Foreclosure: A Novel
Page 12
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I had my last court appearance.” She let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Glad that’s behind me.” She smiled, inviting him to smile back.
“Lana, what are you doing here?” he asked again.
“Since I was in town, I thought we should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Can I come in?”
“It’s getting late.” He closed the door a few inches, but not all the way.
She pushed it open and entered. Her heels clicked against the ceramic tile that she’d picked out for the foyer two years ago. She looked around and winced. “What is that smell?”
David dropped his keys and moved toward the kitchen. Knowing she was following, he flipped on the fluorescent lights and glanced around the kitchen. No reason to be embarrassed about the trash that needed to go out or the dishes piled in the sink; maybe it would make her feel guilty, or at least gag.
“Can I get you something to drink? Throw some fish sticks in the oven?”
“Thanks,” she said wryly. “But I already ate.”
“So what was your sentence?” He poured an already-opened beer into a spotty glass.
“You say that with such morbid interest.”
He shrugged.
“Probation. And a hefty fine.”
“I’m sure your dad can take care of that for you.”
“Justin told me the questions you were asking in his office. I wish you’d let me explain some things.”
“There’s nothing to explain. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why we’re talking right now.”
“I don’t want there to be any bitter feelings between us. I left you to escape the negative energy. I feel like it’s still following me.”
“Whatever guilt or angst is bothering you, it’s not on my account.” He watched her glance around the kitchen, saw the thoughts racing through her mind. “You look relieved, actually. Relieved not to live here anymore.”
“I can’t say I miss it, if we’re being honest.”
“Yeah, Lana. Let’s be honest for once. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Can’t I stop by and say hello?”
“What do you want me to say, that I can’t live without you?”
Her eyes turned desperate. “That you forgive me would be nice.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “I don’t believe in forgiveness.”
“You don’t believe in forgiveness?” She shook her head and approached the kitchen sink. She stared at the basin filled with dirty glasses and silverware. Then, she turned the water on and waited for it to warm.
“It’s a myth,” he explained. “The closest we can come is to stop caring.”
She squeezed the bottle of dish detergent over the sink, trying to nudge the last drop of soap out of the bottle. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ve stopped caring.”
She removed the cap and filled the bottle with a little water, and then she shook it to release the last hardened soap. A moment later, suds began rising in the sink. “That explains a lot about you.”
“Spare me the psychobabble. You wasted your undergrad degree on that bullshit. Maybe you could have kept your job if you had a real education.”
She turned, tears welling in her eyes. “Why are you being this way?”
“Please don’t wash my dishes.”
She glanced at the living room and shook her head at the sight of the ’67 Stratocaster perched on the fireplace mantle. “Why don’t you put a spotlight on it?”
“I’m going to, when I find time.”
“It looks hideous in there.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Of what?” Her eyes were fixed on a dark corner in the living room.
“That I bought that, instead of your ring.”
“Justin said he offered you work. But you turned it down.”
“Something better came along. I’m quite busy. And please don’t wash my dishes.”
“He’s going to be in town Monday morning. You should talk to him.”
David finished his beer and took a few steps toward the sink. “In town for what?”
“Meeting with some developer. I don’t know what he does.”
Probably meeting with Frank to discuss the forbearance agreement, David thought. “Tell him thanks but no thanks.” He reached past Lana and turned off the water. He took the sponge from her and threw it in the garbage.
“What’s happened to you?” she cried.
He politely moved her aside and pulled the plug out of the bottom of the sink. “Maybe it’s you, Lana. Maybe you’re more perceptive. Maybe you’ve finally grown out of your naïve sorority mentality. Me, I’m the same guy you started screwing because your boss wanted to make an inroad with my law firm.”
She smacked him.
“And you kept it up long enough to convince yourself that you cared for me.”
She smacked him again, a new wave of tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Until you woke up one day and realized there’s no reason to screw this guy anymore, so you found another guy to screw who makes you feel better about yourself.”
She turned her palms, ready to punch him.
He grabbed her hands. “Doesn’t that sound about right?”
“Damn you, you bastard.”
He let her go. “That’s right. I am a bastard. And you know it.”
A quick flash of regret passed over her face, but then the anger returned. “You’re not a bastard.” She paused to catch her breath. “But you do everything you can to make people think you are.” She stormed out of the kitchen. “You’re a fraud, too,” she yelled on her way out of the house. “And forget everything I said tonight.”
“Don’t ever come back here again, you—”
The door slammed behind her, and a ripple of anger shook the house. He moved to the living room and picked up the Strat. The nail in the coffin. He should plug it in, finally just plug it in and play it. Just play the damn thing. It was just a damn guitar. Just play the damn thing.
Instead, he set it down.
And thought about Justin.
Going to Frank’s office to sign the forbearance agreement.
David pushed open the double doors to Frank’s office, fighting off Frank’s secretary.
“Now is not a good time, Mr. Friedman,” she said.
David halted at the sight of Frank: sitting behind his desk reading an issue of Florida Angler, legs crossed, wearing only boxers, plastic sandals, and a sleeveless undershirt.
Frank looked up from the magazine and sighed. “I got your message. Now’s not a good time.”
The receptionist peeked around the corner. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Reilly. I tried to stop him.”
Frank waved her off. “Let him in.” He turned to David and set down the magazine. “You are a persistent fucker.”
“We’re running out of time, Frank.” David scanned the documents lined up on Frank’s desk.
“We got plenty of time. Time’s all we got, man.”
“Meridian Bank is getting ready to screw you over, Frank. You can’t sign that agreement.”
“Damn her.” Frank picked up his phone and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?”
“Katherine. For running her damn mouth.”
David ended the call. “It’s not Katherine.” He took the receiver out of Frank’s hands.
“You got some balls. I give you that.” Frank sat down and crossed his legs. His boxers barely covered his groin.
“And why are you dressed like that?”
“I hate mornings. And I hate being in the office. This helps take the edge off.”
David shook his head. “I have some inside information.”
“How inside?”
“I know someone at the bank.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“Why?” Frank asked, apparently more amused with David’s pitch than concerned with his warning.
“They’ll have you right where they want you.”
Frank slid the top drawer open, pulled out the agreement, and tossed it to David. “So it sounds like this information you have, you shouldn’t be sharing it with me.”
“Don’t worry about that.” David skimmed the agreement, acting like this was the first time he’d read it. He looked up. “You can’t sign this, Frank.”
“I’m in default. I don’t sign this, they foreclose.”
“So let’s fight them.”
“On what grounds? I’m not going to sit around waiting for them to sue me.”
David leaned over Frank’s desk. “Then strike first.”
“What?”
“Knock ’em in the mouth first. Sue them. They’ll never know what’s coming.”
“Sue them for what?”
“Tortious interference for not approving your sales contracts. For unreasonably withholding sales approval. We can also seek a court to find that your performance was made impossible by the housing meltdown.”
“That all sounds like bullshit to me.”
“Some of it is. But I can spin it.”
“Seems awfully risky.” Frank tapped his fingers together. “But I like risky.”
“I cannot overstate the importance of being the plaintiff in a case like this. You get to talk to the jury first and last. You come across the aggrieved party rather than a deadbeat defaulting on your loan. We make them the bad guy and put the target on them.”
Frank locked eyes with his attorney. “And if we lose?”
“Then they foreclose and they get the Towers. But that will happen regardless—”
“No, David, you’re not hearing me. If we lose?”
David heard something else in Frank’s voice this time. “We’re not going to lose, Frank.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Why aren’t we going to lose?”
“Because I’m representing you?” His answer sounded more like a question.
“Why?”
“I’m going to win.”
“And why are we going to win?”
“Because we are. Shit, Frank, we’re going to win this case.”
Frank glared at David for a beat. Then screamed: “Because we don’t want to die! That’s why we’re going to win this case.”
David retreated a few steps. “Die?”
Frank hopped out of his chair, bumbling with excitement like a coach heading into the ninth inning down a run. “I lose this condo, and I lose my life. Do you understand that? Remember that, David. I fall, you fall.”
“We’re going to live, Frank. Is that what you want to hear?”
“You’re damn right I do. Now get out of here.”
David stood still and started a grin, waiting for Frank to laugh and admit he was joking.
But Frank just stood there glaring at David, breathing heavily. Then he returned to his seat and found the page where he’d left off. “I said get out of here.”
David marched through the hallway of associates, the same hallway where he’d had his first office when he started at Hollis & Alderman. He was en route to a special office dubbed the launching pad; junior associates were taught that if they could cut it in this office for a year, they could then move up to a regular office with a window and view. If not, they could pack their bags.
David found the nameplate he was looking for: DUSTIN PARKER.
Parker’s door was closed, so David applied his ear and listened. No one was talking on the phone. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. “You Parker?”
Parker quickly clicked his mouse to close something on his computer. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t tell me you’re watching porn.”
“No, sir. I really wasn’t.” His voice quivered.
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
“I was reading the web. About layoffs, sir. On Above the Law. They’re calling it the Valentine’s Day Massacre—the layoffs last month.”
“You’re a first year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to keep your job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me ‘sir’ one more time and that won’t happen.”
“Yes, uh, Mr. Friedman.”
David plopped down in the chair facing Parker’s desk. “I hear you’re light on work.”
“Who told you that?” Paranoia fluttered in his eyes.
“Don’t worry about that. We can change that right now. How does that sound?” David leaned forward and grinned. “You ever pull an all-nighter?”
Parker was trembling now. “For work?”
“Of course. What are you, a raver?”
“How can I help?”
David set a stack of documents about two feet high atop Parker’s desk. “We’re drafting an emergency complaint. I want it filed tomorrow, as soon as the clerk’s office opens.” He noticed Parker clearing his throat. “You married?”
Parker shook his head.
“Good. Anyone expecting you home tonight, call her, or him, and let ’em know you’re not gonna make it.” He waited for Parker to react, but he didn’t. “You ever take ephedrine?”
David ran his favorite red sharpie through more lines of the unintelligible legalese plaguing Parker’s draft complaint. “What is this shit?” he murmured. He glanced at the time on the computer. “For crying out loud. It’s not even midnight yet.”
“You wanted to see me?” Parker was bracing himself in the doorway, pale and jittery, waiting for the firing squad.
“It’s about your writing skills.”
“What about them, sir? I mean David?”
“Take a seat.” It was high time David started sharing what he’d learned over the years with the less fortunate. “First of all, don’t try to sound like a lawyer when you write. You’re not a real lawyer yet. Just write a simple sentence. Didn’t they teach you to do that for forty grand a year?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“I’ll work on the drafting. How’s that research coming? If this complaint gets dismissed, our client could kill us.”
Parker smiled. “That’s funny.”
“I’m serious, Parker. I think this guy has probably cut a few lives short in his day. But that’s what makes this so damn exciting.” David gave him a mad grin. “Gives new meaning to the term ‘motion to dismiss.’”
“I’ll get back to the research.”
“By the way, Parker. You know how many all-nighters I had pulled when I was your age?”
Parker shook his head.
“At least a dozen. My first year. And I’d work the next day without missing a beat. Stick with me. We’ll bill some hours.”
Parker trembled in the doorway.
“You need another pill?”
David gave the final draft of the complaint a last proofreading as the sun was rising and the birds outside were singing, heralding the arrival of a beautiful spring morning. He was happy with the complaint. It would certainly get Meridian Bank’s attention. And, depending on the assigned judge, it should withstand a motion to dismiss.
“Do you know anything about Dustin Parker?”
David cringed at Alton’s voice. He looked up and asked, “What about him?”
“He was just found unconscious in his office.”
David sighed. “Kids today.”
“Should we call the ambulance?”
“Does he have a pulse?”
Alton winced. “I haven’t checked his pulse. What the hell did you give the kid?”
“Just caffeine. For the most part. Send him home to sleep. I’ll be sure to give him a decent review.” David returned his foggy gaze to the complaint. He sensed Alton was still hovering
in the doorway, shaking his head. He knew he’d leave if David ignored him. A moment later, the lanky old bastard shuttled away to find someone to listen to him moan.
David reached the last page of the complaint, the WHEREFORE clause—the signature block, the finish line. At this point, any further revisions ran the risk of overkill. He pulled out his favorite blue sharpie and scribbled his eccentric signature, which only Mirabel and any lawyer who had ever litigated a case against him would recognize as the signature of David L. Friedman, Esq.
He picked up the phone and dialed. It might be early, but in-house attorneys were supposed to be in the office early. He didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to hear Justin’s voice.
“Baxter? I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“What do you want?”
“I saw Lana a few days ago. I wasn’t happy with the way we left things.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“I do. And that’s why I’m calling.”
“I’d say you’re calling the wrong person.”
“I didn’t want to upset her.”
“I’ll pass the message on.”
“She mentioned you were going to be in town for meetings soon. I was hoping we could all catch up and have that talk she wanted. Like adults. It would be my pleasure to treat you both to dinner. I insist. Okay?”
The silence was a good sign.
CHAPTER TWELVE
David arrived ten minutes early at Benito’s on the Beach, Lana’s favorite Italian restaurant, or so she’d told him on their second date here back in December 2001. He hadn’t slept well since pulling the all-nighter to finish the complaint, but he hoped that would change tonight. He sprung from his seat and waved when he eyed Justin and Lana checking in with the hostess.
They waved back cautiously, and then Justin was leading Lana through the dining room, holding her hand like a nice boyfriend. The closer they got, the clearer it became that Justin was practically pulling her.