Angelina Sosa was quick. "Same answer as before to the first part, different answer to the second part. Now I would say the lawsuit is winnable."
Blackjack nodded, quickly gathering his mental breath. "Why is that? Why is it winnable?"
"Because that intentional touching would constitute a tort. And tort is why we're all here today, instead of outside in the quadrangle, sipping coffee and making weekend hookups."
"A tort. Tort this, tort that. What is a tort?"
"A tort is a civil wrong."
"What tort would be committed by our elevator passenger as he purposely touched your posterior?"
"Assault, I believe. Plus it would be a damn poor way to hookup for a drink."
The class erupted and Blackjack's mouth worked silently, the lower jaw grinding sideways, looking to all who knew about such things as a chewing rodent.
"Please. Spare me the humor. Torts is the most serious of all law school courses."
"Sorry. It just seemed funny," said the girl named Angelina. Beside her, Thaddeus Murfee crossed and uncrossed his legs. He looked at her left hand. No ring, which was amazing for a girl of her beauty, because she had made it to age twenty-one or twenty-two without being entrapped by some guy's $2500 .7 karat handcuff. His first feeling of admiration for her stirred in his chest. She had at least made it that far, as had he. No rings, no promises, no broken hearts, no expectations. Nor would there be rings for him, as he was already committed to a three-year relationship with casebooks, followed by marriage to a law degree. Remembering his promise to himself to stay above the hookup fray, he set his mind on IGNORE and barricaded his thinking against any interest in the beauty standing next to him. He did have to admire her pluck, though. She hadn't flinched; her fingers weren't nervously picking at the skin on her thumb; her smile was professional; her posture unbowed--and, to his thinking, probably unbowable. Blackjack had his work cut out for him.
"Well, we'll try to minimize the hell out of levity in my class," Blackjack assured Angelina. "We'll keep it turned down low. Now, which tort would you posit the posterior passenger had committed?"
"What tort did he do? Is that what you're asking?"
"Yes. Please."
"Assault."
"Is that all?"
"Battery?"
"Why would you say 'battery'?"
"Because a battery is an unpermitted, unconsented-to, harmful or offensive touching."
"My, we've done our reading, haven't we Miss—Miss—"
"Sosa."
"Miss Sosa. Admirable. Please take your seat. Oh, before I forget, the dean also requests introductions today. Please tell us where you're from and what your goal is in coming to law school, Miss Sosa."
She turned and smiled across the tier of students surrounding her.
"I'm from San Diego and my goal is to write a New York Times bestseller."
"Indeed. A New York Times best seller. And how does law school figure into that?"
"Well—I don't know yet. Maybe it will come after law school is over. But I'm sure the story will present itself. It always does."
"Commendable, I'm sure. Let's move on to the gentleman sitting to your left. Please stand, sir, and give us your name."
Thaddeus stood and faced the inquisitor.
"Thaddeus Murfee, Chicago, Illinois."
"Mr. Murfee, are you afraid of God?"
Thaddeus gave him a dumb look—dumb as in dumbfounded.
"I—I—I'm not even sure I believe in God. Maybe we should start with that first."
"Please, sir. Answer my question."
"No, if there's a God, I'm not afraid of him."
"Or her," muttered Angelina beside him.
"Or her," Thaddeus repeated.
"Indeed. Well, this being a Catholic law school, our heritage is replete with accounts of God coming to earth in the form of a man. So we needn't bother our heads about God as her, fair enough?"
Thaddeus sighed. "If you say so. Is this going someplace?"
"Let's make it go someplace. Like most one-L's, you won't be happy until it goes somewhere. So let's say this. Let's say I'm going to make you unafraid of God. Are you up for that?"
Thaddeus looked at the ceiling. He considered the next move on the board, and the next. Then all the pieces jumbled and he surrendered to the moment.
"I'm up for that."
"Do you know why we're going to make you so you don't fear God?"
"No, I don't."
"Because most judges think they are God. They act like it and believe it. And when you go before them, I want no fear in you. Do you follow now?"
Thaddeus shrugged. "I guess I do. I can't argue with it."
"Well, thank you. Because, if you're afraid of the judge, you can't adequately represent your client, because you will fear challenging the judge. Am I making sense?"
Several students around Thaddeus nodded. Including Angelina.
"You're making sense to several of us, yes, I can see that. So how do I get over my fear of God, who may or may not exist?"
"You do that by learning how to think like a lawyer. And that's my job. I'm going to teach each of you to think like lawyers, so there's no fear. There will be no fear because you will know how to hold your own in an argument no matter which side you're on. Sound exciting? I'm waiting for a show of hands."
All hands shot up.
"Then we have a quorum. Please take your seat, Mr. Murfee. And tonight when you say your prayers, ask God to help you get over your fear of him."
"I don't pray."
"You will want to learn. Because when you're a lawyer and you're facing your Goliath, believe me, brother, you will want to know how to pray. Sometimes prayer is all the lawyer has. It's an acquired skill. Which is why you came to a Catholic law school. We're holistic here. You will even get a course in prayer. It's called Torts, and that's my course; and you're going to be praying you pass this course before we're done. That's enough for today. Brief the first five cases for Wednesday. Come ready to recite. And pray I don't call on you first. Dismissed."
A sudden commotion erupted as students stood and plugged ear buds into ears, activated smartphones to grab the latest text from Barbie or Ken, and began banging books into bags and exchanging comments on what they had just witnessed.
"So you're not a praying man, Murfee?" said Angelina, as he was angling his torts casebook into his book bag.
"Can't say as I am. We didn't do much of that where I grew up."
"And where did you grow up?"
"Westside of Chicago. Urban blight. You?"
She pulled a comma of hair from her forehead.
"Ocean Beach. OB, we call it. Just off the ten freeway in SD."
"SD?"
"San Diego. God, man, get a map."
"Hey, I don't do California. I'm a Midwestern boy. And what are you doing clear back here anyway? California girls usually can't be pried off the beach, from what I hear."
She smiled, and her perfect lips and teeth caused his heart to flutter.
"Didn't you hear? I'm here to write a New York Times bestseller. You will be the star of my book."
"Me?" he smiled. She was quite good at games. And fun.
"You."
"Then I'd best do something to turn heads. Something best-sellerish."
"Just don't make it about sex. There's already enough of that on the shelves."
"How about justice? What if my story is about justice?"
"Make your life about justice, then. That will sell some books."
What Thaddeus couldn't have known was that a week later Angelina did drop out of law school. Not because of Blackjack McDonough, nothing like that. No, she dropped out because one night after criminal procedure, when she had stopped to put gas in her car, four men in a low rider sped past and one of them shot her. She was rushed to the hospital and treated, and three days later was released to her mother. Her rehab, however, took much longer. The rest of that school year and part of the next.
An
gelina Sosa finally did return to school, this time at the University of Chicago, where she majored in journalism and minored in Russian.
Her classmate-for-a-week, Thaddeus Murfee, remembered none of that conversation.
But she remembered him. Within three short years, he was making a name for himself around the state.
So she began stalking him. She told her editor she was off to Zurich to research a story about Nazi gold in Swiss banks.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Thaddeus Murfee was headed to Zurich, and she knew it.
Therefore, so was she.
49
It was decreed that Karli would take two agents along to America. This was decided after three days of combing Russian transportation depots and ticketing agents and finding no clue of Christine.
"She will be in America by now," Karli told the president.
"Then follow. And take your best men with you. That's an order," said Piotor Irunyaev.
Karli handpicked two agents to join him in the search.
The first selection was a woman, a thirty-five-year-old Afghanistan war veteran. Glynda Maximo had flown Russian Mil Mi-24 helicopters up and down in the valleys of Afghanistan, hauling soldiers to battle and returning the wounded to field hospitals. Her exploits and coolness under pressure were noted; senior officers recommended her for GRU school—a destination reserved only for the cream of the cream. GRU was interested; testing followed; admission followed testing. Then the training began. One month surviving the Siberian winter while living off the land, one month surviving the Gobi Desert summer with nothing more than the clothing she wore and a parachutist's knife, and four months of cloak and dagger in Russian cities where the game was to kill or be killed. It was a game all GRU agents played, but a deadly serious game. The environment was real, the weapons were real, and only the killing was make-believe. If you "died," you went back to the army. If you survived, you were accepted into undercover training, a regimen that last another six months in which she studied the CIA handbook and the GRU handbook and learned to kill. Finally, she was ready. Glynda Maximo was ecstatic to be chosen. "But only if you allow me to terminate this Christine." She was dismayed that the first prong of the assignment was to return Christine to Russia. She much preferred to locate and kill her.
His second choice was Madi Petrovich, an ardent communist, and a card-carrying member of the Communist Party—unusual for one only twenty-five years old. Madi's father was a high-ranking Kremlin bureaucrat, which boosted his son's chances of getting into the GRU. But this was possible only after Madi had proved himself a worthy candidate while serving in Russia's police force. In his eighteen months in the police, Madi had put four members of Black Monday in the ground; and in each case the killing had been ruled justified. In short, Madi was expert at crime scene preparation in the aftermath of a killing, making each one of his takedowns look like he had been attacked first. In hand-to-hand combat, he was highly skilled in what the police called Back Alley, which was slang for street fighting methods to be mastered before going into service. Graduating from GRU Academy at the top of his class, Madi had outscored his Back Alley instructor three out of four falls in the final week of training.
His team populated with Glynda and Madi, Karli, and his protégés scoured Moscow for any evidence of Christine's escape and disappearance. Two days into the questioning of those who had been in contact with her at the prison, it was becoming clear that Christine's escape had been aided and abetted by prison workers themselves. They were most likely acting on orders from Black Monday. Repeatedly they were told that the treatment of the prisoner softened and reversed due to orders from President Irunyaev himself—a fact that Karli's team knew to be patently untrue. An intercessory hand had been played; and, while there was no smoking gun to be uncovered by the end of the prison investigation, all clues led back to Black Monday, where they abruptly ended. A tight veil of secrecy had been drawn around Black Monday, and Karli could only conclude that Tony Folachnaya was responsible for the escape. At least the orders had issued from the Mafioso kingpin.
Karli reported his investigation’s conclusions to the president in person and was immediately ordered to leave for the United States, find her, and return the woman to Moscow. Karli bowed out of the meeting a hundred percent resolute and engaged. He would satisfy his president regardless of who tried to get in his way. He made that promise and the president was placated, if only temporarily.
"Mr. President, let me promise that I will bring her to you," Karli said as he reached across to shake the hand of the leader.
But Irunyaev wasn't in a handshaking mood. He brushed aside the agent's hand and said, "We will save our handshaking for the successful conclusion of this assignment. In fact, not only will we shake hands, but I can see a private dacha in your future the day you return her to me."
Which electrified Karli and made him that much more resolute. Dachas—country cottages of beauty and elegance—were usually reserved only for cabinet-level leaders of Russian bureaucracy. For a mere field agent to come into ownership of such a treasure was unthinkable. Karli couldn't back out of the president's office fast enough and get to the task at hand. In his mind, it was all but done.
"All of the motherland's resources are at your disposal," the president told Karli as he was leaving. "Just contact our people in America and tell them what you need. Whatever it is will be instantly made available to you. Funds and manpower are unlimited. Bring this woman to me."
"My solemn promise," Karli replied. "I will not fail."
"No, you will not fail, Guryshenkoyash. Failure is not an option. You will not return here without her." The Russian president's use of Karli's diminutive name indicated the tender feelings he had for the people's servant. He was letting Guryshenko know that he would be personally following the assignment and that he held his soldier dear.
* * *
The Russian trio entered the United States through New York on Embassy visas. As far as their hosts were concerned, they were Russian Embassy workers, nothing more. The GRU enclave at the Russian Embassy outfitted them with American money and arms. Each agent received a Colt .45 pistol, a Remington Model 870 shotgun, and the Colt M4 5.56 mm. combat rifle, plus all the ammo they could ever hope to shoot in one lifetime. They rented a Bronco and immediately left town. Next stop: the Chicago law offices of Murfee and Hightower.
Eighteen hours later, Glynda rode the elevator up to the eighty-first floor of the Citibank Building. She wore a gray wool suit and, in deference to her days as a pilot, Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on her head. She wanted to appear nonchalant, even haphazard, so as not to alarm Christine's co-workers.
The waiting area of Murfee and Hightower was sub-divided into four pods of two chairs plus loveseat plus Carrera marble coffee table, room enough for five visitors each. The idea was for clients to feel welcome, yet enjoy some privacy while waiting to see Thaddeus or Albert Hightower.
The walls were taupe this season. A gold and white marble tile floor demarcated the waiting area; and at the far end, a staircase curved to the second floor , back-dropped by six vertical windows, the upper three with lattice inserts. Beneath the staircase waited a wingback couch, flanked by end tables, fronted by a coffee table, and surrounded by a flurry of wingback chairs. Glynda guessed that this particular area was reserved for the groups that would visit Thaddeus.
At the front desk, Melinda Mounce was working the phones.
Glynda strode up to the desk as if she owned the place.
"I'm looking for Christine Susmann," she said to Melinda, even though it was clear Melinda was still speaking into her headset. The visitor's English was perfect, without the hint of an accent—a requirement for all members of the Karli team.
Melinda raised one finger and smiled her million-dollar smile.
She said goodbye.
"How can we help you today?"
"I'm looking for Christine Susmann. I want to hire her."
"Hire her? She isn't a lawyer."
"I need some legal work done."
"By a paralegal? I don't think she's available for private jobs outside the office. But why don't you leave me your phone number and I'll get back to you about it."
"No need. I'll call back when she's in. Thank you."
She turned and left the offices.
Melinda punched a number on her phone.
"Rogert, she's coming to the lobby. Gray dress, Ray-Bans."
She punched another number.
"Thaddeus here, what's up M?"
"Russia was just here."
"Tell me."
"A woman. Maybe mid-thirties, looking for Chris. Says she wants to hire her to do some legal work."
"Did she just leave?"
"She did."
"Did you notify Rogert?"
"I did."
"Excellent. I'll check in with him."
"I can make that call for you, Mr. Murfee."
"No need. I'll use my cell. Thanks, MM."
"You've got it."
Thaddeus hung up the handset and leaned back in his chair. He stared out the window at Lake Michigan, roiling beneath storm clouds with two-foot-high waves. It was a gloomy late-January day, and more snow was forecast. He shivered and hit speed-dial 8 on his cell phone.
"Rogert here."
"Thad. You have her?"
"Yes, we're headed for the Kennedy, I do believe."
"What's she driving?"
"She's a passenger in a black Bronco. Two guys with her."
"Stay close and call me."
"Roger that."
"What do you know about Christine today?"
"XFBI has her. She's got two doctors' appointments, then back to her apartment."
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 20