by Mike Farris
I opened the back and tossed our briefcases in, then unlocked the passenger door and let Meg in. I got behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Well, how did I do?” she asked.
“About like I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“That you would do a great job.”
She nodded then looked out the window to her right. “Do you mean that?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. And if I had thought you couldn’t handle it, I would have taken over the cross-examination. I wouldn’t risk the case just to let you play lawyer.”
“It’s just that I know you’re biased. It’s kind of like when my mother tells me I’m beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” I said.
She laughed. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. She says it because I’m her daughter.”
“And I said it…why? Because I’m your father? Or at least old enough to be?”
“I don’t know.”
“See, I have no bias, so you have to believe me.”
“Oh, you’re biased, all right. I just don’t know why.”
“Anyway, you did great. I’m proud of you.”
“That’s something else I don’t understand.”
“We’re going to have to work on that self-confidence problem of yours,” I said. “Maybe after dinner. You game?”
“Sure. I’ve got to go by my office for a while first and check on some things.”
“Meet me in my office at six.”
*
Meg sat at her desk with photocopies of cases strewn in front of her. Her associate’s office allowed her less than half the space of Bay’s office. Firm-issue furniture included a moderate-sized mahogany desk and credenza, high-backed desk chair, two blue guest chairs, and a built-in bookcase. Her law school and college diplomas, along with her framed law license, hung on the wall opposite the bookcase. Two windows afforded a view of downtown, with framed animal prints filling the strip of wall between them.
Tripp breezed in and shut the door. “Where the hell have you been all day?” he asked.
“Trial.”
He stared at her for a moment then assumed his conversational stance. “Horace Swanson has been sued for fraud.”
Meg leaned back in her chair. “For moving that money offshore?”
Tripp peered at her through narrowed eyes. “What do you know about it?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Seems rather curious that you already know about the basis for the lawsuit.”
“It’s easy enough to figure out. If he really set up that offshore corporation just to move money into it, someone was bound to be unhappy. We talked about that before you told him to do it.”
“I didn’t tell him to do it.”
“I was there.”
“Well, you’re remembering it wrong,” Tripp said. “I was just covering all the scenarios, and that was one. Now he’s threatening to sue us.”
“I remember because, when we first discussed it, I did some research and wrote you a memo telling you it was illegal. I was surprised when you told Horace to do it anyway.”
Tripp sat in one of Meg’s guest chairs, took off his glasses, and rubbed his hand across his face. “Do you have a separate file on this?”
“I made copies of some things for a working file.”
“I want it,” Tripp said.
“Why?”
“Have you forgotten whose client Horace Swanson is?”
“I know whose client he is.”
“Just because you made some copies and kept them at your desk doesn’t make them yours.”
“I know that,” she said.
“What’s in your working file?”
“Some correspondence, a few memos, legal research. Stuff like that.”
Tripp stood. “I want all of it. I want all copies of that memo.”
Meg looked at him as he leaned over her desk. His face had turned bright red, yet his voice remained steady and even. It frightened Meg even more than when he yelled at her. She opened the file drawer at the bottom right of her desk and took out a manila folder.
“Is that all?” Tripp asked.
Meg held it in her hands for a few seconds then handed it over. “That’s all.”
“Good.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Tripp looked at her for a moment then walked out.
“You’re going to destroy it, aren’t you?” she said to no one.
Chapter Eight
I was reviewing notes for the next day of trial when Meg came by. I then followed her to her apartment in what has become known as uptown—the neighborhood immediately north of downtown, in the shadows of its skyscrapers. The deteriorating area had recently been yuppified as young professionals such as Meg sought homes convenient to their downtown offices, displacing life-long residents. Developers had bought most of the decrepit, wood-frame homes that had stood for decades, torn them down, and replaced them with stucco and brick apartments complete with covered garages and built-in security systems.
And the yuppies who had moved there would need those security systems because not all the area had been transformed. Less than a mile away, a different world existed. A world of poverty, drugs, gangs, drive-by shootings, and the occasional carjacking. Sometimes that world’s grip even reached its fingers into Meg’s neighborhood to be reported on the nightly news or in the morning paper. I had tried to talk Meg out of moving there, but she’d opted for convenience over what she viewed as my unfounded safety concerns.
Meg parked her Maxima then got into my Jeep, and we drove to a bar and grill on McKinney Avenue. She rode silently for most of the way, something obviously on her mind.
I parked across the street from the restaurant, and we went inside. The lights had been turned low in the small place, which was filled with white collars, ties, and suits—downtown workers and neighborhood yuppies. Their voices mixed with a hard rock radio station playing over the sound system. Occasional raucous laughter pierced the air.
We found a tiny round table next to the front window. A waitress appeared almost immediately to take our drink orders while we examined the menu. When she returned with our drinks, we gave our food orders—a mushroom cheeseburger and fries for me and chicken quesadillas for Meg.
“You ever think about leaving the firm?” she asked when the waitress had left.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re honest. And so many of your partners are sleazy.”
“Honesty’s not in these days. Look where it got me.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Of course it does. But there’s not much I can do about it.”
I looked closely at her, but she seemed more interested in the beer label on her longneck.
“Meg, what’s going on?”
“Malloy came by my office this evening,” she said.
“Ahh, I might have guessed. What did he want?”
“I think he’s going to destroy evidence.”
I perked up. Leaning across the table until our heads were only a foot apart, I lowered my voice. “What are you talking about?”
“Tripp. I think he’s going to destroy some documents.”
I leaned back and appraised her. In an instant, she had been transformed from calm and silent to a bundle of nerves. I detected a faint flush on her cheeks.
“On Patterson McBain? Or Lacewell?”
“On something else.”
“What?”
She puffed her cheeks and exhaled, as if spewing something noxious. She twirled her beer in circles on the table, just as Ellie had done with her coffee when she had reported on the office gossip.
“We’ve got a client, Horace Swanson, that Tripp gave some bad advice to,” Meg said. “What he told him to do might have been illegal. Probably was. I even wrote a memo that outlined why I thought it was illegal, but Tripp told him to do it anyway. The cli
ent did exactly what Tripp told him to do and got sued. Now he’s threatening to sue the firm.”
“And your memo is the smoking gun.”
“Flaming. Tripp came looking for any copies I might have kept.”
The waitress reappeared, carrying our food. She refilled our drinks then left again. “What did you do?” I asked.
“I gave him my working file that had a copy. I know he’s going to destroy it.”
“It’s still on the computer system, isn’t it?”
“I checked. It’s already been deleted. Care to guess by whom?”
“How does that help him? The advice is still the same, and it’s still wrong.”
“But unwritten. He can always claim the client misunderstood. It would be a swearing match between the two of them.”
“And who has more credibility? The honorable lawyer—an officer of the court—or the client who has already been accused of fraud?”
“He’ll want me to lie.”
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said.
Her body stiffened. She chewed at the inside of her cheek.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I won’t lie.”
“Of course you won’t.”
“So how long until he comes to find out what I’ll say? And to fire me if I don’t back him?”
“You don’t know that he will.”
“He has to, if he’s destroyed the memo.”
She was right, and I knew it.
“What am I gonna do, Bay?”
“You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I can’t just sit there and not say anything.”
“He’s not going to fall on his own sword, so you’ve got to protect yourself.”
For the first time since we had left the office, she smiled. “That’s why I kept an extra copy of the memo.”
Chapter Nine
After dinner, I drove Meg back to her apartment. As we turned onto her street, a red Cadillac deVille, a low-rider with flames painted on its side, passed going the other way. Latino music blared, theme music for the two badasses inside—two Mexican-Americans wearing bandannas on their heads and sporting frowns. They eyed us as we drove by, as if scoping out targets. Or at least it seemed so, to my paranoid way of thinking.
“I really wish you’d think about moving,” I said.
Meg looked over her shoulder at the gang car then laughed. “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be fine.”
I pulled to the curb to drop her off. She opened the door, put one foot out, then turned around and looked at me.
“Are you all set for tomorrow?” I asked.
“I could stand to go over my witness notes again.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“I hope so.”
She still hesitated, her big eyes looking sad. I wanted her to invite me in, but she wouldn’t say the words. So I took a gamble.
“Do you want me to go over them with you?”
She perked up, as if I had just rescued her from drowning. “Would you?”
I turned off the car and followed her inside. She dropped her briefcase at the foot of the stairs then turned on a floor lamp in the corner. Three cats—two tabbies and a Calico that she identified as Maverick, Willie, and T.J.—roamed at will through the apartment. They paid me no mind but showered Meg with attention. I watched as she petted and cooed, giving each her attention. I wondered what Rufus would do if he were there. Neither he nor I had much use for cats, but I didn’t let Meg know. I merely kept a polite distance.
After the feline reunion, she went upstairs to the bedroom to change out of her suit, taking the cats with her. I had left my coat in the car but took off my tie and undid the top button of my shirt. My once crisply starched, oxford button-down had turned limp under my free-flowing perspiration. I sat on the couch and waited.
The floor lamp gave off just enough light to make out my surroundings but not enough to reveal any detail. Her loft apartment was nicely decorated and furnished. A television and stereo faced me as I slipped off my shoes and propped my feet on the square coffee table. A matching love seat angled at ninety degrees to my left, closing the conversation area. To my right was the kitchen and dining nook. An antique table sat under a low-hanging light that almost touched a centerpiece of artificial flowers. Small but comfortable, the apartment seemed well-suited for Meg.
After a few minutes, she bounded down the stairs without the cats. She had changed into cut-off blue jean shorts and a white tee-shirt. I could detect no bra through the cotton material. She flipped on the light over the antique table, which combined with the floor lamp to create enough light to read by. She retrieved her briefcase and then sat cross-legged on the floor.
For nearly an hour we reviewed the witnesses who would testify the next day, highlighting the key testimony we hoped to elicit. By the time we finished, it was after ten o’clock, and I still had a half-hour drive home.
Meg put her notes back in her briefcase then set it by the stairs. “Want anything to drink?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
She went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. “You sure?”
I shook my head. She came back, turned on the stereo to a soft rock station, and sat on the floor with her back to me. She took a sip then set the bottle on the coffee table and patted her shoulders with both hands.
I shifted over, and she leaned back between my legs. A better idea hit me.
“Lie on your stomach,” I said.
She looked over her shoulder then nodded. She crawled forward, stretching out on the carpet. She crossed her arms and rested her head on them. I slipped off the couch, straddled her, and sat on her rear end. I shifted my weight to my knees, leaned forward, and began rubbing her shoulders. The music played softly on the stereo.
“Tell me if I squeeze too hard,” I said.
“Mmmm, that feels good.”
Neither of us spoke for ten minutes as I worked my hands over her shoulders and up her neck. Then I lifted her tee-shirt and worked my hands across her bare back. Her skin felt soft and warm. I wondered where this was going to end—or if it was going to end.
Just as my fingers began to cramp, she said, “How about my legs?”
I readily agreed, knowing that curving my fingers around her thighs instead of keeping them flat and spread would help with the cramping. Even if it didn’t, I wasn’t about to decline the invitation.
She spread her legs, and I straddled her right calf. Using both hands, I squeezed her right hamstring then alternated to her left. Her blue jean shorts were indeed short, ending just at the curve of her cheeks. As Eric Clapton crooned, I squeezed the highest point of her thigh then moved my right hand up the leg of her shorts. I slid my fingers under her underwear until I had a solid grip on bare skin. I hesitated, waiting for her protest, but none came.
I followed suit with my left hand on her left cheek, and then I found myself massaging her exquisite bottom. I worked my hands in as far as I could, trailing my thumbs down the valley between the mounds of her cheeks.
Still no protest.
But then I thought about the rumors that were already circulating about us—a gust of icy wind.
I pulled my hands out from her shorts and stood.
“I have to go,” I said.
She rolled onto her back. I stood there for a moment and looked down at her. She kept eye contact with me as she sat up.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“I just think I should go.”
She held her hands out. I grabbed them and pulled her to her feet.
“You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“It’s not you.”
I took both of her hands in mine. “I just think we need to keep this on a professional level.”
She nodded, though without much enthusiasm. I released her hands and walked to
the door. Opening it, I looked back one more time.
“See you in the morning,” I said.
And then, with Willie Nelson’s Stardust playing on the stereo, I left the most beautiful woman I knew standing alone in her darkened apartment, staring after me.
Chapter Ten
In an alley in the shadow of the Seattle Space Needle, Thad Flynn tossed his briefcase into the back seat of his rented Toyota 4Runner, then slid behind the wheel. He loosened his tie and undid the top button on his blue dress shirt, long since saturated by sweat. The sun would soon set and he had one more stop to make before heading to the airport to fly home—if you could call it that. Though he had been on the road for nearly two weeks straight, home was nothing more than an empty apartment in Denver since Sandee had walked out on him last year. These trips actually gave him something to do, people to see, places to go. Even the extra money he had squirreled away in his Cayman account seemed hollow without Sandee. She never quite understood that he was doing all this for her, to give her the things she deserved and a life of ease. At least that was what he had told her.
The irony was that the things he claimed to have done for her were the very things that had driven her away from him. In the quiet moments, in the depths of his soul-searching, Thad admitted he had done it mostly for himself. The excitement, the forbidden fruits, the sense of importance it gave him. But he had learned that, without her, all of that meant nothing. And so here he was, in yet another city with yet another briefcase containing illicit cash, and no one to share it with.
He cranked the engine, then leaned back and let the motor idle. He brushed a forearm across his face to wipe off a day’s worth of perspiration and skin oil, then rubbed his itching eyes, fingers digging deep into sockets. A noise sent a chill up his spine, a scratching like fingers on a chalkboard. He dropped his hands and snapped his head around toward the offending sound. As best he could tell, it had come from behind the green dumpster he was parked beside. He lowered his window and peered into the shadows.
“Anybody there?” he said. No response.