“Because when sole practitioners die and go to heaven, the bar inherits the caseload and has to dispose of it.”
“What if they don’t go to heaven?”
“Most lawyers argue themselves in, don’t you think? I know you would.”
“Thanks, I think. Your Honor.”
“Anyway, I know it’s just housecleaning, but Bowen had a ton of work outstanding, and that work needs to get done. And while we’re not going to issue any presumption of death until he’s been gone a lot longer, last month Marian Braun”—another of the city’s Superior Court judges—“ruled that his disappearance rendered him legally incompetent, and just yesterday the State Bar suspended his ticket at the court’s request.”
“So now they’ve got to farm out his cases. If he hadn’t returned my calls for six months and I was his client, I would have fired him by now.”
“I’m sure some of his clients may have done just that, but not all by a long shot.” Thomasino sighed. “Charlie was a friend of mine. His wife’s going to need whatever he still has coming from his cases. I’d like to be sure that the bar puts those cases in the hands of somebody I know will do the right thing by her. Anyway, bottom line is that I ran into Wes Farrell today at lunch.” This was one of Hardy’s partners. “He said things at your place were a little slow. The good news is that you can probably count on some percentage of Mr. Bowen’s clients hooking up with your firm. Not that any of ’em will make you rich.”
Reading between the lines, Hardy knew what the judge was saying—that this was grunt administrative work. The court probably had appointed the majority of Charlie’s clients, indigents up for petty crimes and misdemeanors. Nevertheless, the court would pay for every hour Hardy’s associates spent on the criminal cases, and if the civil cases made any money, the firm could expect reasonable compensation. And it was, again, an opportunity to do a small good deed for a judge, and that was never a bad idea.
“You could probably get them all assigned out or closed in the next couple of months.”
“I’m sold, Your Honor. I’d be happy to help you out.”
“Thanks, Diz. I appreciate it. I know it’s not very sexy. I’ll have it all delivered to your office within the week.”
“How much stuff is it?”
Thomasino paused. “About sixty boxes.” In other words, a lot. “But here’s the silver lining. It’s only half as much as it appears, since half the boxes are one client.”
“Tell me it’s Microsoft.”
A soft chuckle. “No such luck. It’s Evan Scholler.”
Hardy hesitated for an instant. “Why is that name familiar?”
“Because you’ve read all about it. The two guys who’d been over in Iraq together?”
“Ah, it comes flooding back,” Hardy said. “They had the same girlfriend or something, too, didn’t they?”
“I believe so. There’s a bunch of juicy stuff, but you’ll find that out soon enough, I guess. But in any event, Diz, I really appreciate you doing this.”
“I live to serve the court, Your Honor.”
“You’re already up on points, counselor. Don’t lay it on too thick. Have a nice night.”
Hardy hung up and stood for a moment, musing. The judge’s line played back in his mind: “There’s a bunch of juicy stuff” in the Scholler case. Hardy thought he could use some juicy stuff in his life about now. If his memory served, and it always did, Scholler’s situation was even more compelling than the bare bones of the murder case because of its genesis in chaos and violence.
In Iraq.
A burnt orange sun kissed the horizon to the west as twenty-six-year-old Second Lieutenant Evan Scholler led his three-pack of converted gun truck support Humvees through the gates of the Allstrong compound in the middle of an area surrounded by palm trees, canals, and green farmland. The landscape here was nothing like the sandy, flat, brown terrain that Evan had grown used to since he’d arrived in Kuwait. The enclosure was about the size of three football fields, protected, like every other “safe” area, by Bremer walls—twelve-foot-tall concrete barriers topped with concertina wiring. Ahead of him squatted three double-wide motor-home trailers that Allstrong Security, an American contracting company, had provided for its local employees.
Pulling up to the central temporary building, over which flew an American flag, Evan stepped out of his car onto the gravel that extended as far as he could see in all directions. A fit-looking American military type stood in the open doorway and now came down the three steps, his hand extended. Evan snapped a salute and the man laughed.
“You don’t need to salute me, Lieutenant,” he said. “Jack Allstrong. Welcome to BIAP. You must be Scholler.”
“Yes, sir. If you’re expecting me, that’s a nice change of pace.”
“Gotten the runaround, have you?”
“A little bit. I’ve got eight men here with me, and, Colonel . . . I’m sorry, the commander here?”
“Calliston.”
“That’s it. He wasn’t expecting us. Calliston said you had some beds we could use.”
“Yeah, he called. But all we’ve got are cots, really.”
“We’ve got our own on board,” Evan said. “We’re okay with cots.”
Allstrong’s face showed something like sympathy. “You all been on the road awhile?”
“Three days driving up from Kuwait with a Halliburton convoy, four days wandering around between here and Baghdad, watching out for looters and getting passed off around the brass. Now here we are. If you don’t mind, sir, none of my men have seen a bed or a regular meal or a shower since we landed. You mind if we get ’em settled in first?”
Allstrong squinted through the wind at Evan, then looked over to the small line of Humvees, with M-60 Vietnam-era machine guns mounted on their roofs, exhausted-looking and dirty men standing behind them. Coming back to Evan, he nodded and pointed to the trailer on his right. “Bring ’em on up and park over there. It’s dorm-style. Find an empty spot and claim it. Showers are all yours. Dinner’s at eighteen hundred hours, forty minutes from now. Think your men can make it?”
Evan tamped down a smile. “Nobody better stand in their way, sir.”
“Nobody’s gonna.” Allstrong cocked his head. “Well, get ’em started, then.”
ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART
Betrayal
The Suspect
The Hunt Club
The Motive
The Second Chair
The First Law
The Oath
The Hearing
Nothing but the Truth
The Mercy Rule
Guilt
A Certain Justice
Hard Evidence
The Vig
Dead Irish
Rasputin’s Revenge
Son of Holmes
Sunburn
The 13th Juror Page 54
