Two issues of Field and Stream and a dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated lay on a low Formica-topped end table next to a couch made of cracked, red imitation leather. A ceiling fixture lit by a dim bulb and a little sunlight that managed to work its way through the dirtcovered front window conspired to cast a dull yellow glow over the room. Peter could not help comparing this iquated dump to the elegant offices from which he had so recently been evicted. The memory of the plush carpets, brass fixtures and polished woods made his stomach seize up in rage and frustration. It just was not fair.
The woman looked up when the door opened and stared at Peter through glasses with thick, black plastic rims.
"I'm Peter Hale. I have an appointment with Mr. Geary for nine."
The woman eyed him suspiciously.
"You're the young man who's going to work here, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, take a seat. Mr. Geary's not in just yet. But I expect he'll be along any minute. He has court at ten."
The secretary-receptionist went back to her work without another word. Peter was shocked by her abrupt dismissal, but decided against reprimanding the woman.
She'd probably be typing his work and did not pay to alienate what appeared to be the only support staff in the office.
Peter sat on the couch. After a while, he looked around the reception room. Except for some cracks in the ceiling plaster, he did not see anything he had not seen the first time he looked. Peter glanced at his watch.
It was nine-fifteen. He decided to check out the Sports Illustrated. It was nine months old but Peter thumbed through it anyway. He was finished skimming it by nine-thirty and was deciding whether to read an article on a Peruvian boxer or start on Field and Stream when the door to the law office opened.
Amos Geary's face was a beet-red matrix of busted blood vessels. What Was left of his unkempt hair was a dingy gray and he had compensated for its loss by growing a shaggy, walrus mustache. His bloodshot eyes were lost in folds of puffy flesh. Geary was as tall as Peter's father and looked twice as heavy. His stomach sagged over his belt and the buttons on his shirt looked as if they were about to pop. Peter was wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit and a tasteful maroon tie. Geary was wearing an awful aquamarine tie spotted with stains that matched those on his rumpled brown suit. Peter's facial muscles twitched with the effort it took to hide his distaste.
Geary studied the young man from the open doorway, mentally reconstructing his face with his mother's features deleted and his father's expanded.
"Peter Hale, I presume?"
"Mr. Geary?" Peter asked hesitantly while he studied Geary's sagging jowls and bulbous, red-veined nose.
Geary shifted his battered briefcase and extended his right hand. It was sweaty and Peter withdrew his own after a light touch as if he feared he could contract alcoholism from the brief contact.
"How was the drive?" Geary asked, ignoring the light and Peter's discomfort.
"Fine," Peter responded, flinching slightly as Geary's alcohol- and mouthwash-drenched breath hit him full in the face.
"Glad to hear it."
"Don't forget you have court at ten," the secretary reminded Geary.
"What case, Clara?"
"Judd."
"Oh, lord. Not Judd," Geary answered, turning his back on Peter and trudging down a dark and dingy hall.
"Follow me," Geary called over his shoulder. Peter trailed his new boss to a poorly lit office that stank of stale smoke. Geary tossed his briefcase on top of a mess of files and papers stacked atop a battle-scarred, wooden desk.
Peter sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. While Geary rummaged through a gray metal filing cabinet for the Judd file, Peter looked around the office. On one wall, among diplomas and certificates attesting to Geary's admission to various state and federal bars, was a black-and-white team photo of the 1956 Oregon State football team. Geary caught Peter looking at it.
"I'm in the front, kneeling down. Your father's behind me on the right. I opened holes for him for four years and I've got cleat marks on my back to prove Geary said with a brusque laugh.
Peter forced a smile. He was not in the mood to listen to an old drunk wax nostalgic about the man who had exiled him to this big zero. Then, he noticed a framed law degree to the right of Geary's OSU diploma.
"You went to Harvard?" Peter asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
"Class of '59. Does that surprise you?"
"Well ... Uh, no," Peter said, flushing because Geary had read him so easily.
"It should. A Harvard man stuck out here in the boonies. But, then, you're stuck here with me, aren't you?"
This time, Peter flushed from anger. Geary found the Judd file and slumped onto a slat-back chair behind the desk.
"Your father told me everything when he asked me to hire you. To be honest, I was against it. Not because I was unsympathetic to Dick's attempts to save your soul.
I just didn't want to put my practice at risk while your father was fighting for your salvation."
"If you didn't want me here," Peter asked resentfully, "why did you agree to hire me?"
Geary folded his hands behind his head, leaned back and studied Peter without rancor.
"I owe your father a great debt. Supervising your stay in purgatory will take a little off the top. But I made it clear to Dick that I'll drop you like a hot coal if you fuck up. I have a sense of honor, but not a shred of sentimentality. Do we understand each other?"
Peter nodded.
"Good," Geary said. "Now, let me tell you the facts of life in Whitaker. There are fifteen lawyers in private practice in this county. Five of them work at Sissler, Macafee and Petersen. They handle every insurance defense case in Whitaker and the five surrounding counties. Those boys make the big bucks. The other ten attorneys, including yours truly, do not.-We fight over the scraps. There's the occasional personal injury case.
One good old boy runs his four-by-four into some other good old boy's four-by-four. I write wills, I handle divorces. If it walks through the door and it doesn't take a lot of expertise, I'm your man, "Then, there's crime. Crime does pay, only not for the criminals. You're probably wondering how I can afford these palatial digs. Well, I'll let you in on the secret.
About fifteen years ago, the state decided to contract out indigent defense and I was firstest with the mostest. I've had the contract for Whitaker, Blaine and Cayuse counties, ever since. It pays my overhead and makes me a small profit. It's easy money and I aim to keep it. That's where you come in. You're gonna become the Perry Mason of Whitaker County."
Peter was gripped by deep depression. He had not gone to law school to muck around in the swamp called criminal law. Real lawyers sued for millions or handled massive business deals. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most prestigious type of legal practice, criminal law was a minus seventy-two.
"I hope my father didn't misrepresent my qualifications, Mr. Geary," Peter said hesitantly. "I've never handled a criminal case."
"Peter, we're not talking crime-of-the-century. We're talking shoplifts at JC-PENNEY, driving while stupid.
Most of these cases will plead out and the rest could be handled by Forrest Gump. Your dad told me about some of the cases you've tried on your own and some of the ones you've second-chaired. I'd say that you're probably one of the most experienced attorneys in town, right now. So, don't sweat the small stuff. -Now, here's my plan," Geary said, fishing through his desk until he found a cigarette. "Your office is next door." A plume of smoke blew across the desk and Peter held his breath to avoid breathing in the foul, cancerous discharge. "The walls are paper-thin, so we don't need an intercom. Settle in. Read through the twenty case files on your desk. Keep a copy of the Criminal Code at your right hand, a copy of the Constitutions of the United States and the state of Oregon at your left, and a copy of the Oregon State Bar Criminal Law Handbook within easy reach. If you have any questions, try not to bother me with them. I'm very busy."
Peter looked stunned. Geary grinned maliciously.
"Welcome to the real world, son. And have a nice day. Now, scat. I have to go to the ninth circle of hell to fight the devil for Elmo Judd's soul."
Whitaker State College was founded as an agricultural school to service eastern Oregon in 1942, but had since developed a decent liberal arts program. The older, brick buildings surrounded a quadrangle at the center of the campus and were covered with ivy. The legislature had funded an expansion program in the late fifties and, again, in the early eighties, and a school of business, the football stadium, a new athletic facility and a block of two-story, brick dormitories were among the newerlooking buildings that spread out from the hub.
In the shadow of the business school was a large blacktop parking area. Shortly before 10 P.m evening classes ended and the faculty and off-campus students emptied into the lot. Christopher Mammon drove a dull green Chevy when he did not want to attract attention.
Tonight, the Chevy was parked as inconspicuously as possible in the shadows of a large oak tree on the edge of the lot because there were two kilos of cocaine in separate Ziploc bags under the driver's seat.
The Chevy was a normal-size car, but Mammon was so massive that there was barely room for Kevin Booth in the front seat. Mammon's body was so large it approached the grotesque. At a flabby two hundred pounds, Booth had been big enough to play high school football, but alongside Mammon's enormous lots, awesome thighs and mile-wide chest, he appeared to be one dimensional.
Booth looked over his shoulder through the rear window as he had several times each minute since Mammon parked. After a few seconds, Booth twisted forward and drummed his fingers nervously on the dashboard.
"Where is that bitch? She said nine forty-five and it's after ten."
"Relax, man." Mammon's eyes were closed and he sounded bored. Booth could not believe how calm Mammon was with this much dope in -the car. Of course, Mammon was always calm. When you were that big only King Kong could raise your blood pressure. If they were arrested and went to jail, Mammon would be the king of the beasts in a jungle filled with wild animals.
Booth would die in prison, prey for the lowliest of meateaters.
"There's something about that cunt I don't trust," Booth told Mammon, as he looked anxiously over his shoulder again.
"You don't trust anyone. That's your problem," Mammon said, opening his eyes and lifting his huge head from the headrest.
"If this deal gets fucked up, Rafael is gonna be really Booth said, more to himself than Mammon.
pi Booth could not decide who scared him more, Mammon or the slender man with the lifeless eyes who supplied Booth with cocaine.
"That's why you should be glad I'm dealing with your buddy, this time."
"But what if the bitch doesn't show?"
"She'll be here," Mammon assured Booth, a hint of menace creeping into his voice. "She knows what would happen to her if she let me down."
Booth imagined the things Mammon would do to punish the blonde if she crossed them. Then he imagined what Rafael might do to him if the sale did not go through. one of Rafael's mules had dropped off the two kilos at Booth's house early this evening. Booth's part in the transaction was turning over the cocaine to Mammon and giving the thirty thousand the girl was bringing to another of Rafael's mules. Objectively, Booth was only a go-between, but Booth had vouched for Mammon.
"What if she goes to the cops?" Booth asked anxiously. "She's been acting squirrelly lately."
Mammon sighed. He switched on the dome light.
Then, he took a mirror and a razor blade from the map holder on the driver's door and handed them to Booth.
Mammon opened one of the Ziploc bags and dipped a slender coke spoon into the bag. Mammon held the spoon over the mirror' Booth fixed on the white powder, hypnotized by it.
"I need some peace and quiet, Kevin. If you promise to shut up, I'll let you have a little nose candy."
Booth's brain told him it was dangerous to use in public. It was also a form of suicide to use any of Rafael's cocaine before the deal went through, because Rafael would weigh the dope if it was returned. Booth thought about turning down Mammon's offer, but his need overcame all objections and he leaned for-ward greedily as the white powder cascaded onto the mirror to form a small mound. Booth separated the white powder into several thin lines, then rolled a ten-dollar bill tight and inserted it into his nostril. Using the bill like a straw, he sucked up the coke, then leaned back to enjoy the rush.
Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, "Freeze," and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Chapter FOUR.
Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.
"Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail."
"The jail? Where is that?" Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.
"It's a block from the courthouse," the secretary told him, shaking her head.
Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.
"Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?"
"How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?"
IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.