One Dead Lawyer (David Price Mysteries)

by Tony Lindsay

  It’s a social worker calling on my bother Robert’s behalf. He is about to finish a twenty-one-day treatment program, and she wants to know if my home is a stable, drug-free environment for him. I tell her yes. She asks if there’s a problem with him residing in the home. I tell her no, there is no problem, he is welcome here. She tells me he will be released in two days, and they will provide transportation to my address. She thanks me and hangs up.

  We, the family, were all worried about my bother Robert; my parents more than my brother Charles or me. No one had heard from him in over two months. Charles and I figured he was with a woman who got high like him—that has been his MO for a couple of years. We don’t hear from him when he has hooked into a woman who will buy his drugs. But, I did feel something was different about him being gone this time. I knew he was getting tired of the crackhead lifestyle and I hoped he was in treatment.

  I call my parents to share the good news with them; my father answers. He’s happy about the news because he sent twenty dollars to the center two weeks ago for Robert to get cigarettes and candy and my mother sent him new gym shoes, khaki pants and underwear. He wasn’t sure twenty-one days was enough time, but he says it’s a good start, and I agree.

  He tells me my mother has gone to play bingo and poker at the Catholic church around the corner, and all she cooked for him were some boiled potatoes and Polish sausages: “It is a damn shame she waited until she turned seventy-two to start gambling and hanging with white folks. Silly woman didn’t even leave no bread for the sausages. Well I got to get on to the market. I’ma tell her you called, David. Love you, boy.”

  I tell him I love him too, and that ends our conversation.

  I let the dogs in, and the three of us stretch out in the living room. I decide not to go upstairs to my bedroom; it’s not that I don’t want to think about Daphne, I just don’t want to be sad. I flip the channels until I find Sanford and Son and settle on the couch for the night.

  I awake to the dogs barking at the front doorbell. I know it’s Ricky; they only bark at him. I open the door and he hands me a cup of coffee and says he’ll be waiting in the truck. Yeah, the mystery bug has beaten him good. I drink the coffee in the shower because I am anxious to get back on the trail as well. I slide into a pair of Levi’s and a white Polo golf shirt, one big enough to hang over my pistols. I slip into my Cole Haan sandals and head out to the truck.

  “To the lawyer’s, right?” is the greeting Ricky gives me. He is dressed in a yellow walking suit, with beige bone-colored gator sandals. Most people wouldn’t wear a short suit downtown, but my best friend isn’t most people.

  “You got it, boss. To the Loop.”

  Howlin’ Wolf is still playing in the changer, and I am glad to hear him, and to be with my boy.

  We aren’t off the elevator a good second before the receptionist, Ms. Panic Panties, is dialing the phone, “He’s back, sir! And he has someone with him . . . conference room A, right away, sir.”

  Keeping what she considers a safe distance, the receptionist stands and says, “This way.”

  She takes us to the same conference room Daphne and I were in before. Ricky and I sit at the card tables. “Tacky,” Ricky says loud enough for the fleeing receptionist to hear.

  She, Martin and an older white man almost collide outside the door. When I look at the older guy there is something slightly familiar about him that I can’t place. He is wearing a well-tailored suit cut wide in the thigh, much like the ones I wear, and the hand-sewn shirt he’s wearing has the same style monogrammed letters on his French cuffs mine have. As he walks past me in the conference room I catch a whiff of sandalwood body oil. I didn’t know white people wore body oils.

  The Rolex on his wrist is the platinum version of my gold one. What’s familiar is that this guy dresses like me. Ricky leans to my ear and whispers, “The motherfucker is wearin’ gators.”

  I look down and sure enough, he is in a pair of black, square-toe gators. Ricky and I give each other the nod. No matter what comes out this white-looking man’s face, we agree that he is black.

  “Good day, gentlemen, I am Peter Peal, and I’m certain you’ve met Martin.” He’s waiting for our introduction.

  “I’m David Price, and this is my associate, Richard Brown.”

  “Ah! I know both you gentlemen by reputation. Mr. Brown, you have turned around quite a few failing liquor stores on the south side, and I applaud your hiring of our young men. I served on a combined church board with your wife last summer. We helped with the planning of the Gospel Festival. It is so good to meet you, sir.” Peter Peal extends his hand and Ricky stands to shake it.

  “Wait a minute,” Ricky tilts his globe recalling, “is your firm the one that does the taxes and estate planning?”

  I have to take a second look at Ricky because he is actually pronouncing the th sound. This hasn’t occurred around my ears since we were at the university together. The only time I heard him attempt to modify his pronunciation was when he was speaking to a professor. Very seldom does my friend say, “the,” “this,” “that,” or “them,” he is more comfortable with, “da,” “dis,” “dat” and “dem.” But like most black people, Ricky can turn off his Ebonics when needed.

  “Yes,” Peter Peal answers.

  “Yeah, I’m familiar, Zondervan and Peal. This guy was your son?” Ricky’s emphasis causes Peal to cut his eyes to me; he’s trying to understand Ricky’s tone. My expression tells him nothing. If he doesn’t know his son was a shyster I won’t be the one to tell him.

  “Yes. Randolph was actually my oldest son. His mother and I were together in college. I have three other sons from my marriage. They have all joined me in the tax firm you’re familiar with, Mr. Brown.”

  Ricky returns to his folding chair and the senior Peal turns his attention to me. Along with his hue, he and his son share the same dishwater-blond hair, except his is speckled with gray strands. I suspect the senior Peal is in his early sixties.

  “And Mr. Price, the only minority-owned bodyguard service in the state, not to mention the beautiful rehabilitation you have been doing in Englewood. Your work has brought other investors back to the area.” We shake hands as Martin stands there looking totally uninformed. I guess he thought a brother like me was broke.

  “Gentlemen, I do believe we will be more comfortable in my son’s office. Martin, will you kindly see to the coffee and sandwiches? Thank you. Mr. Brown and Mr. Price, please follow me.”

  I’m flattered that he is conscious of who I am, but he has also put me on guard. This is a silky-smooth man. Realizing that within the type of law he practices a degree of marketing is required, common sense tells me I shouldn’t be threatened by his acquaintance with me. If one is doing estate planning, one must be informed on who has money. Nonetheless, him being better informed of me than I am of him has my senses on alert.

  We have to walk past the receptionist and she shares the same flabbergasted expression as Martin. When we enter the private office, the older Peal sits behind the desk, and Ricky and I take the leather couch.

  “And how may I be of service to you gentleman?”

  It is a simple question and he seems sincere in asking it, but the peace-making tone of his voice left me uneasy. Even though he is asking to be of service, I’m feeling like the target.

  “Well actually, Mr. Peal, we came to speak with Martin. I am looking into the death of Daphne Nelson and her son. Some facts have been discovered, and I’m hoping Martin can verify them.”

  “Which are?” Peal’s eyes are ash-gray, only a shade or two away from being white. I see he likes to stare at people with them.

  I return his gaze and answer, “The facts are in regards to an accident case your son handled some years ago. It involved the death of over sixteen people.”

  “Yes, the church bus case. It was a sad day in our community. That case helped me to understand Randolph’s determination to become a personal-injury attorney; seeing the vigor he drew on to
pursue adequate settlements for all those families. I was proud of the boy.”

  His eyes cast to the left when he says he was “proud of the boy.” I read somewhere that eye movement such as that meant lying. And hearing this European-looking African American man say “our community” for the second time adds to my uneasiness.

  This uneasiness bothers me because I realize my edginess with this brother is based on how he looks. I am prejudging him by appearance. A brother like me is being prejudiced, and not only that; I have yet to offer him my condolences. He has lost a son.

  A pain I am all too familiar with, and I have allowed my own prejudice to stop me from being a compassionate person. Because he is a black man who looks white, I have held back my concern.

  “Mr. Peal, please accept our sympathies for the loss of your son.” I included Ricky, who nods his head in agreement.

  “Thank you, Mr. Price. Randolph and I . . . our relationship was strained, to say the least. You see, his mother and I never married. We were college lovers. She and her parents raised Randolph. He was an adult before he came into my life and the life of my other sons. My wife Helen opened our family to him, but he had issues. He never felt a part of my family, and I understood. Even though I gave him my name at birth, his mother’s parents insisted on raising him without assistance from me, and at that time any assistance from me wouldn’t have amounted to much.

  “An African American man of my complexion is not always accepted by our community. I could have practiced as a white man, but I chose to be part of the community I was born in. I advised Randolph to do the same. He took my advice for ostracism. It wasn’t.

  “I believed it would have been easier for him to practice as a white attorney in mainstream society. When one looked at Randolph, no traces of his African American heritage were seen. He was not born in or raised in our community. Randolph Peal by anyone’s standard was a white man.

  “When he finished law school he wanted to join my firm. My partner and my sons were against it. You see, Mr. Brown, Mr. Price, we have worked for our reputation within the community and my sons have worked hard to make sure that we are thought of as an African American firm; our practice targets mid- to upper-income African Americans.

  “You see I was stuck between one son wanting to be involved in his father’s career and three sons who thought his involvement would hurt us all. My solution was to become a silent partner with Randolph. He took my money, but not my advice. He targeted his practice at our community.”

  Ricky says, “It seemed to have worked for him.”

  “Yes, he proved me wrong. Randolph’s firm was profitable after the first year. People in the community trusted him, especially after the church bus tragedy. Randolph’s clients viewed him as a white man and they accepted him as such. After the bus tragedy, the sky was the limit for this firm.

  “Mr. Price, how is that terrible tragedy linked to the death of Ms. Nelson and her son?”

  “What I have, Mr. Peal, is a hypothesis, one that I am not at liberty to share.”

  “I see. Is what you’re doing related at all to my son’s murder?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Who has employed your services?”

  “Ms. Nelson was a dear friend, and she died on my porch. I am doing this on my own.”

  “Understandable.”

  Martin enters pushing a cart with sandwiches and coffee. The senior Peal stands, takes a sandwich and walks to the door, “Martin, these gentlemen would like to speak to you in private. I am going down to Accounting. Buzz me when you’re finished here. And again, Mr. Price and Mr. Brown, it was a pleasure. And please keep my firm in mind for any of your estate or tax needs.” He closes the door behind him.

  Martin pours himself a cup of coffee, grabs a sandwich, and takes the seat behind the desk. Ricky doesn’t hesitate to take two sandwiches and a bottle of water. He passes me a sandwich and bottle of water.

  I want to get right into Martin, so without hesitating I ask, “Was Mr. Peal always involved in the day-to-day operations before Randolph’s death?”

  “No, this morning at six-thirty was the first time I’ve met the man. I usually don’t work on Wednesdays,” he says with much attitude.

  “This clown picked me up at my home and brought me to work. He introduced himself by telling me Randolph was dead and I should be at work.” Martin bites into the sandwich and gulps the coffee. “I feel like I am being bullied. He sat in my living room while I showered and got dressed for work. He drove me in and told me I could expect to be here late tonight.

  “The man has made it quite clear whose firm this is. Daphne was right, we were not Randolph’s partners. This firm belongs to that man.”

  I have no sympathy for his employment situation. “When did you hear about Daphne?”

  “I heard about it last night on the news. I didn’t believe it. I called her house anyway and left a message . . .” He only eats half the ham sandwich, wraps up what’s left in a napkin and tosses it in the wastebasket on the side of the desk. He does finish the coffee. “And the rumors around here are that he is black. Can you believe that?” He moved right past Daphne’s death to his present situation.

  “I believe Randolph killed Daphne.”

  “I thought the same, until he came up dead. Shot on your wife’s back porch. How about that, Mr. Price?”

  “Yeah, how about it?”

  “What did the police say to you?” Martin asks, standing and getting himself another sandwich and a bottle of water.

  “Not much, why?”

  He drops back down in the chair. “Because, man, you have to be the main suspect. No one else threatened Randolph’s life and put a gun to his head. One can only hope that the police have at least spoken to you.” He splits the second sandwich—tuna—in half and bites into it just as hungrily.

  “Does Peal’s father know about the altercation between Randolph and me?”

  “Oh yes, I told him as soon as the receptionist said you were in the lobby.”

  Peal Senior is indeed a clever sort; there is no way I couldn’t have held a conversation with the man who threatened my murdered son with a pistol, unless of course I didn’t care about my son.

  “Tell me, Martin, did you tell him about yourself?”

  “What about me?” He twisted the water bottle open and swallowed.

  “You know, man, about your father.”

  “My father?” When he looks up, surprise is all over his clean-shaven narrow face.

  “Yeah, you know about Daphne and Randolph setting up the accident that ruined his business and caused him to kill himself.”

  He wags his finger at me, “Oh . . . that’s why you wanted to see me. You’re trying to piece together a motive for my involvement in Randolph’s death. Mr. Price, save the effort for your own defense. You’ll need it.” He starts chuckling and twists the cap back on the water.

  “My father was a sick man before the accident, a weak man who suffered from major depression. I didn’t blame Randolph or Daphne. I doubt if Randolph or Daphne even knew who my father was. They sued Aspire Trucking, not Matthew MacNard. My father was never named in the suit.

  “Aspire Trucking was a franchise owned by the bank, not my father. Gentlemen, you are aware that Aspire Trucking is a national franchise; which was the reason Randolph was able to get such large settlements?”

  I wasn’t familiar with Aspire’s business status, and neither was Ricky.

  “Judging by the expressions on your faces, you two bros didn’t know Aspire was national? Tsk, tsk. Do your homework, gentlemen.”

  No one likes to be showed up; Ricky likes it less than most. He leans up to the edge of the couch cushion. “You tellin’ us that y’all never spoke of ya daddy’s death?”

  “No. I didn’t see a need.” Martin reminds me of a turtle with his head stretched out from the shell.

  “You was wokin’ fo’ da man dat killed ya daddy?”

  Smiling and as condescending as
hell, Martin continues with, “Sir, you share the same mistaken belief that my mother had. No law firm killed my father. My father killed himself. I am a thirty-three-year old partner in the city’s top-billing personal injury firm, and for the record, Mr. Brown, if this firm had been responsible for the death of my father, I’d still be here.”

  I believe him, and Ricky must too because he sits back.

  “What about Daphne?” I ask.

  “What about her, Mr. Price? She’s dead. She had a great rack, a tight little ass and wonderful feet . . . I’ll tell you something . . . she was the first black woman I ever dated. Usually all they can do for me is point me in the direction of a white one. But Daphne had ambition. Her ambition almost rivaled mine. We had our good moments, but my world will not be slowed by her demise.”

  The young man is sick, and sick people should be helped. I want to tell him something that will help him, but I hear Ricky saying, “Nigga, you fucked in da head.”

  And that pretty much ends our visit. Martin springs up from his chair and shows us the door. I pull a card from my wallet and hand it to him. He doesn’t tear it up. Leaving I ask, “Hey, do you know anyone who drives a white Bentley?” My card slips from his hand.

  “No,” he answers and bends down for my card.

  Now I understand why Eleanor asked me if I had met Randolph’s father. That was her way of telling me that Randolph had some African American heritage, as slight as it was. I follow Ricky out of the offices of Zonderman, Peal and MacNard. Daphne’s plastic letters had been taken down.

  I cannot align my thoughts. I now know that Peal’s daddy is an African American, Martin is a total sell-out, Eleanor wants to meet again, Regina wants me locked up and the cops think I’m a murderer. All these thoughts add up to . . . nothing. I don’t have a clue as to who killed Daphne, Stanley or Peal or who the hell was in that white Bentley.