“Anyone even hear about a possible knife fight? Maybe that same man running past and slashing out at someone?”
“Nope, and no one showed up at the hospital with a knife wound.”
“How about any kind of fight at all that night in or outside of Gilly’s?”
“No. None.”
“I have no further questions.”
Dallas, Texas
2009
C
ASEY JORDAN CHECKED her watch before hitting the curb, which sent a shudder through the battered Mercedes sedan. Her tires
skidded on the grit as she rounded the corner of the old cinder-block gas station. She could hear the knocking of the engine
all the way to the back door of her law clinic, remembering the day when the car had smelled of fine leather, not sour carpet
and coffee.
Before she reached the rear entrance, the gray metal bathroom door swung open and a Latino woman emerged with a small child
trailing a streamer of toilet paper. The woman said something in Spanish, and Casey offered a smile but shrugged, pointed
to her watch, and hurried inside her office through the back door.
Stacy Berg, the office manager, appeared with a cup of coffee, a frown, and piercing dark eyes set in a mane of light brown
hair thick as yarn. “Forget something?”
“I made some notes on the Suarez file I need for Nancy Grace,” Casey said.
“You know she’s half crazy?” Stacy asked and nodded toward her desk, which was really the old counter where the filling station
had kept its cash register. “Speaking of that, Rosalita Suarez’s mother dropped off a chocolate icebox cake to celebrate your
victory.”
Casey had exonerated Rosalita Suarez in a highly publicized murder trial on a charge of shooting the coyote who brought her
across the border after he tried to rape her.
“And that guy called again,” Stacy said. “It’s in the middle of the pile.”
“What guy?” Casey asked.
Stacy rolled her eyes. “You know. That billionaire guy. How many billionaires do you know?”
“In Dallas?” Casey said. “Too many. Why don’t you call him back?”
“You think I care about money?” Stacy asked, raising her eyebrows and snorting. “I work here purely for the glamour.”
“I know,” Casey said, “you like the excitement, too.”
Stacy frowned. “I thought we help people?”
“I’m the woman to call if you shoot someone in the nuts,” Casey said. “What did he say?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Billionaire.”
“He wants to have dinner with you,” Stacy said. “I told him you’ve got to do Nancy Grace’s show, then you’ve already got dinner
plans. I asked him if he’d like me to schedule something, trying to give him the hint that you’re busy, too, and don’t just
drop everything because some billionaire’s got an itch.”
“The Freedom Project isn’t an ‘itch,’ ” Casey said. “It’s a foundation. And Robert Graham isn’t just some billionaire. He’s
a philanthropist.”
“Did you know the angle behind all these rich people’s
foundations
is a bunch of tax write-offs and bullshit?” Stacy asked. “They like to ease their minds with cocktail parties and fund-raisers.
Those Timberland boots and flannel shirts don’t fool me. He keeps a gold rod up his ass.”
Casey sighed and shook her head. “Call Mr. Graham back and tell him I’ll change my plans and ask him where he wants to meet.”
“You’re meeting José at Nick and Sam’s at eight,” Stacy said.
José O’Brien was an ex-cop who did most of the clinic’s investigative work. He had also been Casey’s on-and-off boyfriend.
Right now, he was off after falling off the wagon once again.
“Apologize to José for me, will you?” Casey said.
“He’s a good guy, you know.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Casey said. “He needs to pull it together and I don’t have time to play Mama.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Sometimes harsh is good.”
“Sorry,” Stacy said, pausing, “to pry.”
“Listen, Robert Graham is talking about a million dollars a year in funding if I agree to take on a couple high-profile cases
for the Freedom Project,” Casey said. “Shouldn’t I find that the least bit appealing?”
Stacy nodded abruptly at that news, picked up the phone, and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Graham your schedule has opened up.”
W
HEN THE SHOW ended, Casey chatted with Nancy Grace for a minute about her twins and hand-knitted blankets sent by fans before
pulling the earbud free and unclipping the microphone. She thanked the studio hands and passed on the baby wipes the makeup
artist offered her in the green room.
“I’ve got a dinner to go to,” she said to the makeup artist, checking herself in the mirror as she scooped up her briefcase.
“It’s a little thick, but I’ll look like hell if I lose it all.”
As the security guard opened the door for her, he nodded toward her old blue Mercedes waiting by the curb and said, “Someone
got your hubcaps.”
“Three years ago,” she said, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “They went about two weeks after the hood ornament.”
While the restaurant puzzled Casey, she was thankful that Graham had at least chosen a place out near her condo. She got off
the highway just two exits from where she lived and pulled up to the silver and neon spectacle of a Johnny Rockets hamburger
joint. Inside, Graham sat in a booth with his back to the door, hunched over a milk shake. When he saw her, he jumped up and,
with a flourish, offered her a seat opposite him, flashing a smile of strong white teeth that glowed amid the black razor
stubble of his face and his dark brown eyes.
Despite the Dallas heat, he wore the same trademark flannel shirt, Levi’s jeans, and Timberland boots she’d seen him wearing
as he leaned against a pickup truck on the cover of the May issue of
Fortune
magazine. Graham stood not much taller than Casey, but he carried himself upright with a wiry athletic frame that belied
the white hair salting his unruly black mop. His florid cheeks spoke of outdoor activity, and he was mildly handsome without
being pretty.
“I caught the end of the show,” he said, handing her a menu as she sat down. “You looked great, and that Nancy obviously likes
you. Thanks for meeting me on late notice. I like the fries here and I recommend the Original with cheese.”
Casey opened the menu, noticing the ridged and bluntly cut nails on Graham’s fingers, nails that reminded her of her own father’s,
a man who made a living with his hands. “An interesting choice for dinner.”
“Everything I’ve made comes from knowing how most people think,” Graham said. “And if you want to know how people think, you
have to know how they live, what they eat, what they drive, how they dress, and why. That’s why I’m on an oil and gas kick
lately, because I know people aren’t going to stop driving their trucks to the grocery store for a case of beer, not until
we squeeze every last drop out of this planet, no matter how much it costs.”
“And Johnny Rockets is the food gas-guzzlers prefer most?” Casey asked.
Graham grinned. “See? That’s why you’re the lawyer I want. You take it all, condense it down into something simple yet powerful,
and bam, just like an uppercut.”
“I didn’t mean to come out swinging,” she said.
“You’re fine.”
The waitress appeared in a paper hat and slapped a stack of complimentary nickels down on the table for the jukebox.
“Just a salad for me with some grilled chicken,” Casey said. “And water with lemon.”
Graham ordered a couple burgers with fries and waited for the waitress to leave before he said, “I guess that’s how you stay
in such great shape. What else do you do? Run?”
“I used to do thirty miles a week,” she said. “I’m working my way back right now. Do you run?”
“Run, bike, swim,” he said. “I train for the Ironman.”
“The real one?” Casey asked. “Out in Hawaii?”
“I never won one,” he said. “But as long as I stay in the top ten percent, I feel pretty good about it.”
“That’s amazing,” she said. “How do you find the time with all you do?”
Graham shrugged. “I try not to sleep too much. I have a lot of energy.”
“I read that,” she said. “All you do, and now this Freedom Project?”
“You have to give back,” he said. “My ex-wife taught me that.”
“How so?”
“She never did.”
“I had one of those,” she said, watching the waitress set a plate of fries down in front of him and squirt a smiley face of
ketchup onto a separate small plate.
“I heard,” he said.
“What else have you heard?”
“I know you’re passionate,” he said, holding up a French fry.
“I am.”
“Passionate enough to take on a couple cases for the Freedom Project?” he asked, smearing the smile off the plate’s face.
“Some people say about half our cases are lost causes.”
“The ones that aren’t deserve attention,” she said. “It’s not too far from what I do, giving people a chance in a legal system
that’s rigged for the rich, but why me? A million dollars a year for my clinic is a lot of money.”
“Part of it is to give back,” he said. “I’m making the Project a top priority in my philanthropic portfolio. Part of it is
good business, too. I’ll be honest. There’s a deal behind everything I do. I think we need someone with your profile. People
like a celebrity. My million-dollar annuity for your clinic will pay for itself with the publicity you’ll bring to the Freedom
Project. Publicity means donations. It’s simple. A lot of people know who Casey Jordan is.”
“I guess that’s a good thing,” Casey said, inclining her head as the waitress set down their food.
“It’s all true?” he asked, biting into his cheeseburger. “You know?”
“Oh, shit,” Casey said. “You’re not going to ask me about—”
“I rented it on Netflix,” he said. “Funny, you don’t look like Susan Lucci.”
“I didn’t make a nickel off that.”
“She was good.”
“With all the gloss that a Lifetime movie of the week can offer.”
“Can you say the line? You know,
the line
?”
“Screw you,” Casey said.
Graham smiled.
“There’s just one other thing,” Casey said, picking up her fork. “You didn’t say where I’ll have to go. The last big case
I heard the Project won was in Philadelphia. I love the cause and the funding, but I can’t be too far away from my work here.
That would defeat the whole purpose.”
Graham wiped his mouth on a napkin and asked, “How far is too far?”
“How far would you want me?”
“What about Abilene?”
“I could do that,” Casey said, taking a bite.
“Good, then you won’t mind Auburn.”
“Auburn, as in Alabama? Way too far,” Casey said, setting down her fork.
“Auburn, New York,” Graham said, filling his mouth with more cheeseburger.
“I guess you didn’t hear me. I said close.”
“Abilene is, what, three hours away?” he asked, smiling through his food.
“Yes.”
“So is Auburn, New York.”
Casey scrunched up her face.
“You can use my Citation X as much as you need it,” Graham said, swallowing and leaning toward her. “The fastest nonmilitary
jet in the world. You’ll be there in less than three hours. Easier than Abilene. And I know you’re going to want to help this
person. Dwayne Hubbard is his name. Twenty years he’s been in jail, and the Project is convinced he’s completely innocent.”
“What do
you
think?” Casey asked.
“I don’t waste time,” Graham said. “Besides, I like him. He looks like that kid from that old sitcom. You know, with the squeaky
voice and high pants.” Graham snapped his fingers. “Say, maybe he could play Dwayne in the movie!”
W
HEN CASEY RETURNED to her condo in an upscale little neighborhood just off the highway, she found José sitting on her balcony
overlooking the small canal and drinking a beer. He’d propped his cowboy boots up on the railing and sat tilted back in a
pair of dark jeans and a red button-down shirt with black piping as dark as his own hair. Casey took a beer of her own from
the fridge and sat down in the metal rocker beside him, curling up her legs against the cool night air. The brick building
across the water, with its own wrought-iron terraces and flower boxes, and the arching stone footbridge always hinted of Venice
to Casey.
“Word on the street is I got competition with wings,” José said.
Casey took a pull on her beer and said, “Not like you to worry about the competition.”
“Not worried,” José said, studying the stars beyond the canyon of brick, “just doing an assessment of the situation. Private
jet’s a little heavy for my budget.”
“I don’t know what the hell Stacy said, but there’s no situation,” Casey said. “Just an opportunity for the clinic. I might
even be able to pay you for all that work for a change.”
“Nah,” José said, shaking his head. “When I help it cleans my soul from the shit I do to pay the bills. Half of it would go
to my bitch from hell ex-wife, anyway. Save the money for your girls and beware of billionaires bearing gifts.”
“You had a few tonight.”
“This is the first one.”
“Sorry,” Casey said. “I just didn’t expect the first thing to see you with is a beer in your hand.”
“It’s a process,” José said, putting down the half-empty beer on the clay-tiled floor. “You know, billionaires got that way
for a reason. You gotta screw a lot of folks to get that much money.”
“Money doesn’t make a person evil,” Casey said, “especially if you give it away to good causes, kind of like you. You know
where we ate? Johnny Rockets. You’d like him.”
“I’m a Pollo Loco kind of guy,” José said. “If he’s wanting to give you a million dollars, I’ll bet he wants something back.”
“That’s bullshit, José,” Casey said. “What, are we in kindergarten?”
José stretched out his legs. “I am an ex-cop. I know things.”
There was silence for several moments.
José smiled at her and reached for her hand. She could smell his breath and the beer wasn’t his first by far.