Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

“Oh, you don’t have children, do you?” Barbara says, glaring down at the kid as though she already feels sorry for him.

  “None that I know of,” I reply. “This one’s on loan from the dealer.”

  She asks no further questions of the relationship; I provide no further answers.

  “So what are you here for today, Mr. Corvelli?”

  Strange, I think. Just a few weeks ago Barbara Davenport and I were on a first-name basis. “Well, Barb,” I say, trying to recapture whatever it was we once had between us, “as you may have heard, I’m representing Erin Simms. I’m here to request your file.”

  Barbara Davenport glances down at my empty hands. “Do you have a written request?”

  “I never needed one before, Barb. You know who I am. And I’ve filed a Notice of Representation with the Court. The prosecution received a copy this morning at arraignment.”

  “Well,” she says, shaking her head sternly, like my second-grade teacher did when I asked what cunnilingus was after watching a Richard Pryor special on HBO, “I’m afraid our policy requires a request from your office in writing.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a business card for Harper & Corvelli, Attorneys-at-Law. I turn it over, ask the kid for the red crayon he’s repeatedly jammed up his nose, then scribble the words File Please on the back.

  Barb’s not amused.

  “I’m afraid we require something a bit more formal than that, Mr. Corvelli. You can drop one by later today.” Like a good soldier, she turns on her heels and stalks away.

  I stand mystified for a moment, then ask the receptionist for her fax number. I scribble the number down with the red crayon on the back of another business card, then whip out my cell and dial our office.

  “Hoshi,” I say, “draw up a request for documents on the Erin Simms matter. You can use the language I used in the Gianforte case, because as far as I remember that’s the last one I had to submit. When you’re finished, print it out and fax it over here, ‘Attention Barb.’” I give her the fax number.

  “Sure thing, Kevin,” Hoshi says. “When do you need it by?”

  I glance at my watch. “Anytime within the next three minutes will be fine.” I slap my phone shut and stuff it back in my pocket, suddenly seething. I’m sweating and light-headed, my hands feel clammy. I’m wavering and feel as though I might fall over.

  “Feel free to have a seat, Mr. Corvelli,” the receptionist says.

  I want to be defiant and stand but I don’t think I can. So the kid and I sit.

  Almost four full minutes go by before I hear the ring of SID’s fax machine. I take a deep breath and wait for the page to slide through.

  Finally the receptionist takes it, reads it, walks it back to Davenport’s office. Another twelve minutes pass before Davenport steps back out, paper in hand.

  I stand.

  “I received your request for documents in the State versus Simms matter, Mr. Corvelli,” she says, handing the paper back to me, “but I’m afraid the file has already been transferred over to the Trials Division. You’ll have to request it directly from them.”

  I swallow hard, try to keep my cool, the blood already rising up my neck. I know I’m turning red. “Very well,” I say, “although you might have mentioned it sooner. In any case, whose attention should I address the letter to over in the Trials Division? Don Watanabe? Frank DiSimone himself?”

  She shakes her head indifferently. “Neither,” she says. “This case has been assigned to Deputy Prosecutor Luke Maddox. He’s already come by and taken the file. You’ll have to request a copy from him.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Outside the prosecutor’s office, I glance at my watch and sigh. Auntie Naomi’s appointment usually lasts two hours, she said, which means that the kid and I still have over an hour to kill. If I were going to kill it alone, I’d kill it at Kanaloa’s. But the kid’s seventeen years underage, and I don’t think his auntie would appreciate me driving him back into town smashed on Koa’s killer mai tais.

  I pluck my cell from my pants pocket and dial my office. Hoshi picks up on the third ring with a cheerful “Harper and Corvelli.”

  “Any luck locating a detailer for my Jeep?”

  “Yes, Kevin,” she says, paging through her notes. “I found one in Waipahu. Very high-priced.”

  I glance down at Josh, who’s staring at his feet. “Nothing in town?” I ask. On Oahu, “town” refers to Honolulu. We islanders just loathe the word “city.”

  “You usually ask for something outside of town,” Hoshi says, “so you don’t have to deal with the traffic.”

  Maybe she’s right. “I don’t know what I want, Hoshi.” I look down at the kid, two fingers now up his nose, one snaking each nostril. I dismiss the idea of walking him around town. “All right,” I say into my cell. “Give me the address.”

  Back at my Jeep in the blazing heat, I strip off my suit jacket and toss it onto the backseat. Then I move around the vehicle and open the door for the kid, watching as he struggles to climb aboard.

  “You always dress like that, kid?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  What do I mean? Josh is wearing a mismatched jumpsuit that looks like it belongs to Paulie Walnuts on The Sopranos.

  “Think your aunt would be okay if I bought you an outfit or two?”

  The kid shrugs. “I dunno. But you don’t have to. I don’t care what I wear.”

  “Clearly,” I say. “But it’s not for you. If you’re going to be hanging out with me during your aunt’s doctor appointments, I need you to look presentable. Not like some wise guy who just stepped off the set of Jersey Shore.”

  I start up the bright orange Jeep. Maybe a stop at the Tommy Bahama outlet in Waikele to see if they carry anything in his size. But first to Waipahu, to this detail shop called King Kam Auto. Because I won’t be able to quit checking my rearview until this electric-orange Jeep is a nice, inconspicuous white.

  * * *

  As I pull into the parking lot of King Kam Auto, the kid’s eyes go wide. I tell him he can wait in the Jeep and show him how to control the radio and A/C, but I can tell he’s not listening to a word I’m saying.

  In the garage, grease monkeys are hunkered over or lying under cars, working to the sound of some god-awful heavy metal music. No one pays me any mind, so I find my own way to the office.

  Behind a small desk, cluttered with work orders and receipts, sits a young Hawaiian woman with a stick-figure body and huge breasts.

  “Aloha,” she says, distracted.

  A strange greeting in a garage, I think, with drills going off, metal tools clanking off the cement floor, the occasional horn. But I give her an aloha back just the same.

  “Interested in having my Jeep Wrangler painted,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says, shuffling out from behind her desk. “Let me go get Mongoose.” She turns just in time to catch me looking at her ass. Our eyes meet and she smiles. “Be right back.”

  But she isn’t right back, isn’t back for quite a long while, in fact. In the meantime, I alternate between glances at my watch and my Jeep out in the parking lot. Checking the kid, making sure he doesn’t drive off with my wheels.

  A copy of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser sits unopened on one of the worn green customer seats. Without touching it, I read the first page headline above the fold: HIGH PROFILE LAWYER CORVELLI TO REPRESENT ACCUSED MASS KILLER IN KO OLINA RESORT FIRE

  “Goddamnit,” I mumble to myself. “Here we go again.”

  “Help you, sir?”

  The guy called Mongoose stands about my height and walks with a bit of a swagger. A few days’ scruff covers an otherwise handsome face and a once-white muscle shirt smudged with grease reveals a set of toned biceps colored with ink.

  “Looking to get my Wrangler painted,” I say. “Orange to white.”

  Mongoose nods, slowly walks me to the opening of the garage, then points to the Jeep parked about fifty yards out. “That yours?”

  “Yeah.�
� The kid ducks down just as soon as he sees me. Either he fucked up the radio or is playing some freaky game of hide-and-seek.

  “That’s no problem,” Mongoose says, turning us back around. “Let’s step into my office and I’ll briefly explain the process, go over the costs, and give you an estimate on how long the job will take.”

  I follow him into a cramped room that reeks of oil and grease. Calendars float lopsided on narrow wood-paneled walls, pictures of scantily clad women on the hoods of various sports cars representing the months of the year. Still mid-July, and August isn’t promising to be much cooler.

  Thirty seconds pass before I begin to feel claustrophobic, sweat causing my white button-down to stick to my back.

  “So,” Mongoose says unenthusiastically, “the process goes something like this. First we prep the vehicle—tape, newspapers, paper mats to protect the windows, wheels, head and taillights, et cetera. That’s more than half the work right there. Next we prime it. Then we paint it, probably three coats for a new vehicle like that, especially since we’re going from color to white. Then, ten to fifteen coats of lacquer and it’s done. It’ll look like it just came out of the showroom.”

  I stopped listening somewhere around the word “prep,” but I’m pretty sure I have the gist. “How long will this take?” I ask.

  “Five, six days. A week at most. Whole job will probably run you about twenty-five hundred.”

  “Perfect,” I tell him. “Let’s do it.”

  Mongoose calls out to Justell—the girl with the huge breasts—who brings in some forms and replaces him in his seat.

  “What’s your name?” she says.

  “Corvelli. Kevin Corvelli.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Mongoose glance down at the Honolulu Star-Advertiser resting on the empty seat.

  Justell seems oblivious. “Address?”

  Once I supply her with my home address in Ko Olina, Mongoose points to the paper and says, “You the lawyer representing that chick charged with arson?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “That’s me.”

  He whistles, low and long, lifts the paper and leers at the booking photo of Erin Simms below the fold. “She looks like a handful,” he says. “Good luck.”

  I finish giving Justell my information, anxious for fresh air and some A/C.

  I grudgingly shake Mongoose’s hand and I’m out the door and in the parking lot, headed back to my Jeep. When I unlock the door, the kid finally pops his head up.

  Climbing in, I ask, “What’s with you, kid? Why were you hiding? You afraid of tits?”

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “It’s just that man you were talking to…”

  “Yeah?” I say, turning the engine over, glancing in the rearview to back out. “What about him?”

  “That’s my dad.”

  I turn my head and stare at the kid. “No shit?”

  CHAPTER 14

  She opens the door in a pale yellow spaghetti-strap sundress that comes to a complete halt a full inch above the knees. There’s the hint of a tan from her early days of summer in San Francisco, maybe another coat from her wedding day here on Oahu. But nothing too deep. Nothing like Nikki’s caramel flesh, the bronze veneer that still haunts my sleep.

  Erin’s sandals are slip-ons with three-inch wedges, her legs bare and beautiful, smooth and thin enough to grace the cover of any New York fashion magazine. But for the ankle bracelet, you’d never know by the scene that I am here to discuss a homicide case. I could just as well be here at her Kaneohe house to pick her up for a late luau and drinks.

  “Nice to see you again,” she says.

  These are words I rarely, if ever, hear from a client who is out of jail on bail. Inside, awaiting trial, it’s understandable; the slightest interaction with the outside world, especially with your fearless advocate, is the only scintilla of hope prisoners come to rely on, the only reason for getting out of bed in the morning. But for clients who are out, as Erin is, I’m more like the dentist. Sure, I might be a nice guy, but our interactions together aren’t meant to make for a good time. When you’re out, the last thing in the world you want to think about as a defendant is going back in. And for the client who is out on bail, the possibility of prison is really all that I represent. No dodging the fact you’re facing serious, life-changing charges when I’m present.

  I follow her inside, immediately soothed by the gentle breeze blowing from the palm-shaped ceiling fan. The sliding glass door to the lanai stands open, and my gaze sets on the breathtaking view of Kaneohe Bay, with the offshore island known as Chinaman’s Hat resting smack-dab in the center. My first thought is, This rental must have cost a fortune.

  My second is, Who’s paying the tab?

  We’ll get to that. Right now the sun is rapidly dropping behind the mountains, and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the hour I plan on staying.

  “Lemonade?” she says, motioning to a full pitcher resting on a silver tray on the coffee table. She lifts one of the two tall ice-filled Collins glasses standing beside the pitcher and pours.

  I take the glass when she offers it. Anything to help combat this oppressive heat.

  “Let’s get started.” I take a seat on the rattan sofa. She sits next to me, a red-orange splash of brilliance washing over her long, thin neck from the setting sun. I take a sip of lemonade, then set the perspiring glass down on a wooden turtle-shaped coaster on the coffee table. “I’d like to begin with the night of the fire,” I say.

  * * *

  Erin first confirms what her parents told me: that a close friend, a bridesmaid named Mia Landow, held a heart-to-heart with her shortly before the nuptials. Just after Erin’s up-do, while her maid of honor Tara Holland was zipping up the back of her dress.

  “He fucked her,” Erin tells me matter-of-factly. “Just seventeen days before our wedding.”

  “By ‘he’ you mean Trevor,” I say in order to gauge her reaction at hearing his name. I’m already evaluating Erin as a witness, though I hardly ever put defendants on the stand. Although clients have the right to overrule me on this decision, I’ve never represented one who has. They’ve tried; oh yeah, they’ve tried. Many clients want to profess their “innocence” to the jury. Problem is, even jurors are smart enough to realize that just about any human being the world over would lie to save his or her own ass. When I tell clients this, they inevitably respond, “But I’m not lying.” When I tell them that doesn’t matter in the least, they become indignant. That’s when I ask them if they follow their doctor’s orders. “Of course,” they say. It’s then I have to remind them why they hired me. And if they still won’t listen, well then, let them find themselves another defense lawyer. Because I don’t like it when clients lose cases for me.

  Erin supplies me with a noncommital nod. In that moment I realize that if I can get one confident heterosexual man to make it all the way to deliberations, I can score a hung jury. A big if in any courthouse in the United States. And given the apparent ambition and tenacity of Luke Maddox, nothing short of an acquittal will count as a win in this case because Maddox would try her again and again and again, I can feel it. Which means Jake and I would never see our six hundred grand.

  “So your maid of honor Tara overheard Mia telling you all this?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Mia asked Tara to leave but Tara sensed something was wrong and said, ‘Not on your life.’ Tara’s like that; she’s very protective of me. We’ve been best friends since junior high.”

  “How about Mia? How long have you known her?”

  Erin shrugs, purses her lips and says, “Almost as long.”

  The real question right now, the one I don’t dare ask, is, Who did you immediately blame more for the betrayal? Trevor, the man you were about to marry? Or Mia, the so-called friend who knowingly slept with your soon-to-be husband? Given that Mia stood in as Erin’s bridesmaid even after her admission tells me I think I already know the answer. And the answer doesn’t bode well for Erin’s defense.

/>   But it doesn’t matter what went through Erin’s head. What matters is how she responded, how she behaved, what others saw. More pointedly, what others will testify to.

  “All right,” I say, “how did you react?”

  She actually rolls her eyes at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Am I taking up too much of your time? Do you have someplace else to be?”

  “No,” she says in a huff. “It just seems like a ridiculous question.” She shrugs her narrow shoulders, a single spaghetti strap falling free. “I did my fucking Happy Dance. What do you think?”

  Sarcasm. That always plays well with a jury.

  “I think that if you plan on answering questions like that on the stand, you can start picking out posters for your prison cell walls right now.”

  “I was angry,” she hisses at me. “Devastated.”

  I nod but say, “Those are two very different things. If you were on the outside, if you were Mia or Tara or anyone else who observed you, how would you describe your immediate reaction?”

  She thinks about it for a moment, but I can tell she doesn’t need to. “Furious anger,” she finally says. “Unbridled rage.”

  Might as well come right out with it. “Directed at whom?”

  “Mia, of course.” No pause whatsoever before she adds, “But mostly at Trevor.”

  “Why Trevor more than Mia?”

  She raises her voice. “Because, if it wasn’t Mia, it obviously would’ve been some other slut. If he could cheat on me with her, he could cheat on me with anyone. Mia’s just a friend; I wasn’t about to marry her.”

  I swallow some lemonade, wishing it were splashed with rum. “What specifically did you say or do in that room, in front of Mia and Tara?”

  She licks her lips, her eyes pointed toward the ceiling, as she catches her breath. Slowly she lifts the spaghetti strap back over her tanned shoulder. “I threw a glass vase filled with Gerbera daisies,” she says calmly. “It struck the mirror and exploded. Glass flew everywhere. I think Tara caught a small piece in her right eye.”