Foreclosure: A Novel (2 page)

“Sure,” David said, remembering Terry’s admonishment about getting his hands dirty. “I can put it in my safe.”

Blake remembered something else. He pulled out another folder. “I need to get these reports finalized for all our foreclosures over the past fifteen months. By the year’s end. Could you finish these?”

David skimmed over the pile of pages and imagined the hours it would take to supply this information. “When do you need this?”

“Like I said, before the end of the year.”

“Tonight it is.” David wanted to tell Blake to go fuck himself, but instead he wished him a happy New Year.

Not long after Blake Hubert left, David gave up on responding to any of the two hundred emails that had piled up last week while he was in trial. As he clicked back to the Google search-results page, a CD of Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble live in Montreux played too loudly for this time of day in the office. Stevie Ray belted the solo to “Pride and Joy.” David felt neither right now, but the song still sounded good and somehow appropriate for the occasion.

David spent an hour working on Blake’s litigation reports, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to get far with that, either. He finally realized he couldn’t concentrate on anything but Frank O’Reilly. So, at two o’clock that afternoon he turned to researching O’Reilly’s companies and dealings. Most of the online media he found discussed O’Reilly’s latest venture, Gaspar Towers, a luxury condo development on Gaspar Beach, where O’Reilly had sunk millions he’d made developing residential communities in Southwest Florida at the height of the bubble. Investors had lined up to buy units in the Towers before construction started in 2006, but now it seemed O’Reilly couldn’t give the units away. That was fueling a lot of litigation with disgruntled investors who wanted to get out of their contracts and procure the return of the hefty escrow deposits they’d paid back when everyone and their brother was a real estate investor.

As David was about to click on the link to another article, he sensed someone standing in his doorway. He glanced up. His assistant, Mirabel, smiled back reluctantly.

“I heard the news,” she bellowed over the blaring blues. She wore a starchy denim skirt and a sweater vest with a puffy reindeer head ironed to it. Her wiry brown hair glistened with a fresh holiday perm. “You want to talk?” she asked with too much pity.

“Not really.”

She glanced at the CD player. “They made a mistake, David. Everyone’s saying that.”

“Like I said, not really.”

“I understand.” She fidgeted her hands behind her back. “Well, it is three o’clock.” He looked at the clock, unsure of her point. “They said we could go early today for New Year’s.”

He vaguely recalled a firm policy that permitted staff to leave early on New Year’s Eve, the memory of which spawned another one from his review meeting this morning. “We need to talk,” he said, and waved her in. She closed the door to his office. Then, he pulled out his checkbook from the top drawer of his desk.

As he scribbled on the check, he said, “I don’t want you to ask any questions about this. When they were explaining why I wasn’t making partner this morning, they told me they cut staff bonuses this year.” He signed the check and handed it to her. Her eyes bulged. “I know I can be a jerk. Actually, I know I am a jerk. But I’m getting a bonus this year. It’s not fair you’re not.”

She fanned the air in front of her with the check. “This is more than they gave me last year. I can’t take this from you.”

“You can. Or I’ll nail you on your next review.”

She smiled and covered her face in embarrassment. “Thank you.” She put the check in her pocket and leaned over to give him a hug. “Thank you so much.” She beamed for a moment. Then she tilted her head and her smile faded. “So you and Lana have big plans tonight?”

“Not much.”

She took a breath. Here it comes, he thought. “David, I know about Lana. She told me.”

“Told you what?”

“She told me enough. You shouldn’t keep this stuff all to yourself.” As she waited for a response that didn’t come, a knock on the door startled her. The door slowly opened, and a long shadow rose behind her, eclipsing most light from the hallway. She stared at David nervously, as though waiting for him to confirm her fears.

“Hi, Alton,” David said.

She turned to Alton Holloway, towering in the doorway. “Happy holidays, Mr. Holloway.” She glanced back at David, mouthed a quick good-bye, and ducked out of the room, leaving Alton and his hulking frame in the doorway. At six foot four, Alton was built like a buff professional golfer, the buffness being a relatively recent attribute. Rumor had it that following a drunken outing on the links, Alton admitted to a few of the partners that he was so impressed with the biceps of NFL referee Ed Hochuli, he had begun doing chin-ups every morning. Rumor also had it he’d worked his way up to twenty chins a day.

“I wanted to follow up on our meeting today,” Alton said too matter-of-factly. He paused and listened to the blues blaring from David’s CD player. David realized it was Johnny Copeland joining Stevie Ray for the solo in “Cold Shot.” He leaned over and turned the volume up a notch. Alton paid no attention. “What you take away from today should be positive, David, very positive. We fully expect to be naming you partner this time next year.” Alton paused. David knew the ball was in his court now. But the guitar sounded so damn good. Alton continued. “And I want to reassure you that what Mackenzie and I said today was sincere. We’re not going to leave you to this alone. In fact, we already have a few pitches in mind we’d like to get you involved with.”

David crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you what I told Terry—”

Alton cut him off with a raise of the hand. “Don’t make any rash decisions now. Take some time off if you need to. Then let’s all of us get to work in the new year. We’ve got a tough road ahead, David, and we need you on board.” He extended his hand. “Now, how about I pour you a drink in my office? I’m about to open something special for the holidays.” Alton feigned a warm smile.

David imagined all the partners huddled around the bar in the managing partner’s office, drinking from Alton’s collection of vintage liquors and laughing at each other’s insipid jokes; celebrating earning a fat profit in 2007 despite the economic downturn, which was possible, in part, because they’d screwed David over for partnership this year, among only God knew what else.

As Alton found David’s hand and shook it firmly, David eyed the Google search page on his computer monitor: O’Reilly’s gruff grin and buzz cut, daring him to come over.

He turned back to his boss and squeezed his hand. “Actually, Alton, I’ve got somewhere to be tonight. And I’m already running late.”

And that’s a cold shot, baby …

David killed the engine and waited. Over the crescendo of approaching rain and the half-muted CD playing “The Sky is Crying,” the Saab’s motor hummed an annoying reminder of the worn serpentine belt and past-due oil change and all the countless other things he couldn’t find time to do because he’d billed more than fifty hours a week since the day he bought this car with his signing bonus in 2000. Back when he’d some semblance of a life, before he had seen the inside of a courtroom. He listened to the song that gave him the spins one perfectly bleak Newark evening when he first heard his dad play it on the hi-fi. The song that made him want to follow in his dad’s footsteps and make the guitar cry the way his dad could. He looked out the Saab’s window; the rain fluttered outside, and thunder moaned somewhere over the Gulf.
The sky is crying indeed.

Across the street, the dimly illuminated Gaspar Towers jutted into the evening sky. David stopped the CD, and the engine fan slowed enough that he heard only rain tapping on the sunroof. He couldn’t see through the clouded windshield. It was muggy for December, even for this part of Florida—one of the muggiest winters he could remember since moving here. He wiped the windshield with his sleeve, revealing a lingering drizzle outside and the headlights of a bulky SUV parallel parking across the street. A few breaths later, fresh fog obscured his view. So, he took a final deep breath and stepped out of the Saab into a warm, energetic breeze. A few lights shone inside the office below the Towers. He figured that would be the sales office—probably not where O’Reilly worked, but a good place at least to find out what he liked to drink.

The SUV that had parked a moment ago, a silver GMC Yukon, rumbled with its headlights on, close enough that David could smell its exhaust mingled with an aroma of the Gulf, a distinct whiff of dead crustaceans he could smell only when it rained. Just as he realized the SUV looked familiar, he turned into an explosive blow that jerked his feet off the ground and instantaneously planted his backside against the damp pavement. Without warning, he found himself looking up at low clouds whirling by in the gray sky.

David remembered who owned the Yukon when he saw the lanky frame leaning over him, shaking off the sting of a right hook. Ed Savage.

“That’s for making her cry, you son of a bitch.”

“I can’t talk to you without your lawyer present.” David struggled to focus. It hurt to talk.

“You’re worried about ethics now, you two-bit shyster?”

“Go home, Ed,” he muttered as he pulled himself up on his right knee. “I tried to do everything I could to help you before trial. You just wouldn’t listen.”

“They lied to me. And you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter who lied to you about what. You got your shot and you lost. You should have taken our offer.”

Ed squinted through the drizzle. “What about the truth?”

“The truth is whatever the jury believed.”

Ed leered down as though he were staring at a criminal, waiting for an answer to a question that didn’t need to be asked. “You take my house, I’ll kill you. You hear me?” He glanced toward the Towers, and then something in the distance caused him to take a few steps back, turn around, and scurry away. A moment later, the Yukon sped off.

“You okay?” someone called out to David. He rolled over and saw the outline of a woman shielding her head with a newspaper. “I saw that man assault you. Should I call the police?”

As soon as David stood upright, he felt himself swaying in the wind. Something about Ed’s sucker punch had aggravated all the nausea of the past twelve hours. No, the past seven years. David almost found his balance but his feet couldn’t stay put.

She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Easy does it. Your nose is bleeding.”

He wiped his face and saw blood.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Then come with me.”

“Who the hell was that guy?” she asked, and handed David another roll of paper towels. Under the fluorescent lighting, her bleached hair showed streaks of rusty brown that matched her suntanned skin.

“Just someone I have a case with.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

He nodded. “Don’t hold it against me.” He started to reach for a business card, but doubted he had one in his wallet. “David Friedman.”

“Katherine. Katherine Hawkins.” Her thin lips held a perfect smile—a smile that said she was paid in sales commissions. “What kind of law do you practice?”

“Commercial litigation.”

Still holding her smile: “We have a few lawyers living here. Were you interested in seeing a unit?”

David scanned the office. Four desks out of an Office Depot catalogue, with a desktop computer on each. Three of the workstations appeared abandoned, if they’d ever been staffed. Katherine’s desk would too but for her nameplate and a small snow globe.

“I guess you could say that,” he said. He pulled the towel from his face. Still red but drying.

“I think we have a first-aid kit somewhere around here.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “How are sales?”

“The north tower is almost fully occupied, but we still have a few units available overhead in the south tower. You in the market?”

David, like anyone who read the
Gaspar Herald
, knew well that the south tower remained vacant. He chalked it up to puffery and tested his nose with another wipe of a clean towel. It stayed clean.

“What can I do with this?” He raised the bloodied towels even with his shoulders.

“Here.” She lifted the trashcan next to her desk, and he dropped the wad of towels into it.

“I imagine you have a lot of buyers here trying to back out of their contracts.”

She frowned and dropped the can. “Listen, if you represent any of our buyers, you need to call our attorney, you hear me?”

He tried reassuring her with a casual grin that felt goofier than he intended. “I don’t represent anyone. I’m just a bit awkward at small talk.”

Her face relaxed, just south of a smile. “I guess you are. But we can’t be too careful these days.” She checked her watch. “Would you like to make an appointment for me to show you around next week? I was just about to close up for New Year’s. We’ll be closed the rest of the week.”

He sensed a nervous energy, the window of opportunity closing. “If you’re not in too much of a rush, what do you say I buy you a drink, just to say thanks?”

She bit her lip for a moment. “I need to catch an early flight tomorrow, and I still need to pack. But it is New Year’s Eve.” She studied him for a moment. “How about we skip the drinks and go right to dinner?”

David twirled his third glass of a Meritage fruit bomb, doing his best to sip and not gulp. “No, of course I was nervous out of my mind. This was my first jury trial. I really had no idea what the jury would find.”

“What did they say?” Katherine nursed her second Bellini, which David had learned was her drink of choice after the waiter had decanted the wine.

“They ruled against the Savages. They said their reliance was unreasonable in light of the terms of their loan agreement.”

“An agreement is an agreement,” she said.

“I’m glad someone can appreciate that. Now it seems Ed Savage wants to kill me.”

“I’m sure you could have taken him if he hadn’t jumped you.” She stared at something floating in her drink, probably the flesh of the pear garnish she’d slid off the rim of her glass. “But was it true?”