Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “I can’t believe he got so freaked out. What are public servants made of these days?”

  “Right? Like anyone was really going to throw him off.”

  “It does seem unlikely. Although, from what you told me about the things the guy was doing, he does sound like a serious asshole. You never know what might have happened. Anyway, I guess I should get to work.”

  “Good idea.” He took a long swig of coffee. “As soon as my blood pressure’s back to normal, I’ll do the same.”

  “Oh, by the way, I found this.” I took Rita’s picture from my pocket and handed it to him. “That is your wife, right? I thought you’d want it back.”

  Carrodus snatched the picture out of my hand. “Where did you find this? I looked everywhere for it. I never take it out of my wallet. I couldn’t understand how it could be gone.”

  I shrugged. “I saw it on the floor in the locker room. On Friday. I guess it must have fallen out.”

  I left Frank to continue the process of calming himself down, despite not seeing any signs that the caffeine was helping, and wheeled my cart toward the elevators. Our conversation had got me thinking about Ellison. The government guy. Had I misjudged the situation? It was good that he’d be stopped from exploiting people now. It was good that I’d prevented Frank from jamming himself up, following in the footsteps of The Janitor. It would have been better if the police had acted when Frank reported Ellison’s crimes. But maybe better still if Ellison had done what he’d agreed to before I let him back into the elevator. I couldn’t believe he’d freaked out so badly. I guess it was just another reminder. I was a civilian now. I had to live by different rules.

  If only I could figure out what they were.

  I’d been allocated to clean the third floor of the courthouse that week, but when I reached the elevator I hit the button for the fourth. That wasn’t in order to avoid my duties. I actually liked cleaning things. I found its repetitive nature calming. It helped me to focus. And I enjoyed the tangible results of honest labor, which was unlike what I’d been doing for the government over the last twenty years. So rather than shirking, I started on that higher floor because another task needed my urgent attention.

  I made my way around the building’s inner circle with wide arcs of my dry mop, moving ten feet forward, then looping back for my cart. I continued past a pair of lawyers who were deep in conversation by a window that overlooked the roof of the central dome, then carried on along one of the narrower, spoke-like corridors until I reached courtroom 432. I listened at the gap, and when I was satisfied that the room was not in use I pushed the heavy brass-studded mahogany doors apart and wheeled my cart inside.

  The courtroom was a square, maybe thirty feet by thirty. A knee-high fence divided it sideways across the center, with six hard wooden benches for spectators to sit on in the space nearer the doors. The area beyond the fence was for the officials. The jury box was to the right. There were tables for the lawyers to use in the center, in front of the flag and the judge’s bench and the witness stand. On the other side, tucked away in the corner, was the clerk’s desk and pair of green metal filing cabinets.

  The room had everything it needed to function, but its ambience was in complete contrast with the courthouse’s exterior and first floor. Those parts of the building were grand and elegant. They looked like they could have been plucked from the center of Rome, and you could almost hear their classically hewn features proclaiming confidence in the system. But inside, the place just felt shabby and worn. It was the shop floor rather than the shop window, and a shop that clearly operated on a budget. I’d been disappointed when I first saw the condition it was in. Now I just think it’s appropriate. It is the room, after all, where Alex Pardew—the guy who defrauded my father and most likely caused his premature death—should have met justice. Instead, he was allowed to walk out a free man after a mistrial was declared because a file of vital evidence had gone missing. That was the reason I’d chosen to work here. To find the file. And to bring Pardew to justice.

  So far, I was halfway there.

  I’d found the file. Someone had hidden it in the closet in the judge’s chambers attached to that courtroom. The strange thing was, it hadn’t been there the first time I’d looked. But it was the second time. Whoever had taken it must have smuggled it back after my initial search. And, I believed, removed something from it. Presumably something critical, since they’d gone to such lengths. But until I figured out what had been taken, who’d done the taking, and why, I couldn’t risk involving the authorities. Old habits die hard. There were too many hallmarks of an inside job.

  My current problem was that since I’d taken the file, there’d been no response to its re-disappearance. I’d hoped that keeping it under wraps would cause some fallout that I could exploit. But no further clues had presented themselves. So I’d decided it was time to shake things up again. To do something to provoke a reaction.

  I pushed my cart through the gap in the fence and wheeled it right up to the door to the judge’s chamber. I parked it with my mop balanced precariously so that it would fall if anyone tried to push past it, like a makeshift early warning system. Then I slipped inside and closed the door behind me. The chamber itself was triangular, which I guessed was a product of its position within the hexagonal part of the building. It had one window, but its view was partially obscured by the back of one of the statues mounted on the portico. The figure wasn’t so impressive with its rusty support visible, and at that distance you could see how its marble surface had been pitted and stained by time and pollution. I actually felt a certain affinity with the thing, given the way it did its job without complaint, regardless of its conditions. I could think of several people who could learn from it.

  The leather-covered top of the judge’s private desk just fitted below the windowsill. His top drawer was chock-full of opera memorabilia, which was no good to me, but in the next one down I found what I needed. A yellow legal pad. I turned to a blank page, helped myself to a pen from a grotesque Brunhilde mug, which was sitting on a Valkyrie coaster, and wrote in plain, featureless capitals:

  I HAVE WHAT YOU’VE LOST. IF YOU WANT IT BACK, CALL ME:

  I added the number for my new cell, a pay-as-you-go that could never be traced back to me, and crossed to the closet at the side of the judge’s Chesterfield couch. The finish was heavily distressed, I guessed designers would say, but I thought it just looked ready for the landfill. I opened the closet door and saw, the same as last time, three men’s dress shirts hanging on the rail. There were three ties. Two pairs of men’s dress shoes on the floor. And two pairs of women’s pumps. I placed the sheet of paper I’d written on behind the shoes, in exactly the same spot where I’d found the missing file, and turned to look for a convenient outlet. There was one low down on the wall, to the right-hand side of the desk. I took the phone charger from my pocket, plugged it in, stood back to make sure I was happy with its position in the room, and stopped dead. There was a sound coming from the courtroom. Right outside the chamber door. Someone was moving my cart.

  I marched to the door, snatched it open, and stepped through with an almighty scowl on my face, ready to yell blue murder at whoever was interfering with my equipment. That was the correct strategy. The first rule in that kind of situation is never to show any trace of guilt. But the sight that greeted me stopped me in my tracks. There was a guy in the courtroom, standing with my cart. He was on his own. I guessed he’d be in his mid-forties, and around five feet eight. He had dead-straight, chestnut brown hair hanging limply to his shoulders and he was wearing a Yankees hoodie, jeans, and a pair of beaten-up white sneakers. He was over by the jury box. And he was busy lining up my spray bottles along its front edge. My mop was propped up in the judge’s seat. My broom was in the witness box. And my metal pail was upside down on the far side of the lawyers’ tables.

  “Hey, you!” I waited for the guy
to turn and face me. “You better not be looking for a cut of my wages.”

  The guy blushed beet red. “This is all yours? I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here. I thought the cart had been left by mistake. I was just borrowing the things. I didn’t mean any harm.” He snatched up the nearest bottle. “I’ll put everything back. Give me two minutes.”

  “There’s no rush.” I stepped forward and retrieved the pail. “I’ll help. But you’ve got to tell me what you’re doing. Seriously. I need to know.”

  The guy blushed an even deeper shade of red. “This is so embarrassing. Look, the thing is, I’m not too good at being spontaneous. I like to be properly prepared. And as this thing is so important, I thought I’d do better if I rehearsed.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “No.” He paused. “Not exactly.”

  “Then what are you rehearsing?”

  “My defense.”

  “You’re defending yourself? In a real case?”

  “Yes.” The guy stood up a little straighter. “It’s my constitutional right.”

  “Maybe so. But no offense, I’ve heard it’s not a very good idea.”

  The guy shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s my only option.”

  “What about the public defenders’ office? Couldn’t someone there help?”

  The guy just shook his head and scooped up a couple more spray bottles.

  “What are you charged with?” I took them from him and put them back in their places on the cart.

  “Arson.”

  I whistled. “Wow. Arson’s a serious crime. Are you sure you wouldn’t do better with a professional on your side? I know someone who’s good. His name’s di Matteo. He could maybe help if cost’s an issue.”

  “Cost isn’t the problem.” The guy paused. “Let me rephrase that. Cost is a huge problem. I’m flat broke, to tell the absolute truth. But there’s a much bigger problem. No lawyer I’ve spoken to—and I’ve tried dozens, from the public defender to the big fancy firms—is prepared to present the case the way I want them to. They’re all just looking to plead out. Try for a deal.”

  “Plead out? So they don’t believe in your innocence?”

  “I’m not innocent.” The guy looked at the ground.

  “Oh.” I stopped loading the cart. “You did do it?”

  The guy nodded.

  “Look, I don’t claim to know all the legal nuances, but if you did it, isn’t trying to get the fairest possible sentence a sound plan? I’ve heard that if you try to wriggle out on a technicality, juries hate that. And if you make the judge mad, too, you’re bound to come off worse.”

  “I’m not trying to wriggle out of anything.” The guy crossed his arms. “I don’t care about the sentence. That ship’s sailed, and I’m going down with it. I accept that. I just want the world to know what the bastard did. I want to tell my side of the story. Then I’ll take what’s coming to me.”

  “Which bastard?” I nudged his arm. “We’re in New York. You need to be more specific.”

  “Jimmy.” The guy nearly spat the name at me. “Jimmy Klinsman.”

  “Never heard of him. Is he famous? What did he do?”

  “He might be famous among assholes. He cost me my house. So I cost him his.” The guy paused. “One of his, anyway.”

  “A house for a house. That seems fair, on the face of it. Want to tell me the rest?”

  The guy didn’t reply. He looked startled.

  “Come on.” I shot him a friendly smile. “It’ll be good practice. Let’s sit.” I held out my hand. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

  “Len.” We shook, then took opposite seats at the lawyers’ table. “Len Hendrie.” He was still looking a little uncertain about being there.

  “All right, Len.” I leaned back. “I’m listening. Tell me what this Klinsman guy did. How’d he make you lose your house?”

  “He shorted the stock instead of holding it.”

  “Slow down.” I held up my hand. “I’m lost already. I don’t know what that is.”

  Hendrie held his head in his hands for a moment. “OK. Let’s take a step back. We should start at the beginning. I run a home renovation business. Ran one, anyway. I started it out of college. We did high-end work. Quality was our trademark. We did great for the first few years. But lately everything’s been harder. Our costs went up, with all the imports and tariffs. And the market for what we do shrunk like an ice cube in a pizza oven. People aren’t looking for workmanship that lasts twenty years, anymore. They just want quick, superficial crap that they’ll change out again in eighteen months, or flip. Long story short, my business was hurting. It was worse than hurting. It was on life support, and the banks were about to pull the plug. I was out of ideas how to turn it around. Then an old college buddy of mine gave me a tip. A sure winner. A stock that was set to rocket. But what’s the problem, if you want to buy stock?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never bought any.”

  “It’s the same as anything else. You need money. The banks wouldn’t touch me, so I went to Jimmy. He’s another old college buddy. Only he’s a finance guy now. He’s got more money than God. So I went cap in hand and asked him for a loan. Now bear in mind, the amount we’re talking about here—the amount I needed to buy the stock and make enough profit to get my business back up and running—that was chump change to Jimmy. But guess what he said.”

  “No?”

  “Correct.”

  “So I’m guessing you took a loan against your house, instead?”

  “Correct again. Like the dyed-in-the-wool moron I so clearly grew up to be.”

  “You took the loan, and the investment didn’t pay off?”

  Hendrie shook his head. “That’s an understatement. The stock tanked.”

  “So you had to sell your house to repay the loan.”

  Hendrie nodded again.

  “OK, Len.” I laid my hands on the table, palms down. “I haven’t known you very long so I’m not sure how best to say this without hurting your feelings, but it doesn’t sound like this Jimmy guy is totally to blame for the way things panned out. Maybe, and again I mean no offense, when he turned you down for the loan that was just because he had better instincts about the particular stock you had in mind being a bad investment?”

  “No.” Hendrie shook his head. “The deal should have been solid gold. It was totally Jimmy’s fault it went south. He made that happen.”

  “Slow down.” I held my hands up again. “First of all, how can you be so sure the deal was that good?”

  Hendrie turned away.

  “Come on, Len.” I waited until he looked at me. “If you can’t convince me now, why would anyone else in the city believe you at a trial?”

  “Well, here’s the problem.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to get my other buddy in trouble. You see, the tip he gave me, maybe he shouldn’t have.”

  “Why shouldn’t he have? Was it a secret?”

  “It was like this. We hadn’t seen each other for months, he was so busy. Then he called me out of the blue. Said he wanted to celebrate. Hit some bars. Which we did. He was on top of the world. And I guess he could see I was in a different place. He dragged it out of me about the state my business was in. That’s when he told me to buy stock. In his company. Immediately. He didn’t say why. Not at first. We had more champagne. Some margaritas. Then it slipped out. You see, he works for an electronics company. He does product development. They make parts for telecommunications networks. There’s some new design, a next-generation cellular Internet something. Only two companies in the world can make some critical piece of it. His. And one from China. The Chinese firm is way bigger. It’s way cheaper. My buddy thought his company was bound to get steamrollered by them. But he’d just heard that the government wanted US networks to use a domestic supplier because
of national security. His company was going to pick up all the big contracts. It was going to be massive. They’d have to open a bunch of new factories. It was a license to print money, he said. And as a result, their shares were going to explode when the news was released.”

  “So what happened? Didn’t they get any contracts, after all?”

  “I don’t know. I’m out of the loop. My buddy’s not speaking to me. Plus I had bigger concerns to deal with.”

  “But the stock didn’t rise?”

  “No. It fell. A lot. Because of Jimmy. Because he shorted it.”

  “I don’t know what shorting is.”

  “Well, normally, you make money when shares go up, right?”

  “I guess I might, if I had any. But I’ve heard it works that way, sure.”

  “So shorting’s like the opposite. It’s a trick the finance guys use to make money when shares go down.”

  “How? I don’t see it.”

  “It’s a black art, I guess. The ins and outs don’t matter. The fact is, Jimmy did it. The point is, why? And the answer’s simple. To make money. To make more money, I should say. I offered to pay him interest on the loan, if he’d give it to me. Or to pay him a percentage of the profit I made. But instead the weasel went behind my back and shorted the stock, because that way he figured he could make more. Not that he needed it. He has six houses. Well, five now. A yacht. God knows how many cars. A helicopter. About a million bottles of wine. I needed it to eat. He didn’t care about me.”

  “That’s harsh, if it’s true.”

  “Oh, it’s true. I confronted him. He laughed in my face. Couldn’t stop talking about how many more cases of wine he was going to buy with the money he’d made.”