Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (17 page)

ON FRIDAY MORNING,
Landon rolled into the office after dropping Maddie off at day care. He carried his briefcase upstairs and went mindlessly through his morning routine. He plugged his laptop into his desk monitor (Harry insisted that Landon take his laptop home every night), hung his suit coat on the back of the door, and turned on the lights. He unpacked the documents from his briefcase and headed down to the conference room to brew a cup of coffee. Naturally, all the cups were dirty, so he took a few minutes to wash them out in the firm’s bathroom. He wondered what Harry had done before Landon started working there.

When he returned to his office, coffee in hand, he was surprised to see Brent Benedict sitting in a client chair. White starched shirt, red tie, ramrod-straight posture. “Have a seat,” Brent said, as if it were his office.

Landon settled in behind his desk and viewed Brent warily. He could sense an attempt at intimidation coming on, and he wasn’t in the mood for it.

“I know you and Rachel spent some time together last night,” Brent
said. His voice wasn’t accusatory, but the comment made Landon bristle. “Thanks for walking her through this.”

Instead of responding, Landon took a sip of his coffee. He had no idea where this was headed.

“Allen Mattingly probably won’t approve of what I’m going to say to you, but I really don’t care. This thing between Rachel and me is more than just an office romance. I really do care about her, Landon, and I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

The conversation was making Landon uncomfortable. It was bad enough being Rachel’s confidant. Now he had the firm’s managing partner baring his soul. Landon wanted to be a lawyer, not a counselor.

“I need to ask you a favor,” Brent continued, leaning forward. “I can’t tell Rachel what to do or say in her deposition, because any conversations I have with her are subject to discovery by the other side. But any conversations she has with her lawyer are protected.”

Brent gave the comment a moment to settle while Landon took another sip of coffee. Every lawyer knew how to play games with discovery battles. And Brent Benedict was a chess master.

“I want you to act as her lawyer for the purposes of preparing her for this deposition. I think you ought to tell her to take the Fifth Amendment when it comes to any questions about what happened in that Atlanta hotel room. That might make it look like I’m lying, but I can take the heat.

“The worst that can happen is that they file a motion to compel her testimony. They drag us into court and read parts of my deposition and then hers to the judge and make me look bad. I would tell her, if I could, that if the judge ever compelled her to answer the questions, she should tell the truth and let the chips fall where they will. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

Landon didn’t like getting dragged into the middle of a divorce proceeding, but he admired what Brent was trying to do. Yes, the man had lied in his deposition. And yes, those lies had caused this fiasco. But when push came to shove, he was trying to protect Rachel.
Maybe,
Landon thought,
I misjudged him a little.

“I’ll tell her,” Landon said. He wanted to throw in a little lecture for free. He wanted to remind Brent that it was his out-of-control libido that had gotten them into this mess in the first place. But for the first time since he had joined the firm, Landon could see the faint outline of pain on the managing partner’s face. Brent had enough lawyers after him. He didn’t need one more piling on.

Brent pursed his lips for a minute, as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he blew out a deep breath and stood. “You’re doing a good job, Reed,” he said. “It’s not easy working with Harry McNaughten. You’ve already outlasted the last three associates.”

Landon couldn’t resist a small grin. “He’s a little quirky,” Landon admitted. “But he’s starting to grow on me.”

///

Landon not only counseled Rachel before the deposition started but decided to stay by her side throughout so he could interpose objections. Others in the conference room included the court reporter, Brent Benedict, Allen Mattingly, Brent’s petite wife, Stacy, and Stacy’s big-mouth lawyer, Carolyn Glaxon-Forrester.

Glaxon-Forrester was the lead partner in an all-female firm that represented only wives in divorce proceedings. To call her a pit bull would be to undersell her tenacity. She had put her own legal experience to good use, having successfully ground down three former husbands in her own divorce proceedings. According to the rumor mill, she was now living with a weight lifter she had met at the gym. He was ten years younger.

She liked to show up for court and depositions in sleeveless dresses that showcased her ripped arms—the result, Landon assumed, of both rigorous workouts and generous amounts of ’roids. Everything about the woman, including her long beak-like nose and square jaw, reminded Landon of some kind of Nordic warrior. She added to the effect by overdoing the blush, bright-red lipstick, and dark mascara. Men, with the
possible exception of her live-in weight lifter, hated her, and the feeling was mutual.

She spit questions at Rachel for three hours in a condescending and patronizing tone. Following Landon’s instructions, Rachel took the Fifth a total of seventy-four times, causing Glaxon-Forrester to snort and snicker and make snide comments under her breath. Halfway through the deposition, Landon grew tired of the abuse and started raising his voice when he objected. This typically generated a fierce argument between lawyers. The court reporter begged them to stop talking over each other so she could get it all down.

At the end of the deposition, Landon packed up his stuff and decided to take the high road. Even after fierce battles on the football field, he would shake his opponents’ hands. He stuck out his hand toward Glaxon-Forrester and said, “Nice to meet you.”

She stared at his hand and scoffed. Then she went back to packing her briefcase.

“C’mon, Rachel,” Landon said. He put a hand gently on Rachel’s back, and the two of them escaped the conference room, mindful of the hateful stares targeting their backs.

It was only midafternoon, but surviving the deposition called for a celebration. Rachel and Brent begged Landon to join them at a bar on the Virginia Beach boardwalk. Despite a pile of work waiting in his office, Landon eventually caved in.

It was a beautiful spring day, and they snagged a table in the outdoor section of the bar. The three of them kicked back, watching the waves break on the sand, the seagulls flying overhead. Landon stuck with Diet Coke, but Rachel and Brent needed something stronger. It didn’t take long for everyone to start making fun of Glaxon-Forrester. By six o’clock, Landon realized he wasn’t going to get any more work done at the office and decided to head home early and surprise Kerri.

Rachel stood up and gave him a hug before he left. Brent walked him to the front door.

“What you did for us today means a lot,” Brent said.

Landon wanted to tell Brent he had done it for Rachel, not him. But he decided against it. “No problem.”

Brent took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I know I’ve messed up a lot of things in my life,” he said. “But this time I’m going to get it right.”

Though Landon had worked hard to keep his feelings to himself, he figured that after slugging it out with Glaxon-Forrester for three hours, he had earned the right to say something. “Go slow with her,” he said. “I don’t want to see her hurt. If it’s meant to be, you don’t have to rush it.”

Brent didn’t blink. If he was offended, he was working hard not to show it. “It’s meant to be,” he said. The look of confidence was back, the same Brent Benedict who could stare down appellate judges and tell them they were dead wrong. “I wouldn’t put myself through this for a one-night stand.”

Landon took a quick look around. “They’re probably following you right now,” he warned.

“I know. I’m going to take her back to the office in a few minutes. And we’ll leave in separate cars.”

“Be careful,” Landon said.

“I will.”

Landon didn’t believe him. But who was he to judge?

FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS
Landon worked harder than he had since his training-camp days. In the morning, he took care of Simba, helped Maddie get ready, dropped Maddie off at day care, and still made it to work by eight. During those three weeks, he made it home a grand total of two times for dinner and, even on those nights, went back to the office as soon as Maddie fell asleep. One afternoon, Maddie’s day-care director called, and Landon had to pick up his sick daughter. After Kerri got home from work, Landon went back to the office and stayed past midnight.

But he loved every minute of it.

Harry McNaughten continued to spend most of his time behind closed doors, working on the King file, trusting Landon to deal with the other clients. It was great experience for Landon—lots of courtroom hearings and trips to the jail to meet new clients. It was also a little overwhelming.

He only got a chance to watch Harry in court a few times, one of which involved the King case. Their subpoenas for the McBride and Zimmerman documents were quashed; the judge told Harry he hadn’t proven any real connection between those cases and his. But that didn’t
seem to slow Harry down. He had Landon research every reported case that Big John McBride had handled as well as every ruling by Judge Zimmerman. Harry had charts cross-referencing the clients of McBride and Elias, the opposing parties for their cases, and the opposing lawyers. In addition, all of these were cross-referenced with the cases Judge Zimmerman had handled.

Harry also asked Landon to chase down any witness who would talk to him about Julia King. She had motive, and that was big. But Harry was troubled by two things. First, she must have had help disposing of the body. And second, where would she have gotten the date rape drugs?

“What’s the first thing you do when you get a case ready for trial?” Harry asked Landon one day.

Landon had just reported on his phone interview of a potential witness. “Gather the facts. Interview as many people as possible. Develop a theme.”

“Not bad,” Harry said. “You know how I test my themes?”

Landon shrugged. He had learned not to guess with Harry. It never paid off.

“I construct my closing argument.” He nodded toward a yellow legal pad with the top half of the pages folded back under the pad. Harry’s chicken scratch filled the page in view. “That’s the biggest mistake most lawyers make. They wait until the case is tried to put together their closing. Not me. I do it first. That way, I know what I have to prove. It keeps everything in the proper perspective.”

He was chewing on the end of his reading glasses and was in one of his talkative moods. “It’s like Clausen and his novels. Got to know the ending first. You ever read one of those things, by the way?”

“I glanced through one before I started working here,” Landon admitted. “Never finished it.”

Harry snorted. “I’ve never met anyone who did.”

Landon had plenty of chances to apply Harry’s advice. By the middle of April, he had already tried two misdemeanor appeals and one felony trial without a jury. Harry didn’t even go to court with him—it was sink or swim at McNaughten and Clay.

But the longer he worked with Harry, the more Landon realized he wouldn’t trade spots with anybody in the world. Landon Reed wanted to be a trial lawyer. You couldn’t do that without getting into court and getting your hands dirty. Other lawyers liked to plead out their cases, throwing their clients on the mercy of the prosecutors. They called themselves trial lawyers, but they were really negotiators.

Not Harry. He trusted juries. He relished the courtroom. He loved to poke prosecutors in the eye and ridicule witnesses on cross-examination and generally wreak havoc. It was, Landon decided, a lot like learning to play quarterback as the understudy to Brett Favre, the NFL’s all-time leader in both touchdown passes and interceptions.

Nobody would ever accuse you of being afraid of making mistakes.

///

The assassin was a careful man, a control freak, an obsessive nut about the details of a hit. He checked and rechecked his final punch list. He was a professional killer; he couldn’t operate on emotion or instinct. He planned. And he performed every task himself, no matter how menial or insignificant.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have survived this long.

Tonight he was dressed like a common street thug. Big, baggy jeans that hung halfway down his rear. A baseball cap with a large brim still bearing the store sticker—he wore it low on his forehead, dreadlocks sticking out the back. Lots of jewelry. A puffy winter coat, though it was late spring.

He entered the parking garage and waited. The old man made it easy. He was a creature of habit. He would leave the office at eight. Head down to the oceanfront for a drink. Leave the bar around ten.

The assassin would be waiting. He hoped that the beer was cold tonight, that the music was just right, that the old man would enjoy himself immensely.

Even death row inmates were entitled to a nice final meal.

HARRY MCNAUGHTEN HAD A LOT
on his mind as he left Mahi Mah’s on Monday night, April 15. It was tax day, so he had spent most of the past hour complaining about the federal government to the bartender. “Did you know half the people in this country don’t pay a dime in taxes?” And then there were people like Harry, an honest working stiff who made a living by the sweat of his brow and had to carry the entire country on his back.

“Wait a minute—I thought you were a lawyer,” the bartender had said.

“Very funny.”

As he rounded the corner toward the parking garage, he thought about the new theory he had developed for the King trial. Brent Benedict wasn’t going to like it. In fact, Brent would probably vote in favor of withdrawing from the King case altogether after Harry explained his theory at the partners’ meeting the next day. But Harry didn’t care. He had pulled Parker Clausen off to the side earlier in the day, sworn him to secrecy, and
then finagled a promise from Parker that he would vote with Harry on this one.

He climbed the stairwell to the third floor of the garage, getting winded from the effort, and started walking down the ramp toward his car. The garage was well lit and pretty much deserted. Harry thought about the arrival of the tourists in a little over a month. Parking would be miserable. The oceanfront would be crawling with people. Harry would start heading inland for his nightly drink.

He unlocked the car using his remote and saw the headlights flash obediently. He reminded himself to be careful driving home. The cops would love nothing better than to bust Harry McNaughten for a DUI.

He thought he heard someone shuffle behind him, but before he could turn and look, he felt the cold steel on the nape of his neck.

“Don’t move,” a hoarse voice said.

Harry stopped midstep and his mind started racing.
One man. Probably just wants my wallet. No need to panic.

“Hands in the air,” the man said.

Harry did as he was told, slowly lifting his hands just above his shoulders. He extended his fingers to show he had no weapons.

The man reached into Harry’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet, keeping the barrel of the gun jammed against Harry’s neck. They were behind the trunk of a vehicle, just a few cars down from Harry’s.

The man rifled through the wallet, and Harry heard something hit the ground. The mugger had probably pocketed the credit cards and thrown down the rest. Harry didn’t carry cash in his wallet.

“I’ve got some cash in my front pocket,” Harry said. Maybe this would satisfy the guy. Maybe he could get a glimpse of the man’s face, a reflection from the nearby cars. He would make sure this thug got every day of jail time he deserved. But for now, Harry just needed to survive.

“It’s not about your cash,” the voice said. “It’s about keeping your nose out of other people’s business.”

Harry had only a split second. His eyes shifted to the right, catch
ing the reflection from a rear window. He couldn’t make out the man’s features, but he could see one thing. The barrel of the gun. Extended. A silencer.

This wasn’t a mugging. It was an execution!

But Harry McNaughten was not going down without a fight.

He spun, swinging his left elbow back, hoping for the element of surprise. The approach had served him well for so many years in court—drastic action that nobody anticipated.

But this time, even before he connected, he felt a flash of pain at the base of his skull. The world went white. And Harry McNaughten crumpled to the ground.

He was dead before he hit the concrete.

///

The assassin checked Harry’s pockets and took his cash. He looked around—the coast was still clear—and slid the gun into a chest holster hidden under his jacket. He walked to a stairwell and a few minutes later was at the side street where he had parked.

Before pulling away, he sent a text.

Finished assignment. No glitches. 50% courtesy discount. Subject was a lawyer.

///

Landon learned about the shooting at ten thirty that night. He was still at his desk, the only lawyer in the office, trying to make up for the fact that he hadn’t worked at all on Sunday.

Rachel was the one who called, and Landon could tell she had been crying.

“I’ve got some bad news,” she said, her voice breaking.

Landon waited a moment for her to continue, his stomach in his throat. He assumed it was something to do with her and Brent. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“Harry’s been shot,” Rachel managed. She sniffled, and it sounded like she was hyperventilating. “He’s dead, Landon. Somebody killed him.”

The news stunned Landon—a gut punch—and the rest of the phone call was a blur. He asked Rachel if she was sure. She struggled to hold it together as she gave him what few details she knew. Harry had been shot in a parking garage; whoever did it took his cash and credit cards. The police were investigating. It looked like a random mugging.

Landon still couldn’t believe it.
There had to be some mistake!
He felt like he had stepped into another dimension.

Numb, he hung up the phone and stared at it. The office suddenly seemed suffocating. The silence deafening. He was very much alone.

Strangely, he wished he could be with Rachel. Or even Brent Benedict or Parker Clausen. Someone who could understand what he was feeling right now.

Harry McNaughten was dead.

After a few minutes, he got up and walked down the hallway. He turned on the lights to Harry’s office and stepped inside. He sat down at his mentor’s desk and smelled that musty old-man smell that seemed to follow Harry around. He let his mind wander to the Character and Fitness Committee, to the General District Court trial, to the gruff calls from this office to his own.
“Landon! Come here a minute!”

He would give anything to hear that voice right now.

He picked up a pair of Harry’s reading glasses, held them the way Harry would have—between his thumb and index finger, twirling them a bit—then put them down.

Harry McNaughten was dead.

Landon leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He thought about Harry, realized how much the man had become like a father to him, and wept. Fifteen minutes later, his heart still aching, he left the office.

“Thanks for believing in me,” he said.