Norm shook his head. “Man, you guys are like elephants. You never forget what you can use against somebody.”
“I’m not against you. I’m asking you for a favor. Do this favor for me and we’ll call our account all square.”
“All?”
“Interested?”
“Do you realize what you’re asking me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize the trouble my brother could get in?”
“Yes. You in or out?”
“In.”
“Good.” Steve took out a pen and wrote the name Dr. Walker C. Phillips on the back of a brown Starbucks napkin. “Here’s a clue. Temecula or Tehachapi.”
“That’s a clue?”
“He may be in one of those two places.”
Norm ran his hand over his face, his chin, the back of his head. “All right! Fine! But I don’t want any nickel-and-diming after this, are we clear?”
“Clear, Norm. You’ll be doing a big favor for society.”
“Yeah, right. If I sell this series, then I’ll be doing a favor.”
Steve nodded. “You’re exactly right, Norm. We need a television show about a boy who becomes mayor. World peace to follow.”
“You know,” Norm said, “if I didn’t know lawyers better, I’d say you were making fun of me.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Wednesday morning, Steve ordered a dozen red roses to be delivered to Sienna Ciccone at her apartment on Vermont. Might as well go all the way. It could be his one and only shot.
He went down to the bench in the courtyard of the apartment building and fed Nick Nolte a small bowl of milk. Mrs. Stanky yelled at him from her ground-floor apartment window. She didn’t want that cat around. Steve smiled and waved, like someone who spoke English as a second language.
The boy from number ten, on the other side of the courtyard, was pedaling his tricycle around the perimeter, going for a land speed record. His name was Ramon and he lived with his mother. His mother was gone a lot. Ramon was too young to be left alone. Steve checked the apartment every now and then. Ramon was usually glad to see him, unless cartoons were on TV.
Then he heard: “Hey, what up?”
It was the guy from number seven, the little gangsta. He was smiling stupidly at Steve, his eyes with the red rims of the newly high. Short, maybe five seven in his socks, he wore an oversized jacket and low-riding jeans that bunched up over his white Converse sneaks.
Steve nodded, then looked back at Nick. He was in no mood for a conversation with Number Seven, which suddenly struck him as a perfect name for a rapper. Numba Sev’n.
Just shoot me now, Steve thought.
“Lissen up, we got to talk.” Numba sat on the bench.
“Who invited you to sit down?” Steve said.
Numba’s stupid smile melted into attitude. “What up with you?”
“Why don’t you quit pretending you’re from Compton? You have something to say, say it and then move along.”
“Oh man, you are trippin’.”
“Don’t say trippin’.”
“Don’t tell me how to talk, dog.”
“Don’t say dog.”
“You don’t even know what I want.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”
“Don’t know about that.” His smile came back. “I can take care of you.”
“Excuse me?”
Numba looked around, then whispered, “Set you up. Get you what you need.”
A skin-tightening jolt hit the back of Steve’s neck. “You have no idea what I need.”
“I do, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
Numba wrinkled his nose and made a sniffing sound.
Steve jumped off the bench. His foot hit the dish of milk. Nick Nolte jumped a foot in the air.
Grabbing two handfuls of Numba’s jacket, Steve pulled the kid to his feet. “Who told you?”
“Get your hands — ”
“Who?”
The gangsta in training tried to shake loose, but Steve was able to keep hold. “I don’t have to tell you nothin’.”
“Stop that right now!” Mrs. Stanky yelled from the window.
The distraction got Steve to loosen his grip enough for Numba to jerk free. He stepped back, bumped into the bench, recovered, and pointed at Steve. Didn’t say anything. Just tried to screw his face into a menacing expression.
Then he turned his back and went off toward his apartment.
“That was a very bad thing to do!” Mrs. Stanky said.
Steve picked Nick Nolte up by the back of the neck, walked to Mrs. Stanky’s window. Before he could say anything Nick put his paws out and clawed the screen. Mrs. Stanky yelped and took a step away from the window.
“Get him away from here!” she said.
Steve pulled Nick Nolte to his chest, where the cat relaxed. “Don’t get excited, Mrs. Stanky. Breathe easy.”
“Don’t tell me how to breathe!”
That wasn’t all he wanted to tell her. He walked away before he lost it completely.
He’d cooled off by five o’clock. All seemed quiet for once on the apartment grounds. Nobody screaming at him or getting in his face. He was getting tired of the flotsam and jetsam of society floating into the Valley, into his very apartment building.
He missed the Altadena house. It was a place with a lawn, his own place. He and Ashley hadn’t been too unhappy together, had they?
Yeah, they had, thanks to him.
With the LaSalle money, if it kept up, maybe he could put a down payment on another house, or at least a condo. He had to get out of the Sheridan Arms before he went nuts. So maybe there were some unresolved questions about Eldon LaSalle, so what? How much did you ever know about any client?
Traffic was heavy through the Cahuenga Pass and past Hollywood, but Steve managed to get to Sienna’s apartment a little before six.
She was waiting outside, talking on her cell phone. She saw him and gestured she’d be just a moment.
Giving Steve time to appreciate her all over again. He knew he was on major rebound. He knew he was doing this to cover the pain of the breakup with Ashley. And he knew he didn’t care.
THIRTY-NINE
“How about a nice pinot?” Steve said.
“I think I’ll pass,” Sienna said.
“Religious scruples?”
“I have a feeling I need to keep a clear head tonight.”
They were seated in a booth at Bistro Michel, always Steve’s secret weapon. Whenever he needed some credits in Ashley’s ledger, he brought her here. Until he burned through most of their accounts to fund his habit.
Steve said, “Then I will keep a clear head too.” When the waiter, one of the old-world gentleman types, arrived, Steve closed the wine list. “Two of your finest colas, my good man. A Pepsi ’98 if you have it.”
The waiter frowned. Then nodded and left.
“Tough room,” Steve said.
“Not with the right material,” Sienna said.
“You are definitely the right material.”
“Oh, please.”
“Come on! That was a very slick line.”
Sienna said, “I would rather not have this be a night of slick lines, all right?”
“Check.” Steve wanted to stab himself with the butter knife. Instead, he asked, “How about this. What kind of law do you want to practice?”
“I’m not really sure. What’s it like being a solo?”
“Not easy. You have scramble. You have to market. And you have to stay off drugs. Think you can stay off drugs?”
She smiled. “I’ll try real hard.”
“You also end up hacking off a lot of people. Like the feds. So do you want to help me take on the feds?”
She looked confused. “How?”
“Maybe you can help me with a 1983 action.” Section 1983 of the United States Code was the statute authorizing civil rights violations against federal officials.
“On what basis?” Sienna said. “They have immunity.”
“Qualified immunity,” Steve corrected. “Your job would be to find a way around that.”
“You have any ideas how?”
“Yes,” Steve said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.
“Write a lengthy brief on my sophistication and charm.”
“I think I can handle that in a memo.”
“Ouch.” His cell vibrated. He checked the number. “I have to take this,” he said to Sienna, then flipped it open.
Norm Gaylord said, “Okay, I got it.”
“Hang on.” Steve took a pen and scrap of paper from his coat pocket. “Give it to me.”
Norm read off an address in Tehachapi. “So is that it? I’m free of you, right?”
“As if you really want to be,” Steve said.
“I really want to be.”
“If it checks out, then yeah.”
“And what if it doesn’t?”
“I know what Starbucks you like. Thanks.”
Steve clicked off. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“Memos?”
“Right. I have another one for you. Suppose I found out something about Eldon LaSalle that’s criminal. Do I have to cooperate with the authorities?”
She thought a moment. “What about lawyer-client confidentiality?”
“You tell me, law student. Pretend this is the bar exam.”
“Please, I don’t need that stress just yet.”
“What would you say?”
She paused, thought. “Attorney-client privilege. What is told to you in your capacity as a lawyer is protected.”
“Unless it refers to a crime yet to be committed.”
Sienna nodded thoughtfully. “That would be correct, but I believe you would have to show knowledge of actual intent.”
“I can’t remember,” Steve said. “I’m a criminal defense lawyer.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about ethics.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Okay, I’m tired of talking about myself. What do you think of me?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Incorrigible.”
Sienna had duck. She’d never had duck before, and the waiter insisted she try it. Steve had the old reliable New York steak. When in doubt, go for the cow.
“It’s very good,” Sienna said. “But I feel like I’m eating poor Daffy or something. He was my favorite cartoon character growing up.”
“And where was that?” Steve asked.
“I bounced around. My dad was an airline mechanic. Had jobs in Seattle, Detroit, Louisville. That’s where I finished high school.”
“How’d you end up out here?”
“I came out to go to UC Irvine. I was a theater major.”
“No joke? You wanted to be an actress?”
“For a while. I wanted to be the next Julia Roberts, but my lips weren’t big enough.”
“You never heard of collagen?”
“Of course, but then I wasn’t pretty enough, either.”
“I don’t think that’s your problem at all.”
She stuck her fork in some duck and held it there, looking at him. “You’re smooth, I will give you that.”
Steve said nothing.
“Did I say something?” she said.
Yeah, she had. But how could he tell her that Ashley had used the exact same words on their first time out? He’d been turning on the old charm and Ashley wasn’t buying it and offered that he was smooth. Like she knew his every thought. It was a little strange having that same impression with Sienna Ciccone.
“Sorry, I zoned,” Steve said. “After you decided you weren’t going to be Julia Roberts, what did you do?”
“Decided I wanted to be Ashley Judd in High Crimes.”
“Never saw that one.”
“Your basic intelligent female lawyer solves everything.”
Steve nodded. “And then you got married?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I mean your fiancé. The guy you met at church but it didn’t work out.”
“You’re fishing?”
“Yeah, I’m asking about your love life here.”
She shook her head, looked down at her food. Poked an asparagus spear, then poked it again. “I’m not ready to have this conversation.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just, I think in the interest of full disclosure — ack, I can’t help sounding like a lawyer.”
“I’d rather we talk about something else.”
“You’ve been hurt.”
Putting her fork down, Sienna gave him the serious eye. “I don’t want to discuss this. Maybe this was a bad idea.”
Door sliding closed. “No, a good one. We can talk business. Or movies. Or TV shows. Or law or court or law school. Whatever it takes to keep you on my side.”
“I work for you, don’t I? I guess I owe you the same zeal you’d owe a client.”
“Have you tried the zeal here? It’s great.”
“Bad puns, however, are a form of harassment.”
And Steve decided it was love. He didn’t need it. It wouldn’t end well that he could see. He couldn’t be good for her. He’d make a stupid move too soon and it would be over. He’d lose not just a companion but a sharp legal assistant.
When he took her home she requested he drop her at the curb. He told her the city was a jungle but he could tell she knew he wanted to kiss her. It was not going to be.
If only he could buy into some kind of faith. Take that ride Gincy talked about. Make the jump.
But when she closed the door of the car and started toward her apartment building, it felt, more than anything else, like the fadeout in a very sad movie. The kind where the guy doesn’t get the girl after all.
FORTY
It was almost nine thirty when Steve got back to Canoga Park. He decided to stop at the office to get his CEB handbook on criminal procedure. He could work at the apartment tomorrow and needed to bone up on a few matters.
He parked in back and saw a couple of lighted windows in the building. One of them belonged to a CPA who seemed to live here, or else lived to work. Steve wasn’t sure of the other one. But there were three cars in the lot, including his. He knew the CPA drove a blue Chevy. The other car was a sleek silver Porsche. Whoever it belonged to should know you don’t park a car like that here, at night.
Whoever it was would probably find that out soon enough.
Steve was almost to the back door when someone materialized out of the darkness, spiking Steve’s heart into overdrive.
The man was Latino, thickset. In the dim light Steve saw vida loca eyes. Steve had seen those more than enough defending juvi gangbangers.
“Let’s go inside,” he said to Steve, jerking his head toward the building.
“What?”
“Inside. Now.”
“Look, I’ll give you a card and you can call and — ”
Catlike, the guy whipped out a switchblade and clicked it open.
“Whoa.” Steve instinctively put his hands up in the universal gesture of no problem.
“Let’s go,” the man said.
“You got it,” Steve punched in the after-hours code and the door clicked open. “I usually prefer prospective clients offer a retainer.”
“Just go.”
Steve took the stairs to the second floor, wondering the whole way if he was going to get a blade in his back. But none came. Yet.
Steve unlocked his office door, reminding himself to talk to Slbodnik about installing security cameras. The guy actually put the point in Steve’s back.
“Easy, man,” the guy said.
Steve did not intend to be anything but easy. He flicked on the lights. And gasped.
The office was a disaster area. Papers and files and plants and phones all over the floor. The credenza under the window was turned over on its back, like a dead animal with four legs in the air and guts spilled out. The metal filing c
abinet was a shell, all the drawers out of it.
“Man, you got to take better care of this place,” the guy said.
Steve turned around. The knife caught his shirt. He heard it tear. “Did you do this?”
The guy held the knife up. “Don’t make any moves, man. Sit down.”
“I want to know — ”
The intruder put the knife under Steve’s chin. “Sit.”
“Sure.” Steve threw his keys on the reception desk, which was now completely bare. All the contents, including the little plant that was dying anyway, were on the floor in front of it. Even the glass top was off. Steve saw one half of the broken glass on the floor.
Why the glass? That was just mean.
“Sit!”
Steve sat in the swivel chair.
The guy gave a quick look around. “You got security in here?”
“Of course.”
“Where?” He pointed the knife toward Steve.
“My landlord,” Steve said. “He’s got guns. He waits for people with knives who mess up offices and then he starts shooting.”
“Funny, man. You stay in that chair.” He shook his head. “Somebody don’t like you.”
“And you know who it is.”
“I don’t like you. But I didn’t do this.”
“So what? You going to rob me?” Steve said. “I haven’t got much to steal. As you can see.”
The guy nodded. “No, you just steal life.”
Steve fought to keep his voice from vibrating around in his throat. “What do you want then?”
“Carlos, man. You gave him up.”
“Carlos? Mendez?”
“You got another Carlos doing hard time?”
“Carlos is serving his sentence, yes.”
“You didn’t get him off like you said.”
“I never said that.”
“You said something like that.”
“Only an idiot lawyer would say that. You can’t guarantee what a judge or a jury is going to do. I never tell somebody I can get him off. I just do the best I can.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“All right, you want to get to the point?” Steve wished he hadn’t said point.
“Yeah, I got a point. How long it take you to be a lawyer?”
“What do you mean, like school?”
The Whole Truth Page 16