The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

Tina Scoccolo did a double take as he strode past her glass-enclosed cubicle. There would be no getting past her unnoticed.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” She sounded more annoyed than curious.

  Sloane put a finger to his lips, not breaking stride, keeping his focus on the finish line at the end of the hall: the door to his northwest corner office. “I’m not. You don’t see me.”

  She stepped from behind the glass as he blew past her. “Then I take it we’re not having this conversation?” Her question chased him down the hallway.

  “We’re not. Hold my calls.”

  “You’re limping.”

  He pushed open his office door, took a half step forward, and stopped suddenly, like a tourist behind a red rope at a museum. His eyes shifted to the nameplate on the wall: MR. DAVID SLOANE.

  He didn’t recognize his own office. The clutter from nearly fourteen years of practice had miraculously disappeared. Two potted ficus trees had replaced the stacks of pleadings, yellow notepads, and trial exhibits that had stood teetering for years in the corners of his office. He noticed that the maroon carpet had a bluish-gray diamond pattern. A modest pile of mail sat neatly arranged on the desk pad next to his in-box, which was empty. The last time he recalled seeing the bottom of the tray was his first day at the firm. He felt both violated and liberated. Like most attorneys, he found comfort in clutter, and Sloane wrapped himself in it like a quilt. But now he couldn’t recall why all the papers had been so important, and felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  He called down the hall, “Tina?”

  “Sorry,” she yelled back. “Can’t hear you. You’re not here.”

  He smiled, stepped across the threshold, and ran a finger across his desk, detecting a wood-treatment product and a hint of lemon. She had even straightened the abstract painting above his credenza, just next to his diplomas on the ego wall, which was where he spotted it. They had framed the article and hung it amid the diplomas to try to hide it, for some as yet unknown purpose. The headline shouted arrogance: SAN FRANCISCO’S TOP GUN.

  And below it his photograph, the one Patricia Hansen had slapped against his chest, was worse than the headline, if that was possible. The photographer had positioned Sloane against the edge of a conference room table, leaning him like the Tower of Pisa. A recent haircut had caused stubborn strands of hair to stand like porcupine quills, and the heavy dose of gel he applied as a last-minute solution had colored his dark brown hair a shoeshine black and molded it like a plastic Halloween mask. The light through the tinted windows cast shadows like ruts in a road across his prominent jaw and cheekbones, aging him ten years. He looked forty-seven. His olive complexion, thick eyebrows, and full lips ordinarily softened his appearance, but with the sinister shadows and sculpted hair he looked like a smug comic book villain.

  Befitting the headline and the photograph, the article was a pompous-sounding sketch on “the best wrongful-death lawyer in San Francisco.” Bob Foster had insisted that Sloane talk to the reporter—something Sloane was loath to do—then added to the ego piece by providing the reporter with quotes that were all about getting the firm more clients and nothing about saving any semblance of modesty Sloane possessed. Since the article’s publication, Sloane felt like a man with a bull’s-eye on his back. His active cases had doubled in number, and any hope he harbored of settling some of them evaporated with the article. His clients were now emboldened about their chances of success, and opposing counsel saw it as a challenge to be the lawyer who knocked his ego from its perch.

  Sloane removed the frame from the wall, turning to slide it in his desk drawer, when the door to his office burst open and a parade of attorneys, paralegals, and staff marched in behind Tina, shouting “Surprise!” and slinging confetti. Someone blew a party horn in his ear. Tina carried a half-eaten cake with two candles on top, a “1” and a “5,” though upon closer inspection the “1” had been crudely carved from a “3.” The six associates who worked for Sloane jockeyed for position like kids in a school play wanting to be seen, and those still lobbying to be part of the “Sloane trial machine,” as it was now being called, made sure to shake his hand.

  Tina held out the cake to him. Sloane put the framed article on his desk and brushed blue and gold stars from his shoulders and pulled streamers from his hair. The frosting letters looked like part of an unfinished crossword puzzle:

  PY

  THDAY

  “Whose birthday cake?”

  Tina ignored the question. “Blow out the candles,” she instructed. She put the cake on his desk and began cutting slices. “I planned to have a victory party on Monday, when you said you were coming back. Sorry, but this was the best I could do on short notice.” She handed him a paper plate with a square of chocolate.

  “What is all this goddamned noise?”

  Bob Foster, his voice rough from a two-pack-a-day habit, sounded like a tired engine turning over on a cold morning. He entered Sloane’s office resplendent in a tailored blue shirt with white collar, onyx cuff links, and hand-painted tie, a stubborn holdout against the casual-dress craze made popular by the tech industry and to which San Francisco law firms had reluctantly conceded. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses.

  Foster confronted Sloane. “Two hours? You kept the jury out two hours, Sloane? Didn’t I teach you better than that?” he asked with mock indignity that brought laughter from the group. He gripped Sloane’s hand. “Nice work. I didn’t think you’d pull our ass out of the fire on this one. Frank Abbott called me first thing this morning. He’s very happy. I might even beat him at golf this weekend.”

  Sloane forced a smile. “Great.”

  Foster leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know the little prick is a major pain in the ass. Everyone knows it, but it’s his grandson, and believe me, with Paul Abbott at the helm, Abbott Security will be sued more than pigs on a farm, which is good business for us. He fired all his other counsel. He’s sending over seven active files.”

  Sloane felt sick.

  “Let’s just hope this Scott episode doesn’t change company procedures too much.” Foster leaned back and released Sloane’s hand. He eyed Sloane’s windbreaker, San Francisco Giants baseball cap, and blue jeans as if just noticing them. “What the hell are you doing here anyway? You haven’t taken a vacation since my hair was brown. I thought you were supposed to be climbing a rock somewhere.”

  “Just came in to take care of a few loose ends.”

  Foster arched an eyebrow. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sloane. One or two loose ends on a Friday becomes half the day; then you decide you might as well complete the day to keep your weekend free, but you don’t get to the first thing on your short list of loose ends because the phone is ringing off the hook, your associates spend more time in your office than their own, and you don’t have time to take a piss. The next thing you know, it’s Sunday night and your wife’s on the phone telling you she wants a goddamned divorce and half your income—I know.”

  The room laughed, though there was more truth than humor in Foster’s routine. Half the partners at Foster & Bane had divorced at least once, Foster twice. He eyed his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Then I’m personally kicking your ass out of here.” He turned to the rest of the group. “All right, you people, eat your cake and get back to work so the man can go on his vacation.” He rolled a large slice onto a plate, licked the chocolate from his fingertips, and turned the corner, barking down the hall at a ringing telephone, “I’m coming for Christ’s sake.”

  The group dissipated with final handshakes and thumbs-up, until only Tina remained.

  “I thought you said you were taking today off. I thought you were going rock climbing,” she said.

  Sloane walked behind his desk and picked up a letter at the top of the stack. “I wanted to clear my desk so I wouldn’t worry about it. Guess I didn’t need to. Thanks for cleaning up in here.”

  “Me and two bulldozers.”

&
nbsp; He nodded to the ficus plants. “The plants are a nice touch.”

  “I thought you needed more oxygen.”

  “In here or in general?”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “What’s the smell?”

  “Fresh air.”

  She turned and closed the door. At thirty-three, Tina Scoccolo was four years younger than Sloane, but at times she treated him like a mother would, perhaps because she was one. She had a nine-year-old son, Jake, from a failed marriage that had left her a single parent at the ripe old age of twenty-four, an experience that had apparently hardened her. Sloane had never known her to date, though not from a lack of opportunity. At the firm’s parties, when the attorneys drank too much and mingled too casually, she was the plum in the bowl of fruit. At five feet eight inches, she had a runner’s build: lean legs and strong shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. And though not what some might call beautiful, she had a natural attractiveness. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed fair skin, with a trace of freckles spotting the bridge of her nose giving her a youthful appearance. Her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed, and became stone-cold gray when she was unhappy. She either ignored the unsolicited advances, put the attorney in his place with a deft comment—often about his spouse—or left the party early before the alcohol loosened tongues.

  “Are you all right?” She crossed her arms like a school principal expecting a truthful answer.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You look tired.”

  “I am tired. That’s what trials do; they make you tired.”

  “You’re not sick?”

  “You’re not that lucky.”

  She stepped closer, considering his face. “What’s with the bump on your forehead?”

  He pulled down the brim of his hat. “Just a bump. Hit my head.”

  “Rock climbing?” she asked with disapproval.

  “Not yet.”

  He took off his windbreaker and slid into the leather chair, but Tina remained resolute. After so many years together she knew his bullshit, and God knew she never hesitated to call him on it.

  He sat back. “Okay. Someone broke into my apartment and trashed it pretty well. I’ve been up most of the morning dealing with it.”

  “That’s horrible. Did you—”

  “Call the police? Yes. And they came and took a report and that’s as far as it will go because they have no suspects and it does not appear anything of value was taken.”

  “Are you going to—”

  “File a claim with my insurance company? Yes. It’s another one of the reasons I came in.”

  “Do you—”

  “Have any idea who did it? No, just the usual suspects who hate me.”

  She frowned at him. “Fine, be that way.” She turned to leave.

  He put down the stack of mail. “Tina?”

  She turned back to him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit tired and frustrated. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “Apology accepted. Is there anything I can do?”

  “How are you at picking out furniture from catalogues?”

  “They wrecked your furniture?”

  “I need a sofa and a matching chair. Leather. Basic colors. Just a place to sit. I’ll also need a television, a stereo, and a new mattress.”

  “They stole your mattress?”

  “Just ripped it open.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “That is the question. Find some place that will deliver. Put it on my credit card.”

  “Do I have carte blanche?”

  “Don’t empty my account. Oh, and would you bring my personal insurance file on the building?”

  He waited for her to close the door behind her. Then he swiveled his chair toward an expansive view of a crystal-blue, cloudless sky above the slate-gray waters of the San Francisco Bay. An airplane had left a small white streak, like a painter’s errant brush on a blue canvas.

  Five minutes later Tina walked back in. “David—what are you looking at?”

  He turned from the window. “Just thought I’d admire the view for a moment.”

  She walked to the window. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Why not?”

  “Because in the ten years I’ve been here I’ve never seen you do it before.” She handed him three pink message slips and four unsigned letters. “I forwarded the rest of your messages to your voice mail.”

  With his success she had started screening his calls and his e-mails. He recognized the first two messages and categorized them as “not urgent.” He did not recognize the third name.

  “Who’s Joe Branick?”

  10

  Charles Town,

  West Virginia

  MOLE!”

  J. Rayburn Franklin’s voice rumbled down the hall like an avalanche, spilling coffee cups and papers from desks. Marty Banto jerked in his chair, banged his knee on a drawer, and swore. “Damn. Here we go again.”

  Franklin’s appearance was always a letdown. He was the only man Tom Molia had ever met who couldn’t compete with his own voice. The voice belonged to an overweight, cigar-smoking politician or a high school football coach. With round, wire-rimmed glasses on a thin, perpetually strained face, Franklin looked like a constipated accountant during tax season. The deep baritone had to have been a gift from God, a weapon in what appeared to be an otherwise empty arsenal.

  Assistant United States Attorney Rivers Jones had been fast.

  Franklin ripped the glasses from his face, getting one of the wires caught behind his ear and bending it as he struggled to pull it free, which only added to his frustration. He was out of breath, though the walk from his office was perhaps twenty yards.

  “Do you want to explain to me how, in the course of a five-minute conversation, you can manage to piss off an assistant U.S. attorney and insult the president of the United States?”

  “Hell, Rayburn, all I said—”

  Franklin raised a hand. “I’m not interested in what you said or have to say. What I am interested in is what he had to say you had to say. Do you get some perverse pleasure out of making my life miserable?”

  “Rayburn—”

  “Don’t you have any other hobbies to keep you busy?”

  “Chief—”

  “Because if you don’t, I would strongly suggest you find some.” Franklin held his index finger and thumb a fraction of an inch apart and leaned well into Molia’s personal space. “I am this close to involuntary retirement, and if I go, I guarantee you I’m taking you with me.”

  “The guy was a horse’s ass, Ray. Hell, I was looking out for you.”

  Franklin smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “You were looking out for me?” He stood back and waved his arms, the glasses dangling from his hand. “Well, hell, why didn’t you just say so? I guess I made a mistake. I guess I should be thanking you.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

  “No, Mole, why would you think that? It’s not like you just told off a U.S. attorney calling on behalf of the president of the United States—”

  “—United fucking States.”

  “What?”

  “He called it the ‘United fucking States.’”

  “I don’t give a shit what he called it. I just got my ass chewed out so bad I may not sit for a week in my fucking office.” Franklin delivered the final sentence inches from Molia’s face; strands of his thinning hair, which he parted in the middle and slicked straight back, fell in front of his eyes.

  “You are being sarcastic.”

  Franklin pulled back. “Come on, Mole. Christ. Quit fucking around here.”

  Molia spoke softly, as he did when pacifying his children. “He called it an investigation, Ray. Why do you think he would call a routine suicide an investigation?”

  Franklin blinked one long blink. It could have been an incredulous blink, as if he could not believe what he had just heard, or it could have been a
pause to regain his composure, but Molia suspected it was neither. He suspected that it was a blink of frustration, but with a hint of curiosity. As much as Molia frustrated the crap out of J. Rayburn Franklin, he was also his best detective, and his instincts were rarely wrong.

  “I don’t care what he called it,” Franklin said. “I don’t care if he called it Christ’s Last Supper. What I care about is keeping my job. And I assume you do, too, or are you independently wealthy and I didn’t know?”

  “I don’t like this one, Ray. My stomach’s bothering me.”

  “With your diet, I don’t doubt it. You eat crap a billy goat wouldn’t touch.” He put his glasses back on, pushed the hair back from his forehead, and smoothed the sides with his palms, calming. After a moment he asked, “Okay, so what’s bothering you?”

  “We still haven’t heard from Coop.”

  “Coop’s got the weekend off. He put in for it two weeks ago.”

  “There’s no answer—”

  “At his home. I know. That’s because his wife is in South Carolina showing off the baby to her family, and Coop’s using the time to get in some hunting and fishing. She took the car, so he put in to use the cruiser for the weekend. I okayed it. Said he was taking off immediately after his shift. Would you or I leave immediately after pulling the twelve-hour graveyard? No, but we aren’t twenty-five years old anymore, either, Mole.”

  “What about the park? Why would he just take off, Ray, just leave the scene?”

  “Coop’s a rookie, Mole. Rookies do stupid things; you know that. He probably spooked when he realized he was out of his jurisdiction, and didn’t feel like coming back here to get his ass bit and lose vacation time filling out the paperwork. You of all people know the saying about ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission.’ Hell, I think you invented it. Coop will come crawling in here Monday asking forgiveness. I’ll chew on his ass then. Until then, as for this Branick thing, last I checked, the Justice Department was pretty well staffed, okay? So that there is no misunderstanding, I’m going to say this slowly. Close . . . your . . . file. If you have anything in the works, call it off.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?” Molia liked to let Franklin have the last dig. It soothed his ego.