Formerly Fingerman (18 page)

This was all a little much to explain to Brad, what with them both having the complications of secret identities and sordid pasts. So Alan asked Brad and Stump to follow the creative briefs pretty closely
so we can all leave here in time for happy hour
. That was his little joke that really meant
so I don't have to murder anyone.

“Can I get a cell phone?”

“No.”

“You have one.”

“I'm a Federal marshal.”

“Can I be a Federal marshal?”

“No.”

Brad could tell already, carpooling was going to suck. First of all, the workday started way too early. They were almost at the office and it was only the crack of nine. It was one of those crisp, clean mornings ad guys always try to capture in their commercials but never want to wake up for. And that morning, Brad didn't feel like a leading man. He was tired and irritable and still being followed by this hulking lineman of a government agent.

He never got a break from the guy. Stump was up before he was, went to bed after he did, never stopped hanging around, and now they had to spend their ride to work and the rest of the day together making adult diaper propaganda.

“I just want to call my friend. He's sick. With cancer.”

“No, he's not.”

“All right, he's not, but I'm an adult, goddammit. I have rights.”

Stump pulled into their new assigned parking place in the Assure lot and shut the car off.

“After you testify. Until then, it's too much of a risk. Cell phones can be listened in on, tracked, all sorts of stuff. I can't risk you divulging some important information on your location.”

“What if I promise I won't do that?”

Stump got out of the car and shut his door. He waited for Brad to get out, and they walked into the building in silence.

Malcolm was a little distracted. The majority of his brainpower had lately been devoted to devising plans to not screw up this budding relationship with Lola. Even using the term
budding
made him nervous. They had not even been out on a date yet. Did the five-minute coffee thing count? Probably not. Technically they hadn't shared a meal. And the table by the Cup 'n Mug bathroom hadn't been the most romantic spot to chat. Then again, he understood that coffee dates were the big thing these days. They were an easy test drive with a minimal initial investment and very effective for weeding out the nutjobs. So maybe he had inadvertently played that one just right. He had started with the coffee date and gotten the seal of approval to move beyond the potential whacko level.

If only he had asked her first. That would have really been something to tell Mother about. He tried to put that out of his mind. What's done is done. Focus on the results. Focus on
anything
actually.

Since he'd had an actual live conversation with Lola, he had been driven to distraction. Malcolm had always been one to analyze things to the point of exhaustion, but his compulsion had worsened in the days since The Cougar cast her spell on him.

Deciding on dinner had become a nightly dilemma. Choosing a book before bed was a Herculean effort. And forget about getting dressed in the morning. The idea that he might accidentally bump into her on the street sent his mind reeling. Suit and tie?
I am a federal judge after all.
Business casual?
I'm so powerful I dress however I feel like and men fear me.
Jeans and a button down?
Oh, I'm just plain folk doing my duty for the American public.
The truth was he wore a big black robe at work and could have gone commando if he had really wanted to. In the summer, some judges did. He settled on his usual khaki pants and polo shirt. Like a baseball player with Asperger's, he was not going to blow a streak like this by changing up his routine.

Malcolm had been purposefully vague with his answer when Lola had asked him about getting together again. He claimed he needed to check his calendar. He didn't want to commit to anything and then have to reschedule. He couldn't tell if her smirk was one of affection or a knowing look born from seeing right through his sad little ruse. Truth be told, he could have checked a
TV Guide
to figure out which night was best to get together. His social calendar was emptier than Justin Guarini's voice mail.

His plan was to wait a few days so he didn't seem too eager. Then he would ask her to dinner. The only thing left to decide on was which restaurant to go to, which sweater to wear, what time to go, should they have drinks beforehand, what wine to order, should he bring flowers. Actually, there was a lot to think about.

While Malcolm turned the intricacies of senior dating over in his mind, the rest of the courtroom waited patiently for his decision. The question on the table was whether or not the prosecution had his permission to proceed with the video testimony of their key witness.

“Your honor?”

Malcolm started.

“Yes?”

“May we proceed?”

Malcolm bought himself a little time by readjusting his reading glasses and pretending to read over some papers on his desk.

It took him a moment before it all came rushing back to him. The video. The witness in protection. The whole Frank Fortunato murder trial. Right.

Federal grand juries were the casual Fridays of the law world. Yes, important work got done here, but the real show was the trial. Grand juries are essentially a formality to ensure defendants aren't prosecuted solely because the prosecutor says they're guilty. There needs to be enough evidence to justify a trial, but in most cases that's easier than finding a mullet at a prison rodeo.

In any other courtroom in the land, this would have been over. But Malcolm had had some questions for those involved.

He spent the morning hearing arguments as to why a video of a witness should and should not serve as a valid replacement for a live witness. He had been assured that this witness was key to the prosecution's case. Three jury members had fallen asleep already. Perhaps it was time to move on.

“Yes. Please.”

The assistant United States attorney hit Play and a video of Brad appeared on the monitor Brittany had arranged for. As fake-bearded Brad wove his tale, the jury perked up and became interested. It wasn't exactly
12 Angry Men
, but it was a good enough story that when it was done, they murmured amongst themselves.

“Is there anything else to be presented?”

“Your honor, there will be surveillance video from the scene of the crime and a few other witnesses, but we feel this is more than enough to compel the jury to decide to move forward.”

Malcolm could feel his thoughts drifting back to the delightful Lola, and he didn't feel like stopping them. He had real decisions to make.

“I agree.”

Three FBI agents. One eyewitness. Surveillance video.

From his prime courtroom seat as defendant numero uno, Frank Fortunato calmly and methodically catalogued the evidence presented against him as if it were a list of sundries he needed to pick up at the Walgreens, and then kill and bury in a Jersey swamp.

Not long afterward, the grand jury decided that there was indeed enough evidence to move forward. A trial date was set and Frank moved a little closer to dying in prison.

“Knock knock? You guys free?”

Of course they were free. It was their first day of work. And nine thirty
A.M.
The friendly face belonging to the energetic body darkening their doorway was Overly-Confident-Account-Guy. Also known as Mike D.

There was another Mike in the office, Mike P., but he was the mentally challenged mail guy and also Filipino. Mike D. was white. And wore a tie. There was no chance of mistaking the two. But that's how they rolled at Assure.

“Mike D., account manager. Nice to meet you two.”

Stump, standing by the door, offered his hand and took on an uncharacteristically outgoing persona.

“Nice to meet you, Mike.”

“Mike
D
., as in Determined.”

He punctuated his correction with an energetic wink.

“Ah-huh. I'm Christopher. This is my partner Brad.”

Brad leaned over his desk and shook Mike D.'s hand.

“How you doing, Mike D.?”
As in Dillweed.

“I'm doing great. Welcome to Assure. Hope we're not too crazy for you around here.”

And then he laughed one of those laughs people use to imply a deeper meaning but usually mean something lame just happened.

Brad smiled.

“So far, so good.”

“Great! Well, listen, I hear you guys are the new creative geniuses around here, so I wanted to get your help on an exciting project we've got coming up. Sound good?”

It didn't, but they said it did and Mike D. handed them each a creative brief for a brochure that needed to be done. The piece was destined to live in the waiting rooms of doctors' offices, presumably for patients hitting that tipping point of boredom when they're willing to read just about anything.

“The piece needs to be engaging and memorable. We're okay with whimsy, but generally, the serious stuff works best. But smart, you know. We like to keep the bar pretty high. Also, you'll see there are some bullet points we need to hit. You'll find a library of images on the server, and I know Alan was hoping to see something in a couple of days. Sound good?”

Mike D. was very concerned that everything sounded good.

Stump had never been in a creative briefing before. He looked to Brad for his cue.

“Sounds good, Mike.”

“Mike D.”

Cuh-rist
.

“Sounds good, Mike D.”

Mike D. thanked Stump and Brad for helping him out, as if they had a choice, and reminded them to call him if they needed anything or had questions. One more check that everything sounded good and he was out of there.

Brad had told Mike D. that things sounded good, but the truth was they sounded kind of sucky. A couple of days? Who gets work done that fast? What was this, an iPhone factory? Brad was an artist. And he was just supposed to crank out something beautiful like a regularly scheduled bowel movement? WTF?

As soon as Mike D. was gone, Stump dropped the peppy persona, eased back into his understated self, and checked the blinds for any black hats sneaking up the back way.

“So how does this work? You make the pictures and I write some words? Sounds pretty simple. Let's take a look at the picture library he was talking about.”

Brad sighed in the face of what looked like a very long day ahead. So now on top of making an informative brochure for folks in danger of crapping themselves, he had to explain the fundamentals of advertising to Stump. Super.

“I'll take care of it. You keep watch or something.”

A bit about Brad's process: It usually began with a bit of online research on the subject at hand. Or gossip blogs. From there it was an internal brainstorming session that looked a lot like watching YouTube videos. A nice long lunch to keep the brain tip top and then the afternoon was spent figuratively throwing ideas against the wall to see what stuck, running things up the flagpole to see who saluted, and tossing furniture into the pool to see what splashed. You know, bullshitting with his coworkers.

But this tried-and-true process would have to be altered somewhat, as Stump wasn't allowing Brad unrestricted Internet access for fear that he would e-mail someone something he shouldn't and inadvertently compromise his existence. So no blogs, no videos, and the nearest restaurant was the Fridays two exits away. That left actually working. Brad started with a classic chestnut.

“We should do something with old people acting young.”

“Sounds kind of easy. What else you got?”

Um, what? Who does this guy think he is? He's a friggin' cop. I've been doing this for almost ten years. I'm the Molotov Vodka guy. Unbelievable.

“Let me take another look at the brief.”

Now this was uncharted territory. Briefs rarely rated a first look, much less a second. Brad reread the document and found that it actually made some sense. Mike D. could put a sentence together. Appropriately enough, it sounded good. Good enough to inspire Brad.

“What if it wasn't a brochure? What if it was a bookmark?”

“You can do that?”

You could at Overthink. That was one of Brad's favorite moves. Didn't like the media? Change it to something smarter. That's how print ads became microsites and how e-mail blasts became guerrilla wild postings.

“Sure. It's basically the same thing. And we're talking to an older set that tends to read a lot. If they're in a doctor's office, there's a good chance they brought a book with them. This way, we make sure they take our info home with them.”

Stump nodded.

“That's good.”

Brad opened up the server files and started looking through the library of the stock imagery they were stuck with.

“So how come you told Mike D. your name was Christopher?”

“Because my name is Christopher.”

Brad pulled up a few shots of some seniors sitting together on sand dunes looking at the sun set on the horizon of the Pacific. Yes, very hack stuff.

“But everyone calls you Stump.”

“Everyone involved with witness protection calls me Stump. But at Assure I'm undercover.”

“Do you have a new pretend last name?”

“Flint.”

Brad stopped clicking through the images and looked up.

“What?”

“Flint. Christopher Flint. I kept the first name so I didn't slip up.”

“Yeah, I know why you kept the first name. Why do you get to pick an awesome last name? How come it's not Jerkoffsky or Walken? Why aren't we Brad Pitt and Christopher Walken?”

“I'm a marshal. I get to pick my own name.”

Brad went back to sifting through the shlocky shots. Yep, this was bullshit.