by Joel Goldman
Maybe, Mason thought, King was right. Maybe Mason was out of his league, especially with Blues and Harry sitting this one out and Mickey on the road. The clincher hit him as he pulled into the garage. Innocent people let their lawyers deliver threats. Killers don't pass up the pleasure.
Abby was right to leave, he realized. He didn't want her to call, afraid that she would come back before it was over.
Tuffy was pacing in the kitchen, her tail down, greeting Mason with a low whine.
"A hungry dog is not a happy dog," Mason told her, filling her dish, going outside with her when she was finished eating.
Mason took a slow tour of his house, treading in the shadows the brick walls cast on the grass, picking up the dusty smell of parched ground and the sickly sweet decay of wilting flowers. There was a story in the paper that day of an elderly couple overcome by the heat, not found until the smell gave their death away. The mayor reminded everyone to check on their neighbors and not water their grass or flowers. Weather forecasters said they were sorry, but there was no end in sight. Mason touched the wall of his house, still radiating the day's warmth, bricks and mortar the only things that could stand up to the weather. Living things were out of their league.
He rattled his first-floor windows to make certain the locks were secure, knowing that the protection they offered was illusory. He'd had an alarm system installed a few years ago when thugs broke in and redecorated; giving in to Claire's insistence that he wasn't Superman. The alarm system was down until the living room window was replaced and the motion sensor reinstalled.
"Be another week," the guy from the alarm company had told him. "They don't make your system anymore, so we had to find the part on E-bay."
"Why did they quit making it?" Mason asked.
"Didn't sell enough. People wanted something with a louder siren," the alarm guy had told him. "Keep your doors locked in the meantime," he had advised.
Mason slid around the overgrown shrubs that wrapped around the house, making a mental note to find a neighborhood kid to trim them back, remembering Claire's description of Sonni Efron's house. Shrubs like a wall, giving her killer all the cover he needed. Mason stood in his front yard, absently rubbing the scar on his chest, sweat lubricating the raised flesh.
He was chasing middle age, worrying about bushes, locks, and alarms, trading trash talk with a killer ten years younger. The smart way out was to quit. Let someone else or no one else represent Mary Kowalczyk and Nick Byrnes. Prove to Abby that he'd changed. Reassure Blues and Harry that he didn't blame them for an innocent man's execution. Take the advice everyone had given him. Move on. Let it go. Give it up.
He was alone and he was scared, but he couldn't quit. It wasn't about testing his limits or tempting the fates. It was about the voice he kept hearing. Ryan Kowalczyk's last gasp. Innocent.
Mason dragged his rowing machine up from the basement, shoved his dining room table into the living room and docked the equipment where the table had been. He'd moved the rowing machine into the basement in deference to Abby's conventional views on interior decorating, bringing it back now that he was more likely to get that kind of advice from Martha Stewart than from Abby.
He changed into gym shorts, shoes, no shirt, and brought the fan downstairs from the bedroom. He opened the dining room window and turned the lights off. He settled into the seat of the rowing machine, losing himself in the half-light. He started out with a long, slow series of strokes, driving back with his legs, pulling the handle into his gut, letting the flywheel carry him forward, starting again. Rowing was monotonous, almost hypnotic, the rhythm soothing. Breaking him down, building him up.
The fan whirred behind him, drying his back and neck, leaving the rest of him soaked, picking up the pace as his muscles found their groove. Meters and minutes passed, Mason trying to out run Kowalczyk and King, grunting with each stroke, his calves burning, his chest aching, his arms trembling when he finally quit nearly an hour later. Staggering off the machine, sucking air, Mason walked laps around the first floor, betting Tuffy whether she would outlast him, the dog anxiously sticking her nose in his hand.
Grabbing two bottles of water and his cordless phone, Mason led the dog onto the patio where he collapsed into a vinyl lounge chair, his body temperature finding equilibrium with the night, both overheated. His breathing was still ragged. He gagged on the humid, musk air like it was bad medicine. He started to call Abby, tell her she was right, don't come back. Please come back. Instead, he drank one bottle of water, pouring the other over his head, closing his eyes, the phone on his belly, Tuffy at his side.
A few hours later, Tuffy barked, a short burst like shots fired, waking him. The dog was on point at the foot of the lounge chair, her hair bristling. Mason sat up, straddling the chair, the phone in his lap. Peering into the darkness. Listening. Nothing there. Not convinced, the dog edged toward the far corner of the house, growling.
The phone rang. Mason snatching it, answering on the first ring. "Hello."
Dead air. Mason slapped the phone against his thigh.
"Asshole!" the best he could do.
Jumping from the chair, he raced to the front of the house, the dog beating him by a step. The block was deserted. The phone rang again.
"This is your neighborhood watcher. You can go inside now," Whitney King told him.
Chapter 14
Mason finished proofreading the lawsuit against Whitney King, increasing the amount of compensatory damages sought from five million dollars to ten million, doubling the prayer for punitive damages from fifty million to one hundred million. He'd spent the morning drafting the papers, coming to the office early, giving up on sleep after King's wake-up call.
King wanted to shake Mason up. Not a problem, Mason muttered, double-checking the lawsuit a third time. King would be more than shaken up when Mason served him with the papers. Mason looked forward to delivering King's invitation to the courthouse party in person. Look for the story in the Kansas City Star, Mason would tell King on his way out the door, another copy under his arm for Rachel Firestone.
"Come on in, Nick" Mason said when someone knocked at his office door close to noon.
"How'd you know it was me, Mr. Mason?" Nick asked, leaving the door open. He was wearing baggy cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. Sunglasses were perched on top of his head.
"You're on time. I told you to be here at noon, and you're here at noon. Have a seat," he said, pointing to the couch and taking the chair next to it.
Nick settled into the couch as Mason handed him a copy of the lawsuit. "Is this it?" Nick asked, eyes wide.
"You bet it is," Mason said. "I wanted you to see it first. I'm going to file it this afternoon."
"Wow," Nick said softly, taking his time, reading each numbered paragraph on each page, Mason watching, smiling, taking pride in his authorship.
"The law is a beautiful thing, Nick. It holds people accountable. It makes them answer for what they've done and it gives people like you the chance to see justice done. The money won't bring your parents back. Nothing can do that. But Whitney King will pay for what he did and the rest of the world will know him for what he is. A murderer."
Mason had rehearsed the speech in the back of his mind as he drafted the lawsuit. It was what he believed. It was what kept him from calling the cops or picking up the gun in his bottom desk drawer and going after King. Whatever else he was, Mason was a true believer in the system of law. King could threaten him, and wake him up in the middle of the night, but Mason could drag King into court, cut off his head, and put it on a pike outside the village gates as a lesson to anyone else who thought they could intimidate him.
"Nice speech," Blues said, standing in Mason's doorway. "Bad idea, but nice speech."
Mason had been so focused on delivering his closing argument to Nick that he hadn't noticed Blues, a big man to overlook, loose fitting slacks and shirt disguising his power build, soft-pedaling his capacity for sudden violence. Blues had bailed Maso
n out of more than a few jams, using a mix of rough justice and hard muscle that filled the gaps left by the niceties of the law.
Blues's presence was a swift reminder to Mason that his speech sometimes looked better on paper than it did when the other guy refused to play by the rules. Mason wanted the rules to be enough this time, but Blues's comment was a reality check.
Mason hadn't talked to Blues about the King case, or much else, since Blues told Mason he wouldn't help him. While drafting the lawsuit, Mason had convinced himself that he didn't need Blues's help after all. He would win this case the old-fashioned way: in front of a jury. It might not be enough to bring Abby back, but it felt right.
He wasn't surprised at Blues's attitude, though he didn't want Blues to share his doubts with an eighteen-year-old kid who would be easy to shake up.
Nick looked at Mason. "Who's he?"
"Wilson Bluestone Junior," Mason answered, punctuating the name with a reluctant sigh. "He's a piano player and my landlord. People call him Blues because he's got such a positive outlook on life."
Nick jumped to his feet. "You were one of the detectives who caught Kowalczyk and King." He stuck out his hand, Blues taking it. "I never got to thank you for everything you did. I mean I was just a kid then. I didn't realize you two knew each other."
"Oh yeah," Blues said. "We know each other real well. Let me see that lawsuit you're so excited about."
Nick handed Blues his copy, standing between Blues and Mason, hands on his hips. "Wow! What a team! Mason and Bluestone. We're going to kick Whitney King's ass, man!"
Blues tossed the papers on the table in front of the sofa. "So long as he doesn't kill you first, Nick."
Mason started to protest, Blues holding up his hand, Nick interrupting, his jaw dropping. "What are you talking about?" Turning to Mason, "What's he talking about?"
"I'll tell you what I'm talking about," Blues said. "Are your grandparents still alive?"
"Yeah," Nick answered.
"What do they think about you filing this lawsuit?"
Nick rolled his shoulders, shaking his head, looking at the floor. "They don't want me to do it. They say it will only stir up bad memories."
"They could have filed the lawsuit for you anytime you were growing up, but they didn't. Whitney King knows that. He knows without you, there's no case," Blues explained.
"What are you are trying to say?" Nick asked.
"You hired the best lawyer in town, as far as I'm concerned," Blues said. "But if you file that lawsuit, you're going to need a bodyguard, not a lawyer. If King is the bad man you think he is, he's bad enough to kill you, son, maybe even go after your grandparents to make sure they don't have any second thoughts. The way a killer thinks, that's a lot simpler than letting Lou kick his ass in the courtroom. Cheaper too. Like I said, Lou. Good speech. Bad idea."
"Kill me and my grandparents?" Nick asked. "You've got to be kidding, man! If I file this lawsuit and anything happens to us, King is the first one the cops are going to come after."
Blues nodded. "That's the way you and I think, but not King. He's been down that road already. He beats one murder rap, he starts thinking he can beat them all. Killing people isn't a risk to someone like him. It's the way to solve problems."
"So what am I supposed to do?" Nick pled. "Let him get away with it? Forget about it? That's bullshit, man!" Nick said, hands at his sides, fists clenched, eyes flaring, bouncing between Mason and Blues. "Come on, Mr. Mason! Help me out, here!"
Blues cut Mason off again. "It's not a perfect world, son. A lot of bad things happen and some of them can't be put right. Getting you or your grandparents killed would just be another one."
"That's enough, Blues!" Mason said, standing, putting his hand on Nick's shoulder. "No one is going to get killed over a lawsuit." Mason stepped in front of Nick, shielding him from Blues's warning, ignoring his duet with King the night before. "If we have to, we'll get a restraining order to keep King away from Nick and his family."
"That so? How many pieces of paper does it take to stop a bullet?" Blues asked. "Rachel called me this morning. Said you and King had a little dust up last night at Camille's. Said she was worried about you. Said King threatened you if you filed that lawsuit. Rachel said he would've killed you on the spot if he could have figured how to get away with it. Lou, you want to do the dance with Whitney King, that's your business. Dragging this innocent boy into the mix, putting him in harm's way. That's something you should think twice about."
Nick crossed his arms, pressing his fists against his chin, blood flushing his face. Mason reached out to him. Nick turned away. Mason couldn't believe Blues was trying so hard to torpedo his case. He'd understand if Blues had voiced his concerns privately, but doing it in front of his client had only one purpose: frighten Nick into walking away. Blues had his own reasons for discouraging Mason, but Mason wouldn't let him hide behind concern for Nick's safety to sabotage the case.
"It's kind of late for you to be worrying about putting innocent boys in harm's way, don't you think, Blues," Mason said. "Or are you just trying to balance the books. Scare the piss out of Nick to make up for what happened to Ryan Kowalczyk."
Blues gave Mason a hard stare, his unblinking eyes erecting a wall between them. "The past is past, Lou. The dead don't need anybody else to die for them."
"Well, I'm not going to die for fucking Whitney King!" Nick said. "He might die, but not me!" He stormed out of Mason's office.
Blues shook his head and followed him.
Chapter 15
Mason slammed his office door, hoping the knob caught Blues in the back, wincing from the advice Blues had given Nick. Mason marched to his desk, ripped a handful of steel-tipped darts from a drawer, and let them fly at the circular target on the opposite wall, not satisfied until the darts punctured the rubber and fractured the plaster behind it.
Mason wasn't angry at Blues just because he'd interfered. He was mad because Blues was right and Mason had ignored the obvious danger to Nick the lawsuit would bring. He had gotten wrapped up in a personal fight with King, making the case about him and not about his clients. Killers didn't play by the rules. Mason was kidding himself to think that King would let him control the battlefield, choosing one where the only ammunition was words.
He had to admit that Mary Kowalczyk could be in danger too. A pardon for Ryan meant a public admission that King was the killer. It wouldn't matter to King that Mary didn't want any money. All King cared about was squelching any effort to resurrect the case against him. Mason couldn't blame him for that. Admitting the possibility that King would settle both cases by killing his clients underscored Mason's belief in King's guilt.
Mason called Mary, but her answering machine told him to leave a message. Mason told her to call as soon as she got home, that it was important.
Though he was concerned for their safety, Mason wasn't ready to quit. Not that easily. If he could put the case against King together before Nick's statute of limitations expired, he'd take his proof to Samantha Greer and get police protection for Nick and Mary.
If Samantha turned him down, he'd go to Blues. Blues was a hard man, living by his own often violent code. Mason had all but accused him and Harry of being responsible for Ryan's death, a charge more emotional than accurate. Harry and Blues had investigated a crime, taken the evidence to the prosecuting attorney, and let the system take over. A system Blues was the first to criticize for its failure to find the truth.
If Ryan Kowalczyk shouldn't have been put to death, it wasn't Blues' fault. Everyone except Blues would agree with that. He would hold himself responsible. That's the way his code worked. If Mason could convince Blues that Ryan was innocent, Mason would take his chances with the code, counting on Blues to pay his debt.
He opened the dry erase board, his eyes immediately drawn to Sonni Efron's name. The jury had a secret pact, Nancy Troy had said. It was time to talk to the jurors.
Shuffling through the boxes Nick had left him, Mason fo
und a list of the jurors with a quick summary of their backgrounds. Holding the page in one hand, he added the information to the board.
Iver Clines George Tasker White, male, age 63 White, male, age 40 Retired machinist Insurance salesman Lives in Raytown Lives in Romanelli Married, 2 kids Divorced, 3 kids
Miguel Bustillo Nate Holden Hispanic, male, age 36 Black, male, age 44 Truck driver Owns restaurant Lives on west side Lives in Grandview Divorced, no kids Married, 1 kid
Troy Apple Sonni Efron Black, male, age 22 White, female Student, Housewife, age 38 Lives on east side Kansas City Single, one kid Married, 2 kids
Andrea Bracco Martella Garvey White, female, age 27 Black, female Secretary Teacher, age 38 Lives in Gladstone Lives on east side Single Married, 4 kids
Judith Dwyer Lisa Braun Black, female, age 50 White, female Nurse CPA, age 41 Lives in Red Bridge Lives North KC Divorced, no kids Single
Frances Peterson Janet Hook White, female, age 36 Black, female Sells real estate No job, age 24 Lives in Brookside Lives east side Divorced, 1 kid Single, 3 kids
The list looked like any other jury he'd ever seen. Blacks, whites, Hispanics. Married, divorced, single. White collar, blue collar, and unemployed. Nothing to suggest why they would have taken an oath of silence. At least one of them, Sonni Efron, was dead, another murder victim. Mason hoped her death would prompt the others to talk.
He opened the phone book, looking up each juror's name and realizing that his information was fifteen years old, jotting down the list of phone numbers that could belong to each. The hope that they all still lived in Kansas City, or that they were all alive, defied actuarial wisdom, but he didn't need all of them. He only needed one who would tell him the truth.
