Con Law

by Mark Gimenez

  ‘A car accident,’ Book said. ‘Same day he mailed the letter.’

  Through tears, the receptionist had provided the basics of Nathan’s death.

  ‘Coincidence.’ Nadine turned to him. ‘Can we go home now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe in coincidences.’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that.’

  Book hadn’t been to a funeral in twenty-one years. Five hundred police officers from around the state of Texas had turned out in full uniform for Ben Bookman’s funeral; they do that for a fellow officer killed in the line of duty. Not so much for lawyers. Only a few dozen people were gathered at the gravesite. Some were dressed like lawyers, most like cowboys in jeans and boots and plaid shirts. A young woman wearing jeans and a black T-shirt stood alone off to one side; she looked their way for a moment then looked away. Book spotted the receptionist in her black dress; she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. An older couple seemed distraught; probably Nathan’s parents. A young, very pregnant woman stood next to them; she stepped forward and placed a red rose on the casket. No doubt Nathan’s wife. Next to her stood one of those locals, a large young man with blond curly hair; he put an arm around her shoulders. Family or family friend. A white-haired man snapped photographs from the perimeter. After the service ended and the crowd began to disperse, Book approached the pregnant woman.

  ‘Ms. Jones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Professor Bookman. From UT. Nathan wrote to me.’

  Her eyes darted around then she stepped close and lowered her voice.

  ‘Not here. They’re watching. Come to my house. Tonight. I’m in the book.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping in a teepee.’

  El Cosmico occupied eighteen acres just south of town and adjacent to the Border Patrol station. Its website touted a ‘unique communal outpost in West Texas,’ but Nadine wasn’t convinced. Accommodations ranged from refurbished Airstream trailers to safari tents and authentic Sioux teepees. A community bathhouse with a tub and toilet came with the price. Dubbed a ‘hippie campground’ by the locals, El Cosmico was the latest venture of the woman behind the Hotel San José and Jo’s Coffee in Austin. Book was a regular at Jo’s, so he had decided to give it a try. But his intern was having none of it.

  ‘And I don’t share toilets with strangers.’

  She sighed and shook her head as if faced with an impossible task.

  ‘I can’t even imagine how many sanitizing wipes I’d go through.’

  ‘Ms. Honeywell, you’re a mighty picky traveling companion, you do know that?’

  ‘So sue me.’

  ‘Spoken like a true lawyer.’

  Ten minutes later, they stood at the front desk of the El Paisano Hotel. The lobby of the Spanish baroque, pueblo-deco style hotel featured leather chairs and ottomans, colorful Mexican tiled floors, exposed wood beams, and—

  ‘OMG,’ Nadine said. ‘Is that a buffalo head on the wall?’

  ‘And a longhorn.’ Book turned to the desk clerk. ‘Just one night.’

  Nadine dug her cell phone out of her canvas bag and took a photo of the stuffed heads.

  ‘No one back home will believe this.’

  ‘Your name?’ the clerk said.

  ‘John Bookman.’

  The clerk broke into a big smile. ‘Professor Bookman, welcome to the Paisano. We were expecting you.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Your secretary—Myrna?—she called ahead and made reservations for you and Miss Honeywell. I have some messages for you.’

  The clerk disappeared behind the counter.

  ‘Where’s the nearest Starbucks?’ Nadine asked. ‘I’m dying for caffeine.’

  The clerk reappeared and said, ‘No Starbucks in Marfa.’

  Nadine stared as if the clerk had said, ‘No oxygen in Marfa.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  The clerk shrugged at her then handed three message slips to Book: Myrna, his sister, and James Welch. Nadine shook off her Starbucks shock and held her phone up as if trying to gauge the wind in the lobby.

  ‘Why can’t I get through?’

  ‘Cell phone service,’ the clerk said, ‘it’s a bit sketchy out here.’

  Nadine responded with the same look of utter disbelief.

  ‘No Starbucks or texting—are we still in America?’

  ‘You’re still in Texas.’

  The clerk handed room keys to Book.

  ‘Professor, you’re in the Rock Hudson suite, and Miss Honeywell is in the Elizabeth Taylor suite. Rooms two-eleven and two-twelve.’

  ‘Great, now we’re sleeping in dead people’s beds,’ she said.

  ‘They were alive when they slept here. Let’s wash up and get some lunch, figure out where we go from here.’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Enjoy the art,’ the desk clerk said.

  Book carried their gear up the flight of stairs—there was no elevator—and down the corridor to their rooms.

  James Dean practiced rope tricks in the courtyard of the El Paisano Hotel. Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor partied with the cast and crew in the dining room. Director George Stevens reviewed the ‘dailies’ in the ballroom each evening; locals were welcome. And they came. For six weeks in the summer of 1955, Hollywood lived in the Paisano, and Marfa was Cinderella at the ball.

  But the ball ended, Hollywood went home, and Marfa was left to its old life. The town and the hotel began a steady slide. By 2001, Marfa was the county seat of the poorest county in Texas, and the Paisano was sold at a tax foreclosure auction on the steps of the Presidio County Courthouse. No one imagined that day that there would be a Hollywood ending for both the town and the hotel. But there was—but not because of Hollywood.

  Because of art.

  Book deposited Nadine in Elizabeth Taylor’s room then went next door to his room. Rock Hudson had been comfortable: living room, full kitchen, bedroom, and private rooftop balcony. Book dropped his bag then looked for the room phone. There wasn’t one. So he dialed Myrna on his cell then stepped out onto the balcony. Myrna’s voice soon came over, a bit scratchy but audible.

  ‘You made it to Marfa safely?’

  The mother in Myrna.

  ‘We did.’

  ‘How’s Nadine?’

  ‘Homesick. How’d you know we’d stay at the Paisano?’

  ‘Nadine didn’t seem like the camping-out type, not with all that hand sanitizer. When are you coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow, probably. You remember Nathan Jones? He interned for me four years back?’

  ‘Of course I remember Nathan. He saved my job.’ She thought that was funny. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wrote me that letter, asking for help.’

  ‘Are you going to help him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Book called his sister next. Joanie was thirty-one and a new mother. He had given her away at her wedding three years before to a doctor named Dennis. Book’s new brother-in-law had advised them to put their mother in a home. But what the hell did he know about Alzheimer’s? He was a proctologist.

  ‘Book, we’ve got to talk about putting Mom in a home.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to, but—’

  ‘She didn’t put us in a home. She went back to work after Dad died.’

  Clare Bookman had kept the books and paid the bills for a dozen small businesses in Austin; now she couldn’t balance her own checkbook.

  ‘And Dad sure as hell wouldn’t have put her in a home.’

  Alzheimer’s had made his mother a stranger in her own body. In her own house. To her own children. She would not have wanted to live like that. But it was too late for her to make that choice. The disease had made the choice for her. When the time came for Book, he would make the choice before the disease made it for him.

  ‘Book, she doesn’t even know who we are a
nymore.’

  ‘We know who she is.’

  ‘Book—’

  ‘Joanie—that’s not going to happen. She can live with me.’

  ‘And all your sleep-over girlfriends?’

  ‘They won’t sleep over anymore.’

  ‘And how will you take her anywhere? On the back of that Harley?’

  ‘I’ll buy a car.’

  ‘What would you buy that’s fast enough and dangerous enough?’

  ‘A minivan.’

  She laughed. He liked Joanie’s laugh.

  ‘Indiana Jones in a minivan? I don’t think so. Besides, Book, you’re always gone. Like now.’

  ‘I’ll hire around-the-clock caregivers.’

  ‘That’s expensive.’

  ‘Can you say “book royalties”?’

  ‘I thought that was going to be your retirement fund?’

  From the rooftop balcony two stories up, Book could see all of Marfa and the desert beyond. The prairie grass gleamed yellow in the sun.

  ‘I don’t figure on living to retirement age.’

  ‘Oh, Book, don’t talk like that. Just because Mom … that doesn’t mean …’ She sighed into the phone. ‘What are you doing in Marfa?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Another adventure?’

  ‘A dead lawyer.’

  His last call was to James Welch, chairman of the Board of Regents for the University of Texas System, a nonprofit organization possessing a $21 billion endowment, numerous real-estate developments, two million acres of prime oil land, stakes in a world-class golf club, a radio station and a cable TV sports channel, the most expensive and profitable football team in America, and fifteen universities and medical schools throughout Texas educating over two hundred thousand students. The University of Texas at Austin is the flagship campus. James Welch had earned an MBA from UT thirty-three years before; today, he boasted a $3 billion net worth. He was the most powerful man in higher education in Texas.

  ‘Professor Bookman, thanks for calling me back.’

  ‘Sorry for the delay, Mr. Welch. I had to leave town unexpectedly.’

  ‘Your secretary said you were in Marfa. The wife and I went out there a few years back. She wanted to see the art. Boxes and crushed cars and fluorescent lights—I didn’t get it.’

  He exhaled.

  ‘Well, as you may have heard, Professor, my son, Robert, was arrested for drug possession with intent to distribute. They took his blood without his consent.’

  ‘What was he doing when the police arrested him?’

  ‘Leaning against his car parked on Sixth Street. Cop came along and arrested him.’

  ‘He didn’t say or do anything to the police officer?’

  ‘Knowing Bobby, he probably smarted off. Never been one to keep his mouth shut. Like his mother. But how can they do that, take his blood without his consent? Is that constitutional?’

  The definition of a liberal: a conservative who had been arrested.

  ‘Good question. No answer as yet. So they arrested your son, searched his car, and found drugs?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘The police report says a pound.’

  ‘That’s more than recreational.’

  ‘Bobby’s not a drug dealer, Professor. He’s a user. And he’s going into rehab at the Betty Ford Clinic, if he gets out of jail. And the case is dismissed. And his record expunged.’

  ‘Mr. Welch, you should hire an experienced criminal defense lawyer.’

  ‘I did. Scotty Raines. He said the search and seizure was illegal, no probable cause to search his Beemer or take a blood sample. He suggested I hire you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if Scotty says the search and seizure was illegal, the judge will still hold a trial. But you’re a famous constitutional law expert. If you say the search and seizure was illegal, the judge will dismiss the case.’

  ‘You want me to write a brief?’

  ‘And argue the issue in court, if necessary. I’m prepared to pay you handsomely.’

  ‘You don’t think your status is enough to’—Book wanted to say, ‘Get him off, ’but didn’t—‘remedy this situation?’

  ‘In Dallas, sure. But this is Austin, not exactly a hotbed of Republicans. The D.A. is a Democrat. I’m a big Republican donor in Texas, and I supported the D.A.’s opponent in the last election.’

  ‘Whoops.’

  ‘Whoops is right, Professor.’

  Book pondered a moment. Sitting in the Travis County Jail for six months to a year with hardened criminals wouldn’t do the young Welch any good. He needed to be in rehab.

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘I’ll do it. I’ll talk to your lawyer and write your brief.’

  ‘Thank you. What do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re going to work for free?’

  As if Book had said a recount had made Romney the winner.

  ‘No. In return, I want two promises from you. And these are non-negotiable, Mr. Welch.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘First, your son goes into residential rehab, not some one-hour-a-week outpatient therapy. Six months minimum.’

  ‘Six months? He’ll fall behind in school.’

  ‘Better than falling behind in life.’

  ‘All right. Six months. I’m taking him out there myself. Professor, I love my son. I will take care of him.’ He hesitated a moment then said, ‘When I was at UT, we got drunk on Lone Star beer. Now it’s cocaine. Why do kids use drugs?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr. Welch.’

  The line was silent for a long moment then Welch’s voice came across.

  ‘What’s the second promise?’

  Chapter 6

  His intern didn’t answer her door when Book rang the bell—the Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor suites had doorbells—so he went downstairs. He checked the phone book at the front desk for Nathan Jones’s home address and jotted it down in the small notebook he always carried in his back pocket. He asked the desk clerk for the local paper, but it was a weekly and the last edition had come out the day before Nathan died; the new edition would come out the next day. He asked the clerk for the location of the newspaper office. He then searched for his intern.

  He found her in the Giant museum.

  In a small space off the lobby, Giant memorabilia, movie posters, photographs, coffee mugs, T-shirts, caps, and shot glasses were offered for sale, and on a small television the film ran in a loop. Nadine Honeywell sat in a leather chair in front of the screen with her feet kicked up on an ottoman and her eyes focused through her black glasses on the movie. Book had watched Giant several times, as had every Texan of age; it was the national movie of Texas. On the screen, Jett Rink, the ranch hand turned oil tycoon played by James Dean, had just struck oil on the small tract of land he had inherited from Luz Benedict. He drove straight to the Reata ranch house and sucker-punched his former employer, Bick Benedict, the cattle baron played by Rock Hudson.

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’ Nadine said. ‘And gay.’

  ‘Jett Rink?’

  ‘James Dean.’

  ‘He died a few weeks after they finished shooting the movie here. He was driving fast, heading to a road race in southern California in his Porsche, truck pulled out in front of him, he couldn’t stop in time. He was only twenty-four. Lived fast and died young. Never saw the movie, but he was nominated for an Oscar. He made only three films: Giant, East of Eden, and Rebel Without a Cause.’

  Nadine’s eyes turned up from the screen to Book. ‘So, what, you’re trying to be another James Dean?’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘A rebel without a cause … except you’re a rebel with too many causes.’

  Jett’s Grill fronts the courtyard just off the hotel lobby. It’s a civilized place with cloth tablecloths, a pink-and-green tile floor, and a wait staff dressed in black. Book ordered tilapia tacos and iced tea. Nadine ordered the Giant cheeseburger—o
ne-half pound of Black Angus beef—Parmesan fries, a root beer, and coffee and a chocolate brownie for dessert.

  ‘Ms. Honeywell, would you like a stick of butter with that?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked up at the waitress, a young woman with a rose tattoo on her ample bosom. She was an artist; waiting tables was her day job.

  ‘I want ice cream. Vanilla.’

  ‘You know what you’re putting inside yourself?’

  ‘Better than a man.’

  ‘Amen,’ the waitress said. She winked at Nadine then left with their orders.

  His intern had cleaned up and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Her face was innocent and unadorned. She dug in her canvas bag and pulled out a sanitary wipe packet; she tore open the packet, removed the wipe, and proceeded to rub down the salt and pepper shakers, the silverware—she reached for his, but he moved them away—and her water glass.

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you can.’

  She again reached into her bag and came out with the Purell hand sanitizer. She squirted the gel into her palm and rubbed her hands as if she were a doctor prepping for surgery. Their table now smelled like a hospital.

  ‘You like that stuff?’ Book said.

  ‘Purell is pretty good. Sixty-two percent ethyl alcohol content. Germ-X has sixty-five percent. My favorite is Outlast. It has seventy percent ethyl alcohol, it kills ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent of germs, and it lasts six hours. But it’s kind of hard on my skin.’

  ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’

  ‘The world is full of dangerous germs.’

  ‘Life is dangerous.’

  ‘It was for Nathan.’

  Nathan Jones was dead at twenty-nine. He had been Book’s intern at twenty-five. For one month. Until that first letter had arrived in the mail. And they had gone to South Texas.