Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  Compounding this desperation, he needed to decide between rent payments and car payments. He elected to pay on the car—he could sleep in the back seat, but he couldn’t drive his apartment to an interview. Since the landlord had no empathy for Peter’s plight, he’d let it be known that after eight more days of unpaid rent, he’d evict both tenant and cat. And things got worse. Peter had just one more week to find enough money to service his mother’s mortgage commitment or risk foreclosure. Recalling a bit of high school French, he summed up these sentiments with a rueful chuckle: “Sur moi le déluge.”

  In his bathroom, prepping for yet another day of defeat, Peter stared at the mirror and spoke to his reflection: “Hello. My name is Neil. I want to work for you. I will do anything. What? The job pays a buck-fifty an hour? No problem, so long as there is ample opportunity for advancement.”

  Pulling his tie knot to his throat, he wondered if it was strong enough to make an adequate noose. Next, Peter imagined his slim wallet saying: feed me. “Sarcasm’s a good thing,” he said. “Shows I’m resilient through thick and thin.” Once he finally finished dressing, he approved. He was jobless but looked prosperous. As he exited the bathroom, the phone rang, piercing the dull air. Peter veered towards the extension on the bedside table, but considered not answering. Why bother? The string of bad news was endless. Would this be any different?

  He stood along the west-facing wall and window and listened to the swoosh of speeding cars. At night, he pretended this never-ending traffic was rolling surf. He wished, however, the waves didn’t honk every few seconds. Flipping a mental coin on the fifth ring, he elected to pick up. When Jason Ayers said, “Hello,” Peter immediately wanted to reconsider his decision.

  “I spoke with Jerome Smitham,” Ayers began. “He told me you were interested in finding your own job. Any success?”

  Peter stared at a dark smudge on the wall. “It’s an avalanche of opportunity,” he said. “There’s this assistant manager’s job at a Jack in the Box restaurant. I’d make six bucks an hour and report to a nineteen-year-old. I’m considering it. Paper delivery routes are available. Also frozen banana dipper at the amusement park. Lots of things. I’m sorting out the opportunities.”

  “At least you’ve kept a sense of humor.”

  “Gallows humor. I’m looking at an eviction notice. With rents having escalated, my landlord is dying to get me out of here.”

  “Sounds bleak.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Jerome says you’re behind on Hannah’s mortgage payments. How about letting me handle those?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Ayers. You’ve done enough. Mr. Smitham told me you paid my tuition when Mom ran short of money.”

  “Jerome’s got a big mouth.”

  “Anyway, thanks.”

  “That was the only money Hannah ever took from me, and she only did so because . . .” The voice faded to nothing.

  “I’m glad he told me,” Peter said. “I owe you for a lot of things.”

  Ayers paused to clear his throat. When he began again, he sounded tentative. “It was nothing. Under the circumstances, why don’t you reconsider the position with Stenman Partners?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want a make-work job. It’s too much like a handout, and that’s something I can’t take.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Peter. Morgan Stenman makes everyone earn his keep a hundred times over. If you don’t cut it, you’re ipso facto out. Just come by my office for a chat.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Ayers.”

  “Hannah took this job and did outstanding work. She became, far and away, the best paralegal we had. That didn’t amount to charity.”

  “She had to take that job—”

  “Flipping burgers sounds good to you?” Ayers asked.

  “No.”

  “Just a talk. I’ve got some free time around noon.”

  Peter agreed. “I’ll see you in three hours. I appreciate the concern.”

  As Peter prepared to cancel the day’s other interviews, Henry hopped onto his lap. “Whatta you think, old man?” he said, stroking behind the cat’s ear. “Take the job for a month or two until we get back on our feet?”

  Henry’s throat vibrated in a contented hum.

  Peter approached the elevator with four other people—three men in their mid-thirties or early forties, and an elderly woman. He wondered if they could hear his heart racing or see the small ballooning of his pulse against the soft part of his neck, near where the tongue attaches to the back of the throat. He attempted to will himself into a state of calm, but had mixed success.

  The three men elbowed ahead, imitating pigs at slop time. One after the other punched a button for a floor, glowering at one another as if the order of floor input might affect arrival time. The numbers three, five, and six lit up. Peter allowed the woman in ahead of him while holding the door, making certain it did not retract while she entered. She glanced sideways, but gave no other sign of acknowledgement.

  The woman tapped seven, the top floor, which was also Peter’s destination. Peter moved to the back of the box and leaned into a corner. At least sixty years old, the woman had a serious face, smooth for her age, and she smelled like musty geraniums. After moving to the elevator’s rear, she leaned on an aluminum cane with rubber-tipped tripod legs. Her indifference hung heavily in the tiny space.

  When the first man—a fat guy with heart attack scrolling across his face—got off on three, they all rearranged themselves to maximize their territory. Next, a slender man with an eye tic stepped forward. On the fifth floor, he rushed off, turned left, then spun and reversed his course. On six, the last man, thick-limbed with a swollen and discolored eye, bounced on his toes while waiting for the door to open. He wore torn jeans and shitkicker snakeskin boots. His clothes held the stink of twenty-five cent cigar, and his forearms bore a biker tattoo—it looked like a red, black, and white Harley-Davidson banner. Expensive silver and turquoise jewelry circled his forearms. Exiting, he bounded to the first door. Peter read the logo: Harkness and Jameson: Specialists in Criminal Law. Without knocking, the man barged in. As the elevator doors closed, Peter wondered what crime the tattooed man had committed. His demeanor suggested something monumental.

  The elevator churned its way to the final floor. Five minutes before noon, Peter exited, trailing the suddenly unfrail woman. She carried herself with agility and speed down the hallway. Leaning on her cane as she stepped, she made it to the door with the Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers: Attorneys at Law nameplate several yards ahead of him.

  As the office door shut in Peter’s face, he stared at the grain of the wood and thought about the importance of the next hour of his life. He had rejected this job twice. Now? Now he wanted the position enough for his knees to knock. And wanting it so much made Ayers’ possible change of mind a potential back-breaker for Peter. And broken backs, he understood, were hard to fix.

  Feeling foolish as he stood like a flagpole in the hallway, Peter took a deep breath and grabbed the polished brass doorknob. He pushed, stepped in, and peered across the open space. The office held the quiet air of a university library—Peter could almost feel the moon-brains working behind these desks, billing clients at the rate of a couple hundred bucks an hour, every mind filled with millions of legal facts and precedents. He felt like a thrice-failed second-grader by comparison.

  In a far corner office, where his mother had once worked, sat a bookish clerk with an eager-beaver face. A pang struck across Peter’s chest, causing the air to thicken as if he were in a freshly watered sauna. In an effort to seal his grief, he swallowed, then redirected his attention. An African-American woman in blue business attire and stylish wire-frames sat behind a formal-looking reception desk. Handsome, in her fifties, she had gray hair and wore a phone headset, thus freeing her hands for other chores. Her nameplate read: Elaine Robinson.

  Observing his approach and making eye contact, the receptionist nodded and held up a forefin
ger, signaling she would be right with him once she finished her phone call. After taking a message and hanging up, she said, “Mr. Neil, Mr. Ayers will be a few moments. I am sorry about your mother. I was a dear friend, and we all loved Hannah. Especially me, she was my . . .”

  Elaine Robinson couldn’t finish. Peter nodded his understanding, thanked her, and stepped to the coffee table and sofa set up for visitors to cool their heels. He skimmed the Wall Street Journal headlines and was reading about a coordinated attack on a third-world central bank when a voice hailed and distracted him from across the room.

  “Peter Neil?” A mid-twenties woman whisked over to him. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were coming to the office.” She had a husky voice that easily carried the twenty-five feet.

  An understated skirt and open jacket moved in rhythm with the bob of her rounded shoulder. And something about freckles dotting a cockeyed smile made her seem familiar. But who was she? he asked himself.

  Just before she introduced herself, a movie-clipped-memory projected itself. Her hair still hung long and thick with a chestnut shine, but she was no longer skinny, nor did she wear braces. When she said, “I’m Kate. Kate Ayers,” he had already guessed.

  Fourteen years had passed since their families’ occasional dinners, but this was the grownup version of that girl. Peter could not suppress his delight, a response originating in his toes, flowing up his spine, and onto his face, culminating in a hearty smile. She had a warm aura, and an odd mix more cute than pretty, but better than both. When she grabbed his hand, Peter said, “Little Katie Ayers. Damn. This is quite a surprise.”

  Ten minutes of catching up later, Peter asked, “You work here?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say so, but yes. I just graduated from UCLA Law, and I’m working as a third-year legal associate for part of the summer. Naturally, I got the job on my merits . . .” She smiled, then laughed. “Okay, okay, Father had something to do with it. But I’m working for nothing. I didn’t want to take one of the spots away from another intern; I’m pro bono. I’ve got to head back to LA in mid-July, so I couldn’t commit to a full summer anyway.”

  “You’re going back in July? How come?”

  “I’m assisting one of my law professors on a textbook—on personal injury and tort law. Kind of a snooze, but it looks good on the old resumé. While I do that, I study for the bar exam.”

  “That’s impressive. Are you going to concentrate on securities law?”

  “Nope. Way too boring. I’m heading for criminal. That’s if I pass the exam.”

  “You’ll pass. I can see the intensity in your eyes.”

  “My eyes?”

  “They’re smart eyes.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I can think of something a little more endearing.”

  “I’m tongue-tied. Perhaps I should have said you’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi about you.” Kate curtsied, the tilt of her head hiding what Peter guessed was a smile. He continued, “By the way, I rode up in the elevator with a potential client.” The image of the tattooed man with the deep bruises still gave him the creeps. “I hope you find a better class of criminal once you take the plunge.”

  “Even the guilty need counsel,” she quickly replied, half-serious. The remark kept the mood light but hinted at her principles. As she spoke, Peter recalled his mother’s comments about representing evil. “I’d like to start out in the Public Defender’s Office. I don’t know where I’ll go after that.”

  “Mr. Neil,” the receptionist gently interrupted Kate. “Mr. Ayers is ready.”

  Peter nodded. When he said, “I enjoyed seeing you again after all these years, Kate,” he meant the words. She eased the tension he’d felt all morning by drawing him back to a happier time in his life.

  “It was fun,” she replied. “I don’t know if you remember, but you used to make fun of my freckles. The first time you did, I cried because I didn’t want you to think I was ugly. I had a crush on you.”

  “I was too busy being a thirteen-year-old to notice. Long belated apologies. Anyway, you’ve blossomed—blossomed’s a dumb word—but you’ve . . . well, you get my point.”

  A light blush accompanied an appreciative nod. “You want to get together?” she asked. “I’m free tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ll buy dinner.”

  “You’ll have to,” Peter said. “I’m broke.”

  “Good. I like my men beholden.” She laughed. “You can tell me if you take the job.”

  “You know about the Stenman Partners position?”

  “Of course I do. Father tells me everything. If I were you, I’d accept. If you’ve got what it takes, you’ll do very, very well there.”

  “You know Morgan Stenman personally?” Peter asked.

  “My godparent. Father’s been the partnership’s counsel for thirty years.”

  “That’s a good recommendation—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Neil, but they’re waiting.” The receptionist stepped around her desk, ready to lead him away.

  Peter and Kate agreed to meet, seven p.m., at Bully’s in Del Mar. As he made his way to Ayers’ office, he wondered if he’d heard correctly. Had the receptionist said “they’re waiting”?

  If so, who besides Jason Ayers?

  Kate’s words, “If I were you, I’d take the position,” bolstered him. He prayed he’d have the opportunity to take her advice. If so, he vowed to work ten times as hard as anyone else.

  The overworked moonstone radiated friction-heat as Peter dropped it into his hip pocket. With a deep gulp, he knocked on the solid door. For the first time in weeks, he had a good feeling. He prayed it wasn’t a head fake.

  “Come in,” Ayers said through the solid door.

  Leaning forward, Peter obeyed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AGENT OLIVER DAWSON ROSE FROM HIS DESK AND STRAYED TO HIS fourth floor window, grabbing a quick look at the Washington, D.C. scene. A June gloom hung over repugnant air spewing from the exhaust pipes of Fifth Street’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. He turned the latch and slid the window open, breaking cobwebs in the process. Immediately, the sounds of revving engines and horns in staccato blares filled the room. He stared at the sky, filtered through gauzy air. Squeezing a dent into the can, he clutched his fourth Diet Coke of the morning—a ritual that kept his head buzzing and his mind racing. Behind him, the inaugural photos of the last eight presidents hung in a row. “The rogues’ gallery,” Dawson called them. Ronald Reagan’s photo had his autograph scribbled across his chest. Dawson wished he had President Kennedy’s signature instead, but he was too young to have met JFK.

  It had been a depressing few weeks, as unfulfilling as any time in his life. When he returned to Washington after the Cannodine and Drucker fiascoes, Dawson handled a small insider trading case. A CEO’s in-laws had traded shares of his company ahead of a takeover bid. Having settled this brief investigation with a paltry fine, he now had additional time to feed his frustrations. For the last fourteen of his thirty-nine years, the agent had dedicated himself to enforcing the nation’s securities laws. No matter how hard he tried or cared, it wasn’t enough. Tight budgets, sophisticated lawbreakers, the explosion of wealth around the world—all made his efforts less than the proverbial drop in a bucket.

  It was like everything else in his life: one mountain to climb after another. He was always the smallest person in class, had shitty eyesight, no athletic coordination, was far from brilliant, and a social misfit. Only his dogged determination had kept Dawson from getting lost behind life’s eight-ball. He had persevered, gone to law school at night, and worked his way into this job.

  Oblivious to the spent-petroleum smell in the air, he threaded his way through the maze of boxes, each of them containing sloppily labeled manila folders stuffed with pages from cases current, pending, or dismissed. It represented detritus that continued to build as the years wore on. The tiny office was made even smaller by protruding snap-on bookshelves
that jutted from every wall. Dawson’s footsteps tapped against the chipped and dingy linoleum, over to a dog-eared cardboard box with STAPLES The Office Superstore printed across its red front. He bent down and removed a stack of clipped papers. Arching upright, he tossed a shock of bangs from his forehead and, with the pad of his palm, pushed his horn-rims up the bridge of his nose. Opening the folder, he held it outright as a parishioner might hold a hymnal. He read his own note: no indication of source.

  No indication who had mailed him those pages from San Diego a month ago? How could that be?

  Somebody with access to confidential records on both Cannodine and Drucker had found a conscience. Someone anonymously sent to his attention several photocopies of receipts with Cannodine’s signature, suspicious trade confirms from numbered foreign accounts, and evidence of funds transferred from the Cayman Islands. With what he had, Dawson confronted Jackson’s branch manager and suggested he might become the target of an SEC investigation.

  “If you haven’t done anything illegal, Mr. Cannodine,” Dawson had said, “then you have nothing to fear.”

  When Cannodine’s body flinched and his face took on the look of a dehydrated apple, Dawson became convinced the man knew plenty. By the third visit, a threatened subpoena seemingly in his future, Cannodine had asked about immunity. Immunity inquiries, anybody in law enforcement knew, often marked the big first step towards gaining cooperation.