by Gregg Loomis
The sixty-five count indictment against the former superintendent included fraud, RICO, conspiracy, making false statements to law enforcement and theft. About the only charge missing was spitting on the street.
“. . . And of course, I never dreamed they would do such a thing.”
Lang drifted into and out of paying attention. It was difficult to believe an experienced educator such as Rountree could see an unprecedented improvement in test scores and have no suspicion as to the reason. But then, it wasn’t his job to believe his clients. Years of defending white collar criminals had taught him his duties to those who robbed with computers, the United States Mail or other non-violent means. Nor did it include gullibility. Provide the best defense possible and let a jury decide the issue of guilt.
“. . . You can’t imagine how shocked I was. . .”
Lang held out a hand, stop. “I think before we go any further, Dr. Rountree, we need to discuss my fee.”
Hard experience had taught Lang the facts of life of the criminal practice: Get paid up front. Not only did the miscreants he defended have no qualms about adding their lawyer to the list of their victims, some even rationalized it: If the defense was unsuccessful, the lawyer hadn’t done his job. If the client were acquitted, well then, the client hadn’t really been guilty, had he? And an innocent man had no need of a lawyer’s services.
Rountree was digging in a purse the size of a small suitcase. She set it down, holding up a document. “I think you’ll see your fee is no issue.”
Only if I don’t get it, Lang thought, reaching across the desk.
He spent the next few minutes reading the contract Rountree had signed with the Atlanta Public School System. Not only did it provide healthy incentives per percentage point of improved test scores, it obligated the System to “hold harmless from any and all damages, legal fees or other expenses incurred due to or by reason of the employment described herein or any part thereof.”
Lang looked over the top of the document. “I’m guessing you figure the ‘hold harmless’ clause includes my fees, right?”
She nodded emphatically. “I’m not a lawyer but the language is pretty clear.”
Lang shook his head. “It’s not the language. It’s the policy considerations that bother me. I mean, it would be against public policy to, in essence, compensate a felon for the felony he committed. I’m afraid that clause may be unenforceable.”
Her enthusiasm was replaced by righteous indignation, feigned or real. “Mr. Reilly, I am not a felon!”
No, none of his clients ever were. At least, not on the first visit. But he said, “That, Dr. Rountree, is for a jury to decide. I’m not willing to risk the time and effort necessary for your defense on what a jury might or might not do. Plus the fact that if you were to choose to plead out, even to lesser charges, that would also make you a felon and therefore not entitled to benefit under the hold harmless.”
She scooped up her purse and stood. “Well, Mr. Reilly,” she huffed, “it is clear to me you have already prejudged my guilt or innocence. I would think a lawyer of your reputation. . .”
Lang held out another stop sign. “Dr. Rountree, I’m prejudging nothing other than the possibility of not getting paid for a lot of work. If you are dissatisfied. . .”
She spun around with an agility belied by her bulk and walked to the door, opened it and slammed it behind her. Seconds later, a puzzled Sara stuck her head into the office.
“What was that all about?”
“It would seem the good doctor may be finished in the education business but as a career public servant, she isn’t finished supping at a trough not her own.”
“In other words, she doesn’t want to pay your fee.”
“Good guess.”
Sara shook her head while extending a pink call back slip. “Well, while you were arguing about where who was going to sup, Celeste Harper called.”
Lang stood and took the paper. “Celeste Harper, as in the reporter for the Daily Report?”
Lang was referring to the local legal newspaper.
“The same.”
“How the hell would she know I was talking to Rountree?”
“If that’s what she was calling about.”
Lang frowned. “What else would she or her paper be interested in?”
Sara was closing the door. “One way to find out would be to return her call.”
Celeste Harper had given Lang more than his share of favorable press, far better publicity than the advertising that filled late night TV promoting the ambulance chasers and the DUI and bankruptcy hacks. He punched her number into his iPhone.
“Lang?” she answered before the first ring had ended. “Thanks for calling me back.”
That wasn’t her usually cheery voice. Celeste was the arch-typical cheerful fat person. Well over two hundred pounds, she always wore a smile and clothes the less than charitable described as being designed by Omar the tent maker. Lang had never heard her disparage anyone personally although her articles could have the edge of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“Of course I’d return your call. What’s up?”
There was a pause before, “Lang, I need your help.”
Lang had long ago learned not to answer that summons before learning what was involved. He said nothing.
“It’s Livia. She’s disappeared.”
Celeste was the Hardy to her partner’s Laurel, at least as far as figures went. A professor of modern history at Emory University, Lang remembered Livia Haynesworth looked far more like a model than an academic: tall and slender to the point of near anorexia. Her long blond hair surrounded a thin, high cheek boned face that was more classical than beautiful. She reminded Lang of faces out of Renaissance paintings. Unlike Celeste who rarely met a stranger, Livia spoke little if at all.
Lang knew little or nothing about lesbian relationships and whether they tended to be more or less stable than heterosexual ones. Or if there were statistics one way or the other. He did know that the first twenty-four hours were critical in finding missing persons.
“Disappeared? Like vanished? You two have a fight or something?”
There were tears in the reply. “No, nothing like that. She just. . . Well, let me explain: We aren’t in Atlanta. I’m calling you from Nassau.”
“In the Bahamas?”
“That’s the one. She won a contest of some sort. Grand prize was a week at Atlantis.”
The Bahamas in general and Nassau in particular were not high on Lang’s list of places to vacation. Arrogant officials, a high crime rate and downright unfriendly natives spoiled the gin clear waters and golden beaches. He had noted, though, the hassle factor diminished in direct proportion to the increase in distance between Nassau and any other part of the island country. He had seen the ads for Atlantis, the mega resort located on Nassau’s Paradise Island, formerly known as Hog Cay because for years the island had provided a perfect place to keep the native’s pigs.
“How long has she been gone?” Lang asked.
“Since about ten this morning. She was taking a shopping tour of downtown.”
Lang glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past three. “That’s only, what, five hours?
“Believe me, there’s not five hours’ worth of sights on this whole island. You can drive all the way around it in an hour. She isn’t answering her phone. She always answers her phone unless she’s in class which obviously she is not.”
“Celeste, something has you worried. Want to tell me about it?”
There was an audible sigh. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be so concerned. Livia doesn’t have the sense of time of a child: Once she is shopping, the world stands still.”
“But?”
“We got here yesterday and were walking round downtown, such as it is. For some reason, she wanted to visit the library. I think it was something she saw about a special collection of some sort. She’s got a real intellectual curiosity. Guess that’s why she got a Ph. D.”
&nb
sp; “And?”
The exhibit, such as it was, was about some old murder case. I got bored and insisted we leave. An hour or two later, we got back to the hotel and someone had been in our room.”
“The maid, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so. The maid wouldn’t sort through our things. I mean, my hair brush was on the other side of the sink from where I know I left it, the sunscreen bottle’s cap was on the floor when I specifically remember screwing it on, things like that. Livia noticed it, too.”
Lang thought a moment. Although he didn’t know Celeste beyond a few interviews, he had seen no signs of paranoia. “And you think this, er, intrusion into your room has something to do with Livia’s being gone five hours?”
There, he’d said it, the absurdity patent in the words.
“I’m not sure how you think I can help.”
“Lang, you have a reputation for, well, finding people.”
Lang was a bit of a mystery to his brethren at the bar. As the Cold War wound down, he had spent two years in a grimy building across the street of Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhoff, railway station, monitoring broadcasts from the Iron Curtain countries. Not the James Bond type of job he thought he’d signed on for. But even assigned to Intel instead of the more storied Ops, he had undergone the rigorous training that stood him well today. It was there in Frankfurt he had met Gurt, who was in Ops, had a brief affair and married someone else when he left the service. Only after his wife’s death had he rekindled the relationship with Gurt.
Lawyers are no less prone to speculation than anyone else. Rumors concerning Lang’s past were wide spread, perhaps induced by the perception of wealth far beyond what the law practice could yield. The fact he had faced down one of the world’s wealthiest and most secretive organizations was unknown but to less than five people outside that establishment. The wealth that institution paid annually into an eleemosynary foundation named in honor of one of their victims who had just happened to be Lang’s sister and the privileges that came with operating that foundation were perceived variously as hush money, protection or something even more sinister if unnamed. Lang’s abilities in self defense, though rarely witnessed by local attorneys, were a mainstay of what he viewed with no small amusement as fabrication based on gossip built upon ignorance germinating from a tiny kernel of observation by his next door neighbor and fellow lawyer whose small son had been kidnapped a few years back only to be recovered by Lang and Gurt.
“Have you gone to the police?”
A snort from which the distance did little to remove the contempt. “Police! LOL! All they say is ‘Lady, we con do nuthin’ till she be gone leas’ a day.’ I think the guy was smoking something.”
Both the accent and supposition could be accurate in Lang’s experience. “Exactly what is it you want me to do, Celeste? I mean, the straight on odds are Livia’ll come sauntering through the door any minute.”
A sigh. “Maybe so. But five hours. . .?”
Two of the lights on Lang’s phone were blinking, two calls holding. Being brusque, particularly with someone who had done him the journalistic favors Celeste had, wasn’t something he wanted to do; but, after all, there was a law practice to run. “Tell you what, Celeste, you haven’t heard from Livia by. . .” He checked his watch. “By, say, 5:00 pm, give me a call and we’ll decide what I can do to help.”
She was hardly mollified but agreed.
5.
472 Lafayette Drive
Atlanta, Georgia
7:46 pm
That Same day
Since he had not heard from her, Celeste and her missing partnerhad slipped from Lang Reilly’s mind, dismissed with the certainty Livia had returned or at least been in contact.
There were other things to think about. Like Father Francis Narumba, cross legged on the floor, locked in mortal video combat with Lang’s seven-year-old son Manfred as the sounds of Pokeman X drowned out a much prized 78 of Dark Town Strutters Ball. Oh well, Lang could imagine the alto sax Jimmy Dorsey played in lieu of his usual clarinet. The old vinyl records he collected preserved the fidelity of sound far better than contemporary CDs. He could also imagine the tangy taste of the pork loin now grilling outside. One of Gurt’s favorites. Marinated in honey, Dijon mustard and sprinkled with chili powder, it would come with red cabbage and spaetzle. Fortunately for Lang, he had learned to enjoy German cooking. Make that most German cooking. Blood sausage was a bit much.
He crossed the room to refill his glass, pausing to look a question at Francis. “Quid Faciendun?”
Headed for law school, Lang had majored in Latin in college as a lark. As an ordained Catholic priest, Francis was more than familiar with the language.
Francis held up his glass, “What’s to be done? Well, In vino veritas.”
Lang grinned. The two fiends played a game of swapping Latin aphorisms, “There is indeed truth in wine, probably even more in this this single malt scotch.”
The house’s kitchen opened into both dining room and the den where the two men were. Gurt stood in the latter doorway.
“Time to remove from the grill the pork loin. Dinner is ready.”
“Awww,” Manfred complained, getting to his feet. “Just when I was winning.”
The movement awakened a large shaggy dog who had been snoring gently on the hearth of the empty fireplace. He shook himself as though wet before following Manfred into the dining room. Feeding Grumps from the table was forbidden, but dogs are unmitigated optimists by nature and an occasional morsel or two might actually drop from the table.
Manfred grudgingly climbed into his booster chair. His unshared opinion was that he was too old for such remnants of his infancy.
Gurt nodded her thanks as Francis seated her at the foot of the old, scarred refectory table Lang had rescued from a Spanish monastery. Francis always imagined hooded monks seated around it, perhaps Benedictines in black, heads bowed as they chanted grace over bowls of a simple repast:
Benedic Domine nos et haec. . .
And he was grateful, too. Born amid the poverty, disease and endless civil wars indigenous to West Africa, a missionary had recognized the intellect of the underfed and parasite-ridden child whose parents and siblings had been slaughtered in one of the ceaseless tribal conflicts. Years in Catholic school, college and seminary in Lubumbashi in the Democratic Republic of Congo had demonstrated an ability with linguistics in addition to the more arcane theological subjects. A priest was needed to minister to the growing African population of a city in America, Atlanta. Two years junior to the resident priest, a native of Nigeria, and the church was Francis’s. Not Atlanta’s most prestigious parish, either in location or wealth but a flock Francis was happy to shepherd.
Inexplicably, Janet Holt, Lang’s sister, and her adopted son had appeared in the otherwise black congregation. She never explained her choice to Lang and Francis never asked. After her and her son’s death in fiery explosion in Paris, Francis had given some modicum of solace to Lang in spite of the latter’s less-than-favorable opinions of religion and the usefulness thereof. The two subsequently became the best if most unlikely of friends.
Thankful was the right word, Francis thought as Lang set down on the table a steaming platter and began to carve the roast. The aroma made the priest’s mouth water. Yes, Thankful. Thankful God had seen fit to place him in this bounteous country where Francis’s stomach never cramped from hunger nor his bowels became liquid from disease, thankful for the frequent invitations for dinner in this house, dinners that would make it unnecessary to let go the parish house cook, poor Nyanath, late of Sudan, whose culinary skills began and ended with boiling rice and other small grains. The woman had a small child to care for while she took English lessons and could ill afford to lose even the pittance of a salary the church could afford. Francis would eat endless meals of mush first.
Thankful.
“Your shot at the blessing, Francis,” Lang boomed, shattering Francis’s thoughts. “As long as it’s brief en
ough not to let the roast get cold.”
Francis was quite sure the blessings he said were the only ones offered in this house, but he appreciated his friend’s sensitivity in asking for one. He kept it short.
“And let me win at Pokeman X after dinner,” Manfred ad-libbed.
No one said anything, but his mother’s glare of disapproval guaranteed she would later.
“It’s OK,” Francis said, reading her expression while adding generous helpings of roasted pork, red cabbage and spaetzle to his plate. “The child meant no disrespect.”
Lang cocked an eye at his friend. “Besides, if you don’t pray for it, you might not get it. Bene orasse est bene studuisse.”
Francis smiled. “One tends to forget the last part: ‘To have prayed well is to have striven well.’ I assure you, your son needs no Devine intervention when it comes to computer games.”
Lang’s iPhone rang, earning anther disapproving look from Gurt. “I thought we agreed phones off during dinner.”
Lang glanced at the number on the screen. “Guess I forgot. He stood. “I need to take this.”
He stepped into the hall. “Yes, Celeste. She showed up, did she?”
There was a pause not attributable to the reception. “No, Lang, she hasn’t.”
“But. . .”
“I went downtown and asked around. The lady at the library remembered a tall American blonde who had an interest in the pictures and stuff from some murder trial here seventy years ago involving some pretty prominent people. Just the sort of thing that would catch Livia’s attention. I had to drag her away from the television during all those months that horrible woman was on trial in Arizona, the one who stabbed, shot and slashed her boyfriend over fifty times and then claimed self-defense.”
“Jodi Arias,” Lang supplied.
“That’s the one. And she reads everything she can find about the Lindbergh kidnapping and murder. She even collects memorabilia. Like a couple of the phony ransom notes the Linberghs received after their child was kidnapped. You know, back in the Thirties. She’s convinced Bruno Hauptman was innocent. She has a couple of the pens Johnny Cochran used to take notes at the O.J. Simpson murder trial, a cigar clipper Clarence Darrow supposedly carried when he argued the Loeb-Leopold case. Stuff like that.”