by Mike Farris
“Ten o’clock tonight?”
“That’s what she said.”
“I’ll check into it.”
“Thanks, Bay.” She went to the door and opened it. “How’s Meg?”
“She’s doing good.”
Ellie smiled. “Tell her I said hi.”
After she left, I singled a phone slip out of the stack and dialed the number.
“Bill Patterson, please.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
I met Bill Patterson at a bar not too far from Meg’s apartment. The place was small, sparsely filled that early in the day. People who frequented bars in the middle of the afternoon either had an agenda or a drinking problem. I didn’t have a drinking problem. I didn’t think Bill Patterson did either.
I stood inside the front door for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Country music played on the jukebox. A television over the bar was tuned to ESPN, football highlights filling the screen. At last I spotted Bill sitting in a booth near the back. I crossed the bar and slid into the booth. He had a longneck on the table in front of him. A waitress approached after I sat, but I waved her off.
“How’s Meg?” he asked.
“I think it’s just a matter of time until she goes home.”
“That’s good. I’ve been worried about her.”
He lapsed into silence, picking at the paper label on his bottle with his thumbnail.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“The mystery was too much for me. What’s up?”
“I need legal advice,” he said. “Off the record.”
“Shouldn’t you be talking to Tripp? He’d be pissed if he knew you were talking to me.”
“Tripp can’t tell me who I can and can’t talk to. I’m not worried about him.”
I gestured around the bar. “Hence this choice of meeting place.”
“Like I said, this is off the record. Besides, it’s about Tripp. And Meg’s lawsuit. I’ve been reading about it in the papers, and I don’t like what I’ve been reading. I think it’s all bullshit.”
“It is,” I said.
“Would I be correct in assuming that you are the unnamed partner I also keep reading about?”
I nodded.
“Is that part also bullshit?”
“Does it matter?”
He just looked at me then went back to picking at the label on his bottle. “I’ve also been to the courthouse and made copies of the pleadings from her lawsuit. I read where she says she got fired because of the legal bills on my work. Is that true?”
“You’ve seen the bills. What do you think?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the bills. Both sets. And since I sent you a copy of what Tripp delivered to me, I think you’ve seen both sets, too.”
He paused as if expecting me to confirm. When I wouldn’t, he set his bottle down and looked at me.
“Both sets. The altered and the unaltered,” he said.
I still said nothing, so he continued. “Okay, let’s go at it this way. Remember, this is off the record…just you and me.”
I nodded.
“If I sued the firm…and Tripp, individually…like Meg did, would I…I mean, let me ask it this way: Does Meg have a case? Does she really?”
I waved the waitress over and ordered a longneck. Maybe alcohol would help.
“I can’t answer that,” I said. “I’ve got fiduciary responsibilities to my partners.”
“Like they had to Meg.”
“They would say she was merely an employee, not a partner, so there was no fiduciary duty.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“More in a long line. But probably correct, technically, under a legal interpretation.”
“But not morally.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“You’ve got fiduciary responsibilities to me, too,” Patterson said. “I’m your client.”
“What about Tripp?”
The waitress brought my beer. Patterson held up his finger and ordered another. She took his empty, leaving only the pile of peeled paper bits on the center of the table.
“Tripp’s good at what he does. But he’s a typical lawyer. You know, he’s—” He slammed his open palm down on the table. “Well, damn it, I don’t trust him. Not anymore.”
I stared at Patterson, not sure how to respond.
“You’ve always shot straight with me, Bay. And I promise I’ll keep your name out of this. But if I sue, have I got a case?”
I continued to stare at Patterson, struggling with the answer. I took a pen from my coat pocket and wrote Robin Napoli’s name and phone number on a napkin, then slid it across the table to him.
“Call her,” I said.
Patterson took the napkin, glanced at it, then put it into his pocket. “If I sued, would you testify?” he asked.
I slid out of the booth and stood. I was growing very uncomfortable with the conversation. “Talk to her. She’ll know what to do.”
*
After leaving Patterson, I returned to the hospital, where Meg was just waking from her nap. The bruising on her face was starting to fade, though bandages still covered the wounds on her cheek. All in all, she looked pretty good—considering. I sat on the edge of her bed and filled her in on my day and its interesting twists. She soaked up the information.
“So you really think Tripp is going to alter the rest of the billing records?” I could see that it hurt her to talk, but she was determined to strive for at least some degree of normalcy.
“I think he’s at least going to alter his.”
“Are you going to say anything about it?”
“I don’t want to get his secretary in trouble,” I said. “But I’ve got some ideas.”
“Like what?”
“There are video cameras that record in dim light, aren’t there? Those little bitty things?”
“You’re not thinking—”
“For once in my life, I am. Thinking, that is. And don’t you have one of those cameras?”
“Geez, aren’t you the James Bond? Yes, I’ve got one at my apartment.”
“Can I borrow it, Moneypenny?”
“Actually, it was Q who provided the gadgets, not Moneypenny.”
“Whatever. Can I borrow it?”
“I’ll give you a key to my apartment. The camera’s in the closet in my bedroom. But be careful.”
Just then, a nurse wheeled in dinner. She ignored me, putting the cart next to the bed, then uncovered the tray and left. Soup and Jello, Meg’s standard fare until the damage to her cheekbone healed.
“I’m going to fade away if I can’t get back to solid food soon,” she said. “I was already starting to lose weight before, worrying about my job. My clothes were hanging on me. Now it looks like I’m gonna be forced to suck down liquids for the rest of my life.”
She lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, blew on it, then tasted it. “Not bad,” she said. “Let’s shift gears a minute. Do you think Bill Patterson will really sue?”
“If he calls Robin, she’ll talk him into it. She’d love another case against the firm.”
“Tripp will go nuts.”
“So will the Management Committee.”
I watched her eat soup. She slowly lifted a spoonful to her lips, pursed them, and blew softly, then slipped the spoon into her mouth. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and put her spoon down.
“Well, I say screw ’em,” she said.
*
It seemed like déjà vu as I drove downtown late that night, parked up the street, then went to the firm’s building. I exited the elevator on my floor, which was dark and vacant. I checked my watch and saw that it was eleven o’clock. I wore running shoes, like before, to cut down on footsteps echoing off the marble floors. I tiptoed up the inner stairwell to Tripp’s floor. I paused for a moment at the top and looked both ways.
A light was on at the far end of the hall. I eased my way to the corner, Meg’s camcorder in hand. As I drew
nearer, I heard voices. One male, one female. Tripp and Cindy, his secretary.
I flattened my back against the wall and inched forward. When I was a few feet from the corner, I could make out the words. I turned the camcorder on so its microphone picked up the voices. I dropped to my knees and reached the edge, then peered around.
Twenty feet away, Cindy sat at her desk, computer on. Fortunately, she faced away from me. On the screen, over her shoulder, I saw billing records—time entries and charges. On her desk was a stack of pages. Tripp stood behind and to her right, watching over her shoulder. He pointed to something on the stack of pages. I aimed the camcorder, sighted through the viewfinder, and started filming.
“Remember,” Tripp said, “my time can’t be over four hours on any of those dates.” He turned a page. “On these I can’t have any time at all. Just move it to a different date.”
“Why are we doing this?” Cindy asked.
“This has all been approved by the Management Committee,” Tripp said. “So has your overtime. That’s all you need to know.”
Cindy nodded.
“All right,” Tripp said. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”
I pulled back around the corner when he headed my way. I held my breath as his footsteps approached, praying that he was going where I thought he was and that he wouldn’t round the corner.
I heard his footsteps turn. He entered a file room, which was immediately around the corner, scant feet from where I crouched. I let out a slow breath then set the camera by the open doorway. I hoped its microphone would pick up what I heard—Tripp fumbling around with file cabinets, drawers opening and closing, opening and closing. Then I heard the sounds of papers being taken out of files. The metal fasteners made a distinctive sound as stacks of documents scraped against them.
Footsteps again, moving across the room. A sound of something being dragged across the tile floor toward the cabinets.
The flip of a switch. The faint hum of a motor.
Then I heard the sounds of paper shredding.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Only a few lights burned on the top floor of a three-story parking garage next to the building that housed Swanson Industries. Some architect had under-designed the structure for night hours when the moon was powerless to reach its arms of light in from the sides. The corners and columns cast shadows across the concrete floor, creating nightmarish homes for vivid imaginations. No movement disrupted the solemnity of the structure—except for the shape in a corner beside the elevator.
The man in the shadows had kept his vigil for nearly an hour. The garage had still been half-full when he arrived. Now only one car remained on this floor—a late model, blue BMW. He knew whose car it was. He had seen its owner behind the wheel before. He also knew that its owner would be working late, his usual practice. The garage usually emptied by early evening, but the BMW’s owner surely would not leave until after dark.
The light gradually faded as the sun set, but he patiently waited, watching as car after car exited. No one paid him any mind. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and red power tie, he would have blended with the other yuppies waiting for companions or car poolers had he been seen. But he was sure he hadn’t been.
*
Horace Swanson exited the elevator and crossed the concrete floor toward his BMW. Ten feet from the car he began fumbling in his pants pocket for his car keys. He stopped walking and finally grasped the keys between two fingers, then closed the remaining gap to the car. He used both hands to guide the key into the lock. Dim lighting hampered his efforts, and he bent slightly to line up the key. Finally he worked the point of the key in, with a satisfied grunt. He straightened up and turned it, unlocking the door. So intent was he on his single-minded task that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.
The man from the shadows moved quickly, his steps muffled by the rubber soles on his shoes. He held a K-Bar knife loosely in his hand at first, then squeezed his fingers around its handle in a death grip. As Swanson straightened to open the door, the man grabbed his hair and yanked back hard. He brought his other hand to the front and stroked the knife blade roughly across Swanson’s neck, neatly slicing his windpipe.
Swanson grabbed at his throat. He dug his fingernails in, trying to squeeze the gap back together as blood flowed over his fingers and down his hands.
The man released his grip on Swanson’s hair. Swanson slumped to his knees. Blood gushed from his throat, poured down his chest, and across the front of his pants, painting the garage floor beneath him. He gasped for air, but all he got was blood trickling into his windpipe, choking him.
The man with the blade stepped back, the once gleaming knife, now dripping with blood, still in his hand. He watched and waited for Swanson to fall. The wait was short. A few gasps, a few gurgles, then Swanson sprawled forward. His face bounced off the side of the BMW, then he slumped onto his back.
The attacker pocketed his knife, then picked up Swanson’s keys. He opened the trunk, then, with a bit of a struggle, hefted Swanson’s body inside and slammed down the lid. He slipped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and backed out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As had become their custom of late, the Management Committee was in a meeting when I barged in without knocking. Tripp stood at the head of the table in the small conference room, addressing the committee members. I cut him off in mid-sentence.
“I want to know why you’re letting Tripp alter documents the Justice Department has subpoenaed and that Meg Kelly’s lawyer has requested in discovery.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alvin said.
“Then you’re negligent.”
“It’s none of your business,” Tripp said.
I whirled on him. “As long as I’m a partner in this firm, it is my business. I want confirmation from the committee. Have you authorized Tripp to destroy documents?”
“What makes you think I’m destroying documents?” Tripp asked.
“You left a trail a blind man could follow. I’ve seen the computer. Your secretary was into the billing files last night. I’ve also seen a lot of paper in the shredder in the file room by your office.”
Tripp paled as I described the evidence.
“Didn’t it ever occur to you to cover your tracks, Tripp?”
He glared, his jaw clenched into a knot.
“Look, Bay—” Alvin began.
“Do the rest of the partners know?” I asked.
Tripp looked as if he wanted to take a swing at me, but he remembered our last physical confrontation. He wouldn’t dare.
“We’ve called an emergency partners’ meeting for tonight to talk about this Justice Department thing,” Alvin said. “We’ll cover it then.”
“Are we destroying documents or not?”
I knew the answer, but I wanted to see if they would admit it. I wanted at least Steve McGinnis to come clean. Instead, he looked away.
“We’re doing what we have to do to protect the firm,” Oscar said.
“Like you took care of the recruiting files, Oscar?”
“Like it or not, it protects you, too,” Oscar said.
“I don’t want any part of it.”
“That can be arranged,” Tripp said. “If you want to go unprotected.”
“I don’t need to be protected.”
Alvin stood and opened the door. “If you’ve got a problem with this, you can bring it up at the meeting tonight. But be sure you know the consequences.”
I spun on my heels and left. I headed straight for my office, closed the door, and picked up the phone. I found Assistant U.S. Attorney Don Wallace’s phone number in my wallet then dialed.
*
Bill Patterson sat on a leather couch in Robin Napoli’s reception area. A matching couch and love seat—earth tones—filled the room. A young receptionist sat behind an ornate counter, head down, typing. Patterson held a thick file con
taining the duplicate sets of billing back-up. He shifted restlessly. The receptionist glanced at him, a bemused smile on her face.
Patterson stood when Robin approached.
“Mr. Patterson?” Robin extended her hand. “I’m Robin Napoli.”
Patterson shook her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“No problem.”
She led him back to her office. Robin sat at her desk, Patterson in a chair across from her.
“Coffee?” Robin asked.
“No, thank you.”
Robin shuffled through a stack behind her and pulled out a fresh legal pad. “So,” she said. “You want to sue Black West and Tripp Malloy?”
“Yes.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper.
Robin smiled. “This must be my lucky day.”
*
Eight federal marshals, all male, had assembled in a small conference room in the Earl Cabell Federal Building. All wore dark blue jackets that proclaimed, in white block letters—U S MARSHAL. Badges were clipped to the fronts of their belts, holsters and guns clipped to their sides. They stood around a cheap, government-issue conference table listening to the young man at the end of the table explain the procedure.
“I’ll serve the order first,” Don Wallace said. “Then you start loading up the files. Remember, download all computer records and zip ’em tight. I want contents of all shredders and all trash cans that have shredded paper. I want us in and out of there in an hour. Any questions?”
He paused, waiting. He scanned the room, making eye contact with each marshal. No questions. “Okay, let’s go.”
Silently, the marshals filed out of the room. With Wallace in the lead, they piled into two gray, non-descript vans on the street. Behind the vans, a bobtail truck waited, its driver behind the wheel, the engine running. As passersby watched, the caravan pulled away from the curb and started the short drive across downtown. Ten minutes later, with the vehicles parked on the street in front of the skyscraper that housed Black West & Merriam, the entourage of federal officials piled into a ground floor elevator.
*
Business went on as usual at the law firm, hundreds of hours being billed at once. Secretaries typed and answered phones. Lawyers sat in their offices, dictating, talking on phones, meeting with clients. Conference rooms housed depositions. People walked briskly back and forth in the halls, almost as if they were paid by the mile instead of by the hour.