No Accident

by Dan Webb

“How about somewhere I can see you without a tie on? A good burger and a cheesy movie would be great.”

  “Or a cheesy burger and a good movie?”

  “You pick. But nothing with subtitles, all right, Mr. Harvard?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got enough trouble with English.”

  She laughed again, this time with a silvery tinkle in her voice. “You’ve got that right.”

  * * *

  Cindy’s musical laughter echoed through the empty street. The street was quiet, except for the voices of Brad and Cindy, who slowly followed the gentle rise of the sidewalk to her apartment building. The night was pleasant. It was nice to get out for a few hours and think about something other than his case, and the deposition of Luke that was only two days away. It was especially nice to spend a few hours with Cindy.

  What Brad liked about Cindy wasn’t innocence so much—she was nobody’s fool. It was that she gave people the benefit of the doubt. She assumed you were a good guy until you proved otherwise. It was so different than most lawyers that Brad knew—hell, even different than Brad himself. When he was with Cindy, he could imagine himself as the lawyer and man he came out of law school wanting to be, because she assumed he already was that man.

  Her street was in an older but well maintained part of town, with lamp posts that alternated with palm trees along the sidewalk. The lamp posts were attractively styled and bore acorn-shaped bulbs on top that radiated a soft white light.

  On the sidewalk each lamppost was the center of a glowing circle with edges that bled slowly into the darkness. Each time they came into the light Brad could see Cindy smile, and each time they left the light he could see her eyes sparkle in reflection of the next light to come. He didn’t mind if the evening ended early. It had been a good beginning.

  “It’s good to finally get you out of the office,” she said. “And I like the suit without the tie.”

  “Did you notice the actor in the movie?” Brad said. “The leading man? Sure enough, suit with no tie.”

  “See, you could be an international spy.”

  Brad laughed. “I think I need more hair for that,” he said. “Actually, I feel more like Ahmadinejad,” he added, referring to the Iranian leader who favored the same attire.

  Brad suddenly worried that she might not get the reference and he hoped she wouldn’t feel embarrassed if she didn’t, but she laughed warmly.

  “I know,” she said. “Why can’t that guy put on a tie?”

  “Because he rejects all decadent Western practices. Like secular democracy.”

  She laughed again.

  They reached the steps of her apartment building and spoke over each other with friendly farewells, each watching the other’s eyes more than they listened to each other’s words. He kissed her. It was short but nice—it sent warmth through his body—and then they said good night. Cindy walked the steps up to the front door of her apartment building, looked back and smiled.

  Brad stood on the sidewalk and watched her open the front door and go in, and waited until he saw the light go on behind the curtained window to her second-floor apartment.

  He was still smiling when he turned away.

  The man who stood facing him was not smiling. He wore a windbreaker and stepped out from behind the shadow of a palm tree. His face was obscured by a baseball cap pulled down low.

  “Hey Brad,” the man said.

  “Who are you?” Brad said.

  “You know me.” The man stepped into the light.

  “Jeff Smiley,” Brad said coldly. “What happened to the fedora?”

  “For crying out loud, don’t say my name. I need to speak with you.”

  “Were you . . . following us?”

  “In private.”

  Once again, Brad thought, this guy seemed incapable of actually answering questions. Brad looked around. There was no one else to be seen. “I’m comfortable here.”

  The man rushed toward Brad and hooked him by the arm, hustling him off balance and into the shadows on the far side of Cindy’s apartment building. Up close, it was clear that Smiley was nervous.

  “I’ve got the solution for your case,” Smiley said.

  “What are you talking about?” Brad said.

  “Luke’s not just a jerk, Brad, he’s a murderer. And I’m going to give you the chance to prove it.” Smiley pulled a manila envelope from inside his jacket and pressed it into Brad’s chest. “Take it,” Smiley said.

  “What is it?”

  “A transcript.”

  “Of what?”

  “Luke’s testimony before a grand jury.”

  “Why give it to me?” Brad said.

  Smiley leaned in and whispered. He whispered so hoarsely that spittle kept flecking his lips, and he kept wiping it off. “You know I work for Grant Steele. We had a federal grand jury convened and were ready to indict Luke—until Luke testified and threw up a bunch of smoke and mirrors and the grand jury fell for his smooth B.S. and refused to indict. But we”—Smiley caught himself—“I know that Luke is one bad dude, and I know you know that, too. We”—he caught himself again—“I want you to run with this information from Luke’s testimony and use it your divorce case, then tell me what you learn.”

  “Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?” Brad whispered.

  “The transcript’s under seal.”

  “Then I don’t want it,” Brad said out loud. Brad tried to give the envelope back, but Smiley pushed it back.

  “Read first, then decide,” Smiley said.

  “I’m an officer of the court, I could be disbarred. You know that.”

  The man shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and laughed bitterly. “Tell me about it, pal.”

  With that, Smiley turned and walked back toward the sidewalk, his short legs ferrying him along with surprising speed. Smiley didn’t look back. “Think about it . . .” he called out in a singsong voice.

  Brad stood on the sidewalk with the envelope in his hand and watched the little man go. Finally Brad turned around to leave and noticed the light still on in Cindy’s window. There, a corner of the curtain that had been lifted up now floated back down into place.

  40

  Luke wanted Alex to speak with Les Frees, the head of Liberty’s motor pool, because Les might have a way to track the company SUV that Crash absconded with—and because Les was close with Crash. Apart from the search for Crash, Alex was very interested to speak with him because Jorge Ramirez had also worked in the motor pool before he died. Alex went to Les’s office first thing in the morning on the day after he’d met with the USC football coach.

  Alex entered the cavernous garage that housed Liberty’s motor pool and ascended a staircase made of unfinished wood near the back. Les’s office overlooked the interior of the garage. Alex saw an open padlock hanging on a nail by the office door. I guess Liberty’s standard locks aren’t good enough for Mr. Frees, Alex thought. What’s he hiding?

  Les was a gruff, burly redhead with freckles that might almost have joined into a nice tan during summer. In late winter they remained apart, spread thickly across his face like a photographic negative of the Milky Way. Alex had to concentrate to keep from staring at the freckles. Alex asked Les if he’d given the police any information about Crash’s missing SUV.

  “Cops haven’t called me,” Les said. “And I haven’t called them either.”

  “Do you put a transponder on your vehicles? Something to track them if they get stolen?”

  “Oh sure,” Les said.

  Alex’s cell phone rang loudly. He apologized and pulled it from his jacket, moving his arm slowly so not to reveal the holster underneath his left arm. It was his brother calling, probably calling because he had gotten bored again lying in the hospital. Alex didn’t answer it.

  “Have you used this transponder to find where Crash’s SUV is?” Alex asked.

  “No, I’d have to call the vendor to do that,” Les said flatly. Alex couldn’t tell whether Les was stubborn
or just dense.

  “Wouldn’t that be normal procedure when a vehicle is stolen?”

  “No one’s told me that Crash’s SUV has been stolen.”

  “OK, I’m telling you,” Alex said, getting tired of this game. “So you’ll call the vendor?”

  “Sure, I’ll call them,” Les said, but he didn’t move. They stared at each other. Les had the powerful but unlovely physique of a football lineman and he seemed offended by Alex’s brusqueness with him. Les had at least fifty pounds on Alex. They both knew Les would win a fistfight, but Alex had a secret. It was silly, but with the weighted holster under his arm, Alex had less patience with bad attitudes.

  “Why don’t you call the vendor now,” Alex said, but not like a question.

  Les grunted tersely and picked up the phone on his desk. Alex paced around the man’s office, scanning the photographs that hung on the walls. He looked back at Les impatiently.

  Les held the telephone pinched between his ear and his neck. “On hold,” he said.

  Alex nodded. He found a photograph of Les and two other men, all dressed in tuxedos in front of a church. One of the other men was Crash; Alex recognized Crash from some photos that Luke had given him. Alex cocked a thumb at the photo and said, “Who’s getting married?”

  “Me.”

  “Where’s the wife?”

  Les gave Alex a hostile stare. “She’s not in the picture, all right?”

  “Crash was your best man?”

  “One of the groomsmen,” Les said. “You know Crash?”

  Alex ignored the question. “Is that why you didn’t report the SUV as stolen?”

  Les didn’t answer. Instead, to Alex’s surprise, he replaced the telephone roughly in the receiver. “All right, I’ve got a question for you,” he said. “Alex Fogarty.”

  Alex waited for Les to say more, but he didn’t. Everyone at Liberty Industries knew Alex by his alias, Al Franks. Alex had never met Les before. How had Les heard Alex’s real name?

  Les patiently looked Alex up and down as if waiting for Alex to betray himself with a twitch or nervous smile. Alex decided to assume Les didn’t know his secret identity, and so he bluffed. “Alex is a cousin of mine. You know him?”

  Les rested his hands on his flimsy desktop and pushed himself up to standing. As he did so, Alex saw that a burgundy birthmark covered his left hand—just like the hand of the man he pursued from the diner after Beto was blown up. Alex felt his entire body stiffen. The man who just uttered Alex’s real name was the same man who nearly killed Alex, the same man who beat his brother bloody.

  Les lumbered around to the front of his desk and planted himself in front of Alex, close to him, like they were two boxers facing off. He was three inches taller than Alex and much bigger. Alex didn’t move a muscle.

  “Do I know Alex Fogarty?” Les said. “Not really. But I went to his house once.”

  Alex smiled tightly. “Will you make that call to track the SUV now?”

  “Another thing I found out . . . used to be an Alex Fogarty who worked for Rampart Insurance, left about the time you did. Is that your cousin, too?”

  “So what? He didn’t like it there.”

  “Same job . . . same initials . . .”

  Alex felt sweat start to bead at his temples. The man who had tried to kill him stood inches away from him, teasing him about his fake identity. Alex’s body was still, but his mind screamed “danger.” Against his will, Alex’s thoughts crept to the gun holstered under his arm. The urge felt like lust, he couldn’t ignore it.

  “Am I making you nervous?” Les said.

  Alex’s right hand moved tentatively across his body, toward the pistol. To maintain control he pressed both hands straight down the seams of his pant legs like he was a tin soldier.

  “It’d be better if you didn’t,” Alex said quietly.

  Les guffawed, then jabbed a meaty finger into Alex’s breastbone. “Stay away from Crash.”

  Alex concentrated very hard and forced himself to smile. “Will you give me the number for the transponder company, then? Luke Hubbard told me to find the SUV, so I’ve got to find the SUV.” Alex figured dropping the CEO’s name couldn’t hurt.

  Les wiggled his hands in mock horror at the mention of Luke’s name, then, walked slowly back around to his own side of the desk, checked his computer screen and wrote out a telephone number on a scratch pad. He silently extended his hand for Alex to take the paper.

  “Thanks,” Alex said, “so sorry to interrupt your morning.” He turned to leave. When he’d gone as far as Les’s wedding photo on the wall, Alex stopped. “One more thing,” Alex said over his shoulder. He lifted his arm and hammered his elbow into the center of the photograph. The glass that covered it shattered and fell in shards to the floor. “You should stay away from Alex Fogarty.”

  41

  When Brad arrived at his office, Cindy handed him a stack of envelopes she had slit open for him. She smiled at him. “Sleep well?”

  “Very. And you?” He smiled back.

  “I did.”

  “Look at this,” he said. He eagerly removed the contents of one of the envelopes and displayed them for Cindy. “Did you see this one?” he said.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, I never look inside.”

  “Those lowlifes at Boswell & Baker slapped a defamation suit on me, just because I raised the possibility that Luke Hubbard fathered a love child with his mistress.”

  “What jerks,” she said. Then, leaning toward Brad, she said, “Did he do it?”

  “All I know is that this notice says he’s adopting the little bastard. Naturally, that means they’re dropping this ridiculous lawsuit.”

  Cindy giggled. She looked at the papers Brad showed her and said, “Dismissal with prejudice, what does that mean?”

  “It means they can go to hell,” Brad said. Cindy smiled and looked up at him admiringly. “But now I’ve got a decision to make,” he said, “and that’s whether to ask the court to sanction them for filing a frivolous lawsuit against me.”

  “Why in the world wouldn’t you?”

  “Easy, there. I’ve got to think long term. The legal community is actually pretty small. No need antagonizing people once you’ve got what you want.”

  Cindy looked disappointed.

  “But it’d be fun to make them squirm a little, wouldn’t it?” Brad said. He continued flipping through the mail, until he came to a letter from the state bar association.

  Another bill, Brad thought when he saw the envelope, but the page inside bore the letterhead of the bar Disciplinary Committee. Brad read the letter, shook his head like he was trying to clear a bad dream, then read the letter again.

  “What’s wrong?” Cindy said.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing.” Just the other shoe dropping, Brad thought with despair. He took the letter and shuffled like a sleepwalker into his office.

  Those bastards at Boswell & Baker had done it to him again. Give with one hand and take with the other. They had lodged an ethics complaint alleging that Luke’s defamation lawsuit gave Brad an unwaivable conflict of interest with respect to Sheila, his client. It was unusual for the bar to investigate conflicts of interest without a complaint from the client, but clearly they were willing to make an exception—Boswell & Baker always got its share of exceptions. And if the bar agreed with Boswell & Baker’s analysis, it wouldn’t matter that Sheila had agreed to keep Brad as her lawyer.

  Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit. They wouldn’t disbar him. No, not for a first offense, not without a complaint from Sheila. But they could reprimand him, or suspend him.

  Brad pressed his hands to his temples. He couldn’t afford to be suspended now. He’d finally gotten current in his bills. Either result, reprimand or suspension, would follow him the rest of his career. And he definitely did not need this headache the day before he took Luke’s deposition. He was being railroaded, no doubt about it, but those who understood that wouldn’t car
e, and those who cared wouldn’t understand.

  . . . Cindy wouldn’t understand.

  Brad dropped himself into his office chair. Sanctioned by the bar . . . what a disaster. I’m finally first in my class in something, he thought.

  There could be no negotiation with Boswell & Baker over this, there could be no bargain they had in mind. They had taken their complaint straight to the bar, and now it was in the bar’s hands. This was just Boswell & Baker’s attempt to get rid of Brad. So why did they want to get rid of him? It couldn’t be because they feared Brad as an adversary—they didn’t even consider him a peer. Brad knew that from reading the face of his old classmate Jacob Carter when they met in court—as arrogant when he lost as when he won. No, there must be another reason. What are they afraid that I’ll discover? Brad wondered.

  Brad drummed his fingers on his desk.

  Luke was in the news a lot. Life insurance scams, murdering employees, murdering his mistress—the rumors never stopped, but nothing ever came of them, and Brad had always assumed they were baseless. But what if they weren’t? Maybe they feared Brad was already close to the truth . . .

  . . . or that the truth was close to Brad.

  Brad shifted his hand from the desktop to his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay the unopened envelope that Jeff Smiley had given him outside Cindy’s apartment, the envelope that supposedly contained Luke’s sealed grand jury testimony. Brad laid the envelope on his desk.

  Brad couldn’t imagine what value Smiley’s transcript had. After all, if the prosecutors had found real evidence against Luke, wouldn’t the grand jury have indicted him?

  Brad was a lawyer—for him to read a transcript that was under court seal, even just to have it in his desk, was an ethical violation. Another ethical violation. What harm could come from one more? No one would have to know, except that Jeff Smiley guy, and he’d never tell because he was in as deep as Brad with the purloined transcript. Even if Brad didn’t read the transcript, he was in trouble with the state bar already. And if the alternative to reading the transcript was disciplinary action and losing his case . . .