by Sydney Bauer
“Your luck will run out eventually, James,” said David then.
“Somehow I don’t think so,” replied James as he moved inside and began to slide the door back into its catches. “But whatever the case, I want to say none of this would have been possible if not for you so . . . Merry Christmas, man, and thanks again for everything.”
93
The traffic was light until he reached the shopping strips around Copley, with hoards of animated people buying last-minute gifts and stocking up with bagloads of food before the holidays. Downtown was worse, with the malls and department stores now teeming with bodies, the fine weather dragging people from their homes, the promise of a blue-skied Christmas a welcome respite after weeks of being forced indoors.
And in that moment David felt the all-encompassing wave of envy, that he was not one of them, walking, shopping, laughing, with nothing to worry about except what to buy the kids and how long to cook the Christmas turkey. He wanted to ring Sara and tell her to meet him out front with their bags now—so that he could hit the accelerator and head south, and forget about it all, and lead some semblance of a normal holiday with the person he loved most in the world.
But he couldn’t do that, and he knew why. This was his fault. If he had not been blinded by James’ seeming idealism, and his own determination to see his client as a younger version of himself, this might never have happened. It was true these “kids” were masters, for they had effectively fooled David and his team, Joe and Frank and even the savvy ADA with their barrage of lies and deception.
James and Simpson, and to a lesser extent Westinghouse and Rousseau, had driven this thing from the outset—with no regard for people like Jessica and her child or Sawyer and Mr. Lim who they had destroyed in their wake.
And so he would do what he needed to do—walk that fine line between what was “right” and what was not, and in the end pray that justice had not betrayed him, just taken another track where the final destination was exactly where it was meant to be all along.
He pulled the car into the space outside his office, a small, corner spot that saw his Land Cruiser spill into a no-standing zone. It was after midday, and if Nora had done as instructed, the man would be in there alone, waiting, curious, with no idea why he had been asked to this unexpected meeting or what David needed to discuss.
David took the stairs, and as he entered the outer office was pleased to see that Nora had left immediately after the man arrived, for he knew if this was to happen, it had to be done alone.
“Mr. Nagoshi,” he said at last, pushing his door back to see the distinguished Japanese businessman dressed in his usual perfectly cut suit, sitting patiently and straight-backed in the chair opposite David’s desk.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” smiled John Nagoshi, standing to take David’s hand. “It is nice to see you again.”
“Thank you,” said David. “But I must apologize for asking you here on such a busy holiday.”
“It is no trouble, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Nagoshi, taking his seat once again as David moved around his now perfectly cleared desk and bent to retrieve a large thick file from his briefcase.
He picked up the file with both hands and placed it squarely in the middle of the desk before him, as if it deserved some sort of reverential treatment, some sort of ceremony in positioning, as the only thing on David’s normally cluttered workspace.
“How is your son?” asked David, taking his seat on the other side of the desk.
“He is well, thank you. My son is humbled by the events of recent weeks, Mr. Cavanaugh. He has decided to slow down his progress so that he might observe and learn from myself and the soon-to-be-appointed head of our American division.”
“You have a new local boss?” asked David.
“Yes, an American, named Jenkins. And we have decided to close our Guangdong plant, offering substantial retrenchment packages for all of our loyal Chinese workers, at least for the time being.”
David nodded. The only sound in the room was now the ticking of the large antique clock in Arthur’s office next door.
“I am sorry, Mr. Nagoshi,” said David at last.
“What for, Mr. Cavanaugh? I should think you would be feeling . . . how should I say it? Vindicated?”
And David could not help but laugh. “Not exactly, sir.”
Nagoshi looked at him puzzled. “Sawyer Jones appeared to be a friend, a good man,” said the Japanese businessman in some attempt to ease David’s obvious discomfort. “Do not feel bad for being deceived, Mr. Cavanaugh. It happens to the best of us.”
David shook his head. “Sawyer was not a man, Mr. Nagoshi—he was a boy, barely seventeen, or so we discovered after his death. And as for my being duped, I am afraid that is the king of understatements.”
“I am sorry,” said Nagoshi again. “I do not . . .”
“I’m hungry, Mr. Nagoshi,” said David at last, getting to his feet once again. “Starving, in fact. You see, we worked through the night and I haven’t eaten breakfast and Sara and I are heading to the Cape this afternoon so . . .”
“I understand,” said Nagoshi, rising to his feet to shake David’s hand, obviously still confused as to why he had been summoned, but more than willing to wish David well and leave at his somewhat premature suggestion.
“No, Mr. Nagoshi, the traffic is horrendous out there,” David said, gesturing toward the window. “I suggest you sit a while until the crowds have thinned a little.”
“I . . .” began Nagoshi, as David helped him back into his seat.
“Please,” said David, his eyes now shifting to focus on the lone thick file before them. “Take your time.”
And then David moved toward the door, turning briefly to make one last observation.
“You know, Mr. Nagoshi . . .” he began.
“It’s John,” said Nagoshi, finally realizing exactly what David was directing him to do.
“When I was in law school one of my most respected lecturers told me a fact I have never forgotten. That when it comes to the civil court, justice and money are interchangeable, because they mean exactly the same thing.”
Nagoshi nodded.
“It was never about the money, John, but perhaps, in the end, it will be.”
EPILOGUE
December 25—Christmas Day
Hyannis Port
The sun was up. Christmas morning was cold but fresh, the breeze kissing their skin as they walked, hand in hand, along Hyannis’ white-sanded Craigville Beach.
“This is so beautiful,” said Sara, glancing out across the ocean, her long brown hair whipping in the wind, her skin fresh and alive, her pale eyes almost translucent under the bright morning sun.
David took a deep breath. “Smell that,” he said. “The smell of pure salt minus diesel oil and gas fumes and fisheries and other city rubbish that accompanies the harbor we have back home.”
They walked on for a while, their shoes now covered in sand, their faces red, their bodies energized and the memory of the past months slowly being cleansed from their souls.
“Do you think he’ll file?” she asked at last, perhaps sensing that until they talked this through, it would not be put to rest.
“Yes,” he said. “John Nagoshi is a good man, but if he sees a chance to avenge his daughter’s and his grandson’s deaths, he will do it.”
“What kind of money are we talking?” she asked.
“A civil suit like this could break records, Sara, in the tens of millions at least. I guess H. Edgar wins the prize for being the smartest kid on the block after all—leaving the transaction information of the three original accounts in the assignment. He had to know we would pick it up, and find some way to . . .”
“Screw James for screwing with him,” finished Sara.
“Or rather, having John Nagoshi do it for him.”
“Funny how things happen,” she said after a time, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her aqua blue eyes. “In lots of ways this thing started with a conver
sation you had with Tony all those months ago and now, if the Nagoshis decide to file, he will most likely be representing them in the civil case against James.”
“Finishing what I couldn’t,” he said.
“No,” she argued. “Just picking up where we left off.”
And he nodded, squeezing her hand in his.
“In any case, it might mean Bishop will have some fun for a change,” he said after a time.
“And make a packet of money in the process,” she grinned.
“Tony’s idea of heaven,” he added.
“Whereas mine is right here, right now,” she said, pulling him close.
They walked along, the sun now high enough to turn the ocean into a sea of silver, the winter holidaymakers playing catch or walking their dogs along the soft sand.
“Look,” said a smiling Sara, pointing to a little blond-haired boy who, bundled up like an Eskimo, was running, tumbling and running again along the fine white sand. His beaming father jogging down to greet him, grabbing him up and lifting him high, tossing him toward the bright blue sky above, before catching him again, cuddling him in a bear hug and setting him down to repeat the same loving process over and over and over again.
“The kid can barely walk,” laughed David as the kid fell again.
“He’s having the time of his life,” said Sara.
“No more than his dad,” David added.
“You think you could do that?” she asked quickly, still focusing on the child.
“Do what?” he asked.
“You know, roughhouse with a toddler. Forget the troubles of this big bad world and focus on the important things—like playing ball, or finger painting, or sucking down spaghetti so the sauce dribbles all over your chin.” She mimicked the spaghetti sucking motion, slurping sound affects and all.
“That is how I eat spaghetti,” he joked, stopping her now, turning her face toward him. “What are you trying to tell me? I mean, are you asking me if I want to . . . ?”
“It’s a little too late for that, I’m afraid,” she said, looking into his eyes. “You are going to be a father, David, and a damned fine one at that.”
“Me . . . I . . . ,” he managed, before breaking into a smile and pulling her into him—and holding her, holding them, like they were the most precious beings on earth.
“You think I’m good enough to do this?” he asked.
“I think you’re better than you think,” she replied, and he bent down to kiss her.
“But you could use some practice,” she said after a time.
“At what?” he asked.
“Roughhousing, of course,” she said, grabbing his cap from his head and threatening to throw it into the incoming surf.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.
“Oh yes, I would.” She grinned, running away from him now, heading straight for the freezing cold water.
And then he caught up to her and grabbed her and picked her up and ran toward the waves threatening to throw her in, cap and all.
“I love you, Sara Davis,” he said at last, putting her down just at the edge of the shoreline, which lapped softly at their feet.
“You’d better,” she said. “Because we love you too.”
