“We really have to go,” Jake said, gathering Mattie under his arm, feeling her shaking through the thickness of her heavy wool coat as he hustled her toward the door.
“So, the little woman has a big problem holding her liquor,” Jake heard Alan Peters whisper, just loud enough to be heard.
Before he could stop himself, before he even realized what he was doing, Jake spun around and grabbed his startled partner by the throat, lifting him off his short little legs and into the air, watching the man’s pale eyes bulge with terror, his round face flush red with the sudden lack of oxygen. “What did you say?” Jake demanded, as all around him, patrons gasped and jumped from their seats. “Do you have any idea what kind of moron you are? I’ll kill you, you stupid son of a bitch!”
“Help me! Help me!” Alan Peters cried, his voice a frightened croak.
“Jake, what are you doing? For God’s sake, put him down,” Dave Corber yelled.
“Somebody call the police.”
Jake felt hands on his back, his sides, his arms, all of them trying to get him to loosen his grip on Alan Peter’s short, squat neck.
“Jake, he can’t breathe. Put him down. What are you trying to do?” Dave Corber demanded, his face almost as red as his partner’s.
And then he heard her, her voice soft, unsteady, then clearer, stronger, floating above the chaos. “Jake,” Mattie was pleading. “Jake, put him down. Please put him down.”
Instantly Jake released his grip on the man’s throat, watching him collapse in a crumpled heap on the wood floor. Ignoring the continuing screams of the Tweedle wives and the astonished exclamations of assorted onlookers, Jake turned and swept Mattie into his arms, rushing her out the door of the restaurant and into the night.
J
ake, do you have a few minutes?”
It was more command than request, and Jake knew it. “Certainly.”
“In my office,” Frank Richardson said, hanging up the phone before Jake had time to ask what the meeting was about.
Not that he didn’t know. Everyone in the office knew. Everyone in the building knew. Hell, by now the entire legal profession was undoubtedly aware of the incident that had taken place at the Great Impasta last Friday night. One lawyer attacking another in the middle of a popular Italian restaurant—it was right up there with the gunfight at the OK Corral. Especially when one of the lawyers was the Great Defender himself, Jake Hart.
Rumor had it his wife was somehow involved. So
drunk she was slurring her words, the story went. Yes sir, completely unintelligible, couldn’t even say her name. Not surprising. Wasn’t she the one responsible for that outburst in court just last fall? And hadn’t she gotten drunk and smashed up her car, ending up in the hospital? Something like that. Hadn’t Jake left her soon after? Moved in with a girlfriend? Hadn’t he always had a little action on the side? Maybe that’s what they were arguing about in the Great Impasta. Maybe that’s why she’d been drinking so heavily. Poor Alan Peters. All he did was try to say hello. Did you hear? You could actually see the indentations of Jake’s fingers on his throat. Poor man was positively covered with bruises. He hadn’t been able to speak all week.
Jake dropped the brochure he’d been perusing on the Hotel Danielle, located in the heart of Paris’s Latin Quarter, onto the small pile of other travel brochures he’d been accumulating over the weeks and pushed his chair away from his desk. He stood up, buttoned the jacket of his olive green suit, smoothed out the nonexistent creases in his yellow-and-green print tie, and took a deep breath before throwing open his office door and stepping out into the hall. “I’ll be in Frank Richardson’s office if you need to reach me,” he informed his secretary.
“You have an appointment in twenty minutes. Cynthia Broome,” she reminded him, answering the question mark on his face.
“Have I seen her before?” Why couldn’t he remember anything? Surely they’d already had this conversation at least once today.
“First time.”
Jake nodded, relief mixed with agitation, and started down the long hall, dismissing the gentle landscapes and floral still lifes that hung along the walls with a shake of his head. Since he’d started accompanying Mattie on scouting missions to various galleries, he’d learned to distinguish between art that was real and art that was merely decorative. Jake had never given much thought to art of any kind before. Truth be known, he’d always considered its study something of a waste of time, a distraction from the things that were truly important. What real difference was there between impressionism and expressionism, classicism and cubism, between Monet and Mondrian, Dali and Degas?
Jake laughed. A big difference, he’d discovered, aware his movements were being monitored by at least a dozen pairs of eyes. What are you looking at? he was tempted to bellow at the secretaries as he passed each cluttered desk. Give them their money’s worth. But he said nothing, ignoring their impish smiles and not-so-quiet whispers as he disappeared around the corner, heading toward the far end of the cream-colored corridor. “Cynthia Broome,” he repeated out loud several times, trying to get himself back on the legal track, wondering who she was, why she wanted to see him. She better not be some damn reporter, he thought, hoping her case was a simple one, something that wouldn’t demand too much of his concentration. He’d been having trouble concentrating all week. Probably because he’d been half expecting the police to burst through his door at any minute, read him his rights, arrest him for assaulting a fellow member of his esteemed profession.
“You should really call him and apologize,” Mattie had been urging all week, her speech pretty much back to normal.
“Not a chance,” Jake insisted stubbornly. No way he was going to apologize to some egg-shaped jerk who’d insulted his wife. The asshole had been very wise to stay clear of him all week. If he were to run into him in the hallway, Jake wasn’t sure what he might do. His thick neck had felt awfully good in Jake’s angry hands.
Not that Jake hadn’t done his share of apologizing these last few days. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk,” he told Mattie repeatedly.
“I’m the one who was out of line,” she was quick to reply. “I had no business playing amateur psychologist.”
“You said I was using my guilt as a way of hanging on to Luke. Is that what you really think?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
What did she mean, she didn’t know? Jake stopped dead in his tracks. How could Mattie do that? Open up a huge can of worms and then just drop it, leaving the worms to crawl out of their comfortable darkness and confront the dangerous light of day.
Jake made a quick detour, ducking into the nearby men’s room, grateful to find it empty. Women were always looking for deeper meanings where none existed, he thought, glaring at his image in the large mirror over the green marble sink, surprised to see how composed, how in control he appeared. Ask a guy why he likes sports, and he’ll tell you it’s because he likes sports. Dig deeper and you’ll find a guy who
really
likes sports. But women couldn’t accept that. That was why, according to Mattie, it wasn’t enough for him to feel guilty because he’d deserted his brother and that desertion had contributed to his death. No, the real reason he’d held onto his guilt all these years was because it was his way of not letting go, his way of keeping all other emotions at bay. As long as he felt guilty, he didn’t have to feel much of anything else. There was only so much room after all. And guilt had a way of taking up a lot of space.
Jake splashed some cold water on his face. Mattie hadn’t said anything about his using guilt as a way of avoiding other emotions. Now who was playing amateur psychologist? he wondered angrily, pushing open the bathroom door with more force than he intended. It slammed against the outside wall, narrowly missing an approaching tax specialist. “Sorry,” Jake apologized to the shaken attorney, who backed quickly out of Jake’s way. Getting very good at apologizing, Jake thought.
Frank Richardson’s office occupied the southeast corner of the thirty-second floor, and was by far the largest and most desirable office in the firm, which was fitting, considering the older man’s stature as one of the firm’s original founding fathers. His secretary, Myra King, who at age sixty-seven was almost as old as her boss, was already standing in front of his door, waiting to show Jake in.
“Myra,” Jake acknowledged, stepping past her into Frank Richardson’s office.
“Mr. Hart,” she replied, closing the door after him, retreating to the safety of her desk.
Frank Richardson was standing by the window, feigning interest in the street below. He was a man of medium height and weight, with a smattering of flyaway gray hair clinging precariously to his temples. His was not an impressive profile, the brow too pronounced, the chin too weak, the nose too flat. However, all that changed when he turned his face toward you. It was then you felt the full force of the almost oppressive intelligence behind his dark hazel eyes, eyes that rendered the rest of his features an unnecessary afterthought. “Jake,” Frank Richardson said warmly, motioning Jake toward one of three deep red tub chairs that were grouped around a small glass coffee table at one end of the room. A large desk, in the shape of a quarter moon, curved into a corner at the other end, its top littered with pictures of Frank’s children and grandchildren. The wall behind his desk was dotted with framed diplomas and citations. A large painting would have worked better in that space, something bold and dramatic by an artist like Tony Sherman, Jake found himself thinking, recalling the exhibit Mattie had taken him to the previous week. Or maybe one of Rafael Goldchain’s exotic photographs, something that would bring a splash of color and daring to an otherwise dull wall. Jake lowered himself into one of the chairs, not surprised to find it wasn’t very comfortable. Sit down, but don’t stay too long, the chairs said, as Frank Richardson took the seat beside him.
“I understand you turned down the Maclean case,” Frank said, not wasting any time on preliminaries.
Clearly a man who didn’t believe in foreplay, Jake thought, his mind drifting back to last night in bed,
Mattie’s tongue licking at the sides of his cock. She wanted to try everything, she’d told him. “I won’t break,” she said. “Don’t treat me like a china doll.”
“Jake,” Frank said, eyes searing into Jake’s brain. “The Maclean case,” he repeated. “Mind telling me why you turned it down.”
Jake forced Mattie’s tongue into the far recesses of his mind, away from Frank’s penetrating gaze. “The kid’s guilty.”
Frank Richardson looked stunned. “Your point?”
“I didn’t think I could provide him with the best possible defense he’s entitled to under the law,” Jake said dryly.
“May I take a moment to remind you that the kid’s father is Thomas Maclean, founder and chief executive officer of Maclean’s Discount Drugstores, one of the fastest-growing franchises in the state. He’s worth millions to this firm, not to mention this case is right up your alley. It’ll be front-page news for months.”
“Eddy Maclean and two of his Neanderthal friends raped a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“According to the boy’s father, the girl looks closer to twenty, and she was more than a willing participant.”
“You’re telling me she consented to being gang-banged and sodomized? Frank, I have a daughter who’s fifteen years old.”
“Your daughter didn’t invite some boy she’d just met at a party into the nearest bedroom.” Frank Richardson folded his long, elegant hands in his lap. “Something funny?” he demanded, as Jake tried to suppress a smile.
“No, sir.” Jake almost laughed. When was the last
time he’d addressed anyone as “sir”? And why was he smiling, for God’s sake? He tried not to think about Mattie’s description of a skinny young man hopping naked around his daughter’s bedroom.
“Look, Jake, I can appreciate your sensitivity in this area, but this case is tailor-made for you, and you know it. You could win it in your sleep.”
“I’ve already given it to Taupin.”
“Maclean wants you.”
“Not interested.”
Frank Richardson rose to his feet, returned to the window, again pretending to focus on the street below. “How are things at home, Jake?”
So the Maclean preamble was foreplay after all, Jake marveled. “Fine, sir,” Jake said again, feeling as if he’d been drafted into the army.
“Your wife—”
Jake felt the muscles in his throat constrict. “Fine,” he said again, the word squeezed between reluctant vocal chords.
“Naturally I’ve been informed of the unfortunate episode last Friday night.”
“I’m sure Alan Peters couldn’t wait to provide you with all the grisly details.”
“Actually, no,” Frank Richardson said, catching Jake by surprise. “It was Dave Corber who told me what happened. Alan has said nothing. I understand he’s decided to let the matter drop.”
Jake sighed with relief, in spite of himself.
“Apparently he feels you’ve been under considerable stress, that there are problems at home of which we are obviously unaware.”
Jake rose to his feet. “I prefer to keep my personal life private, if you don’t mind, sir. It’s really none of anybody’s business—”
“Everything is my business when it affects this firm.” Frank Richardson motioned toward the chairs. “Please sit down. I’m not finished yet.”
“With all due respect—” Jake began.
“Save your due respect,” Frank interrupted. “It’s been my experience that whenever someone says ‘with all due respect,’ they show you none at all.”
“Look, Frank,” Jake said, lowering his voice, softening his position. “I screwed up last Friday, lost my temper, reacted inappropriately. I assure you it won’t happen again.” Should he tell Frank the truth about his wife’s condition? he wondered, wavering. Mattie had told all her friends, most of her business associates, some of her clients. So far, he’d said nothing to anyone. He’d been carrying around a very heavy load for months, and he was starting to stumble under the strain. It was affecting his judgment, his work, possibly even his career. Maybe it would help if he unburdened himself to Frank.