The Amazing Harvey (3 page)

Mom stuck a teakettle under the faucet and turned on the tap. The water hissed against the metal pot.

I took a bite of the toast. Why does food always taste better at Mom's?

She put the kettle on the stove, then came back to the table but didn't sit.

Through the sticky peanut butter, I said, “What's the emergency?”

She stood there, staring at me while I chewed.

“Mom?” I took another bite.

“The cops came by this morning.”

Suddenly, the peanut butter clotted in my mouth. I set down the half-eaten piece of toast. “I'm really sorry.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is this about?”

“It's obviously a mistake. What did they say to you?”

“They said they were talking to you about a girl who was killed. They asked where you were on some date in February. They wanted to know all about your childhood. I didn't tell them anything.”

I swallowed the gritty bits of toast. “They shouldn't have bothered you.”

Mom sat down and pulled her chair close to the table, squeaking the legs against the linoleum. She whispered, “I got busted when I was about your age.”

“You did? For what?”

“It's not important. Just like it's not important what you did.”

“I didn't do anything.”

The teakettle shrieked on the stove.

Mom got up and grabbed the kettle. It whimpered as she took it off the burner. She poured the boiling water into a cup, dropped in a tea bag, and came back to the table, working the bag's string up and down. Mom sat and said, “I've contacted Michael Nadler, the criminal lawyer.”

I pushed away the plate of toast. “That guy who's always talking to reporters on TV?”

“When you have a problem, you go for the best.”

“Mom—”

“Remember when your father needed his angioplasty? We flew to Houston because that's where the best surgeon was. You need the best lawyer.”

“Nadler's a publicity hound.”

“He got that former Miss America off a cocaine charge, and you know she was guilty as hell.”

“But I'm
not
guilty. I can clear this up without a high-priced lawyer.”

“Don't be naïve. The government crushes little people like us.”

I shook my head. “Nadler would cost a fortune.”

She stood up, trying to tower over me. She was too short, even when I was sitting.

Mom said, “This is not open for discussion. You have an appointment with him this afternoon at five o'clock. Here's his card.” She pulled a wrinkled business card out of her jeans pocket and held it out.

I didn't take the card. “I can't afford this guy.”

“I'll help.”

“
You
can't afford this guy.”

She wagged her finger at me. “You're seeing him at five o'clock.”

“Absolutely not.”

*   *   *

That afternoon at five, I rode an elevator up to the Beverly Hills offices of attorney Michael Nadler. This is ridiculous, I thought. Why should I hire an expensive lawyer when I'm innocent? It's obviously some mistake with the DNA. The cops will figure that out on their own. Otherwise, I can get a public defender for free. I'm sure my income is way below whatever the poverty line is.

The elevator doors dinged open. I stepped into a waiting room that was decorated with ultramodern black-and-white furniture. There were three signed Roy Lichtenstein prints hanging on the blond wood walls. The largest was a cartoon soldier, done with big dots to look like newsprint. The soldier was crouching low, running forward with a bayonet, waving for unseen troops to follow him. The balloon over his head said, “This way, boys. For family and country!”

I walked up to the receptionist, who sat ramrod-straight in a dress so crisp that it looked like she ironed it during her breaks. The woman looked at me. “Yes?”

“I'm Harvey Kendall. To see Michael Nadler?”

She looked at her computer, picked up the phone, dialed, whispered into the mouthpiece, then told me to take a seat.

I sat on a white couch, feeling like I was staining the fabric.

After a few minutes, I poked through the magazines on the glass coffee table.
Time, Newsweek, Forbes.
No
Guns & Ammo
? I settled on a month-old issue of
Time.

A few minutes later, I looked at my watch. Pretty rude to keep me waiting like this. I mean, when you've got a client accused of murder, doesn't that rank some priority? I knew this guy was too big to give a shit about someone like me. Waste of time and money.

About three magazines later, the receptionist said, “Mr. Nadler will see you now. Through the door to my left.”

Her left … my right … Got it.

I stood up, took out a fifty-cent piece, and rolled the coin over my knuckles as I walked. Ooops. Almost dropped it.

The receptionist pushed a button by her desk. The door buzzed. I opened it and saw an older lady in an equally well-pressed suit. Probably last year's model.

She said, “This way, Mr. Randall.”

“Kendall.”

The woman smiled, like that was one of the better jokes she'd heard in a long time, then turned and started down the hall.

I followed her toward Nadler's throne room.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

When I walked into Nadler's office, he wasn't there. It was a large corner office, with views spreading all the way from L.A.'s downtown skyscrapers to the ocean. His desk, made of glass and chrome, stood on a platform about six inches higher than the rest of the office. The guest chairs were black leather poofy things. One wall had a giant painting that looked like a drop cloth but probably cost more than Mom's house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held neatly arranged leather books, accented with silver-framed pictures of Nadler: Nadler golfing with President Bush, Nadler boarding a private jet, Nadler sunning himself on a yacht, Nadler with his arm around his recent client, Miss Cocaine America.

A door on the other side of the office opened. Nadler came out of his private bathroom, with the sound of a flushing toilet behind him. The man looked like he was in his late forties and stood maybe five foot six. He was dark-complected, with a splotch of pigmentless white skin on his neck, and wore a pinstripe navy suit with a burgundy silk handkerchief folded neatly in the breast pocket. I had this incredible urge to grab the handkerchief and make it vanish.

He came over and stuck out his hand. “Michael Nadler.” His grip was firm, and he looked into my eyes with an intense gaze that made me feel like I was the only thing in his life that mattered.

Hmm.
The guy's way more magnetic than I expected. Maybe that's why the juries love him.

Nadler broke the connection, stepped up on the pedestal, and sat behind his desk. He waved in the direction of the guest chairs and said, “Have a seat.”

I sank into one of the poofy black leather things. Nadler looked down at me. “I've done some checking with my connections in the police department. Frankly, you've got a serious problem. Now the first thing—”

His phone rang.

Nadler said, “Excuse me. They'd only put this through if it was urgent.” He picked up the phone and listened. His face brightened. “Yes, Senator.” Nadler swiveled his desk chair toward the window and started mumbling into the phone.

After a few minutes of watching the back of his chair, I got up and walked around the office. I touched the cold chrome floor lamp and saw my fingerprint on the polished surface. Just like the cops got on the water bottle.
I'm an idiot,
falling for that.

I went to the bookshelf and studied the framed photos. I'd noticed that Nadler was wearing a wedding ring. Didn't see any pictures of a wife or kids. Unless he was married to Nelson Mandela.

I picked up a leather-bound volume that had gold lettering on the spine:
Michael Nadler, Press Clippings, 2008.
I opened it up. Newspaper articles mounted on parchment paper. I thumbed through the pages, then put it back in line with the other volumes.

Nadler was still mumbling into the phone. I went over to his desk, where there was a sword-shaped letter opener stuck in a glass globe, as if it were waiting for King Arthur to pull it free. I stepped onto the raised platform, took out the sword, and waved it over my open palm like a wand. I closed my fist and waved the sword again.

Nadler swiveled around in his chair and hung up the phone. When he noticed the sword in my hand, he scowled. I put Excalibur back in its rock. He made a microscopic adjustment of the sword holder's location on his desk, then gestured for me to sit. In other words, Get off my platform.

I stepped off the raised area and kept standing.

Nadler said, “Sorry about the phone call. It really was an emergency.”

I nodded.

He said, “So. As I was saying. I've spoken to my friends with the police. The DNA match is a serious issue. The cops have definitely focused on you.”

“If they're focused on me, why haven't I been arrested?”

“They don't consider you a flight risk. Besides, they're still building their case. As the cops say, when they arrest someone, they want them to stay arrested.”

I shifted my weight to the other foot.

Nadler took a yellow page of scribbled notes from the stack on his desk and looked at it. “The victim's name was Sherry Allen. Is there anything to connect you to her?”

“No. I never met her. Mr. Nadler, what's the charge for this?”

“They'll likely go for second-degree murder. Maybe first.”

“Not the criminal charges. How much are your fees?”

Nadler dropped the page and looked at me with his mouth open. From his expression, you'd think I'd asked if he liked having sex with goats.

He said, “Excuse me?”

“What do you charge?”

“Your mother's already taken care of that.”

“How much is she paying you?”

He blinked a few times. “She asked me not to discuss it with you.”

I stepped back onto his pedestal. I said, “Aren't I the client, here?”

“Well … yes.”

“Then tell me.”

He steepled his fingers. His chair squeaked as he rocked back.

Nadler leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. “All right. I'm giving her a discount from my normal rates. One hundred thousand.”

Did the floor just buckle?
“One … hundred …
thousand
?”

“My usual minimum is one fifty.”

I shook my head. “My mother hasn't got that kind of money.”

“I'm satisfied she can take care of it.”

“Well, I'm not. I think I need to shop around a bit.”

The veins in his temples pulsed. Nadler stood up. “Mr. Kendall, I don't accept every case that walks in the door. Your mother pleaded with me, and I finally said I would take a meeting with you. Believe me, it's just fine if you'd like to go elsewhere.” He made a shooing gesture with the back of his hand. “You go ‘shop around' all you want. However, there's no guarantee I'll have time for your case when you're done.”

I turned to leave.

Nadler said, “Here's some free advice. Hurry up with that shopping. You're facing serious charges and your case does not look good.”

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

I'd been out of Nadler's office less than fifteen minutes when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said
MOM.

I sighed and pushed
ANSWER.
I didn't need the phone anywhere near my ear to hear her. “Do you know how hard I had to beg Nadler to take your case? Do you know what it took to get you in the same day?”

“I really appreciate it, but this guy was arrogant to the tenth power. Besides, I'd be number nine thousand two hundred and twenty-six on his list. Look, this is just some stupid mistake. I'll get a public defender.”

“Talk about low priority. Those people have fifty thousand cases and couldn't care less about you. They'll push you to take jail time just so they don't have to be bothered. Harvey, you can't screw around with something like this. Now go back to Nadler and apologize.”

“Mom? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you perfectly. Answer me.”

“Mom? Mom?” I hung up.

*   *   *

That night, I drove up the long driveway to the Magic Castle. The private club is on a hill above Hollywood, in a two-story Victorian mansion with turrets, gargoyles, Gothic dormers, and stained-glass windows. I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting a car that stopped suddenly in front of me. Shit. Three cars in front of me. I never have to wait for parking.

C'mon. Move it.

Why is my stomach twisting like a balloon animal?

When those idiots finally got out of the way, I pulled up to the front door and stopped beside the trickling fountain, which is guarded by two stone lions. I climbed out of the car and threw my keys at the parking attendant so hard that he had to dodge them. I said, “Sorry, Jimmy.”

“No sweat, Cy Young.”

I went inside the front door to a small wood-paneled reception room, dimly lit by an overhead Tiffany chandelier. Two of the walls had floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelves, filled with old books. Tillie, behind the desk, was telling a middle-aged couple to go over to the bookshelf, look at the gold owl sitting there, and say “Open Sesame.”

The woman screwed up her face, then looked at the man. The two of them walked to the bookshelf, stared at the blinking lights in the owl's eyes, and said, “Open Sesame.” The bookshelf lurched to the side, sliding open to let them into the club. The man shook his head with an expression that said, What in tarnation will they think of next?

As soon as they were gone, Tillie looked at me. “What's eating you tonight?”