Guilt

by John Lescroart

  'Which one?'

  A nod. 'I deserve that.'

  But Sam was trying to apologize and Christina didn't think it was a moment for sarcasm. 'Neither, really,' she said. 'Neither a jerk nor a lousy boss. You care a lot, Sam, that's all. That's a positive thing.'

  'Too much.'

  Christina shrugged. 'Beats the opposite, doesn't it? I'm going out to get some coffee. You think the office will survive fifteen minutes without us here? Or should I bring you back something?'

  Sam considered a moment, then brought her feet down off the desk and stood up. I'll leave a note on the door.'

  They waited in line at an espresso place down the street from the Center. Sam's general theme on men had narrowed to the specific.

  'Wes Farrell?' Christina was saying. 'Where do I know that name?'

  'He's Levon Copes's attorney.'

  'No, that's not it. I didn't know that before you just told me. I know that name from somewhere else.'

  Sam had omitted the details of her interaction with Wes Farrell, leaving it only that they'd met and she'd given him a piece of her mind.

  'Maybe you saw it on one of Glitsky's reports or something.'

  'Maybe.' Christina ordered a latte, her brow still furrowed, trying to remember. When they'd gotten served, they sat at a tiny two-seat table up by the window, in the sun. They shared the sill with two cats, and one of them purred up against Christina's arm. 'Anyway,' Christina said, 'I didn't think last week was the greatest time to tell you – just when you were finally starting to believe that I was a real person who genuinely cares about the people I try to help, which I am.'

  'I know that now. I see that.'

  'Well, but… so now this is a little awkward, but I wanted to give you notice that pretty soon I'm going to have to stop coming into the Center, doing this.'

  A long dead moment. 'Because of this Tania Willows thing?'

  'No. Really because in about a month I'm taking finals, then graduating, then studying for the Bar and working full-time for a firm downtown, which I hear is about a hundred hours a week. Then taking the Bar. I'm not going to have any time.'

  Sam stirred her coffee. Stopped. Her eyes restlessly scanned the street in front of them. 'Damn,' she said finally. This always happens.'

  'I know. I'm sorry.'

  'It's all right. I just get so tired of it, when it seems you finally get to where you might connect with somebody…'

  'Then they leave. I know.' Christina was holding her coffee mug in both hands, trying to keep them warm. 'So you didn't convert Wes Farrell away from defense work?'

  Sam made a face. 'I was dumb. I just got mad at him. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, whatever I did. Copes would just go out and hire another one. Fucking lawyers… oops, sorry.'

  Christina waved it off. 'That's okay. I'm not a lawyer yet, and I'm not going to be that kind of one anyway.'

  'It's funny, because he seemed like a nice guy otherwise. A great guy, really.'

  'Who?'

  'Who are we talking about? Wes Farrell.'

  Christina looked over her coffee. 'You liked him, didn't you?'

  'I don't know. I might have. Maybe I would have. I don't know.'

  'Call him up. Say hi. He's got to be in the book. Tell him he's making a mistake with Levon Copes but that you were too hard on him. You'd like to buy him a drink.'

  Sam shook her head. 'I don't think so. I don't know if I want to buy him a drink.' Sighing. 'It's not that simple.'

  'But wouldn't it be nice?'

  The conference room at McCabe & Roth was meant to intimidate. The dark cherry table was twenty-four feet long and the shine on its surface encouraged neither relaxation nor work. It was a table at which to sit. And listen. And be impressed. The subliminal message from such perfection was that to leave so much as a fingerprint upon it was to vandalize a work of art, so briefcases stayed on the floor, notes were taken on laps.

  Coffee cups? Paperclips? Drinks? Food? Forget it.

  At one end of the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows worked their power-view magic, while the walls were covered with heavily textured, light green cloth wallpaper. Original oils in heavy frames glowered. Sconced lighting kicked in when the black-out drapes were drawn.

  After his debacle with Trang earlier in the day, Dooher was primed to win one. He'd had a bad day all around, in fact, with the Archbishop giving vent to his frustration that even his top offer of $600,000 had not been immediately accepted. Dooher still found himself smarting from the carefully phrased reproof. 'It's really not like you, Mark, to let a beginner get the upper hand like that in your negotiations.'

  There had been nothing he could say. And now close of business had come and gone and he hadn't heard back from Trang, so the Archbishop's offer was no longer on the table. And Dooher knew it was all going to get much worse.

  But for now, this moment, he was going to enjoy himself. He sat at the head of the conference table, and checked his watch – 5:40. The other eight partners should begin arriving any minute.

  He found himself smiling, thinking of David and Bathsheba, and of Bathsheba's poor first husband, whom David sent off to war, promoting him so that he would be at the front of the troops, leading the charge against the Philistines, a hero.

  Alas, never to return.

  'Joe, you may have heard rumors to the effect that the firm has been considering expanding into new market areas. Well, we're all gathered here now to put an end to those rumors. They're absolutely… true.'

  A polite ripple of masculine chuckle.

  Joe Avery smiled nervously from his end of the conference table. Several of the other men looked his way, nodding and smiling. Dooher continued, 'We've reached the decision that the first satellite office should be in Los Angeles. As you know, we do a lot of business down there – many of the cases you've been working on, as a matter of fact. We've all been impressed with the hours and effort you've put in over the years here, and we'd like to reward you now by asking you to put in some more.'

  Another round of club laughter.

  'But seriously, and before we get down to the nitty-gritty of what we're expecting down in LA, all of us wanted to take a minute and say congratulations. And, I should add – I'm afraid I've hinted at this to you before' – here Dooher included most of the partners around the table in a conspiratorial wink – 'we kind of rushed your partnership through committee a little earlier than you might have expected.

  'We'd like you to take the helm down in Los Angeles, Joe, open the office, get us up and running and put us on the map down there.' Again, an inclusive gesture around the room. 'Gentlemen. I've seen the future of McCabe & Roth and its name is Joe Avery. Congratulations, Joe.'

  Heartfelt applause. Joe Avery stood, beaming and basking in his colleagues' approval. And Dooher knew that even if it meant losing Christina, the fool wouldn't let this job get away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On the next Thursday night, Dooher suddenly stopped his reading in the library on the lower floor of the turret. His eyes raked the shelves quickly, all of his senses alert with an overwhelming prescience. Something was going to happen – he could feel it!

  The telephone rang. He knew who it was and he trusted these things implicitly. Besides, the timing was about right – four days since Avery had been promoted. He picked it up on the first ring, resisting the urge to answer with her name.

  Instead, he was as he always was. 'Mark Dooher here,' he said. The library doubled as his private office, with a personal phone that he answered in business tones.

  A longish pause, then: 'Mark, hi.' Another breath. 'It's Christina Carrera. I'm sorry to bother you at home.'

  'Christina!' Heartfelt surprise and enthusiasm. 'It's no bother. I wouldn't have given you my home number if I was going to get mad at you for using it.' Dooher carried the portable phone across the room and quietly pushed the door closed. It was a little after 9:00 p.m. and Sheila was watching television in the kitchen, doing the dinner dishes. The closed
door was a signal that he was working – she wouldn't disturb him. 'To what do I owe this pleasure? What can I do for you?'

  'I don't know, maybe nothing. I feel very awkward about calling you… but then again I've been awkward about everything lately.'

  As he listened, Dooher re-crossed the room, went to his bar and poured a couple of fingers of bourbon, neat, into a brandy snifter. He was nodding, fully engaged.

  '… but I didn't know who else I could talk to. I think I need some advice.'

  'Advice is my business and my rates are reasonable – well, not completely reasonable. No one would respect me if they were.'

  He could almost see the relief in her face, her smile. Their banter – Mark's light touch – put her at ease. He was her friend and she was glad he was here for her. He heard it in her voice. 'Okay,' she said, 'I'll pay.'

  'Good. Lunch on you.' Then, more seriously: 'What's the problem, Christina? The job again?'

  This time, the silence continued for several seconds. He waited. 'Really it's not so much the job. It's more personal.'

  'You're not in legal trouble, are you?'

  'No! Nothing like that.'

  'But personal?'

  'Joe,' shejsaid simply. 'I just don't know what to do.'

  He sipped his drink, still standing by the wet bar. 'We can talk, Christina, but if it's Joe, maybe this would be better discussed with him.'

  'That's what I'm trying to avoid. I don't want to always be so negative with him. Not when he's so happy with everything.'

  'It's the transfer, I presume?'

  A bitter laugh. 'I almost want to blame you.'

  'For promoting Joe?'

  'I know. It's stupid.'

  'No, not that. But this move has been in the works a long time. Certainly before I ever met you.' This was not strictly true. The decision to open an LA office had been considered months before, but Dooher's decisions to go ahead with it and then to appoint Avery was finalized over the last six weeks or so. In administrative matters, Dooher rode roughshod over his nominal partners – he ran his firm his way. It was making money and if the partners didn't like his decisions, one of them could try to do what he did – but without him. He and his business would go elsewhere.

  'I know. I know that.' She sighed. 'God, I'm such a bitch.'

  'I haven't really noticed that. Are you being hard on Joe?'

  'Not yet. I think that's why I needed to call you.'

  'For my permission for you to be hard on your boyfriend? I don't think so.' He couldn't bring himself to call Avery her fiance. Also, he wanted to deliver the subliminal message – boyfriends were temporary and insubstantial.

  'I don't want to be a nag all the time. That's just it. I'm not an unhappy person. Don't laugh. I'm really not.'

  'I'm not laughing.'

  'But now, I can't seem to accept… if I talk to Joe, everything I say lately comes out like I'm not being supportive of his career. I probably shouldn't even be talking to you.'

  'You can stop saying that, Christina. I'm glad you called. I'm just not sure what I can do. The decision's already been made.' The drink was kicking in – he eased himself down onto a barstool, relaxing.

  'I guess I'm not asking you as the managing partner, Mark. And I don't know if I'm presuming. But you've been… I feel like you' ve been a friend, is that all right? And I need to have a friend who can talk about this, who can understand both sides.'

  'All right, then I'll take off my managing partner's hat.' He lowered his voice. 'I'm touched that you thought of me. And I really don't know if I can be of any help, but I'm listening.'

  The good husband, Dooher was finishing a second drink at the table in the kitchen nook, confiding to his wife about the call. 'So the poor kid's in a bind. What's she going to do?'

  Sheila was drinking her de-caf. 'This is the really stunning girl from the party, isn't it? Christina?'

  'That was her.'

  'And she called you?'

  He pointed a finger, broke a sardonic grin. 'Actually, the truth is she wanted me to leave you for her. Said she couldn't live another moment without me and I can't say I blame her. But I had to tell her I was taken.' He reached across the table and took his wife's hand. 'Happily.'

  'Are you?'

  A reassuring squeeze, eye contact. 'Completely, Sheila. What kind of question is that? You know that.'

  'I know, but lately…'

  'Lately we haven't exactly been flying. Okay. We've pulled out of dives before. We're going to do it again.' He shrugged. 'Of course, she was devastated, but she's young. She'll get over it. Probably.'

  Sheila was shaking her head.'To think that someone who looks like she does could have problems…'

  'People have problems, She. You did – we did – especially when we were young, trying to figure everything out.'

  'But I never looked like her.'

  'Not like, but every bit as good.'

  His wife beamed and covered his hand with both of hers. 'You've got a half-hour to cut this flattery out. I mean it.' She let go of his hand, picked up her cup and sipped. 'Aren't you glad we're not starting out now, you and I? I don't know how these kids do it. I mean, in our day, if you'd been transferred I'd have gone with you, no questions asked. In fact, I did go. Berkeley, then waited through Vietnam, then LA, then back here.'

  'I remember. And you never complained.'

  She couldn't stop smiling at him. He was getting back to his old self, the little compliments, the kindnesses. 'Well, complained sometimes, but never thinking I wouldn't go with you. Now – these girls nowadays – I mean women of course, they're women -I mean, she must be in her mid-twenties if she's getting out of law school – we had all our kids by that age, do you realize that?'

  'We were unusually wise and mature. Still are.'

  'But now look at what this girl is dealing with. And all because she wants her precious career. And what's a career? Who wants to have to work your whole life?'

  'She wants to be able to work, Sheila. There's a difference. Maybe she'll need to. It's hard to say nowadays. It's a different world.'

  'I think it's a damn shame. I'd tell her to just go with her man, and the rest will take care of itself.'

  Dooher's face broke into a conspiratorial smile. 'I don't think I could put it exactly like that. She'd think I was the last of the reactionary pigs. Well, maybe not the last.'

  'But you wouldn't be wrong.'

  'Maybe not, but I'm afraid in today's social environment it's one of life's little truths that she's going to have to discover for herself.'

  'So what's she going to do? What did you advise her?'

  'I was punctiliously PC – told her, if it were me, I'd stay here and do a great job this summer, study for the Bar and pass it, be supportive of what Joe was doing. If they're in love, it'll work out eventually, maybe sooner. Lots of people get separated by jobs, by life. The ones that are meant to make it, make it. It doesn't have to be a crisis.'

  She took his hand again. 'You know, Mark, sometimes I forget what a romantic you are.'

  He shrugged it off. 'I'm just trying to be a good boss. They're both valuable assets to the firm – if they're not happy they won't be productive.'

  'Oh, and that's it? All this paternal advice is simply an ingenious management technique?'

  'Essentially.' He tipped up his glass. 'Mostly.'

  She shook her head, smiling. 'Yes,' she said, 'I'm sure.' Motioning to his empty glass, she asked if she could get him another one.

  He hesitated. 'I'm not trying to be an enabler here, but would you consider joining me?'

  She still wasn't anywhere near telling him about the Nardil, her anti-depressant drug. She didn't think she'd ever get to there. But Mark was relaxed, in a sensitive mood, open to her. She'd gone back to her wine over the past few weeks and there'd been no ill-effects. Now Mark wanted her to join him for a nightcap. If she said no, the mood would be gone, and she wasn't going to risk that.

  Midnight.

  Sam D
uncan sat up abruptly, terrifying Quayle, who'd been asleep in bed with her. The dog yipped twice, then whimpered, and she reached out a hand to calm him, bringing him over the blankets on to her lap.

  Petting the dog absently, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She hated it when she couldn't sleep, and she' d made a resolution that she wasn't going to drink even a drop of anything to make her nod off. The last time she'd had a drink was St Patrick's Day, and look where that had gotten her.

  To right here.

  The couple who lived in the unit above her – Janet and Wayne – were silent now, though from the sound of it, they'd had a hell of a good night. Actually, it had been like one of those scenes in the movies where the couple next door let out all the stops and just completely went for it. Perhaps Janet and Wayne didn't realize that Sam had come home. Maybe they didn't think sound carried that well through the old building. Regardless, they put on some show – pretty much the complete range of the audio spectrum – vocals, screams, thuds, creaking springs, sighs and moans, you name it. In the movies, it was often pretty funny.

  For Sam, tonight, it wasn't. It was damn near tragic, she thought.

  But she wasn't going to panic. She was a mature woman and if fate had not supplied her with a mate after all this time, she had dealt with it, made a successful life for herself. The men had come and gone, a few steadies, a fiance once for a couple of weeks, but for the past four or five years, she'd simply decided to stop pursuing it, stop worrying about it, concentrate on her career and let whatever was going to happen in her love-life simply happen. The problem was that nothing significant had happened.

  Not until Wes Farrell.

  She hadn't been with him more than two hours, but in that time – stupidly, without any reason or explanation – she'd felt more alive, simply better, than she could remember. There was just a whole different quality to the way they'd related – complete ease, immediate rapport, sexual attraction, attitude, humor. Of course, she'd been half in the bag. But the half that hadn't been thought it remembered pretty well.

  And then he'd turned out to be…