Buying Time

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Saw your closing in the Pell case last month. Nice job.” McCarthy was a well-connected assistant U.S. attorney who still enjoyed trying cases after nearly thirty years on the job.

  “Thanks,” Angela beamed. She linked her arm through Cornell’s. “This is my fiancé, Judge Cornell Waters. He’s on the superior court bench downtown.”

  They shook hands, then Cornell rudely turned his attention back to the group of dark suited-men surrounding Streeter.

  “You ever think about the bench, Angela?” McCarthy asked.

  Cornell abruptly spun around.

  “No way,” Angela laughed. “I don’t think I’m judge material.”

  “I disagree. We need sharp young lawyers like you on the bench. And needless to say, the federal courts could certainly use some diversity. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.” McCarthy tapped Paul Streeter on the shoulder. “Hey, Paul, I have a future judicial candidate I’d like you to meet.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Angela could see Cornell’s jaws expand into a pout. McCarthy spent the next few minutes bombarding Angela with accolades. She wished he would stop talking so she could introduce Cornell.

  Streeter removed a card from his inside breast pocket. “Can’t beat a recommendation like that,” he said with a warm smile. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  “I’d like to introduce my fiancé,” Angela began, “Judge Cornell Waters. He’s—”

  The lights began to flicker, signaling that everyone should proceed to their tables. Streeter acknowledged Cornell with a curt nod, then walked off.

  Angela glanced down at her ticket to check their table number. When she looked up, Cornell had walked off.

  When she finally caught up with him, he was already seated. “What are you doing here?” he snickered. “I figured there’d be a seat for you at Streeter’s table.”

  Cornell could be such a baby, Angela thought. She pulled out the chair next to him and was about to sit down, but changed her mind. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  Angela walked out of the ballroom and into the restroom, where she touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair. She tried to ignore her nagging doubts. Did she really want to be a mother bad enough to endure a life sentence with Cornell? Maybe.

  A feeling of dread consumed her as she trudged back toward the ballroom. Halfway there, she pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and fired off a short text to Cornell: Not feeling well. Going home.

  As she headed for the valet stand, the tension she’d felt only seconds ago had magically disappeared.

  CHAPTER 10

  Erickson had not expected his first visit to the White House to affect him this way. As he sat waiting in a reception area outside the Oval Office, he was practically giddy.

  Hold it together, buddy. It’s show time.

  He looked up to see the President’s executive assistant, a petite, stylishly dressed woman with a practiced smile, approaching from a long hallway. She stopped just in front of him, appropriately respectful of his personal space. “Mr. Erickson, the President will see you now.”

  Gripping both sides of the chair, he easily hoisted himself upward.

  Erickson felt a sense of power like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Being chairman of a preeminent law firm was one thing, but he was about to meet the freakin’ President.

  He followed the President’s assistant, easily matching her steady stride. She slowed, opened a tall door, then stepped aside so that he could enter.

  President Richard Bancroft and his Chief of Staff, Mark Wrigley, both stood up.

  “Good to see you, Lawrence.” The President greeted him with a strong, two-handed grip.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. President,” Erickson replied.

  He shook Wrigley’s hand next and tried to get a handle on his excitement.

  The majesty of the room overwhelmed him. It suddenly hit him that the place was called the Oval Office because it actually was. He glanced down at the Presidential seal on the rug in front of President Bancroft’s desk.

  “Let’s have a seat over here.” Bancroft pointed to a seating area in the middle of the room. “First things, first. How’s your wife?”

  Erickson lowered his eyes in what he hoped was an appropriate display of distress. “As well as can be expected. But she’s a trooper.”

  The President responded with a look of grave concern.

  Erickson seriously doubted that Bancroft had any genuine interest in the state of his wife’s health. At dinner the night before, one of Wrigley’s assistants, relaxed from too much vodka, let it slip that his wife’s illness might help him edge out the other candidates. At least two of the President’s advisors felt the press might cut Erickson some slack since he was about to become a widower.

  As the President made small talk, Erickson struggled to stay focused. Here he was, Lawrence Adolphus Erickson, son of a steelworker, grandson of a corn farmer, sitting in the Oval Office. He wished his whack job of a father, who constantly told him he’d never be worth a damn, could see him shooting the breeze with the President of the United States. This would’ve killed him. Not sclerosis of the liver.

  “Mark would like a few minutes alone with you,” the President said. He stood and exited through a side door that Erickson hadn’t noticed until now.

  “You ready to roll?” Wrigley asked, as soon as the President was gone.

  “All set,” Erickson said.

  “It’s extremely important that the media doesn’t get wind of our slate of candidates,” Wrigley said. “So other than Becker, you should not share this with anyone. You can tell your wife, but only if you can guarantee confidentiality. A leak could threaten your candidacy.”

  Erickson had no intention of sharing his great news with Claire. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Wrigley leaned back, crossed his legs, and extended his arm along the back of the couch. “As you know, we have a pretty thorough vetting process, but things can still slip through the cracks. You easily cleared the first round of vetting. Some other good candidates didn’t. Now we go a whole lot deeper.”

  Erickson was dying to know who else was on the list, but such an inquiry would be out of line.

  Wrigley fixed Erickson with a steely gaze. “There’s a question I need to ask, and you’re probably going to hear it a few more times before this is all said and done. Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?”

  Erickson chuckled as if the question was absurd. “Absolutely not.” The lie rolled so effortlessly off his lips that he almost believed it himself.

  Wrigley held Erickson’s gaze for a few more beats, as if giving him time to retract his answer. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Wrigley rubbed his hands together, then bounced off the couch. “Then let’s get to it.”

  The Chief of Staff led the way out. Walking two abreast in soldier-like formation, they made their way to a conference room, not far from the Oval Office. Already seated around a circular table were two men and a woman. All three looked to be in their late thirties. Too young, Erickson thought, to have presidential ties.

  “This is your team,” Wrigley said. “They will be your primary contact throughout this process. And if you are indeed the nominee, they’ll be preparing you for your Senate confirmation hearing.”

  Erickson walked around the table and greeted each person, only half-listening as Wrigley made the introductions.

  His mind had wandered back to Wrigley’s pointed question in the Oval Office. Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?

  Yes there is, Erickson answered in thought only. But don’t worry. I’m about to take care of it.

  CHAPTER 11

  There could only be one explanation for the incredible turn of events in Waverly Sloan’s life. God loved him.

  In three short weeks, Waverly had successfully complete
d the registration process and had a nice, new viatical broker’s license, complete with the official seal of the state of California. To top that off, the State Bar website still had him listed as an attorney in good standing. Thank goodness the wheels of justice turned at a snail’s pace.

  Waverly spent the bulk of his days glued to the telephone, scouring his personal contacts and making presentations to the ones supplied by Vincent. Only two days after getting his license, he was having lunch with an old friend who mentioned that his sister was in the latter stages of breast cancer. By seven that night, Waverly was at her house signing her up. Her policy was only worth ninety thousand, but his nine grand off the top wasn’t a bad take for a few hours’ work. After paying Vincent back, he still pocketed four grand.

  Just days after that, a bigger payoff literally fell into his lap. Lawrence Erickson, a hotshot partner from Jankowski, Parkins, contacted him about selling his wife’s policy. The referral came from a prominent probate attorney who handled the estate of one of Waverly’s clients who’d died days after he’d settled her case. Waverly had mailed the lawyer a slick-looking Live Now brochure, but never dreamed the guy would actually refer someone so quickly.

  Erickson’s wife was dying of pancreatic cancer and the couple wanted to sell her five hundred thousand dollar insurance policy to pay for an experimental operation. Erickson was deeply concerned about keeping the transaction confidential. Waverly assured him that wouldn’t be a problem. Not with a fifty grand commission coming his way.

  Waverly actually whistled as he walked up the driveway to Erickson’s stately Hancock Park home. Erickson greeted him at the door and led him inside.

  Claire Erickson appeared to be minutes, not months away from death. She sat quietly in a pink dress, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes downcast. Waverly gathered that something more than her illness lay behind her defeated demeanor. She reminded him of Deidra’s mother. A woman who obediently bowed to her husband’s every command.

  “Why don’t you explain to Claire how this all works?” Erickson began.

  They were seated in the family room around a massive oak table that looked out on a colorful garden.

  “It’s actually pretty simple,” Waverly said. “We find an investor who’s willing to pay you a portion of the face value of your policy. The investor then becomes the beneficiary.”

  Claire turned to face her husband. “Sounds like a strange way to make money. But, of course, you know all about making money.”

  Waverly wasn’t exactly sure what was going on between the pair and didn’t know how to respond. As an uncomfortable hush fell over the room, he continued his presentation, meticulously explaining each step of the process, emphasizing the importance of obtaining Mrs. Erickson’s medical records as soon as possible.

  When Erickson reached over and stroked his wife’s forearm, Waverly was certain he saw Claire recoil.

  “We’ve completed the paperwork you sent over,” Erickson said, handing him a folder.

  Erickson didn’t seem the least bit broken up over his wife’s impending death. Considering the circumstances, he was far too businesslike.

  Waverly browsed the papers Erickson had given him. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?” He directed his question to Mrs. Erickson.

  She wrung her hands, then quietly shook her head.

  Erickson took both of Claire’s hands in his. “This is your decision, honey. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to ask?”

  “No,” Claire said, her voice both softer and kinder than before. “Everything sounds fine.”

  “What’s the next step?” Erickson was really rushing things along. He had explained on the phone that Claire’s sister and daughter hadn’t been told about the surgery yet. It was imperative that Waverly be gone by the time they returned from dinner and a movie.

  “I have a few more documents for you to sign,” Waverly said. “Some of them need to be notarized.”

  “We’ll get them done right away. Here’s the name of my wife’s oncologist.” He handed Waverly a business card. “I’ve let Claire’s doctors know you’ll be requesting her medical records. How long will it take before we get the payout? We really want to move forward with the surgery as soon as possible.”

  “Six to eight weeks is typical, but I’ve cleared the way to expedite processing since I understand time is of the essence. If there’s no delay in getting the medical records, I think we may be able to complete the entire process in three to four weeks, maybe less.”

  Erickson smiled as if Waverly had just told him he’d won SuperLotto. Mrs. Erickson stared off toward the garden.

  Something isn’t right here, Waverly thought. Whatever it was, he hoped it didn’t derail his forthcoming commission.

  “Thank you,” Erickson said, reaching out to shake his hand.

  No, Waverly thought, as he envisioned his biggest commission check yet, thank you.

  CHAPTER 12

  Angela eased off the exercise bike, wiped her forehead with a towel and tried to pretend she wasn’t aching all over.

  “Good job,” Dre said, walking up to her. “You kept up for almost the whole class.”

  Angela pressed the towel to her face again. “Let’s just hope I’ve lost a pound or two.”

  “Exactly how much you tryin’ to lose?”

  “Twenty pounds would about do it.”

  “That’s way too much. I like women with—” Dre stopped, then smiled. “A woman needs to have a little meat on her bones.”

  Dre’s slip of the tongue intrigued her. Maybe he was feeling the same attraction she was trying to deny. When she’d pulled into the parking structure earlier, she’d found herself excited about the prospect of seeing him.

  Angela chuckled and slapped the side of her thigh. “I assure you, there will still be plenty of meat left to spare.”

  They both headed into the workout room next door and grabbed floor mats to stretch. As she crouched next to him, Angela noticed a horseshoe symbol branded on his upper right arm.

  “So you’re a Q-dog?” she asked, referring to the fraternity, Omega Psi Phi.

  Dre glanced down at his arm. “Yep.”

  “Where’d you pledge?”

  “Long Beach State,” Dre replied. “What about you? Delta or AKA?”

  “Neither. Too busy studying. I regret not pledging, though.”

  Dre leaned forward, grabbed his toes and held the pose for way longer than Angela could have. “Where’d you go to college?” he asked.

  “Stanford.”

  Dre arched a brow, obviously impressed.

  “So what do you do for fun?” Angela asked.

  “I read a lot, work out, hang out with my son. He’s seven. That’s about it. My regular gig is fixin’ up foreclosures and flippin’ ’em.

  So he had a son. Angela wondered if that also meant he had a wife. A lot of men didn’t wear wedding rings.

  “And what’s your gig?” Dre asked.

  “I’m a government lawyer,” she said, trying to sound matter of fact. Many men wilted with intimidation the minute they heard the word lawyer. She saw no need to add that she was a federal prosecutor.

  “That’s tight,” he said.

  “What do you like to read?” Angela asked.

  “Mostly business books, biographies and political stuff. If I read any fiction, it’s usually street lit. Lately, I’ve been readin’ some interesting psychology books.”

  “Yeah, right,” Angela said teasingly. “Name the last psychology book you read.”

  Dre cocked his head and stroked his goatee. “I can’t believe you’re dissin’ me. I just finished Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcolm Gladwell. You read it?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You should check it out. He talks about how people make decisions and judgments in the blink of an eye. It’s pretty heavy.”

  “How long have you been married?” The question was out before Angela could assess the propriet
y of asking it.

  “Who said I was married?” Dre stroked his goatee again.

  He had the cutest dimples. “Well, are you?”

  “You must be pretty good in court ’cuz you sure know how to jam a brother up. No, I’m not married.” Dre leaned forward for a final stretch, then stood.

  He extended his hand and helped Angela to her feet. They walked downstairs and just as they were about to part, Dre slowed. “Since you’ve been all up in my Kool-Aid, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Angela said.

  “Where’s the dude who gave you that big ass rock? Why don’t he ever work out with you?”

  Angela made an exaggerated show of glancing at the clock on the wall behind them. “Let’s see, eight-thirty on a weeknight? Unfortunately, my fiancé is probably still at work. And he doesn’t like gyms. Too many germs.”

  “Tell him I said he needs to keep closer tabs on his woman.” Dre treated her to his killer smile. “Somebody might move in on him.”

  Angela smiled back. “I’ll be sure to give him the message.”

  The next morning, Dre stood shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, his head lathered with foam, carefully shaving his scalp with a razor. The daily task was a hassle, but the look worked for him.

  After leaving the gym the night before, Dre found himself thinking about Angela. He really liked her vibe. It was strange how you could tell so much about a woman from the way she carried herself. Not only was she fine as hell, the sistah had class. Normally, a ring on a woman’s finger would have detoured him, especially the kind of bling Angela was rockin’. This time, it didn’t.

  Dre threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and made a call to make sure the contractors rehabbing a duplex he’d just bought off Western Avenue were on the job. He’d drive by later to check things out.

  For his primary source of income, Dre had the luxury of working from home, a one-bedroom apartment behind the Arco station on the corner of La Brea and Slauson. As he made his way to the kitchen, he had to step over stacks of books scattered about the living room floor.