Dead Even

by Brad Meltzer

  “No, we don’t get a badge,” Sara said, laughing. “We just get a bucketful of lipstick. These days, that can be quite a weapon—blinding our opponents and all that.”

  “Very funny,” Tiffany said, squeezing her lips together self-consciously. “So tell me more about work. Do you like it?”

  “Of course I like it. This case I’m working on is driving me a little bit crazy, though.”

  “Really? Is it a murder? A shooting?”

  “It’s a burglary. And guess who the defense attorney is?”

  “Perry Mason.”

  “How do you know who Perry Mason is?”

  “I got a TV.”

  “Well, you’re still wrong. Guess again.”

  “Is he fatter or thinner than Perry Mason?”

  “What makes you think it’s a man? Women can be lawyers.”

  “Okay, fatter or thinner?”

  “Thinner.”

  “Uglier or better looking?”

  “Better looking.”

  “Taller or shorter?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say the same.”

  “Now I know it’s a guy. More or less hair?”

  “Less,” Sara laughed. “Especially in that one spot right on the back of his—”

  “Jared?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Oh, my God! You’re going to wipe the floor with him! Can I come and watch?”

  “We’ll see,” Sara said.

  “What’s it like going up against him? Is it weird? Is he scared?”

  “I don’t think he’s too scared,” Sara said as she thought about her two witnesses.

  “That means he’s beating you, doesn’t it? How bad is it? Are you about to lose?”

  “He’s not beating me,” Sara said. Hoping to change the subject, she added, “Now tell me about school. How’re you doing?”

  “Great,” Tiffany said as they passed Columbia Law School. “So where’re we going today?”

  “That depends. How’d you do on your math test?”

  “Eighty-nine percent.”

  “I don’t know—that’s still not an A.”

  “C’mon, Sara, you said if I got it up to ninety—”

  “I know what I said—and last I checked, eighty-nine is still lower than ninety.”

  “Sara, please. I worked all last week to get that grade. And I’m only one tiny point away. One teeny, tiny point.”

  “Fine, fine, fine. You’re breaking my heart. Name your poison.”

  “Can we go back to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

  “That’s great with me, but answer this: Do you actually want to go to the Met, or do you just want to sit on the stairs and play Count the Tortured Artists?”

  “I want to play Count the Tortured Artists. With fifty extra points for black berets.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Sara said. “Pick another poison.”

  “How about we go bowling and then eat dinner at Sylvia’s?”

  “I can’t do dinner tonight,” Sara said. “I have to prepare for—Hey!” Sara had the wind knocked out of her when someone walking in the opposite direction crashed into her. She lost her balance and fell back on the concrete. Caught up in the momentum, he stumbled over her.

  Looking up, Sara saw a dark-haired man.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was completely my fault.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” As Sara picked up her briefcase, she couldn’t help but notice how his sunken cheeks punctuated the edges of his face.

  “I guess I was thinking about something else,” the man explained, taking a close look at Tiffany.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” Sara said. “No harm done.”

  As she and Tiffany continued their walk toward the main part of campus, Tiffany said, “Freaky-looking guy, huh?”

  “He was kind of weird,” Sara admitted. When she readjusted her purse on her shoulder, she realized something felt wrong. She looked down in her purse. “Son of a bitch!” she shouted, spinning around.

  “What?” Tiffany asked.

  “That guy just lifted my wallet.” Sara ran as fast as she could up Amsterdam Avenue and turned the corner on 117th Street. The stranger was gone.

  Chapter 8

  CLIMBING THE STAIRS TO HIS APARTMENT, JARED NOTICED that the broken glass was completely cleaned up and the picture of the sunflowers had been reset in a new frame. The night of the break-in was now a two-day-old memory, but to Jared, the sound of crunching glass was still a raw wound. At the top of the stairs, he wondered why anyone would ever smash the hallway picture in the first place. It makes no sense, he thought. There’s no benefit—except for the joy of mindless violence. And then it all became clear. To Kozlow, it’s just a game.

  Unable to shake the image of Kozlow smashing the original frame, Jared heard the entryway door on the first floor slam shut. Someone else was in the building. Was it Sara? No, the footsteps were too heavy. Refusing to look over the railing, Jared raced to find the key to his apartment. He dropped his briefcase to make it easier. Behind him, he could hear someone lumbering up the stairs. As he opened the top lock, his hands were shaking. Bottom lock, bottom lock, bottom lock, he thought, fishing for the key. When he finally put it in, he turned it toward the left. It was stuck. Damn it, not now! Open up, you prewar piece of—Suddenly, the lock clicked, the door flew open, and Jared stumbled inside. He slammed the door shut and looked through the peephole. The man on the stairs was Chris Guttman, their neighbor from the third floor.

  Annoyed at his own paranoia, Jared headed for the bedroom. “Sara? You here?” There was no reply. He threw his briefcase down next to his nightstand and took a seat on the bed.

  Take a breath, Jared told himself. Don’t let him have this one. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move in the shower. He quickly pulled open the curtain. It was nothing. Empty. He ran back to the bedroom and checked under the bed. Then his closet. Then Sara’s. Then the linen closet. Nothing in any of them. Empty. Empty. Empty. Without a doubt, there was no one else in the apartment. It didn’t make Jared feel any safer.

  By eight-thirty, Jared was sitting in the living room, fighting with the New York Times crossword and anxiously awaiting the return of his wife. She’s fine, he told himself, glancing at his watch and then checking the clock on the VCR. It’s a long commute—that’s why she’s late. In the past half hour, he’d called Sara’s office three times. No answer. Determined to distract himself, Jared started wondering how she was going to react to two of her witnesses canceling on her. He imagined she’d first blame him, then start fishing for information. His analysis complete, he looked back at his watch. And the VCR clock. She’s fine, he repeated. Please, let her be fine.

  Ten minutes later, Sara finally arrived home. The moment Jared heard her key in the door, he pulled the paper back onto his lap. “How was your day?” he called out.

  “It was wonderful,” Sara said sarcastically. “First your client threatens two of my witnesses, then someone smashes into me and steals my wallet.”

  Putting down the paper, he first thought of Kozlow. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Where did it happen?”

  Sara entered the living room and quickly relayed the story. “The son of a bitch got everything—credit cards, my license…”

  “I hate to say it, but I told you you should get a purse with a better clasp,” Jared said. Was it him? “Now tell me how my client threatened your witnesses.”

  “C’mon, Jared, you know what hap—”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Sara approached Jared, leaned over, and stared straight into his eyes. “Say that again.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jared repeated, carefully pronouncing every syllable. Don’t blink, he thought as he held his breath. Don’t blink or she�
�ll know.

  Sara scrutinized her husband. If he was lying, he was getting better at it. Finally, she said, “I talked to both Ms. Doniger and Ms. Harrison after lunch and they both told me they didn’t want to testify. Harrison was so scared, I could hear her sniffling on the other end of the phone.”

  “So you think Kozlow said something to them?”

  “Who else?”

  “There’s no one else,” Jared said firmly. “But I can tell you that Kozlow was with me all morning.”

  “What about the rest of the afternoon?”

  “I was working on a motion for Lubetsky all afternoon. We had to crank it out by five. Anyway, I thought you said you heard from them right after lunch.”

  “I did,” Sara said. “I was just checking.”

  “Well, you can stop with the accusations. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jared said. Realizing that the longer he stayed on the topic, the more likely she was going to find him out, Jared switched subjects. “Let’s get back to your wallet. How much money did we lose?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t want to think about it,” Sara said, flopping on the sofa. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Are you going in this weekend?” Jared asked anxiously.

  “Yep. You?”

  “Of course,” he said. “So what do you want to do tonight?”

  “Honestly, I just want to sit here and veg for a few hours.”

  “You in the mood to give a haircut?”

  “Sure. Get the stuff.” Sara had first cut Jared’s hair during their second year of law school. When Jared came home butchered by the Columbia Barber Shop, Sara challenged that even she could do better. A month later, Jared gave her the chance. Since that day, he had never paid for another haircut.

  After washing his hair in the shower, Jared entered the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his waist and took a seat at the table. Combing through his hair, Sara said, “It’s getting mighty thin up here, my man.”

  “No doubt about that. When I’m outside, I can feel a cold breeze like never before. But if I’m meant to be bald, I’ll be bald.”

  “Judging from the view, it’s already been decided.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “Now, can I ask you another question about the case?”

  “Fire away,” Sara said, holding a clump of hair between two fingers.

  “How would you feel about a dismiss and seal?”

  “A what?” Sara asked as she started clipping.

  “Dismiss and seal,” Jared repeated, feeling the cut hair run down his shoulders. “It’s a settlement. You agree to wipe out and seal Kozlow’s file. There’s no record of it and Kozlow is out of your hair—no pun intended—forever.”

  Sara stopped cutting, her brow furrowed. “And I benefit from this how?”

  “To put it bluntly, you don’t look like a fool. Instead of failing in the grand jury on Monday, or taking a loss at trial, you get to walk away before anything’s counted against you. That way you don’t start with a losing average.”

  With an angry snip, Sara chopped a large clump of hair in half.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jared asked as he saw the remains fall to the floor.

  “What makes you think I’m such a loser?”

  “This isn’t about you; it’s about your case. You said it yourself—two of your witnesses canceled on you. You owe it to the city to not waste its resources. If they canceled, you shouldn’t prosecute just for job stability’s sake.”

  “First, I still have the cop. Second, of the two that canceled, one came back. Doniger agreed to come in.”

  “She did?” Jared asked.

  “Actually, no,” Sara said as she resumed her cutting. “I made that up to see your reaction.”

  “You what?” Jared asked, pulling away.

  That was all she needed. “You knew all along that they both dropped out, didn’t you?”

  Jared stood up to face his wife. She was closing in. “Sara, I—”

  “Who told you?” Sara asked, pointing the scissors. “Was it someone in my office, or did Kozlow tell you himself?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “It was Kozlow, wasn’t it? Man, I’m going to charge him with tampering and intimidation first thing tomorrow.”

  “Sara, I really don’t think it was him.” Jared fought to maintain eye contact with his wife. That was the only way it worked. “Honestly. I swear.”

  “Then how’d you find out that Doniger and Harrison canceled?”

  “They told me themselves. I called them to get their side of the story. There. Now you know.” It wasn’t a complete lie, Jared told himself, searching for confidence. After speaking to Rafferty, he did call them both to back up his story.

  “And why’d you pretend not to know when I first walked in?”

  He felt a flash of inspiration. “The same reason you lied about Doniger testifying—I wanted to see what you knew.”

  As she stared at her husband, a smile broke across her face.

  “What?” Jared asked, forcing a smile of his own.

  “Look at us. I mean, can we be more psychotic?”

  Jared stared at his wedding ring. “Actually, we probably could.”

  “I’m sure we could. But that doesn’t mean we have to play mind games.”

  “No, you’re right,” Jared said. He still had to push her a little farther. “It’s just that this case—”

  “I know it’s important, but you really have to calm down about it,” Sara said as she resumed her cutting. “Stop being so obsessed.”

  “Then start reading between the lines. I’m not doing this just for myself—I’m doing it for you.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Jared got up from his chair and faced his wife. “You should take another look at what you’re working with. I know you’re suspicious about what’s going on, but you don’t have the evidence to prove it. Your cop’s unhelpful; your witnesses are hostile. If you take the dismiss and seal, at least you won’t lose your first case. Then you can go in and pick up a better one. All I’m trying to do is help you, honey. And you and I both know that’s the best way to show everyone that you’re an asset to the office—let them see that you can move things along.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sara, if you take these facts to trial, you’re going to lose. And if you lose, in the blink of an eye, you’re back on the unemployment line.”

  Sara didn’t move. The way her lips were pressed together, Jared could tell she was upset. “How about pleading out for a reduced sentence?” she stuttered.

  “No settlements,” Jared said. He wanted to let up, but he couldn’t. “So if you’re happy going back on unemploy—”

  “Stop saying that!” Sara shouted.

  “Don’t get mad at me—I didn’t create the problem. I’m just trying to help you out of it. Now what do you say?”

  Stepping away from her husband, Sara gazed aimlessly around the room. Jared knew he had her. The lying left a hole in his stomach, but it was about to pay off.

  “Do you really think I’m going to lose?” Sara asked.

  “Yes,” he said without pause. “I really do.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t lie about this one.”

  He took a deep breath. All he wanted to do was protect his wife. “I’m not lying to you, Sara.”

  “Then let me sleep on it. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  Sara left the room and Jared closed his eyes. He was almost there.

  Arched over the kitchen sink, Jared cleaned the remaining dishes from the Thai dinner they had ordered in. Although he knew he had to keep applying pressure, he felt, for the first time, that things were finally looking up. When the phone rang, he called out to Sara, “Hon, can you get that?”

  Soon after, he heard Sara shout back, “It’s for you.”

  Jared shut off the water, dried his hands with a nearby dish towel, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi,
Mr. Lynch, it’s Bari Axelrod with American Health Insurance. I just wanted to get back to you with that address for Dr. Kuttler. A colleague just told me I could access it from your file.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  There was an awkward pause on the other line. “I’m sorry, is this Jared Lynch?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Mr. Lynch, can you give me your date of birth and social security number?”

  “I don’t think so. Now who’d you say you were again?”

  “My name is Bari Axelrod and I’m with American Health Insurance, your insurance provider.”

  “Why do you need that information?” Jared asked suspiciously. “Don’t you already have it?”

  “Sir, I just spent a half hour on the phone with someone who said his name was Jared Lynch. If that wasn’t you, I have to figure out who I’m speaking to. If it makes you feel any better, I know the last three claims you filed were for Doctors Koller, Wickett, and Hoffman, in that order. Believe me, I already have your information. Now, can you please give me your date of birth and social security number?”

  Hesitantly, Jared obliged. “What did he want?”

  “And for verification purposes, can you tell me which knee Dr. Koller treated you for?”

  “My left. Now tell me what he said.”

  “He asked me to go through all of his expenses so he could get a better idea of what he spent.”

  “And you just gave him my confidential medical information?”

  “I thought he was you. He gave me your birthdate and social security number. Said he was trying to put together a budget.”

  Wiping his forehead with the dish towel, Jared started pacing across the kitchen. “What exactly did you tell him?”

  “I went through Dr. Hoffman’s dental bills, Dr. Wickett’s annual checkups, and the visit to Dr. Koller for your knee, including the charge for making the brace. And then when I got through those, he started asking about your wife.”

  “What’d you tell him?” Jared asked, his voice shaking.

  “Sir, I had no idea—”

  “Please just tell me what you told him.”

  “I just went over expenses. That’s all we have here. Her prescriptions for birth-control pills, Seldane for allergies, and the four-month prescription for antidepressants from her psychiatrist. That’s when he asked me for Dr. Kuttler’s address or phone number. He said he wanted to check her rates. I didn’t realize we had them here, so I asked him if he wanted to hold. He said it was no big deal, that he could look it up himself. And then when I found out that I could access them, I called you back and realized that—”