Eddie Flynn 03-The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  Her eyes took in the room, as if awakening from a long, gray dream. The toys, the board games in the faded boxes, the smell of old silly putty, of paint. How she loved the vinegary, acidic smell of fresh paint. It was all suddenly there, and yet it had always been there. Only now, Julie could see and smell these things once more. Things that families used, that people used, that children used.

  She had no use for these things. Soon, she would have no use for anything. The gentle man had been startled when he’d first laid eyes on her; she could tell. Her skin began to turn yellow last year. Then the stomach pains began. The doctors reassured her it was treatable with dialysis, but Julie didn’t want that. Her time had come. Now, with the sweats, her skin looked almost golden. Even the whites of her eyes had turned yellow, like the eyes of a great cat.

  She knew the orderlies were watching so she wiped away her tears, and held fast the hand of the visitor.

  When she spoke her voice was stronger, clearer, and yet it was a sound that could have been whispered by a ghost – for it carried all the darkness and pain and rage of a life torn in half.

  “Promise me,” said Julie. “Promise me you will make them suffer.”

  The gentle man stood, and nodded. He promised her. He swore to her that he would do exactly as she had asked. And then he left the room with the tall man following.

  The nice orderly, Sam, let her stay in the visitor’s room while she sucked at her cherry popsicle. It tasted good. The ice cooled the sores in her mouth that came from biting her cheeks. It wouldn’t be long now. She could feel her body giving up. Another day, maybe two.

  It didn’t matter. For all that Julie had endured, she knew that those who had wronged her would suffer more than she had ever imagined. She was sure of it. He had promised.

  The gentle man did not lie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Six months after the fire at Premier Point

  The offices of Max Copeland, attorney-at-law, were not what you might expect from a well-heeled lawyer. Then again, my own office doubled as my apartment – although clients never got to see the little bedroom in back. So I thought my office passed muster as a working legal base. Just.

  Copeland’s place was an exercise in minimalism. More like a waiting room in a Swedish euthanasia clinic. The receptionist wore a tight-fitting white dress. She sat in a white leather chair, behind a glass desk. A white laptop sat on the desk beside a white phone. Some white lilies flopped out of a glass vase, and the green stems were the only hint of color in the sanitized reception area. Visitors had a choice of sitting on a U-shaped white plastic bench – or a leather couch, which was also white.

  The rest of the office looked like a maze of frosted glass.

  I stood. For six minutes.

  The receptionist didn’t give me her name. She was blonde, and one of those women who was attractive but could’ve been any age. I guessed she was between twenty-five and forty-five. I heard the sound of metal tapping glass.

  “You can go through. First on the right,” she said.

  I was relieved. Standing there I’d felt like I was making the place look untidy.

  For almost six months, nothing had happened in the Rosen appeal. I’d wanted to confront Copeland, but Harry wouldn’t allow it. He said just to let the appeal take its course, and don’t provoke Copeland, as there was no guarantee he would pursue it to a hearing. After all, plenty of appeals are filed and then withdrawn. Harry had seen it happen dozens of times. Then, three days ago, Copeland filed a motion to bring the appeal before the court for a full hearing as he’d completed his investigations. The case would come before the appellate judges in less than two weeks.

  Now seemed as good a time as any to go see Copeland. Whilst nothing had happened in the Rosen appeal until last week, I’d been working flat out to prepare the Howell case and his trial was set to start this morning. Before I got into that, I needed to pay a visit to Copeland. Once the Howell trial got up and running later today, I wouldn’t have the time for this. Howell needed every second I could spare if he wanted to stay out of jail. Thankfully, no one had figured out how Howell had got hold of the ten-million-dollar ransom that had been handcuffed to Agent Lynch’s wrist. But that didn’t matter much, not when it looked like Howell was going down for the murder of his daughter.

  Harry’s notion that the Rosen appeal might die away was proving ill-founded. I hadn’t told Harry I was coming here, he would’ve stopped me. And Harry was probably right. Coming here was a bad idea, but I needed to let Copeland know there were no free shots against Harry Ford. Maybe I could make him think twice about the appeal.

  The corridor of glass led me to an open door on the right. There were other doors up ahead, on the opposite side, but I ignored them and went through the first door on my right, as instructed.

  This office at least had a window. I could see the Flatiron Building opposite, and the layers of snow on the roofs of the buildings beyond. The office itself was similar to the reception area. Acrylic sliding cabinets on one side, no doubt holding back a tide of case files, and on the other side I saw a glass-topped desk and Copeland behind it. His hand cradling his head as he scanned a pile of pages. He wore a jet-black suit, lilac shirt and black tie. A man in his late fifties, with a bushy white beard and bald head.

  He didn’t acknowledge me. Just kept on reading.

  “Mr Copeland, I’m …”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?” he said.

  “I was thinking I wouldn’t mind an office like this. Are you sure you’re practicing law here? Looks to me like you and Mrs Personality outside could put on a couple of white coats and open this up as a laboratory.”

  That made him raise his head. His lips were drawn tightly together and he looked at me like I was a shit stain on his white Chanel rug.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  I walked toward the desk, slowly. Letting him see he couldn’t intimidate me.

  “I want you to drop the appeal in the Rosen case. Julie Rosen was found guilty, and maybe that’s wrong or maybe that’s right – but God rest her soul, she’s dead. Torturing her lawyer, who fought hard for her, won’t bring her back.”

  “There are those who see merit in an appeal. I’m one of them. If that is all you wanted to tell me then you should leave.”

  “Who exactly is giving you instructions in this case? Far as we know Julie Rosen had no relatives or friends. Certainly no one who could afford your services.”

  “Client confidentiality. Now if you don’t mind …” He pressed a button on his phone console and a red light appeared in the corner of the digital screen.

  “Why now? Why after all these years?”

  “Maybe you don’t understand, I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  “See, I think you do. Fighting for someone’s innocence is a just cause, no doubt. But you don’t have to burn a good man in the process.”

  “Harry Ford. Use the judge’s name, won’t you?” He leaned back in his office chair, folded his arms across his chest and for the first time I saw enjoyment spread across his face.

  “Yeah, Judge Ford. He fought her case better than anyone could have. Think about what you’re doing here. You’ve hurt a lot of people in the past. Way I hear it, a lot of murderers are walking around this city as free men because they paid you to handle their appeals. And you destroyed a lot of good lawyers in the process. I don’t want you to hurt anyone else, especially not Harry Ford.”

  “If he did nothing wrong, then he has nothing to fear. But I think he neglected his duty to his client. She should never have stood trial. I’m going to represent her to the best of my ability. That is my duty to my client. If the good judge is ruined in the course of this appeal, well, that’s just a bonus.”

  “What about your duty to the people of this city? You think buying a Goddamn clean room and working out of it is enough to take the shit off your shoes? Think again. There’s representing your client to the best of your ab
ility, and then there’s what you do; getting child rapists set free because of a procedural fault with the evidence. We all owe a duty to this city. Our oath demands it. Don’t go down this road with Harry.”

  The door opened behind me and a tall man in a black suit entered the room. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, which matched his hard features. Thin mouth, broad head, long thick arms with tattoos over his hands.

  Security.

  “And what will you do, Flynn? Write to the Bar Association? Complain to the cops? Go ahead, I’m not worried about them.”

  I reached his desk, leaned over and placed my hands on the glass. The security man came forward and stood beside me, ready to make a move if I even thought about grabbing Copeland.

  “The only person you need to worry about is me. If you go after Harry, I’ll come after you.”

  He didn’t even blink.

  “That would be foolish, Mr Flynn. And dangerous. You’re a small fish, like all those other lawyers I took down. I’m a friggin’ barracuda. You know why I target lawyers in my appeals? Because I need someone to blame. Prosecutors and judges usually withstand criticism. But a defense attorney? No one is batting for that team. And besides, the fewer defense attorneys that are around, the more business there is for me. Your involvement won’t change a thing.”

  The guy was ice cold. Unshakable. I knew then it had been a mistake to come here. I stood up straight. My hands left moist prints on the glass. Copeland looked at the smears on the desk and tutted. He plucked the red, silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping his desk, furiously. When he was done, he stared up at me.

  “You still here? Leave, or you’ll be carried out. You don’t scare me. I’ve faced great lawyers before. The best. Better men than you,” he said.

  “I’m sure you have, but I’ll let you in on a secret – I’m not a good man. Not even close. Leave Harry out of this, or you’ll find out how bad I can be.”

  Copeland looked past me at the tall guy with the buzz cut and said, “Introduce Mr Flynn’s face to the sidewalk, would you, Bear?”

  The guy’s real name wasn’t Bear. I’d bet my life on it. If you’re looking to get hired as personal security it pays to have a name that either breeds intimidation, or fosters a sense of security. All personal security guys with an eye on the business were called “Bear”, or “Snake”, or “Tomahawk”. Having to write out the personal name tags at a security convention was probably a whole lot of fun.

  “That’s it, you’re out of here,” said Bear.

  He side-stepped, so he was right behind me. I felt his right arm slam across my throat. He locked his fingers to his left forearm, leaned back and started choking me. When he began walking backwards I had no choice other than go with him.

  I’d made a total mess of this meeting. Instead of finessing Copeland I’d let him get to me through Harry. The man knew who I was, he knew what Harry meant to me.

  A stupid mistake.

  I pulled down on Bear’s arm to get some air. Soon as he’d grabbed me I decided to let him take me out of the office. No point in making a bad situation worse.

  “Make sure Flynn understands what happens to people who threaten me,” said Copeland.

  That sounded like more than just throwing my ass onto the street. Copeland’s hired muscle hooked his right arm closer around my neck letting his left go free and I felt a sharp, stabbing pain from the rabbit punch.

  “I’ll make sure he understands,” said Bear and I could tell he was smiling by the way he said it. This was a guy who clearly enjoyed his work.

  I thought the situation would probably only get worse for me. No point in holding back any longer. First thing to do was break his grip. Easy. My thumb dug into the center of his palm. I squeezed hard and felt bone. Specifically, I felt two bones. Making sure my thumb was in between the bones of his middle fingers, I applied the last ounce of pressure and instantly his fingers relaxed and his grip weakened.

  But I wasn’t trying to break his grip on my throat. I just wanted him to open his hand a little. Which he did. Just enough to allow me to grab his little finger.

  I don’t care how big or how tough you are because when somebody who knows what they’re doing gets hold of one of your digits – the fight is over before it even started.

  The rabbit punch had pissed me off and I yanked too hard the first time.

  There was a sound like a bag of popcorn bursting in a microwave. Except the popping and cracking sound came from the little bones, cartilage, sinew and ligament in the guy’s finger.

  I let go and turned around to face him. He’d turned pale, his mouth was open and he was shivering and sweat broke out on his forehead. He made a big deal out of not looking at his hand. Then when he did look at it, the unnatural angle of his finger poured the rest of the color out of his face and his legs began to wobble. He sat down in a chair in the corner before he fell on his ass.

  I regretted hurting the guy. Even as I twisted his bones until they broke in my hand, I knew that in my head I wasn’t breaking the security guys’ hand, I was really thinking about hurting somebody else.

  I made for the door to Copeland’s office and without turning to face him I said, “Tell your pet to keep his paws to himself. This isn’t over.”

  Before the door to his office closed, I heard him calling after me.

  “You’re right, Flynn. This is just the beginning.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I managed to beat my way out of Manhattan via the Henry Hudson Parkway, then the Saw Mill River Parkway to Yonkers where I found the Bronx River and another ribbon of asphalt. The snow on the side of the highway had turned black from the fumes and dirt from the passing vehicles. Traffic was busy but moving. It took me an hour and a half to make the twenty-five mile trip from New York City to the Westchester County Court, in White Plains.

  On the way I had time to think about the last few months.

  Couple of days after the fire at Howell’s house, I went up to Riverhead and visited Christine and Amy. I’d called ahead, to make sure her parents weren’t in the house. I had a great relationship with my in-laws; they bitched and complained to Christine that I wasn’t good enough for her and I ignored them. Pretty perfect, actually.

  Visiting Amy had been regular, once a week. Lately, Amy had begun to make good friends and some weekends disappeared for me because of sleepovers at her BFFs or camping trips – that kind of thing. Work got busier for me too. Folks don’t have much consideration for their lawyer’s social lives when they get arrested, so a lot of Friday and Saturday nights in police precincts meant that regular weekend visits gave way to a few hours here and there on Sundays. On that day, I was still coughing up black spit occasionally, and my hand still hurt like hell, but I’d enjoyed a full day alone with my daughter.

  Christine and I talked on the porch after I dropped Amy off at Christine’s parents’ house. They were set to have a family dinner that evening. The word family didn’t seem to include me.

  Christine dressed in a white blouse and pale blue jeans. Here and there, silver streaked her long brown hair. She looked different. Older than the day we first met, but just as beautiful. And beautiful in a new kind of way. A way that made me think about how much of her life was passing me by. Behind her, Amy sat on the staircase and called one of her friends on the landline.

  We got the small talk out of the way first. Her new job was going pretty well, she had interesting cases at the firm, and the managing partner, Kevin, was a tall divorcee with two kids of his own.

  He’d been doing little odd jobs in the house, helping out Christine’s dad. They got on like a house on fire, apparently. Christine had been seeing a lot of him, as a friend.

  “You sure you’re just friends?” I said, standing on the porch, my car keys in my hand.

  At that moment, I couldn’t get much of a read on Christine. She looked kind of sad. Her eyes were heavy, but her teeth and hands were clenched tightly, so I guessed there was a little an
ger and frustration going on too.

  “Your job puts all of us at risk. You know it, you’ve said it yourself and even I know it now. We love you, but you’re not here,” she said, and by the time she’d finished her sentence any trace of anger had faded into a familiar disappointment. I was used to that tone.

  A car pulled up in the driveway behind me. I didn’t need to turn to know it was her parents, Bob and Diane – come to make sure I’d returned their granddaughter in one piece.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “Do I have to? Look, he’s my boss. And yeah, I like to think we’re friends. He’s a good guy, you’d like him.”

  Somehow I doubted that.

  “Okay, I gotta split. I’ll see you next …”

  “Amy’s going to camp for the summer,” she said, quickly.

  Amy must’ve heard me when I said I was leaving. She put the phone receiver on the carpeted stairs, came out, pushed past Christine and gave me a hug.

  “I hear you’re going to camp?” I said.

  She let go of me, and stared up into my eyes. My girl was turning thirteen, she was getting bigger every day.

  “I was going to tell you. It’s okay, Dad, I’ll call you most nights, at eight. Like we used to. I get to see my friends and hang out and stuff. I can still see you when I get back,” she said.

  “It’s fine, I’m happy for you. Call me when you can. I’ll always be here,” I said, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. This meant I wouldn’t get Amy for most of the summer. She gave me another hug, then ran back inside to finish her call.

  I nodded to Christine and said, “I’ll call you,” turned and jogged to my car. No way did I want to speak to her parents. I just needed to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. I felt close to breaking down, and I didn’t want Christine, Amy, or anyone to see that. The Mustang growled as I sped away, but I only drove two blocks, stopped and then banged the wheel for a full minute. The burn on my hand started bleeding and the pain became a welcome distraction.