So he, all three hundred pounds of him, would come out in his sauce-stained whites to say hi whenever Steve dropped by for a meal. Today was no different. Steve introduced Willie to Sienna.
“She's a pretty one,” Willie said, smiling.
“She's a law student,” Steve said. “Working for me.”
“Oh, that's too bad,” Willie said to Sienna. “With what he tips, I can't imagine what he pays his help.”
“If he pays,” Sienna said.
Willie let out one of his characteristic laughs. Steve always thought it sounded like a goose in a cement mixer. Sienna did a classic double take before laughing herself.
The magic was working. “Here's what we want,” Steve said. “And make it special.”
“Do I ever do any less?” Willie said.
“No â ”
“Did Roberto Clemente ever give half a swing at the plate?”
“No, Willie.”
“Magic going to the hoop?”
“No, Willie.”
“L. T. going to the end zone?”
Sienna said, “He could make a great closing argument.”
“Don't encourage him,” Steve said. “Now listen, bring on a whole slab of baby backs, whole loaf of bread, beans and slaw, a root beer for me. And for the lady?”
“Diet Coke,” Sienna said.
Willie nodded and wiped his hands on a cloth. “I'll get Annie to bring it around. You folks have a nice lunch on me.”
“Willie â ”
“No, I insist. You brought me a nice new customer. Relax and enjoy the magic.”
“It's a secret combination of pepper, molasses, and attitude,” Steve said.
“Attitude is everything,” Willie said. “Even for lawyers.”
“Especially for lawyers,” Steve said.
Willie bowed and rumbled back toward the kitchen.
“What a cool guy,” Sienna said.
“Willie's good people. But enough about him. I want to know all about you.”
“Not much to know,” she said.
“Come on, you know all about me.”
“Right.”
“What a charming employer I am. Generous.”
“Humble.”
“Hey, I read a whole book on being humble. I know more about the subject than anybody.”
She laughed.
“So,” he said, “you got a boyfriend?”
Before Sienna could say a word, Annie was plopping drinks on the table. “Root beer for you, Steve,” she said. “The lady has the Diet Coke.”
“How you doing, Annie?”
“Better'n most, not as good as some.” Annie was about sixty, half Willie's size, with platinum blond hair piled high. “This your girl?”
“I'm about to find out,” Steve said.
“Can I stay and listen?”
“Go get us some bread, Annie.”
“Yes, boss.” Off she went.
“Now, back to business,” Steve said.
“We were discussing business?” Sienna said.
“Sure. The boyfriend part.”
“Isn't that rather personal?”
“Of course.”
“Then why'd you ask?”
“Because,” Steve said, “attitude is everything.”
“Attitude is less than nothing.”
“So. Boyfriend?”
“Mr. Conroy â ”
“Steve.”
“Mr. Conroy. We need to get some things straight.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Business is business. I don't want this to get personal.”
“What's the harm?”
“Have you ever considered that under the law this could very easily turn into harassment?”
“You really don't think that.”
She looked him in the eye without a flinch. “The afternoon is young.”
“Come on, Sienna.”
“Mr. Conroy â ”
“Steve!”
She placed both hands on the table. “No. Listen, please. I am a law student and you've hired me to do some work and that's it.”
“Why so sure?”
“I'd rather not â ”
“Please. Tell me. I can take it. If I unhired you and then asked you out, why not?”
She sighed. “I just think â we have a basic difference in how we look at things.”
“Why, because you believe in God?”
“Kind of important, don't you think?”
“People get together all the time that don't see eye to eye on that.”
“And it doesn't work out.”
“Sometimes it does.”
She shook her head and looked away. Steve thought,
Back off.
Let it go.
He said, “Look, there's the idea of God. If it helps people â ”
“I'm not comfortable talking about this right now.”
“Okay, right. I've got a great idea.” He waited until she met his eyes again. “Let's make world news and agree to disagree.”
“With one proviso,” she said. “We don't go out.”
Steve threw up his hands. “I surrender.”
“Okay.”
“But if you ever change your mind, I'm just a phone call away.”
She rebuked him with her eyes.
“Business then,” Steve said quickly. “Johnny LaSalle, it turns out, really is my brother.”
Sienna froze with her drink in the air. “You're kidding.”
“Knew things only my brother would know. It's a whole long story. But here's the deal. He has turned his life around. I have the chance to help him now. It's like a . . .”
“A God thing?”
It sounded sensible, the way she said it. Possible even. “Whatever it is, I want to get back some of the life we lost together. Will you help me do that?”
“Of course,” Sienna said. “Legal and aboveboard.”
Their food arrived and Steve forgot about the law and concentrated on the ribs. And how he could not stop thinking about Sienna Ciccone as a woman he was very much attracted to.
After tasking Sienna to do a memo on church incorporation, Steve drove back to his office. As soon as he turned into the parking lot, a Lincoln pulled in behind him. He didn't think much of it until he saw the two feds stepping out to greet him.
“Don't you guys have real work to do?” Steve said.
“You're our work, Mr. Conroy,” Issler said. “We love what we do.”
“So you're saying you love me?”
“We'd love to see you mess up,” Weingarten said, “just once. Because we'll be right there to â ”
“That's enough,” Issler said.
“Good cop, bad cop?” Steve asked.
“Both bad,” Issler said, “as far as you're concerned. Or I should say, your client?”
“You both know I'm not going to say anything about my client, so why bother? If you have something to charge him with, then do it. Otherwise, there's a corner on Topanga Canyon Boulevard where you can catch some speeders.”
Weingarten smiled and removed a document from his coat pocket. It was folded in thirds. Steve knew what it was before he opened it.
“Unbelievable,” Steve said.
“If you'll just show us to your office,” Issler said.
“Sorry, not going to do it. Not until I read this whole thing. You do understand I have every right to read it, don't you?”
“You can read it while we conduct the search.”
“Eat my briefs,” Steve said, not caring if they cuffed him. They had just handed him a search warrant. Some rubber-stamp judge had approved a search of his office. That meant one of these guys had sworn under oath that there was probable cause to believe evidence of a crime was somewhere present behind Steve's door. As that was a complete crock, veins started throbbing in Steve's temples.
The face of the warrant described his office under
Premises To
Be Searched
and then â
ITEMS TO BE SEARCHED
A. Records, documents, receipts, and materials which reflect identities of and/or connection with named individuals (see Exhibit 1); and/or which reflect connection to an ongoing criminal enterprise, including but not limited to money laundering, racketeering, and extortion.
B. As used above, the terms records, documents, programs, applications or materials includes records, documents, programs, applications or materials created, modified, or stored in any form.
Flipping to the attached exhibit, Steve saw the names John LaSalle, aka Johnny LaSalle, aka
Silk
; Eldon LaSalle, aka
Chief
; Casey Renfro, aka
Rennie
; Neal Cullen; William Reagan; Axel LaFontaine, Don Stead, Michael Dietz . . .
And so on. Translation: the federal government was trying to make out a criminal conspiracy and include Steve in it.
Cold sweat tickled his armpits. This was no longer a little dance in the tulips. This was hard time stuff.
Or persecution of his brother and himself.
He let them in. But he watched carefully as they poked around. And poke they did. Two hours' worth. Steve thought early on that the agents knew they'd find nothing. They just liked their work when it came to defense lawyers. You didn't often get a chance to mess up a law office.
At one point Issler went to Steve's trunk.
“Don't touch anything in there,” Steve said.
Issler looked inside.
“It's just family photos. Keep your hands off.”
“I'll decide â ”
“I don't want your greasy fingerprints on anything in there.”
“Easy.”
Steve whipped out his cell phone and took a picture of Issler looking in the trunk.
“What're you doing?” he said.
“Making a record in case I need to tell a judge where you were looking. This is a business office, and you are only authorized to search where records would reasonably â ”
“Yeah, yeah.” Issler closed the trunk. “I don't think there's anything in there. See, I'm not out to make life miserable for you.”
Weingarten, on the other hand, didn't seem to have any such hesitation. In fact, he looked to be having a lot of fun going through Steve's computer records. It was a Gateway desktop Steve had since forever, and was stuffed with all sorts of things not relevant to the practice of law. Weingarten lingered there, typing away. At one point he said, “Got hooked on the blow, did you?”
“Get out of my journal,” Steve snapped. For a while he'd kept a journal, spilling his guts on the page about cocaine, depression, fear, and loathing. That's the only place he would have recorded something like that.
“That stuff'll mess you up,” Weingarten said.
Steve cursed at him. Weingarten's face tightened. Issler stepped in and said, “Just do a word search for names and let's get out of here.”
Weingarten gave Steve the cold stare and he gave it right back. Steve knew he would probably live to regret it, but there it was. He didn't give a rip.
“You've been retained by Johnny LaSalle,” Issler said. “Is that right?”
“You know it's right.”
“All I know is what you told me.”
“Then you know.”
“How were you paid?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you not understand the question? To be retained means you have been paid. How did Mr. Johnny LaSalle transfer money to you?”
“That's privileged information.”
“No,” Issler said. “It's not.”
“Where did you go to law school, Agent Issler?”
“If we find out that you were paid, let's say, in cash, and banked it, and that the cash can be traced to a criminal conspiracy, then you can bet we'll be a lot more intrusive than we have been today.”
“A lot more,” Weingarten said.
“Why don't you guys just lay it on the line?” Steve said. “Why don't you tell me exactly what you think you've got here?”
“As if you didn't know,” Weingarten said.
“Then it won't hurt you to tell me, will it?”
“What do you know about Eldon LaSalle?” Issler said.
“He's the father of my client.”
“Anything else?”
“He's probably got some background. So? Doesn't show my client's involved in a conspiracy.”
Issler said to Weingarten, “Go get the book.”
“You really think?” Weingarten said.
“Why not? Might as well let the counselor here know what's really going on.”
“What book?” Steve said.
Weingarten left and Issler didn't say anything until he got back and handed something to Steve. It was more of a pamphlet than a book. It had a plain white cover with black script on the front.
Booth
Speaks
was the title. By Eldon LaSalle Jr.
“That's right,” Issler said. “Eldon LaSalle's a writer. Or was. This is his best seller.”
Weingarten snorted. Steve thumbed the pages. It was done in Courier font, as if it had been typed, then published. Or rather, self-published. A crude-looking thing.
“You want to tell me what this is supposed to be?” Steve said.
“Just read it yourself,” Issler said. “We have several copies.”
“And if I read it â ”
“Just call me and tell me what you think. Maybe you'll want to talk about it with your client.”
After they left and Steve cooled off, he thumbed through the short book, then went back to the first page.
I, John Wilkes Booth, do write
my last will, testament, and confession.
He gathered from the opening pages that this was supposed to be what Booth wrote during his attempt to evade capture after shooting Lincoln. Steve's recollection from high school history was that Booth was on the run with a co-conspirator for almost two weeks. Then he was cornered in a barn and killed by federal troops.
Steve was no expert on the buying habits of book readers, but the subject didn't seem like one destined for best-seller status.
It soon became clear what this book really was. Skimming the pages, Steve came across several troubling passages.
I am a hunted man because I love my country and know what is best for it. Because I have a divine insight and had the courage to act, the lovers of darkness, and darkies, seek my neck. Having killed a tyrant, I am now trying to get back to the bosom of my people. But a broken leg has hampered me. Let me make my confession before I die!