by Paul Coggins
Eva paused, giving him a chance to fess up. He remained silent.
She went on. “What part of no cartel work do you not understand?”
“Don’t believe everything you read, and where Skyler’s concerned, don’t believe anything you read. Case in point, I’m not defending Fine. He hasn’t contacted me, and it wouldn’t make a difference if he had.”
“Guess again.” She pointed to the closed door to Goldberg’s office. “Your new client is in there with Goldy.”
“What?” It was Cash’s turn to raise his voice. “You left the old man alone with Fine? What were you thinking?”
“I’m not his babysitter.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
As Cash blew past her, she scored the last word. “A babysitter would be paid more.”
Cash rushed into Goldberg’s office and slammed the door behind him. The old man looked relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, almost horizontal. Close to corpse pose. Boots on the desk. Eyes shut. Grinning like he’d pulled one over on Johnny Law.
In Goldy’s zen-like presence, Toby Fine seemed like a new man. Cash had last seen him outside the courtroom, overshadowed by the showboat Rhoden and surrounded by a scrum of bloodsucking reporters. Fine had looked like a trapped animal. Almost a sympathetic figure.
Today, Fine garnered no sympathy—not from Cash anyway. A closer look revealed the predator behind the civilized façade. Hooded eyes and bloodless lips offset his flaccid features.
Fine stood and reached out a hand that had never done a day’s honest labor. Cash was slow to shake hands and quick to break the grip, repulsed by the clammy flesh.
Goldberg opened his eyes and rocked forward. “About time you showed up. Toby here finds himself in the market for new counsel.”
“We’re booked for the year.” Cash didn’t try to sell the lie. “For next year too.”
Fine sat, a sign he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “In my experience, nothing clears a lawyer’s calendar faster than a seven-figure retainer.”
“Sorry, still booked solid,” Cash said, “but I’ll be happy to refer you to another firm.”
Fine wrote out a check and handed it to Goldberg. “Talk it over between yourselves. I expect to hear back from you by noon tomorrow.”
No sooner had Fine left Goldberg’s office than Eva invited herself in. A welcome addition, given that Cash had her vote in the bag.
Goldberg took his best shot at winning her over. Not with words. Instead, he held the check to her eyes, counting on the string of zeros to rope her in.
She didn’t blink. “Cartel money’s not real, because you never live long enough to spend it. So it wouldn’t matter if the check was for a hundred million dollars.”
That’s my girl.
“Even if our fee wasn’t coming from a cartel,” Cash said, “we don’t represent pimps. Working girls, sure. But not their fucking pimps.”
Goldberg shook his head. “This is an important First Amendment issue. Besides, Fine’s not a pimp.”
“You’re right,” Cash said. “He’s worse than a pimp. Instead of working the streets like any self-respecting parasite, he parks his fat ass in a penthouse suite, while his website peddles underage flesh to any perv with a PC. The lower the kid’s age, the higher the price.”
“Since when do we swallow the government’s allegations in an indictment whole-hog?” Goldberg said.
Eva leaned over Goldberg’s desk, getting in the old man’s face. “I don’t give a damn whether the charges against Fine are true or false. We don’t take cartel money. Period. End of debate.”
“Time to vote,” Cash said. “All in favor of taking on Fine as a client, raise your hand.”
Goldberg raised the hand clutching the check and waved it in the air. It fell limp, like a flag of surrender.
“All opposed.”
Eva and Cash raised their hands.
“The nays have it,” Cash said.
Eva snatched the check from Goldberg and looked to Cash. He nodded. She tore it up.
Good thing too. Cash lacked the strength to do it.
***
The image of a million-dollar check in shreds haunted Cash all the way home.
Beat, broke, and bummed out, he dragged himself to the living room and flipped on a light. Froze. Ten feet away sat a man on the couch. Hard to tell his height, but he appeared to be slim. Close to Cash’s build. Maybe a few pounds heavier.
Cash blinked the stranger into focus. He looked battle tested and boot tough. A crewcut that would pass military inspection. Lined, leathery face. Dead eyes that warned the world not to cross him.
Cash wouldn’t risk it, not even if the intruder hadn’t brought along a sidekick: a Glock.
“Turn off the light,” the Glockster said.
Cash hit the switch. “How did you get in?”
“Wrong question.” The intruder sounded as if he didn’t give a shit how the night played out. “The right one is whether you’ll leave the house tomorrow morning on your own two feet or in a body bag.”
“I’m definitely interested in the answer to that one as well.” Cash kept his voice steady, more or less. “And I’m totally in favor of walking out of here on my own power.”
“My boss was very disappointed in your disrespect of Mister Fine this morning.”
“Your boss being—?”
Glockster cut him off. “Being your boss, too.”
“Ah, so she’s cashing in her chit for Fine.”
“Appears to be the case.”
“Why didn’t she make that clear before Fine came to see me?”
“She’s a businesswoman. No sense burning a marker unless she has to. Most lawyers would’ve sold their mothers for a fraction of what Fine offered you up front.”
“If she had made it clear that—”
Glockster racked the slide of the pistol. That shut Cash up.
“Is it clear now?”
“Crystal,” Cash said.
“Just so there’s no danger of confusion, you will take Fine’s case and win it. If you don’t, I’ll be back to see you. But only after I make calls on everyone you care about, starting with your dog.”
“Joke’s on you,” Cash said. “I don’t have a dog.”
“The sign on the lawn says to beware of the dog.”
Cash shrugged. “Poor man’s burglar alarm.”
***
At 4:10 a.m., the doorbell woke Cash from a fitful sleep. Groggy, he trudged to the door and peered through the peephole.
No one on the porch. Nothing to see.
A scratching on the door prompted him to open it. A black Labrador puppy greeted him with a whimper. He patted the pup and removed the note tied to the collar:
DON’T GET TOO ATTACHED.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Bettina Biddle suggested meeting at noon at Nordstrom’s in the Northpark Shopping Center, Cash assumed it was for a lunch that would break up her hard day of shopping, sandwiched between Pilates class and picking up the kids from school. Instead, he found her at the Chanel perfume counter, spritzing passersby with Scarlett—a new brand named for the film star.
Cash stopped outside her range. “Do you have a license for that weapon?”
She nodded. “Double O Seven here, with a license to shill.”
“In my book,” he said, “you’re a ten.”
She looked different today. Just as beautiful but younger, freer. Her brunette hair flowed halfway down her back, the bangs brushing her eyebrows.
“Perfect timing for my lunch break.” She even sounded younger.
He took her to a back booth at Seasons 52, on the far side of the mall. Fearful of a crying jag or worse, he held his questions until wine arrived. “When did you start working at Nordstrom’s?”
“Last week. Technically I’m a trainee for six weeks.” She blushed. “The girls are back in school, so there’s no one home.”
There had to be more to the story, but Cash didn’t push. The st
rategy paid off.
“Besides,” she said, “we can use the money. I’ve come full circle. I used to have a personal shopper at Nordstrom’s, and now I’m training to be one. Ah, the benefit of an arts degree from TCU.”
“Did you and Marty meet in college?”
She nodded. “He was a scholarship student with a finance major and a night job at 7-Eleven, while I divided my time between the sorority house and the art department. I concentrated on Spanish painters of the Nineteenth Century, which gave me a good excuse to take a junior year abroad in Madrid.”
“Guess it’s true,” Cash said, “about opposites attracting.”
She checked her watch. “I get forty-five minutes for lunch, so I’ll get right to the point of why I asked to meet. Have you found out any more about Marty’s death?”
Cash sipped the Syrah, stalling. Though he knew the question would come up, he had no ready response. “I’m finding more questions than answers. The first big one, how and why did your late husband hire Rhoden to defend him in the criminal case?” His tone left no doubt as to his thoughts on the choice.
She winced. He had hit a nerve. “Marty’s company recommended him and offered to pay all the legal bills. We had just bought a new house, and the girls were in private school. We were still paying off college debts. The legal fees would’ve put us underwater. At the time it seemed like a great idea.”
“And now?” Cash said.
“He and Marty fought throughout the trial.”
“Over what?” Cash said.
“Over everything. Whether Marty should testify. Whether Rhoden needed to cross-examine government witnesses and call witnesses for our side. By the time the case went to the jury, Marty didn’t trust him.”
“And you?”
“He was a pig.” As she lifted the glass to her lips, her hand shook. Cash chalked it up to anger, not nerves. “He hit on me during the trial and even came on to me while Marty was in prison.”
“Did you tell your husband?”
She shook her head. “He had too much to deal with, and I could handle Rhoden on my own.”
“Rhoden’s no longer a problem,” Cash said. “I assume you know he was gunned down.”
“I saw it on the news.” She didn’t sound sorry.
Cash didn’t blame her. Rhoden’s bad boy behavior came as no surprise. It would’ve been out of character for him not to have made a move on Bettina. In one respect, however, Rhoden’s conduct had been unprecedented. Cash had never known him to lay off the government’s witnesses completely.
Push his client to clam up and plead guilty, sure. That was Marty’s M.O. But to play dead at trial—that had been new.
Rhoden lived to destroy people on the stand, but Marty’s trial hadn’t played out that way. To prepare Biddle’s appellate brief, Cash had pored over the transcript. For long stretches of the trial, Rhoden had gone mute, becoming little more than a potted plant, while the prosecutors piled on evidence.
At first, Cash had given the defense counsel the benefit of the doubt. The critical decisions not to put the client on the stand nor to call witnesses could’ve turned on Rhoden’s belief their testimony would’ve made things worse. Now Cash wasn’t so sure.
“Besides testifying himself,” Cash said, “who did Marty want to call to the stand?”
“Marty gave Rhoden a list of co-workers who had helped put together the financial statements that went to the banks. The prosecutors made it seem as if Marty had prepared the documents all by himself.” Her voice picked up pace and heat. “That wasn’t true. A team compiled them, and they were approved by supervisors before going out the door.”
By the time the entrees arrived—a club sandwich for him and a kale salad for her—Cash had lost his appetite. Bettina’s claim didn’t get her husband off the hook, but it did raise a new question. If others had their prints all over the false financial statements provided to the banks, why didn’t the prosecutors charge them with conspiracy to defraud? Why had they gone after Marty alone?
After all, conspiracy is the feds’ favorite charge. With a bird’s nest on the ground, why settle for breaking only one bad egg?
“You said that Marty’s company picked up Rhoden’s legal tab,” Cash said, “but who actually recommended him to your husband?”
“Marty’s boss, as well as the outside lawyers for the company.”
“What are their names?”
“Marty’s boss is Lou Watson, and the lawyers were Mister Powell and….” She tapped a forefinger on her lower lip. “Marsha something. No, something Marsha.” She stopped tapping. “Marshall.”
Cash’s voice jumped an octave. “Paula Marshall?”
“Yeah, that’s the name. Do you know her?”
“Too well.”
“We screwed up big time by putting our trust in Rhoden.” She pushed away the plate, the salad untouched. “We should’ve sold the house, borrowed what we could, and hired you to defend Marty.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over that. Two things would’ve kept you from hiring me. One, I didn’t have a law license at the time. Two, I was behind bars.”
“But hiring Rhoden,” she said, “cost Marty his life.”
Cash couldn’t bail her out there. Rhoden would sacrifice his mother for an extra buck. “What I can’t fathom,” he said, “is why Powell and Paula would risk their reputations by recommending a cockroach like Rhoden. They’re corner office partners at a white-shoe firm. What are they doing in bed with Rhoden?”
She stared at the table. “While we’re on the subject of lawyers and their bills, I hired you to look into Marty’s death, and I will pay you for your time. But right now things are a little tight. The prosecutors have frozen my accounts until we reach an agreement on Marty’s restitution. I put the house up for sale and got a decent offer. When the sale closes in a month or so, the feds will take the lion’s share, and I’ll pay you from what’s left.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got a counteroffer. You take my bedmate off my hands, and we call it even.”
“Your bedmate?”
He dropped a photo of Nuisance on the table. The pup, asleep on Cash’s bed, looked more like a plush toy than a pet. “Your daughters could use a new friend.”
She picked up the photo. “Just what we need. Another mouth to feed. You know that if I show this picture to my girls, I’m sunk.”
He smiled.
Bettina checked her watch again. “Sorry to eat and run.” She stopped. “Well, to not eat and run, but my break’s almost over.”
“Go back to making the world a sweeter smelling place, and I’ll settle up here.”
She put the photo in her purse. “Someday I’ll get back at you for this.”
He counted on it. After she left, he ordered another glass of wine. Saying goodbye to Nuisance would be tough, but a snap compared to his next move.
Getting rid of Eva.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The pup whirled around and around in Cash’s bed, robbing him of sleep for the second straight night. The sicario’s gift earned the name Cash had given him: Nuisance. Even in those rare moments when the black Lab calmed down, he stirred up unsettling childhood memories.
On their last day together, Cash’s mother had brought him an early birthday gift: Max. A mutt rescued from the pound to keep her eight-year-old son company while locked in his room.
The lockdowns occurred at least daily and sometimes two or three times a day, whenever a visitor called on his mother. The men came rain or shine, day or night. Strangers and regulars without regard to race, color, age, shape, or smell. They stayed anywhere from a few minutes to all night.
To the silent boy hidden away in the bedroom, minutes had seemed like hours. Hours, like days.
The two dogs in Cash’s life—Max and Nuisance—were different in every way: breed, size, color, disposition, and sex. No matter. Nuisance still triggered memories of the worst day of Cash’s life.
That is, until today threatened
to sink even lower. Cash was on the cusp of losing Eva. He’d lived with his mother for eight years. With Eva, fifteen. No one else had come close.
He could no longer confide in Eva. Not about the sicario anyway. Not with the bombshell about to be dropped on her.
If things went as planned today, he might never confide in her again.
Over a breakfast of wheat toast and black coffee, Cash devised a four-stage strategy for surviving the fallout from Operation Adios. Step one: inform Toby Fine that Cash would take his case.
On the way to Goldy’s apartment, Cash called Fine with the news. The new client didn’t act surprised, relieved, or the slightest bit grateful. Instead, he asked what had taken Cash so long to come around. Sounded cocksure of himself. More depressing, certain of Cash as well. One more strike against the perv.
Step one, check.
Step two: break the news about their representation of Fine to Goldy. It might take the two of them, plus a small army, to handle Eva. Cash ambushed the old man at his apartment, interrupting a breakfast of last night’s leftovers: chicken flautas, refried beans, and warm beer.
The ambience proved more depressing than the morning fare. At this point in his marital merry-go-round, Goldy had bought four houses in Highland Park—an affluent suburb carved from the heart of Dallas. Highland Park had done everything but build a moat to keep out the barbarians.
Goldy had lost all four mansions to exes in bitter divorces, each time landing in an apartment that was grungier than its predecessors. The current digs came with chipped furniture, shag carpet, peeling paint, and the stench of cigarette smoke.
Goldy more than made up for Fine’s underwhelming reaction. “Hot damn, I knew you’d come to your senses. The money is too good to pass up.”
“About the money….” Cash feared the old man’s ticker couldn’t take the shock of the next sentence. “We’re handling this one pro bono.”
Goldy looked as if he’d been gut-punched. His lips moved, but no words emerged.
“It’s a freebie,” Cash said, “the one I promised La Tigra to get out of Mexico alive.”
“Is it too late to change my vote?” Goldy said.
