When The Devil Whistles (28 page)

A wet wind blew in Mitch’s face, and he had to shield his eyes to keep from being blinded. Not that it really mattered— the deck was pitch black except for the ship’s running lights and occasional puddles of warm glow coming from the windows of lit rooms.

They stumbled along the rain-slicked deck, holding onto the railing to keep their balance. Mitch banged his shin hard and stifled a curse.

A doorway loomed out of the rainy darkness and Ed motioned for him to stop. They had gone as far as they could outside. They were only about 10 or 15 yards from the radio room, but the rest of the way would be inside and would take them past half a dozen occupied staterooms.

Ed disappeared into the darkness for a moment, then reappeared carrying a wrench and a hammer. He handed the wrench to Mitch. “Let’s go.”

Back inside, a listening quiet seemed to enfold them after the windy night outside. Even the tiny squeaks from their shoes seemed to echo. Mitch tried to breathe quietly.

Light showed under the doors of two staterooms, but the rest were dark. To Mitch’s relief, Jenkins still had his light on. Good—hopefully he’d be ready to join them. Then it would be three against one in the radio room. Mitch liked those odds, even if the Koreans were all kung-fu experts or something.

Ed pointed to Jenkins’s door and muttered something as they passed.

Mitch nodded and opened the door.

Ed grabbed at him frantically. “What are you doing?”

Mitch found himself face-to-face with a huge, tattooed Korean. Before he could react, the man hit him in the stomach. Mitch doubled over and staggered back into the wall on the other side of the hall. Something crashed into the back of his skull and he collapsed to the floor.

He lay there for several seconds, stunned and gasping for breath. Sounds of shouting and fighting filled the air above him.

Mitch pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Black spots filled his vision and his head spun. But he had to get back up. He
had
to. It couldn’t end like this.

He staggered to his feet and saw the big Korean wrestling with Ed. He picked up the hammer from the floor and lunged forward. The Korean’s back was to him. One good blow from the hammer and—

Someone grabbed him from behind. A strong hand gripped his right wrist and smashed his hand against the wall. The hammer fell to the floor with a clang.

Mitch started to turn to face his attacker, but a huge fist smashed into his jaw. He fell again, his mouth full of jagged pain and blood.

A thick arm looped around his neck and squeezed. He twisted and fought, but it was no use. The black spots returned and grew. His strength faded.

The last thing he heard was Jenkins’s voice in his ear. “Sorry, Mitch. Nothing personal.”

Then it was over.

46

C
ONNOR SAT IN THE GALLERY OF DEPARTMENT
301
OF THE
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
Superior Court, the courtroom designated for hearing motions in odd-numbered cases. He was waiting for the court to call his motion for leave to withdraw, which was sixth on the day’s docket. To his annoyance, Deep Seven had decided to oppose it, and Carlos Alvarez had shown up to handle the hearing personally. He had pointedly ignored Connor when he walked into the courtroom and now sat two rows up on the other side of the gallery.

To make matters worse, the court had issued a tentative ruling denying the motion unless either new lawyers appeared to represent Devil to Pay or the company obtained a new registered corporate agent (Connor was the current agent). Both of those alternatives would take time and would involve further contact with Allie, which Connor would rather avoid.

The clerk called the fifth motion on the docket. Connor’s heart rate picked up at the realization that he was next. He hadn’t argued a contested motion in years. Most of his cases settled early, and DOJ always took the lead on those that didn’t. He would help write the briefs, slip notes to Max during hearings, and so on, but he’d had the luxury of sitting back and watching the actual combat from a front-row seat. This time he was in the ring.

“Line number six,
State ex rel. Devil to Pay, Inc. v. Deep Seven Marine Technology
, case number 401775,” the clerk announced.

Connor walked up to the plaintiff ’s table on the left side of the courtroom, and Alvarez took his place at the defendant’s table on the right. “Connor Norman for movant Doyle & Brown.”

“Carlos Alvarez for defendants.”

The honorable Karen Bovarnick looked at them over her glasses. “All right, you’re here on Doyle & Brown’s motion to withdraw, right?”

Connor nodded. “That’s correct, your honor.”

“My tentative ruling is to deny the motion without prejudice. I assume you want to talk me out of that, Mr. Norman?”

“Yes, your honor. The ethical rule in question, Rule 3-200, makes it mandatory for an attorney to withdraw in these circumstances. We do not have a choice in this matter—and, I respectfully submit, neither does the court. I am not aware of any authority that allows a court to order an attorney or firm to continue representing a client when they are ethically required to withdraw.”

The judge held up her hand. “Let me stop you for a second, counsel. Are you aware of authority allowing me to run my courtroom in an orderly and expeditious manner?”

“Yes, your honor, but—”

“And are you aware of any authority saying that I can’t set reasonable conditions on your withdrawal, if that’s necessary to make this case proceed smoothly?”

“I think the authorities are very clear that if an ethical rule requires a lawyer to withdraw, he or she must do so.”

A line appeared between the judge’s eyebrows as Connor spoke. She looked exactly like an exasperated schoolteacher in a black robe. “Yes, but you can’t just leave an empty chair behind you when you go. For example, if I let you withdraw and Mr. Alvarez wants to file a summary judgment motion, who does he give notice to? The rules require him to serve it on Devil to Pay, right? But if you’re gone, who does he notify?”

“He can send notice to the corporation’s agent for service of process.”

“Which is you.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“You don’t find that the tiniest bit odd? You want to withdraw as their lawyer because they’ve caused you to violate ethical rules, but it’s somehow okay for you to stay on as their agent? In fact, speaking of giving notice of motions—wait a second.” She shuffled through the papers in front of her. She held one of them up, though it was too far away for Connor to see what it was. Her face wore an incredulous look. “The rules require you to serve notice of a motion to withdraw on your client, and according to this proof of service you served
yourself
?”

A snicker ran through the courtroom and Connor felt himself blushing. His secretary must have used an auto-fill form that plugged in the name of the corporate agent—and he stupidly hadn’t looked at it before it was filed. Rookie mistake. “I’m sorry, your honor. That’s a, uh, a typo. I can assure you that the client was notified that we planned to withdraw. I personally spoke with one of the corporate officers.”

The judge smiled. “That conversation didn’t happen to involve a mirror, did it?”

Louder laughs from the gallery.

Connor started to speak, but Judge Bovarnick held up her hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Norman. I shouldn’t have said that. But I have a low comfort level with what’s happening here. I’m going to adopt my tentative ruling as my order with the following modification: any future motion to withdraw must be served on an officer of the company other than yourself—and I’ll want that spelled out in detail both in the proof of service and in your declaration. I’ll want to know exactly who you talked to, when you talked to them, and what you said. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Good. Mr. Alvarez, did you have anything you wanted to say?”

Connor looked over at his opponent, who was doing his best not to grin. “No, your honor has said it all.”

47

A
LLIE KEPT WAITING TO FEEL BETTER
. A
FTER
C
ONNOR WALKED OUT THE
door, she wanted the echoes of his words to fade so she could get on with her long vacation. But they didn’t. They rang true and loud, repeating themselves in the back of her mind in an endless loop. “You decided to lie to me, to ruin everything we built together, and then to run away and leave me holding the bag. What you really mean is that the right choice was hard, so you want to pretend it didn’t exist. Well, it did and you blew it.”

It was as if an invisible cloud of dirt, decay, and guilt surrounded her, penetrating to her very bones and clinging to her day after day. She called it “the Smell.” The Smell followed her everywhere. It covered her bed like a fetid comforter. It greeted her anew when she stepped out of the shower, wrapping her in its slimy embrace. It corrupted her breakfast and tainted her coffee. It trailed after her as she walked out the door, and it polluted the cool morning breeze coming in from the sea.

And then there were the eyes. She saw them in her dreams and felt them watching her when she woke. Sometimes they were Connor’s eyes, looking down on her with contempt and disgust. Sometimes they were her father’s, their light fading as his blood spilled out onto the cold asphalt. Sometimes she saw Jason Tompkins’s clear blue eyes, staring at her from his yearbook picture.

She did the things that made her happy. She took a shuttle flight to Nassau and spent the day impulse shopping and the night dancing at an exclusive club. She watched an entire season of
The Office
, one DVD after another. She went diving at the Wall, Treasure Reef, and other spectacular sites off Grand Bahama Island. She ate an entire two-pound box of Godiva chocolate. None of it worked.

The Smell grew stronger and fouler as the days passed. The gaze of the eyes weighed on her like a scarf of lead wrapped around her neck, choking her and pressing her down. She couldn’t escape.

Even the hissing ocean and muttering breeze tortured her, whispering her crimes to each other. Their noise used to lull her to sleep. Now it grated on her nerves, and she had to close her windows at night to create a brittle silence in which she could slip into haunted dreams.

She couldn’t even talk to anyone. The only one who knew what she was going through and why was Connor, and she couldn’t call him, of course. Mom? She knew vaguely that Allie was hiding, but not why. Besides, they’d never had the sort of confessional relationship that some mothers and daughters did. Talking to her would do nothing to lift the black fog that filled Allie’s soul. Trudi or one of her other friends? Right.

She was so alone. So utterly cut off from everyone she knew. So separated from the joys of the world around her. She walked through a sunlit paradise, sealed in her own private bubble of hell.

48

T
OM
C
ONCANNON POKED HIS HEAD INTO
C
ONNOR
’
S OFFICE
. “G
OT A
minute?”

Connor was trying to finish a letter before a meeting with Julian Clayton in twenty minutes, but he wasn’t about to brush off his main defender at the firm. “Sure. I’ve got as many as you want.”

Tom walked in and sat in one of Connor’s guest chairs, resting his right ankle on his left knee. “I hear Judge Bovarnick gave you a hard time.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t much fun. But at the end of the hearing she basically just ordered me to do the proof of service differently if we want to file a new withdrawal motion.”

Tom nodded sympathetically. “She likes to jerk big firm lawyers around. Don’t let it get to you.”