by Lee Goldberg
Kate winced at the condition of the interior when she moved in.
"You've got Ethan Allen, futons, chrome and glass Scandinavian, oriental rugs so threadbare a moth wouldn't use them for a snack, Grateful Dead posters, and pictures of dead immigrants."
"Think of it as multigeneration chic," Mason said. "And the dead immigrants are my great-grandparents."
The mud-colored brick on the two-story Colonial had held up better than the weather-beaten white shutters. Kate stuck her fingers in the spongy, wood-rotted window frames and called a contractor.
The house was a block south of Loose Park, a sprawling green space perfect for walking with your girlfriend or running with your dog. Mason hadn't had a girlfriend or a dog since he and Kate got divorced a year ago.
They rescued a dog from the pound soon after they were married, a German shepherd–collie she named Tuffy because she was anything but tough. Mason spoiled Tuffy like an only child and the dog returned his affection. Custody of the dog was the last battle they fought in the divorce. Kate won when she dognapped Tuffy and dared him to complain to the judge.
Mason paid a guy to mow the lawn, rake the leaves, and shovel the snow, which he considered a fair contribution to urban gentrification. Still, most of the neighbors averted their eyes when they walked by, and he swore that a few crossed the street to avoid a close encounter. Maybe it was the untrimmed oak trees, whose low-hanging, heavy branches scraped the yard. Or maybe it was the blue floodlight he'd used to replace the burned-out porch light.
The only exception was Anna Karelson, who lived across the street. Anna and Mason were "wave and hello" neighbors. He waved and she said "hello." When Kate moved out, she began crossing the street to visit with him on the sidewalk, commiserating about her unhappy marriage as if that made them kindred spirits. Last week, she told him that she was going to hire a lawyer.
It was eight o'clock when Mason pulled into the driveway. He'd taken his time the rest of the way home from the lake, flinching every time a black SUV came near him.
Scott Daniels was pacing the sidewalk in front of his house. He and Mason had met during the first week of law school. Mason was amazed that Scott had already outlined the assignments for the first two weeks of class. Scott was amazed that Mason understood the material after a single reading. They studied together, Scott mastering the details while Mason painted the big picture.
The combination got them through law school in the top ten of their class. They shared an apartment in Kansas City after graduation until Scott got married. Mason was his best man, a favor Scott returned at Mason's wedding.
"I was at the office getting ready for my closing when Harlan called about Sullivan," Scott said as he followed Mason into the house. "Harlan has called a partners' meeting for eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Mason dropped his bag on the kitchen floor and grabbed two bottles of Bud Light from the refrigerator, handing one to Scott and leading him onto the redbrick patio, where he slumped into a lounge chair.
"I helped Pamela identify the body. I can go a long time without doing that again."
Scott took a long pull on his bottle, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"Sullivan really knows how to screw up a good retreat."
"Better yet, the sheriff thinks he was murdered."
Scott stopped cold, his bottle dangling from his hand. "Get out!"
"She can't prove it yet, but his body was found in a cove on one side of the lake, and his boat was found at Buckhorn's marina. She also found a gold earring on the boat and Pamela says it isn't hers."
"That sounds more like adultery than murder. Who does he suspect?"
"I said 'she.' Her name is Kelly Holt. And she suspects everyone who hated Sullivan or stood to gain from his death. It's what cops do."
Scott drained the last drops from his bottle. "Well, if that's the test, I'll make her list."
Mason looked at him, wide-eyed. "Is that a confession?"
"Yeah, right. But you know that I hated the son of a bitch, and I'll inherit his clients. Sullivan was a total shit to work for. Nothing was ever right or good enough."
"That's not news. You've been complaining about Sullivan since the day you started. But you never complained about the money."
"Because I'm smart enough to know that I'm a good lawyer but a lousy salesman. I did all the work while he played golf. And I don't play golf. I guess I'll have to learn if I want to hold on to his clients."
Mason had listened to Scott complain for years. It was the one thing that had made him hesitate about joining the firm. He'd finally decided that Scott's grousing was just his way of dealing with the stress of his practice. Sullivan's death added an unsettling context to his complaints and put Scott on Kelly Holt's list.
"What happens to the firm without Sullivan?" Mason asked.
"Nothing good. You remember the death benefit I told you about?"
"Sure. If a partner dies, the firm has to buy out his ownership interest."
"Right. The firm bought life insurance on each of the partners to pay for the buyout."
"So the insurance pays off Sullivan's wife."
"That's the problem. Sullivan never took the physical exam the insurance company required. His death was uninsured."
"You mean the firm owes Pamela the money?"
"Exactly one million dollars, and we don't have it."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Well, that's great. What's the good news?"
"I think we can work out a deal with Pamela. I've done their estate work. She doesn't need the money. The real problem is what Sullivan didn't tell us about him and O'Malley. This afternoon when I was getting ready for my closing, I was in Sullivan's office looking for his copy of the contracts. I found this."
Scott handed Mason a subpoena demanding that Sullivan & Christenson produce all of its files on O'Malley before the federal grand jury at nine a.m. on July 17.
"That's this Friday. I'm defending O'Malley. Sullivan didn't tell me about this."
"It looks like Sullivan didn't tell anyone."
"St. John is getting ready to indict O'Malley. That's not a secret. The subpoena is just his way of putting on pressure. We'll claim attorney-client privilege. The judge will throw the subpoena out."
"Don't be so sure," Scott said. "St. John isn't just coming after O'Malley. He wants Sullivan and the firm."
He handed Mason a letter to Sullivan from Franklin St. John dated June 1. In a very polite fashion, the letter informed Sullivan that both he and the firm were targets of the grand jury investigation.
"That means the grand jury is going to indict Sullivan and the firm," Mason said. "Sullivan knew St. John was gunning for us and didn't bother to mention it! That no-good prick! No wonder he was trying to set me up!"
"Set you up? How?"
"We had lunch on Friday. He asked me to destroy documents that would incriminate him. I told him no. Then he wrote a memo to Harlan claiming that I had made the suggestion to him and that he was going to fire me on Monday."
"How did you find out about that?"
"The sheriff found the memo in Sullivan's room at Buckhorn."
"Welcome to the list of top ten suspects."
"Yeah, the sheriff thinks I killed Sullivan instead of suing him for libel. Don't worry, though. I've got a terrific defense."
"What's that?"
"Someone tried to kill me on the way back from the lake."
Scott dropped his empty beer bottle. The glass shattered on the brick patio. "You're shitting me!"
"Maybe. I don't know for certain. I was on Highway 5, trying to pass a guy in a black Escalade. This asshole held me out in the other lane until I was about to hit a truck head-on. I swerved off the road at the last second, or there would be two openings at the firm."
"You think there was a connection?"
"If Sullivan was murdered, his death is probably linked to O'Malley. At least, I can't think of anything else that could get him killed. I'm defending O'Mal
ley. Sullivan tried to get me to destroy incriminating evidence. I refused. Sullivan set me up. Someone tried to kill me and make my death look like an accident. It makes as much sense as anything else."
"Did you report it to the cops?"
"Not yet. I'll tell the sheriff, but she'll probably think I'm making it up. I didn't get the license number of the guy who hung me out in the wrong lane. I can't prove it even happened."
Scott listened, nodding without agreeing. "I know this sounds trivial in comparison, but if St. John really wants to put pressure on the firm, he'll ask the court to freeze all our assets. They don't need a conviction to do that."
"You're right. I remember reading about a New York firm that got caught in an insider-trading scandal. The feds got an order freezing their assets and the firm disappeared overnight. Last one out the door turned off the lights. Any suggestions?"
"We've got to get out in front on this. Harlan will be overly cautious, too protective. We need someone to investigate the firm's exposure and get St. John to back off until we figure out what's going on."
Mason knew that Scott was right. Harlan was perfect for recruiting clients, but he was a conscientious objector to trench warfare. If St. John was coming after the firm, it would be a bloody fight.
"That'll require outside counsel."
"Bad choice. We'd never be able to control it. You've got to do it. You're new enough to the firm that you'll have credibility with St. John. You can offer him the dear, departed Sullivan and save the rest of our asses."
Mason wondered if the bottom of his beer bottle could explain how a simple weekend at the lake had managed to turn into such a nightmare. He was the wrong choice. This battle required someone totally committed to the firm. He wasn't.
"Listen, I hate to pile on the bad news, but I don't plan to be around long enough to handle this case."
Scott stared at Mason, eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I decided to quit when Sullivan asked me to destroy evidence."
"So what! Sullivan's dead, and you didn't destroy any evidence. That's bullshit!"
"Not to me. O'Malley's case is a tar baby that I'm not going to get stuck with. Besides, I'm going to try to get Tommy Douchant a new trial. The firm turned that case down. I've got to do it on my own."
"Tommy's case is a loser. You already lost it once. Don't waste more time on it."
Mason bristled at Scott's slam. "It's not a loser if I dig up evidence that will get Tommy a new trial. I owe him that much."
"What about what you owe me? I got you this job. You've got a year to file a motion for a new trial. It's been, what, four months since Tommy's trial? You've got eight months left. I need you now."
"You need someone from outside the firm, someone who's objective. Someone who won't be a suspect if it turns out that Sullivan was murdered."
"Wrong. I need someone I can trust. If Sullivan was killed, who's going to work harder to clear your name and mine? You or some hired gun that's got a dozen other cases he's got to keep track of? Besides, I'll make certain the firm lets you reopen Tommy's case."
Mason sometimes made poor choices when people made him feel like a badly needed, ungrateful shit. The last one had required a divorce to correct it.
"Okay. Let's see what happens in the morning," Mason hedged. It was a half promise Scott would make him honor.
He walked Scott to the front door and said good night. Closing it behind him, he stood in the front hall and looked to his right at the portraits of his great-grandparents—Aunt Claire's grandparents—on the dining room wall. Tobiah and Hinda Sackheim had immigrated to the United States from Lithuania in 1871. Tobiah, ignorant of English, couldn't tell the immigration official his name. Somehow, he explained that he was a stonemason, and the Sackheims of Lithuania became the Masons of Ellis Island.
From their perch on the wall, they guarded the silver candlesticks they had brought with them to America. Claire kept the candlesticks on the dining room table and, when Mason was little, she lit them each year at Passover and told him the story of the Jews' Exodus from Egypt.
Both stories, one of his people and one of his family, fed her passion for justice and had once fired his own. The flame still burned brightly for Aunt Claire but was little more than a flicker for him. Mason stared at the candlesticks and replayed the memories, searching for a spark he didn't find.
He returned to the patio, picked up the pieces of Scott's broken bottle, and lay down in the lounge chair. He watched the moonrise as his eyelids fell, wondering if sleeping on patio furniture was a sign of the early onset of dementia. He was jolted awake by the cordless telephone. Blinking, he focused on his watch. It was nearly midnight.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry if I woke you." Kelly Holt sounded too cheerful for the end of a long day.
"That's all right. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway."
Long pause. He couldn't believe his evil twin, the high school freshman, invaded his body every time he talked to this woman.
"Will you be in your office tomorrow? There are a few things I need to ask you about." She was all business and not interested in bonding through teenage humor.
"Sure. We've got a partners' meeting at eight that may go all morning. The afternoon will be crazy talking with clients. How about five o'clock—my office?"
"Fine."
"Any news?"
"Just one thing. Your partner was murdered."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mason quit his old firm, Forrest, Mason, & Goldberg, a week after Tommy Douchant's trial ended. Tommy worked construction until one sun-drenched spring morning when the hook on his safety belt broke, bouncing him off steel I beams onto the pavement two stories below. Paraplegics don't work construction. Mason sued the safety-belt manufacturer, Philpott Safety Systems, and lost.
Tommy's case should have been settled, but he turned down two million dollars the day before the trial started. Mason told him to take it. He found out the day after the trial that his partner, Stephen Forrest, had met secretly with Tommy and convinced him to turn the offer down. Forrest didn't care that Mason had a tough case. He wanted to ride Tommy's broken back to a bigger payday and his share of a fatter fee.
Tommy's case wasn't the first one Forrest had sabotaged. Mason told him that he wasn't quitting because of the money; it was the lack of trust. It was like coming home and finding his wife in bed with someone else—again. It was the "again" part that Mason couldn't handle. Mason called Scott, and a week later he was the new gun in Sullivan & Christenson's litigation department.
His old firm was a six-person shop specializing in representing injured people.
"It's half a practice," Claire told him.
"How can you say that? We help the little guy, the person who can't afford to take on the big corporations on their own."
"Yes, you help the outnumbered. But it's all about the money, not noble causes. Every time I see a plaintiff's lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car and living in a million-dollar house, I want to kick him right in his jackpot."
She'd been no fonder of Sullivan & Christenson. "That kind of firm has more rules than people," she'd cautioned Mason when he told her he was changing firms. "You're not cut out to join the army. Anybody can do what they do. Besides, there's no honor in stealing one thief's money back from another."
"Even a heartless corporation deserves a good lawyer," Mason said.
"But you're wrong for the job. You're not heartless. And that's the brutal truth."
Claire claimed all her truths were brutal or they weren't worth believing. Mason tried convincing himself that he took the job with Sullivan & Christenson for the change of scenery. The brutal truth was that he took it because he thought it was safer. He could live with stealing one thief's money back from another more easily than he could live with another Tommy Douchant. In the last three days he'd discovered that Claire was right. There was nothing safe and eas
y at Sullivan & Christenson.
Mason wondered how much of the firm's business for heartless corporations would be left after Sullivan's death as he cinched his navy and red tie beneath the collar of his white shirt and slipped on a gray suit. It was the lawyer's uniform. Appropriate for partners' meetings, funerals, and circumcision ceremonies. Today promised to roll elements of all three into one festive occasion.
Scott Daniels and Harlan Christenson were waiting for him in his office.
"Harlan and I want to go over a few things with you before the meeting," Scott said.
Harlan's face sagged under his silence. He had the connections that got the firm started. Sullivan had the backbone that made it a powerhouse. Without Sullivan, Harlan was lost.
"Before we get to that," Mason said, "the sheriff investigating Sullivan's death called me late last night. She said Sullivan was murdered."
Harlan muttered, "Dear God," and shrank farther into his chair. "How?" It was all he could manage.
"She didn't say."
"What's next?" Scott asked.
"She's coming here this afternoon to ask me some more questions. That's all I know."
"Why is she so interested in you?" Scott asked.
"How should I know? Either she thinks I did it or she can't resist my boyish charms."
Scott studied him for a moment. "Then we'd better focus on what we do know. I came in early this morning to get a look at the files the grand jury subpoenaed. Quintex Land Corporation was at the top of the list."
Mason said, "I thought Quintex was the company O'Malley used for his real estate deals. St. John is after him for bank fraud, not real estate fraud. What's the connection?"
"I don't know. Quintex has been around a long time, and a lot of assets have passed through it."
"Did O'Malley use Quintex for anything else?"