  “He’s more honest than that.” She began to get up. “It’s what I like about him.”

  Befor
e she was out of her chair he pulled several sheets of notebook paper from his pocket. “You ever see this?” He unfolded the pages, set them down on the table near her cup. “I found it in your case file. It was sealed by the judge on his own motion, which is relatively rare. Usually one party or the other has to petition for that. But this is a letter and it’s addressed to the judge and so I guess he just decided on his own—”

  “If it was sealed, how’d you get it?”

  Poker face. “Let’s just say I borrowed it.”

  “And that’s like, what, a crime?”

  “That’s not your problem. To borrow a phrase.”

  “A letter? Who from?”

  “Victor Cope.”

  The chair seemed to tremble. In her mouth, a sour taste. “Why show it to me?”

  “If the judge doesn’t want it . . .”

  She stared at the lined yellow pages, the spidery scrawl, the jagged edges where the paper had been torn from the tablet. “Did you read it?”

  It seemed like forever before he answered. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “It’s pretty much what you’d expect.”

  “Yeah? What would I expect?”

  “It’s a lot of self-serving nonsense, poor me, blah blah. My lawyer won’t let me take the stand, the evidence is trumped up, the whole trial’s a travesty.”

  “What’s he say about me?” She barely got the words out.

  “He said he picked you up hitchhiking—”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “I know it is, stay with me here. There was something else—”

  “Oh, I bet.”

  “He said you told him a friend of your brother . . .” His voice trailed away. He swallowed nervously, then nudged the pages slowly toward her across the table. “You’re entitled to your secrets.”

  He might as well have reached across the table and fished under her skirt.

  “They’re not my secrets.”

  “The point—”

  “He’s an asshole.” She was shaking. Everybody but the yokel in dreads glanced over. “Assholes talk all sorts of shit. It’s what makes them assholes.”