Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (6 page)

THE PRESENT

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER
the initial shock, Erica Jensen still couldn’t believe she was pregnant.
That
certainly wasn’t part of the plan.

Did she love him? Yes. But that hadn’t been part of the plan either.

When she first started working with Elias King, she had expected him to be controlling and demanding. Manipulative. Win-at-all-costs. The man had a reputation.

She found him to be just the opposite. He was winsome and humble. Yes, he was competitive. But he was also committed to justice and to his clients. He was older than Erica. Yet he had a presence, something magnetic about the way he threw himself into his causes. She hadn’t thought men like that still existed.

In the last two days, everything had changed. On Saturday, Erica learned she was pregnant. On Sunday night, Elias’s wife found out about their affair. Which brought them to this pivotal day. Earlier, at the office,
Elias had told Erica they couldn’t see each other anymore. Couldn’t even work together. He would find another place for her at the firm.

In some ways, it made her respect him more. Commitment. Family. These were the things that mattered most.

And now, Erica had her own little family to consider. There was a life growing inside her. A little boy, maybe. She wondered if he would be like Elias. Regardless, he would need his mom. She couldn’t give this baby up for adoption. She would raise the child herself, giving him enough love for two parents. But first, she had to be able to live with herself.

There was a saying: “The truth shall set you free.” She reminded herself of that as she picked up the phone and called the U.S. Attorney’s office. She asked for the person in charge of the investigation at Kilgore and Strobel, and her call was transferred to Mitchell Taylor, an assistant U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia.

“I’ve got some information about the insider trading case you’re investigating,” she said. “I’m willing to testify if you give me immunity.”

“Who is this?”

“I’d rather not say over the phone.”

“What type of information?”

“We need to meet in person. I’ll explain everything then.”

“How do I know you’re legit?” Mitchell asked. “You need to give me something I can check out.”

Erica gave him enough information to convince him that she was to be taken seriously. They argued for a few minutes about the logistics, but the assistant U.S. Attorney eventually agreed to Erica’s conditions. She knew the investigation was too important for him to pass up a chance at this meeting. And he didn’t know the half of it.

///

Later that night, Erica played the game well, sharing a drink with her visitor as if nothing had changed. It wasn’t until her vision started
blurring that she realized she had been drugged. By then, her mind was in quicksand, the world spinning around her, the betrayal complete. Her last thoughts were not about her lover but her baby. She put a hand over her stomach, as if to protect the tiny embryo, growing in what should have been the safest place on earth.

“I’m pregnant,” she muttered, but she wasn’t even sure the words were coming out right. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”

LANDON GOT OUT OF BED EARLY
Tuesday morning and would not have been more excited if he had been starting work as the attorney general of the United States. He was a firm believer that everything happened for a reason. The hearing before the Character and Fitness Committee. The brawl at the Gordon Biersch Brewery. His representation by Harry McNaughten in General District Court. All of this had culminated in an opportunity to show McNaughten and Clay what he could do. He had sent out hundreds of résumés, but God had orchestrated events in a way that Landon could have never anticipated.

Kerri was taking a personal day so she could take care of Maddie and look for a day care. She got up early and fixed Landon breakfast, and he felt like a superstar. He arrived at the firm parking lot at eight o’clock and immediately liked the feel of the place. The firm was housed in a classy brick building with pillars on the front portico that made it look like a miniature version of a courthouse. It was on Laskin Road, the gateway to the oceanfront, less than a mile from the beach. He entered
through glass doors with the firm name stenciled on them and met a young African American woman manning the front desk.

“I’m Landon Reed,” he said. “I’m supposed to start work today for Mr. McNaughten.”

The nameplate on the granite countertop that surrounded the reception desk read
Janaya Young
. Janaya had curly black hair, a round, pudgy face, and black-rimmed glasses. There were pictures of Janaya and two young boys who appeared to be twins on the shelf behind her.

“Was he expecting you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Janaya put on her headset and dialed an extension but apparently got no answer. She dialed a second number, which Landon assumed was McNaughten’s cell phone.

“He’s not in yet. Why don’t you have a seat in our waiting room, and I’ll let Mr. Benedict know you’re here.”

Just off the main reception area was a sitting room with a fireplace and some funky-looking striped beach furniture. The fireplace had a beautiful oil painting displayed over it—a sailboat in the Caribbean—and there were bookshelves on each end that prominently displayed Parker Clausen’s books right alongside more notable legal-thriller authors such as John Grisham and Michael Connelly. Landon had a seat and glanced around. The entire office had hardwood floors and crown molding. There was marble trim around the fireplace. It had the feel of casual success, and Landon decided that he could get used to working in a place like this.

He sat on a green couch with pink striped pillows for five minutes before Brent Benedict, the firm’s managing partner, came into the room. Landon’s palms were sweaty, and he was a little surprised at his own nervousness. He had played in front of packed stadiums, but he was wound tight about his first day at a new job.

Landon stood and shook Benedict’s hand. Benedict wore a pressed white shirt and red tie. His black shoes looked like they had just been shined, and his perfect posture, along with precise and aggressive movements, showed that the man was still military at heart. His face was
starting to display the first signs of age, a few wrinkles spiderwebbing from his eyes, but he had a firm jaw and the bearing of a former officer. He didn’t sit down.

“Let’s go back to the conference room for a minute,” he suggested.

Landon followed him past the reception area into a large conference room with built-in bookshelves and an enormous slate table. Windows in the back overlooked a wooded area around a quaint pond.

Benedict had no papers with him, and he took a seat at the head of the table. Landon sat in one of the side seats.

“We’ve tried to call Harry, but we can’t reach him right now,” Benedict explained. “He’s got a hearing this morning in Norfolk Circuit Court, and he’s notorious for being hard to reach by cell.

“I’m the managing partner here, and Harry didn’t mention anything about hiring a new associate. We have processes in place and budgets and those types of things. One partner is not authorized to bring on a new attorney without the approval of the others.”

Landon felt his heart pump a little faster but knew he could straighten this out. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he said. “And I guess I’m not exactly a new hire, but here’s what happened. . . .” He ran through the saga as quickly as he could. Benedict listened without expression.

When Landon finished, Benedict shook his head a little. “Sounds like Harry,” he acknowledged. “But regardless of how it came about, Harry can’t just hire an associate without the firm’s approval. And even if you were just going to clerk for us at fifty dollars an hour in order to pay off your legal bill, you’re technically still an employee. We would have to do all the paperwork and put you on the payroll. We’d have to set up an office and a computer. Frankly, we’re not in a position to do that right now.”

“Maybe I could just clerk for free for a few weeks. If you like my work, you could decide whether to put me on the payroll then.”

Benedict glanced at his watch. “Look, I don’t know what Harry was thinking, and I’m sorry if he got your hopes up. But at this point we’re just not going to be able to use you.”

Benedict stood and Landon did the same.
Everything happens for a reason,
Landon reminded himself. Maybe God was trying to protect him from something disastrous lurking just beneath the surface.

“Thanks for your time,” Landon said.

///

A few minutes later, as he pulled out of the McNaughten and Clay parking lot, Landon called a homeowner who had wanted two rooms painted by the end of the week. Landon had called the day before to cancel the job, explaining that he would be starting at a law firm instead. He hoped she still needed someone to complete the project.

THAT NIGHT,
Landon hit the weights hard, working out with the three high school juniors he was training to play quarterback at the next level. The frustration seeped out of his body as the sweat poured off him.

He pushed the boys harder than he had in weeks. After a grueling weight session, they focused on footwork and technique in the gym for forty-five minutes, videotaping the kids’ throwing motions and breaking down the film. He liked these kids; two of them had a legitimate shot at playing Division I ball and had already earned several offers. The third was a sleeper and needed to have a good senior year. Landon had been working out with all three since last summer and not once had they questioned him about his SEC Championship Game.

Landon didn’t allow cell phones in the gym, so it wasn’t until eight o’clock that he picked up his iPhone and saw the two missed calls from a number he didn’t recognize. He checked voice mail and was surprised to hear a message from Harry McNaughten. “Landon. Give me a call on this number. I need your help on something right away.”

When he returned the call, Harry was brusque. “Where are you?”

“At the Norfolk Christian gym on Thole Street.”

“I need you to meet me at a client’s house in Chesapeake. The police are conducting a search, and I need as many sets of eyes as possible.”

Before Landon could ask questions, McNaughten provided the address and the client’s name: Elias King. Landon recognized the name as the prosecutor on the Al-Latif case. Now he was Harry’s client? As Landon threw on his Packers sweatshirt and started cutting off lights in the gym, Harry provided a quick debriefing.

Elias, a former prosecutor, was working at Kilgore and Strobel, a large Norfolk firm. A few months earlier, a federal grand jury had been convened to investigate insider trading by the firm. King was believed to be the main target. Now King’s paralegal, a young woman named Erica Jensen, had been missing for more than twenty-four hours.

“Elias still has some friends in the prosecutor’s camp,” Harry said. “Apparently Ms. Jensen was scheduled to meet with the assistant U.S. Attorney today and hasn’t been heard from since last night. They suspect Elias has something to do with her disappearance.”

“I can be there in thirty minutes,” Landon said. “But I’m wearing sweats.”

“Be here in fifteen,” Harry said. And then he was off the phone.

///

Elias King lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a large brick house that reminded Landon of a fortress. Tonight it was under siege. Three marked police cruisers and two Crown Vics were angled against the curb. A tow truck sat in the driveway. One of the officers stopped Landon at the front door. “You can’t go in there. We’re conducting a search.”

“I’m Mr. King’s attorney,” Landon said, self-consciously aware of his sweatpants, sneakers, and large, hooded Packers sweatshirt.

The officer shook his head. “His attorney’s already in there.”

“I work with Mr. McNaughten,” Landon said, sidestepping the officer.

He found Harry upstairs in the bedroom, snapping pictures with his phone while two policemen tore the place apart. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The mattress was off the bed. A woman whom Landon assumed to be Elias King’s wife sat in a chair in the corner, a blank expression on her face.

“Elias is in the garage,” Harry said. “I need you to go downstairs and document everything they touch. Take notes on whatever they bag.”

“Yes, sir.”

Landon hustled downstairs and found two plainclothed officers in what appeared to be Elias’s study, wearing plastic gloves and bagging evidence. Papers were scattered everywhere. One of the officers was bent over a drawer of hanging files. Landon snapped a picture with his iPhone and then tried to get a better angle and a close-up of what the officer was looking at.

But the other officer, all six feet five inches and 250 pounds of him, stepped in front of Landon.

“Get that camera out of here,” he said.

“I’m Mr. King’s attorney,” Landon responded, keeping his voice even. “Let me see your search warrant.”

“‘Let me see your search warrant,’” the officer mimicked. “Must have seen that line on TV.”

His partner didn’t respond; he seemed focused on something he had found in the drawer.

“Let me see your bar card,” the larger officer said to Landon.

“I got a phone call while I was working out. I don’t have it with me.”

“Then you need to leave.”

Landon switched his iPhone to video. “My name is Landon Reed. It’s now 8:25 p.m. on February 5, and the Chesapeake police are conducting a search at the home of Elias King. The officer standing in front of me is trying to block my view while his partner searches through Mr. King’s desk. We will, of course, contest the chain of custody for any and all evidence gathered in this manner.”

The officer put his hand in front of the phone. “Nice try, Counsel,” he said. “But nobody’s stopping you from going anywhere you want.”

With that settled, Landon spent the next ninety minutes taking pictures and videos, asking questions that went unanswered, and otherwise making a pest of himself as the police completed their search of the King residence. Afterward, as the officers were huddled in the driveway watching the tow truck operator hook up a Chrysler 300M, Harry pulled Landon aside to provide some additional details.

“According to Elias’s source, the cops received an anonymous tip last night that somebody dumped what appeared to be a large body bag off the high-rise bridge on the Intracoastal Waterway. The description of the vehicle matched Elias’s car.”

After the tow truck and car left, the police officers talked among themselves for a few minutes and then headed toward their squad cars. One of the officers lingered behind and approached Elias.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” he said.

“You’re just doing your job,” Elias responded.

After all the officers left, Harry and Landon talked with Elias and his wife in the driveway. Mrs. King’s face was taut, the corners of her mouth pulled down. She closed her eyes for a beat, as if that might somehow wash away the memories. Elias still had on his white shirt from work, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

“I don’t trust the cops,” Harry said. “They may have installed some listening devices in your home. Don’t talk out loud about anything having to do with Erica Jensen inside.”

Mrs. King nodded. She looked shell-shocked.

“Elias, I’d like to meet for a few minutes. What about the IHOP on Battlefield Boulevard?”

Elias turned to his wife. “You going to be okay?”

Even though she had thrown on a winter jacket, she was hugging herself and shivering. Landon noticed that she kept her distance from Elias. “I’m fine.”

She thanked Harry and Landon for coming. Her son, who looked to be about fifteen, was standing in the garage doorway watching.

“Jake and I can start cleaning up,” Mrs. King said, her voice emotionless and resigned. “You can take my car.”

Harry and Landon headed to their cars in the cul-de-sac. A few curious neighbors were on their porches.

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Harry said loud enough to be heard by everyone. “The party’s over. You can all go to bed now.”