Charley took Clay at his word. In fact, if Charley had offered to plead to second-degree murder, Clay would have had to accept it. Tracey James had pointed out all too well the weaknesses in his case. The possibility of losing was simply too great to turn down such a plea. But the plea never came. Instead, Charley began his preparation for trial. He locked his office door, opened his bottom desk drawer, and took out a bottle and a glass.
PART TWO
Twenty–one
AUGUST 1996
Her heart was racing—she was ten minutes late, the coffee wasn’t done, the newspapers weren’t delivered and she wasn’t sitting at her desk with a big smile on her face like a good cocker spaniel waiting for its master. She was moving in overdrive now, trying to get it done. Not that he would ever acknowledge the work. The son-of-a-bitch barely acknowledged that she was there. But if it wasn’t done, if everything wasn’t perfect, she’d hear about it. Not from him. God knows he never spoke to the help. No, he’d tell his executive secretary, Ms. Corinne Singleton, and she, in turn, would tell Rick Woods, the office manager who supervised the lowlifes below the rank of executive secretary, and Rick would call her into his office for a little talk. She wasn’t a virgin. She knew his spiel verbatim.
“Nancy, could you come to my office for a chat,” he’d say sometime in midmorning after the complaint had been lodged. It was always a casual pass-by of her station. The first time she didn’t know whether to be alarmed or excited. Maybe they wanted to give her a raise or something. But the looks from the other girls quickly dispelled that notion.
“Corinne has informed me that Mr. Tobin’s coffee was not ready when he arrived this morning. And while the Miami Herald and the New York Times were on his desk, the Cobb County Press was missing.” Nancy would just look at him like a defiant teenager in the principal’s office. You can skip the facts, pal. And there ain’t gonna be any mea culpas, so let’s get to the penalty phase. Rick hated that about her. He wanted some genuine remorse. The others always bowed their heads and at least pretended to feel guilty.
This morning was a tad better than her past performances when she had arrived late. She’d almost gotten it done. The coffee was made; a fresh cup was on his desk. And the papers were there—all except for the damned Cobb County Press. They didn’t deliver that rinky-dink little rag; she had to go downstairs to a special store two blocks away and buy it every morning. She could have picked it up on the way in but she was already in a panic by then. Now it was too late.
At nine sharp, she planted herself at her desk, pasted her best fake smile on her face and waited for Old Sourpuss to pass by.
“Good morning, Mr. Tobin,” she chirped at the appointed moment, as she always did. He didn’t look her way—he never did. The only acknowledgment was an ever so slight tip of his head. She hadn’t noticed the head tip her first two months of employment. She was sure he was ignoring her altogether. She only found out after whining to Corinne one morning.
“Oh, he wouldn’t ignore you, dear,” Corinne, the dutiful servant, told her. “He nods. You have to watch closely, but he nods.” As if the nod made any difference.
It wasn’t any easier for Corinne. She would have to take his briefcase and greet him in that sweet, syrupy professional voice she had mastered over the years. An office mommy, Nancy decided, treats him like his mother did when he was two. Only she wears prim and proper dresses and she never scolds. Office mommies don’t have that kind of power.
And every morning he would simply ask, “Do I have any calls?” And Corinne would give him his messages and he’d disappear into his office for the day, never getting anywhere close to cracking a smile or dropping a pleasantry. But Corinne didn’t seem to mind. She had that loyalty thing going.
Jack Tobin was one of the three senior partners (“The Big Three”) at Tobin, Gleason and Gardner, a one-hundred-man Miami firm. The other two, Tom Gleason and Jim Gardner, were dead. Maybe that’s why he walks around so morose all the time, Nancy thought. He knows his turn’s coming. But Nancy knew that couldn’t be true. At twenty-four, she had a fixation for hard bodies and she couldn’t help noticing—although she tried like hell not to—that Jack Tobin, who had to be pushing fifty, was a hard body. The man stood ramrod straight, not an ounce of fat on him. Although his short, almost punk-style gray hair was thinning on top and nonexistent in some places, his skin was taut, slightly tanned and glowing with health. He looked good—ruggedly handsome, like a tough old marine. His eyes were an attractive blue, but they were eyes that had no sparkle.
With his money, she mused, if he could ever force a smile, he’d be dating those Vogue models half his age who hang out on South Beach. Maybe he is, maybe the sardonic look is just a front for the office staff. God, she hated the bastard.
As he passed her desk that morning, Jack Tobin saw the smile, heard the greeting, and knew, instantly, that she’d been late. It was the eyes. You could always tell from the eyes. Most men never looked but he’d been a trial lawyer for over twenty years; it was his job to look—at the eyes, the hands, the posture. And listen—to the words and the inflection of the voice. Truth was never discerned from the words alone.
It didn’t really bother him. It was an annoyance that Corinne would handle. He didn’t even have to mention it anymore. Corinne knew to check for the Cobb County Press. If it wasn’t there, Nancy’d been late. That was her name, Nancy, he was almost sure of it. She’d been with the firm for almost a year, a cute young girl from what he could tell. He usually only saw her from the waist up, sitting at her desk. She had auburn hair. He liked that. There was some depth there. He hated blondes, at least in theory. At the right time and the right place he could love anyone—and had. He hadn’t always been miserable, only for the last five years or so, but all that was going to change.
He’d been getting the Cobb County Press for about a year now. Change was something that happened slowly for him. It had started as an idea, actually someone else’s idea. Then it churned into a dream and coalesced into plans. Now it was about to become a reality. He loved the law, really did. Loved to try a good case. But he despised the big firm, the rich clients—the high-profile crap. It had never been him. He was a good lawyer but success had brought him to a place he didn’t belong. It had taken him twenty years to make the decision to go, but he was about to do it.
Cobb County was located at the northwest corner of Lake Okeechobee in the south central part of the state, where the word “cracker” didn’t refer to something you ate. It was the smallest county in Florida, with a population under 15,000, the majority of whom lived in the small town of Bass Creek. Although it was infinitesimal in size compared to Miami, Bass Creek had its own McDonald’s and Burger King, and rumor had it the Colonel was opening a franchise in the near future. In the winter, transients piled in from who knows where, old and young, rich and poor—but mostly poor. Citrus was the crop and pickers, many illegals, from Mexico, Colombia, Guatemala and other points south of the border always arrived for the harvest.
Jack had grown up in New York City but he was a Florida cracker at heart. For the last ten years, he’d spent his weekends and vacations out on the lake boating and fishing. He’d been alone for the last five, since Renee, his third wife, left him. She’d told him she didn’t marry a successful Miami lawyer to spend her weekends in a seedy, backwoods town while he went fishing. The woman had a point, but Jack wasn’t going to give up the one thing in life he truly enjoyed. So they parted ways. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but he’d shut himself off after that.
The plan was to open a small office in “downtown” Bass Creek. He was going to represent anybody who walked through the door, the only contingency being that he would have to believe in their case. He was going to be the proverbial country lawyer and he was sure it was going to be a hoot. He didn’t need the money anymore but he did need something. What did Bob Marley call it —“Redemption”? But from what he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was from all those people whose legitimate
claims he had defeated in court over the years on behalf of those bloodsucking insurance companies he represented. He’d always told himself it was just business but he knew. Hell, everybody knew. He was just a high-paid prostitute who sold his soul instead of his body. You can only live with that so long, and he had lasted longer than most.
Jack had given the firm notice last year, and they had negotiated for more than six months before arriving at a buyout figure of twenty million dollars, enough for a thousand people or more to live their lives out comfortably in Cobb County. But there was a snag. There was always a snag. As a trial lawyer he knew that intuitively. Never saw a perfect case.
This snag had been his own fault. He’d been at one of those fundraisers he hated, stepped outside for a minute to talk to his old friend Bob Richards, who happened to be the governor of the state—and blew it. There was no other way to put it. He blew it. Bob Richards was a friend the way wealthy people and politicians are friends—they drank together, socialized some and generally networked with others of their ilk. It didn’t go any deeper than that. But there he was at a fundraiser, the master of playing his cards close to his vest—Old Sourpuss himself—spilling his guts about his future to the governor.
“There’s a rumor going around that you’re leaving the firm,” Bob casually mentioned when they were out on the terrace alone. It was fall in Miami and this night was the first break from the tropical summer heat. It was about seventy-five, a slight breeze blowing, clear skies—the kind of night that people in Buffalo would soon be having wet dreams about.
“Yeah, it’s time to go. Make way for the young turks.”
“What are you going to do? I never took you for the retirement type.” There it was. He could have shrugged. He could have made some innocuous comment like “I’ll get used to it.” But no, he had to be honest.
“I’m not going to retire. I’m going to open a little office in Cobb County. Be a country lawyer.”
“Cobb County,” the governor mused. “I seem to recall old Harry Parker is about to retire from the circuit bench over there.” That was Bob, a politician’s politician. He couldn’t find his way through a spreadsheet, couldn’t recognize an environmental issue if it reached up and bit him in the ass, but he knew every open political appointment in the state.
“I don’t want to be a judge,” Jack told him flat out.
“No, I know that.” Bob replied, looking up at the stars and rubbing his chin.
“Besides, I’ve already committed that position to Bill Sampson, the state attorney, but Bill’s position is open. Jack, you’d love it! It’s a small office—only four other lawyers, no pressure. You’d be doing trial work. Whaddya say?”
That was Bob, the ultimate salesman. What could he say? A flat no would have been appropriate. But he was never one to turn down opportunity. It was trial work and he wouldn’t have to set up an office and hire staff. And he would have a few months off before he started. So he said yes. Not that night. He fumbled and fidgeted a bit and it took several phone calls from ol’ Bob, but eventually Jack relented. And that was it. The dream that he had planned for so long was gone—replaced by somebody else’s dream. Why he let it happen, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was fate.
After he passed Nancy on the way to his office, Jack instinctively felt something was wrong. He hated to admit it but he was a man of habit and somebody had thrown a wrench into his ritual. He recognized the problem soon enough. Corinne was not there to take his briefcase and give him his messages. For a moment he thought to ask Nancy where she was but decided against it. He walked into his office and called Rick Woods instead. He was a little on edge, a little concerned. Corinne had never been absent or late for work before.
“Rick, where’s Corinne? She’s not here,” he demanded when Rick picked up the phone.
“Relax, Jack. She called in sick. Apparently, for the first time in her life Corinne has the flu. You’re going to have to struggle through the day with Nancy.” Rick was being a little testy. The deal had already been made with Jack. He was leaving the firm soon—the sooner the better, from Rick’s perspective—and there was no longer any incentive to appease his every wish. Jack hung up the phone. He thought of calling Nancy in but he knew she was already on her way to get the Cobb County Press. Even Nancy’s screwups were part of his ritual. Something was still bothering him, though, and he wasn’t sure what it was. I can’t be this upset simply because my secretary is out sick. It has to be something else. I can feel it.
He walked to the closet, took off his blue suit jacket, meticulously placed it on a wooden hanger and hung it up. He walked back to his desk, picked up The New York Times—he always read the Times first—sat down in his comfortable burgundy leather chair and began to read: world news first, then the local section, then the obituaries, then . . . his intuition was right. Something else definitely was wrong.
Nancy didn’t exactly run the two blocks to the newspaper stand. She’d already learned from Rick Woods that Corinne was sick and that she was going to be Jack’s secretary for the day. No reason to hurry back to the office.
“Think of it as an opportunity,” Rick had replied when she unthinkingly cursed into the phone after he gave her the news. She dreaded the thought. If they didn’t pay so well, I’d just keep walking. But that wasn’t an option. She needed the job.
His chair was facing away from the door and towards the window when she quietly stepped into his office. She walked right up to the desk with the paper and the messages. No sense being shy. They both knew she was late and had forgotten the paper. If he wanted to be a jerk about it, she was ready for him. She didn’t hear the sobs until she was right at the desk. Big sobs. His shoulders were heaving. She saw the paper on his lap. The obituaries. Somebody died, and he’s actually crying. Maybe he did have a mother after all. Maybe blood does run through his veins. The thought of him having a heart was almost too much for her. But there was a much more immediate problem—she was standing in his office, intruding on a very personal moment. What should she do? She couldn’t tiptoe out, although that was the most enticing option. And she didn’t want him to know that she had actually witnessed him in his moment of being human. Having no real choice, she finally decided to just drop the paper on his desk, making as much noise as she possibly could while at the same time pretending she’d seen and heard nothing.
He turned suddenly at the noise—so quickly, he startled Nancy. His red, swollen eyes confronted her.
“I have your messages but I can come back.” It was the best she could come up with. He didn’t say a word. He was still so overcome with emotion, he couldn’t speak. He motioned her to sit. Oh my God, he wants me to stay! I need a drink. As if he’d read her mind, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses. It wasn’t her drink of choice, especially at 9:30 in the morning, but she graciously accepted the glass and took a long sip simultaneously with him. Then he poured them both another. After the second shot, she started to relax.
“Nancy—it is Nancy, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Nancy, have you ever lost anyone close? I mean very close?”
“I lost my mother when I was fifteen.” That made him pause a moment. She knew it would. It always shocked everyone.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. That was nine years ago. I’m over it now.”
“You never get over it, Nancy. My father died ten years ago and I’m still not over it. He’s still with me, my harshest critic.”
Nancy couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with Old Sourpuss. She felt like asking for another shot to get her through when he suddenly stood up.
“Nancy, you and I are going to have to go to a meeting outside the office.” He walked over to the closet to retrieve his blue suit coat, still clutching the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Nancy was bewildered. Corinne never left the office for meetings with him—let alone with a bottle.
“
Should I call Rick and let him know?” she asked.
“No. I’ll straighten him out when we get back.” She grabbed her purse and practically ran to catch him as he walked out the front door. The other office personnel who saw them leave just looked at each other.
He had her drive his black Coupe de Ville, which made her even more nervous. It was a lot bigger than her Honda and with two shots of Jack on an empty stomach she wasn’t exactly sure of her instincts.
“Where to?” she asked when she had successfully maneuvered the monster out of the parking garage.
“Do you have a neighborhood bar?”
“My father does, but it’s twenty minutes away over towards Homestead.”
“That sounds lovely. Let’s go there.” They drove in silence, Nancy concentrating on the road, trying to get used to the big car and Jack deep inside himself, sipping absent-mindedly from the bottle of Jack. She stole a glance at him from time to time and saw him looking out into space, his eyes teary. She didn’t dare interrupt him. It must be his mother, she thought.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a dingy-looking place that appeared deserted from the outside. The sign out front simply read Fitzpatrick’s. The word “Bar” would have been superfluous from the looks of the place. Nancy got out first and led the way. Following her, Jack couldn’t help but notice, perhaps for the first time, that she had a striking figure—a compact torso, well-toned muscles, very attractive. Where the hell have I been for the last year? he asked himself. Five years was more like it.
“Hi, Nance!” the bartender, a strapping young Irishman, greeted her as they entered the front door.
“Hey, Tommy,” she replied, a little embarrassed. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing to walk in a bar in the middle of the day with your boss in tow and have the bartender address you by your first name.
Jack didn’t seem to notice. He was looking around, checking the place out. Nancy led them to a booth in the back. He would have preferred the bar but this was her place, her terms. It was a great place, though, very dark, with dark mahogany paneling throughout, black ceiling, dark green linoleum floors. The only light stole through the few clear spots in the dirt-stained windows. The joint certainly had character. Once they were seated in the old wooden booth, Nancy stood to get the drinks.
The Mayor of Lexington Avenue Page 16