Authors: Stan Crowe
“Have a seat, Miss Sullivan,” she said in her Londoner accent. “And please close the door.”
Lindsay’s heart fell into her stomach, and dipped a bit further when Ms. Fuller produced a thick folder from one of her desk drawers. Lindsay shut the door, and settled in one of the comfortable, leather armchairs that seemed to bow in obedience before the desk.
The senior partner placed the folder in front of her, opened it, and leafed deliberately through several pages, staring down her nose at the documents. Lindsay’s heart hammered the entire time, and she searched her mind for any possible misstep she might have made during her years with the firm.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Sullivan,” Fuller said, closing the folder and turning her prosecutor’s gaze on Lindsay. “I’ve been reviewing your performance.”
Lindsay opened her mouth to engage in defense, but stopped herself at once. Fuller quirked an eyebrow.
“Do calm down, Counselor. Your performance is excellent. If I’d wanted to terminate you, you’d have found the severance check on your desk this morning. Unless there’s something I’m not aware of?”
Lindsay shook her head. “No, ma’am. I was simply surprised by your summons.”
“And why shouldn’t I summon one of my better staff members to my office? This isn’t the first time I’ve had you in here. But enough of this. As I was saying, your performance has caught my attention. I’d like you to shadow me at the trial of an important case we expect to prosecute next month. I’m confident we’ll have a ruling within the first few days, but I’m certain the defense will push for an appeal. This is a chance for the both of us to evaluate your fitness to pursue the appellate process of
that
case when it resumes. The potential client is a Mister Zachary Simmons, and this file contains the specifics on his case.” Fuller slid the file across the desk to Lindsay.
“In addition, I’ll need you to persuade Mister Simmons to finalize his selection of an attorney. Right now, it’s us, or Hammer and Nelson. Simmons has privately informed me that he’s leaning in our direction. I’m a very busy woman, and cannot continue to court new clientele as much as I used to. The other partners are similarly busy, and Mister Silverman tendered his resignation this morning—it’s a private matter; don’t ask.”
Lindsay shook her head.
Fuller continued. “You will be given a company credit card and will meet with Mister Simmons to ensure that he follows through with what he told me. Wine him. Dine him. Golf with him. Whatever it takes. This case is worth a great deal to Fuller, Winston, and Silverman. You
will
close this client.”
Lindsay nodded curtly.
“Johnson and Hollis will take over your current assignments. Considering you’ve not taken any of those cases to trial, we can expect a seamless transition. I’ve already informed our clients of the change. To your credit, all three of them expressed disappointment.” Fuller let the barest of smiles light her eyes, and Lindsay felt the tension drain from her.
“The court date is two weeks from today. You’ll meet with Simmons within the next forty-eight hours, and I expect a report immediately afterward.”
Fuller pointed at the thick folder. “Review that. You’ll know it as well as I do by the time you join me in the court room. I’ve asked you be given access to all online files as well. Do you have any questions?”
Lindsay shook her head. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do this.”
“Of course you will. I wouldn’t have even considered you for this otherwise. You’re excused.”
Lindsay rose to leave, but Fuller called for her as she stepped into the hall. “Miss Sullivan,” Fuller said. “With Silverman’s departure, we’ll have a junior partner vacancy. I’ll be evaluating candidates soon.”
Lindsay nodded again. “I’ll bear that in mind, ma’am.”
“Good day, Miss Sullivan.”
Lindsay shut the door quietly, and then walked calmly back to her desk. She saved her whoop of joy until she got home that day.
It was official: Clint would never in his life take up residence in Arizona. At least the heat was dry. Still, was it better to be baked alive in Phoenix, or slowly boiled in the salty air of a San Franciscan summer? Wiping sweat from his brow, he decided boiling was better.
A hundred feet away, the Giants were warming up on the field of Chase Stadium, home of the Arizona Diamondbacks. Men took turns swatting at balls in batting cages, while others played catch and fired fast pitches out on the turf. Around him, the stands were moderately full—mostly families, and all dressed in t-shirts and shorts or light skirts. Hawkers roamed the stands selling their normal, overpriced wares. Despite the sweltering heat, everyone seemed in good spirits. Clint took a long draw from a large soda that set him back more than he cared. As hot as he was, though, he’d have paid for a hundred more large drinks and been glad for the cold relief.
“First pitch is in five, Clint,” Molly said as she sat next to him. “Here’s your hot dog.”
Clint took the tube steak, and bit into it. Beautiful. Hot dogs
always
tasted better at a game, even to the tune of five or six bucks.
“You know you really didn’t have to do this for me, Molly.”
She cocked her head. “I know.”
“
Every
Giants game this season?”
She shrugged. “We’ve been together three years now, Clint. You’ve talked about the Giants the whole time. It seemed a suitable birthday gift this year. Besides, you’re not under the Program any more. And earlier today I got word that we’ve found a spot with a graphic design agency that fits your skill levels perfectly. They’ll start you as soon as we’re done with this trip.”
Clint nodded rigorously. Life in the Witness Protection Program had been… confining. Safe, yes, but he’d never felt so utterly
contained
in his entire life. Fresh air had never tasted better than it had in the last few weeks since he’d been cleared to leave the Program.
“I really appreciate this, Mols. Guys dream of things like this.”
She nodded once. “We’ll have more time to discuss it tonight over dinner.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The way you say that tells me you’re not planning on mac and cheese at the hotel.”
She shrugged again. “I’ve… arranged an opportunity for you.”
“An ‘opportunity’?”
“To formalize things.”
He stared at her. She said nothing. “Well?” he asked.
“Just enjoy the game, Clint.”
It was official: Lindsay would never in her life take up golf. Another enormous wad of turf popped into the air, and flopped pathetically to the ground a few feet away.
The ball was still on the tee.
A man chuckled softly behind her. “Your boss doesn’t usually have you talk business on the links, does she?”
Lindsay glanced back at the golf cart she’d rented. Zachary Simmons was in his mid- sixties and appeared entirely at ease resting against the small electric vehicle, dressed in typical golf attire. His face had the same, kindly smile her Grandpa Wistisen always had; that reduced her humiliation slightly.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, Lindsay wished she’d had the foresight to bring a wide-brimmed hat like Simmons; at least she’d been good about applying liberal amounts of sun block before making a fool of herself. She placed the nine-iron—or was it a five? Or a wood? Or whatever kind of stick it was—back in the bag of rented clubs, and let out a slow breath. “I could use a bit more practice, I suppose.”
Simmons chuckled merrily at that, and hefted himself up from leaning. “Tell you what, Miss Sullivan. Golf bores me to tears. Always has. I learned the game because you don’t do big business without knowing how to swing a club—literally
and
figuratively. But you don’t have to impress me with your drive. If your boss really wants to nudge me in the direction of your firm, I have a much better idea. And don’t worry about gifting and all that nonsense. This one’s on me.”
The frustrated attorney raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”
Lindsay was grateful the Diamondbacks jersey Simmons had purchased her hadn’t been used by an actual player. The grungy smell of sweat and red dust emanating from the nearby dug out was one she could do without. Pro baseball wasn’t anything she’d ever participated in; her parents were never into the sport, and so neither was she. Now that she was here, though, she was surprised by how… liberating the experience was—it wasn’t at all like the parties Mom and Dad favored.
All around her, Lindsay saw normal people living normal lives. Moms were pulling fighting kids apart while dads were chatting noisily with their buddies, or maybe grabbing a stray kid themselves. Young couples were cuddling in the bleachers, sometimes engaging in PDA, or goofing around. Single guys were whooping or hollering obscenities at the opposing team, and vendors were picking their way through the stands, leaning over spectators to swap food and paraphernalia for handfuls of cash. The roof of the big stadium was wide open to the usual, cloudless Phoenix afternoon, and the sun shining on the field felt wonderful—especially since she was sitting in the shade. She still felt guilty that her client was sitting out in the stands, instead of ensconced in the Audi Club, watching the game in style. Simmons, however, had insisted on “the real deal,” as he called it. And so, there they were.
The older man was teetering on the edge of his seat, eating up every last piece of the action. Each swing of the bat, each runner sliding to the plate, each pop fly seemed to pump more and more energy into someone Lindsay would normally expect to be carefully examining his retirement fund. A long drive to left field brought a roar from the crowd, and Simmons was on his feet before she could blink. Just for fun, Lindsay jumped up with him and cheered.
Then her feet were frozen and wet.
She gasped from the shock, and looked down to notice she’d kicked over her Coke. Ice and cola were everywhere. In horror, she realized that “everywhere” included Mr. Simmons’ gray golf slacks.
“Oh, I am
so
sorry, Mister Simmons!” She dropped instantly, and seized the bundle of napkins her guest had gotten with his slice of supreme pizza, and mopped furiously at the mess.
“Don’t worry about it,” he laughed from above. “Dry cleaning is cheap, and these things happen. It’s a ball game! Enjoy it. Don’t waste your time down there.”
“No, really,” she said, “it’s no problem.”
“Suit yourself. And hey! Will you look at that? The guy that caught that home run ball just handed it off to that little kid. We need more folks like that. Good for the D-Backs to show that off on the jumbotron. Good for them.”
Lindsay was glad for the inattention, and silently prayed that Simmons’ good mood wouldn’t wear off once he actually saw the large, brown stain on his legs. It was bad enough she’d… nudged… that one car in the parking lot, on her way into the game. Her potential client had laughed that off as well. She wasn’t sure she could afford a “strike three.” Fuller would have Lindsay’s job faster than the speed of light if Simmons backed out. The answer? Keep the man as happy as possible.
She stood, keeping the wet napkins hidden. “Let me get you another slice of pizza, Mister Simmons.”
Clint had always dreamed of catching a home run ball off Pablo Sandoval. When he saw the look of longing in the eyes of the five-year-old behind him, he knew what he had to do. He nodded to the smiling father after handing the ball to the kid, and ruffling his hair.
Following the game, Clint’s good deed for the day combined with the rollicking the Giants gave the D-backs (and on their home turf, no less) had filled him with an excellent afterglow. The dance of orange light along the western horizon and through the surrounding towers mirrored his feelings. A smattering of faint stars competed with the twinkle of the lights of downtown, and a great peace seemed to settle over the desert valley, despite post-game traffic.
Then he saw his car.
“For the love of the game,” he muttered. The driver’s side taillight had been shattered. The fender looked like his sister Holly’s hair whenever she attacked it with a crimping iron. He’d seen worse, but still he wondered how much his insurance rates would go up after this. He stormed to the front of the car to see whether the idiot who had hit him had at least been courteous enough to leave some basic contact information. Thankfully, a white, 3x5 card was tucked under the windshield wiper. Whipping it free, he read the neat scrawl—a woman’s handwriting—aloud.
“Dear Sir or Madam,” he read. “Sincerest apologies for the damage. Please contact me to exchange insurance information.” Below that were a phone number and an e-mail address.
He seized up when he read the name above the signature.
“Was there an explanation given?” Molly asked, coming around the car.
“Um, no. Just the note. I’ll give the… person a call when we get back to the hotel.” He casually slipped the card into his wallet, and opened the door for Molly.
“Let’s go,” he said with a yawn. “I could use some down time before dinner tonight.”
Clint felt like a sixteen-year-old again, about to be busted by his mom. Keeping close to the walls of the condo stairwell, he kept a vigilant eye out even as he stepped up to the door of a third floor apartment miles from where Molly should be. If he hurried, she might not come looking for him. He’d showered quickly after dinner, and exited on the excuse that he “needed some time to think.” Molly hadn’t hidden her displeasure; it was no surprise, considering the kind of dinner they just shared. He knew she expected him to ask her a very specific question. He simply couldn’t bring himself to pop
that
question. Especially not now.
Forcing his mind to the present, he looked at the tan door before him; it was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. He flipped through his sketchpad, wondering whether what was inside would be a sufficient peace offering for the person beyond that door. If not, maybe the three roses would help? It was better than nothing, right?
He double checked the address on the 3x5 card—yes, this was the right address. It had been easy enough to find, but he’d still wandered aimlessly for half an hour in a vain effort to summon the courage to actually go through with it. He’d come here anyway.