by Rick Acker
“Who was blackmailing you?”
What could it hurt to tell him the truth now? Every bridge she had ever crossed with him now lay smoldering behind her. “It was Blue Sea—the place I worked before I went to Deep Seven. They told me that if I didn’t go to work at Deep Seven and find fraud there, they’d tell everyone I was behind Devil to Pay and—” Might as well let it all out. “Well, you know Erik smoked meth, right? He also sold some. One night while we were on the road with his band, he sold to a teenager.” Her throat constricted again as she remembered Jason Tompkins’s face smiling at her from his yearbook picture.
“He died,” she forced out. “I broke up with Erik after I found out about that, but Blue Sea wouldn’t leave me alone. They said if I didn’t find a way to sue Deep Seven for government fraud, they’d tell the cops and I’d go to jail. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I—” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” It was an accusation more than a question. “I could have helped you!”
Sudden anger burned in her chest and she glared at him. “Helped me what? Go to jail for the rest of my life?”
Righteous indignation turned to confusion in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember? ‘If you commit a crime, you should pay the price. Every. Single. Time. No excuses, no compromises.’ You expect me to trust the man who said that? To come to him when I’m in trouble?”
Something cracked in his face, but then it hardened again. “Maybe you didn’t trust me, but I trusted you. My mistake.”
His expression made her feel like an insect. The kind you squash with an old newspaper because you don’t want it on your shoe. She couldn’t bear that look. It was worse than anything he could have said.
“I didn’t have any choice!” she insisted.
He shook his head in disgust. “You always have choices, Allie. What you really mean is that the right choice was hard, so you want to pretend it didn’t exist. Well, it did and you blew it. You blew everything. And now I’m going to have to go back and pay the price.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
The tears came now, flooding down her face as great gasping sobs choked her. She buried her face in her hands and wished she could die, that she’d never lived.
The door opened and shut, and she was alone with her agony.
44
CONNOR SAT IN A WINDOW SEAT IN THE FIRST CLASS SECTION OF A U.S. Airways Airbus A319, watching Lynden Pindling International Airport slip away beneath him. For a moment they were over the sun-drenched suburbs of Nassau. The beach flashed past and then the light blue coastal waters, dotted with pleasure boats. Then the blue darkened as the water deepened, and a featureless navy carpet stretched to the horizon.
He turned away from the window as the flight attendant walked by. He stopped her and asked for a glass of cabernet sauvignon. She returned with it a moment later, smiling the entire time.
He took a sip. Cheap stuff and too warm, but he wasn’t in a discriminating mood. He drained the glass in three large swallows and ordered another. The smiling attendant refilled his glass and he downed that as well.
He hadn’t eaten anything since a croissant at breakfast, and he felt the wine in a hot pool in his stomach. The alcohol reached his brain after a few minutes. He started on a third glass and drank it more slowly.
He usually didn’t drink when he was flying. No point in pouring mediocre booze down his throat just to make the trip go faster. He could do that by working or watching a movie. But he needed a drink today. He needed to wash away the taste of what he had said to Allie.
She deserved it, of course. And more. What she had done to him and the firm was bad enough, but that was nothing compared to what she told him today. He could hardly believe it. Looking the other way when her boyfriend sold drugs was bad, but looking the other way when he sold to children? And then not even turning him in when one of those children died? He shook his head and made a mental note to have Julian look into it. That kid deserved justice. As for Allie—well, whatever happened to her, she had it coming. And to think she’d tried to pin some of the blame on him, claiming she couldn’t trust him to help her. That was as low as it got.
And yet…
He remembered his last image of her, glimpsed as he looked back before walking out the door. Her scuba tank was still ridiculously strapped to her back. Seawater dripped from her lank wet hair, forming little puddles around her feet on the tile floor. Her head was bowed, her face in her hands, her bare shoulders shaking.
He took another sip of his wine. She had made her choices, and those choices had painful consequences. It was hard for him to see her like that, but she had brought it on herself.
He thought back over their conversation again. Had he really said that thing about everyone who commits any crime going to jail every single time? It sounded a little like him. It also sounded a little like a fascist Pharisee, if there was such a thing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Best not to dwell on it. He would keep Allie in his prayers, of course, but otherwise do what he could to put her out of his mind.
It was time to look to the future, to think of the road ahead. The first step on that road was obvious: formally withdraw from representing Devil to Pay. He already had a draft motion ready to file. It recited the applicable ethics rules prohibiting lawyers from representing clients who bring lawsuits “without probable cause and for the purpose of harassing or maliciously injuring any person.” It stated in general terms that he had just discovered that his client was doing exactly that. The court probably wouldn’t insist on details, so Connor hadn’t included them.
The whole humiliating story would come out soon enough, though. He’d get deposed in Deep Seven’s lawsuit against the firm, and then he’d have to testify at trial if the case got that far. Tom Concannon and ExComm had already decided what their defense would be: he and the firm were innocent because they had acted reasonably and were pursuing what they thought was a legitimate lawsuit. “Improper motive,” an essential element of a lawsuit for abuse of process, simply didn’t exist. If they could prove that Connor had thought Deep Seven really had violated the California False Claims Act, that would be a complete defense. So Connor would have to testify about how he had worked closely with Allie for years, how he had come to trust her, how she had lied to him this time, and how he had believed her.
It would probably work. The firm would beat Deep Seven’s lawsuit. Connor’s career would survive. Sure, he’d take some punches along the way. Deep Seven would ask insinuating questions about his relationship with his pretty client and he’d have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The truth wasn’t that bad: one evening together, one kiss, their corny tradition of telephonic victory dinners, a dozen or so meetings, and hundreds of basically professional e-mails and calls. Talking about it would be awkward, and the legal newspapers might even take an interest. But then it would be over. He’d be embarrassed, but undamaged—or at least that’s how he hoped it would turn out.
He took another sip from his glass and pushed his thoughts beyond the unpleasant aftermath of his entanglement with Allie. Tom had a big case going to trial next spring, and he had talked about possibly bringing on Connor as colead. That would be fun. The two of them hadn’t handled a case together since Connor was a junior associate, and he relished the idea of working with his mentor as an equal. It sounded like a fun case too—interesting legal issues, high stakes, a client who cared more about good work than low bills, and most important, he would get to wear the white hat. No everyone-is-entitled-to-a-defense rationalizations.
Even if that didn’t work out, there would be other options, other ways to cleanse his mental palate. He might even join Max at DOJ. He imagined what it would be like to work next door to Max and then found himself wondering how thick the office walls in the State building are. He also remembered Max complaining because he couldn’t get
reimbursed for an $89 room at a Holiday Inn Express, which the accounting office thought was too expensive. Connor had difficulty picturing himself lasting long in a world where a night in a Holiday Inn Express was a forbidden luxury.
Okay, maybe the California Department of Justice wouldn’t be such a good fit. The U.S. Attorney’s Office might be fun. Or maybe the SEC. Even if they all had Dilbertesque accounting trolls, they had one big advantage over private practice: no clients. He could choose his own cases, do the investigations himself, and only sue the defendants who deserved suing. He’d only have to trust himself.
He held his wine glass in the shaft of fading sunlight that slanted in through his window. Sullen reds glinted in its depths like coals of a dying fire. He drained his glass and closed his eyes.
45
WAKE UP!” A VOICE HISSED IN MITCH’S EAR. SOMEONE SHOOK HIS SHOULder. “You must wake up!”
He opened his eyes and saw a blurry face beside him. It was very dark in the bunkroom, and he couldn’t make out the features. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his mind not yet functioning. “Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked in a loud slur.
A hand covered his mouth. He struck out clumsily, but another hand soon pinned his wrist. He thrashed in a vain attempt to get free.
“Wake up!” the voice repeated in an urgent whisper. “You must get up now.”
He heard movement in the bunk below him, followed by Ed’s gravelly whisper. “I’m up. What are you talking about, Cho?”
Mitch stopped struggling and Cho released him.
“You must go to the radio room right now,” Cho said in the darkness. “There will be one man there, but you can surprise him. Lock the door and call your navy. I talk to men outside so they don’t kill you.”
“Hold on a sec,” said Ed. “What’s going on? What are you talking about?”
“There is no time! All are your enemies. They come for you soon. Go, do your plan now!”
A quick movement in the darkness and Cho was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.
Now wide awake, Mitch pulled himself out of bed and dropped to the floor. He had no idea what to make of what just happened. Ed was sitting on his bunk, pulling on pants.
Mitch took his clothes off a hook in the wall and followed Ed’s example. “Are we gonna do what he said?” he asked as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head.
“Still sortin’ that out.” Ed grunted as he bent over to tie his shoes. “I don’t trust him, but what could he be up to? And we’ve gotta do somethin’—he knew what we said to Jenkins, which is very bad news.” He stood up and took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go.”
They opened the bunkroom door and slipped out into the empty hallway. It was narrow, dark, and full of places where someone could be hiding. Plus, what if there were other bugs or cameras around—like the one that must have captured their conversation with Jenkins? Mitch hoped that Cho had warned the first mate too.
“Let’s go out on deck,” Mitch whispered.
Ed nodded and opened an exterior door. A gust of chill air and rain blew in. Mitch shivered, but at least they would almost certainly have the deck to themselves.
A wet wind blew in Mitch’s face, and he had to shield his eyes to keep from being blinded. Not that it really mattered— the deck was pitch black except for the ship’s running lights and occasional puddles of warm glow coming from the windows of lit rooms.
They stumbled along the rain-slicked deck, holding onto the railing to keep their balance. Mitch banged his shin hard and stifled a curse.
A doorway loomed out of the rainy darkness and Ed motioned for him to stop. They had gone as far as they could outside. They were only about 10 or 15 yards from the radio room, but the rest of the way would be inside and would take them past half a dozen occupied staterooms.
Ed disappeared into the darkness for a moment, then reappeared carrying a wrench and a hammer. He handed the wrench to Mitch. “Let’s go.”
Back inside, a listening quiet seemed to enfold them after the windy night outside. Even the tiny squeaks from their shoes seemed to echo. Mitch tried to breathe quietly.
Light showed under the doors of two staterooms, but the rest were dark. To Mitch’s relief, Jenkins still had his light on. Good—hopefully he’d be ready to join them. Then it would be three against one in the radio room. Mitch liked those odds, even if the Koreans were all kung-fu experts or something.
Ed pointed to Jenkins’s door and muttered something as they passed.
Mitch nodded and opened the door.
Ed grabbed at him frantically. “What are you doing?”
Mitch found himself face-to-face with a huge, tattooed Korean. Before he could react, the man hit him in the stomach. Mitch doubled over and staggered back into the wall on the other side of the hall. Something crashed into the back of his skull and he collapsed to the floor.
He lay there for several seconds, stunned and gasping for breath. Sounds of shouting and fighting filled the air above him.
Mitch pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Black spots filled his vision and his head spun. But he had to get back up. He had to. It couldn’t end like this.
He staggered to his feet and saw the big Korean wrestling with Ed. He picked up the hammer from the floor and lunged forward. The Korean’s back was to him. One good blow from the hammer and—
Someone grabbed him from behind. A strong hand gripped his right wrist and smashed his hand against the wall. The hammer fell to the floor with a clang.
Mitch started to turn to face his attacker, but a huge fist smashed into his jaw. He fell again, his mouth full of jagged pain and blood.
A thick arm looped around his neck and squeezed. He twisted and fought, but it was no use. The black spots returned and grew. His strength faded.
The last thing he heard was Jenkins’s voice in his ear. “Sorry, Mitch. Nothing personal.”
Then it was over.
46
CONNOR SAT IN THE GALLERY OF DEPARTMENT 301 OF THE SAN FRANCISCO Superior Court, the courtroom designated for hearing motions in odd-numbered cases. He was waiting for the court to call his motion for leave to withdraw, which was sixth on the day’s docket. To his annoyance, Deep Seven had decided to oppose it, and Carlos Alvarez had shown up to handle the hearing personally. He had pointedly ignored Connor when he walked into the courtroom and now sat two rows up on the other side of the gallery.
To make matters worse, the court had issued a tentative ruling denying the motion unless either new lawyers appeared to represent Devil to Pay or the company obtained a new registered corporate agent (Connor was the current agent). Both of those alternatives would take time and would involve further contact with Allie, which Connor would rather avoid.
The clerk called the fifth motion on the docket. Connor’s heart rate picked up at the realization that he was next. He hadn’t argued a contested motion in years. Most of his cases settled early, and DOJ always took the lead on those that didn’t. He would help write the briefs, slip notes to Max during hearings, and so on, but he’d had the luxury of sitting back and watching the actual combat from a front-row seat. This time he was in the ring.
“Line number six, State ex rel. Devil to Pay, Inc. v. Deep Seven Marine Technology, case number 401775,” the clerk announced.
Connor walked up to the plaintiff ’s table on the left side of the courtroom, and Alvarez took his place at the defendant’s table on the right. “Connor Norman for movant Doyle & Brown.”
“Carlos Alvarez for defendants.”
The honorable Karen Bovarnick looked at them over her glasses. “All right, you’re here on Doyle & Brown’s motion to withdraw, right?”
Connor nodded. “That’s correct, your honor.”
“My tentative ruling is to deny the motion without prejudice. I assume you want to talk me out of that, Mr. Norman?”
“Yes, your honor. The ethical rule in question, Rule 3-200, makes it mandatory for an attorney to withdraw in these circumstances. We
do not have a choice in this matter—and, I respectfully submit, neither does the court. I am not aware of any authority that allows a court to order an attorney or firm to continue representing a client when they are ethically required to withdraw.”
The judge held up her hand. “Let me stop you for a second, counsel. Are you aware of authority allowing me to run my courtroom in an orderly and expeditious manner?”
“Yes, your honor, but—”
“And are you aware of any authority saying that I can’t set reasonable conditions on your withdrawal, if that’s necessary to make this case proceed smoothly?”
“I think the authorities are very clear that if an ethical rule requires a lawyer to withdraw, he or she must do so.”