by Ben Rehder
And me. Jake Lassiter, 235 pounds of ex-football player, ex-night-school-law-student, ex-a-lot-of-things, confident and relaxed. I owned the moral high ground and was willing to come off the mountain and play in the gutter to keep it.
“Here’s the story, Krip,” I began. “Either we settle now, or I bring perjury charges against Silky and obstruction of justice against you and Kim.”
“That’s extortion!” Krippendorf protested.
“It’s hardball. Care to play? That’s what you said to me the last time we sat at this table.”
If Krippendorf had been a cartoon character, smoke would have been streaming from his ears. “The Bar Rules are quite explicit,” he said. “It’s a violation to threaten criminal charges to settle a civil case.”
“Hey, Krip. You can shove your Bar Rules where the sun don’t shine.”
“You son-of-a-bitch! I should have fired you sooner.”
“You didn’t fire me. I quit.”
“Boys,” Kim said, “please stop. Jake, what will it take?”
“Seven hundred fifty thousand.” I felt Cadillac tugging at my sleeve. “Plus an apology.”
“Forget it,” Krippendorf said.
“I’m not done, Krip. The seven-fifty is from Silky. We’ll take another two-hundred-fifty-thousand from you.”
“You’re dreaming. Fucking delusional.”
“Count me in,” Silky said.
“What!” Krippendorf shot a look at his client, mouth quivering. “I’ll handle this, Silky.”
“Like you handled everything else?”
“Just trust me, okay?”
“Give it up, man.” Silky turned to me. “I just did what the lawyer man told me. And her, too.” Looking at Kim now, whose glare never strayed from my face.
“Dammit, Silky!” Krippendorf said. “I said I’ll handle it.”
“No, you won’t. You’re fired.”
Krippendorf recoiled as if slapped in the face.
Silky turned to Cadillac, shaking his head sadly. “I wanted to pay you, man. Apologize, too. But my rent-by-the-hour ho said you could never prove your case. Your lawyer was a loser.”
Cadillac patted my arm. “Jake’s got a good heart.”
“And he runs like a brother,” Silky said.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Krippendorf said.
“I’m sorry, man,” Silky said. “I bit your music. Now, I’m gonna write you a check for three-quarters of a million bucks.”
“Ain’t accepting your apology,” Cadillac said, then broke into a smile. “Not ‘til the check clears.”
“Which leaves your end, Krippendorf,” I said. “Two-fifty.”
“Not a chance.”
“You’ve got ten seconds.”
Finally, Kim spoke. “Jake, maybe there’s a middle ground.”
“No compromises. No deals, except mine. Five seconds.”
Krippendorf looked away. I swear he was pouting.
“Three, two, one.” I pulled my Motorola from my briefcase. “I’m calling the state attorney.”
“Damn you, Lassiter!” Krippendorf’s voice was thick with defeat.
“I’ll draw up the documents.” I didn’t even try to keep the joy from my voice. “Cadillac, let’s go get something to eat.”
My client gripped my arm again with long, guitar-strumming fingers. “Dinner is on me, young man.”
29. Success and Excellence
Twenty-four hours after Krippendorf folded like dirty laundry, I was jogging down Old Cutler Road, fighting the morning heat, swatting mosquitoes and gnats. Just as I crossed Casuarina Concourse, a black BMW convertible beeped its horn and pulled to a stop under a banyan tree, its nose blocking my path.
I recognized the car. And the driver. We’d played this scene before.
Kim Coates hopped out of the car, an envelope in her hand.
“You could have made an appointment,” I said.
“Why should I? You’re so predictable, I always know where you are.” She tried to hand me the envelope. “Got something for you, Jake.”
“If you’re serving me papers again, I’m not here.”
“Take it. There are two checks. One for you client, and one for you.”
“On the other hand, I’m here.” I opened the envelope. She hadn’t been lying. Examining the first check, I read aloud. “Made payable to William Johnson a/k/a Cadillac Johnson. Six hundred sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars.”
“And sixty-six cents.”
I looked at the second check. Made payable to me. Three hundred thirty-three thousand, three hundred, thirty-three dollars. And thirty-three cents. By my calculations, they shortchanged us a penny, but I chose not to complain.
“Great, Kim. You need a receipt?”
“Only for Cadillac’s check. Just endorse yours and give it back.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Endorse it to James Farrell. As it turns out, he’ll take a third of a million dollars to settle his claims against you.”
“I never agreed to that,” I said.
She proceeded, as usual, as if what I said didn’t matter. “I have a release Farrell has pre-signed, in full satisfaction of his lawsuit. He’ll also dismiss his Bar complaint.”
“I said, I never agreed to settle.”
“Or, I can tell Judge Buckstrom that you refused to settle, despite His Honor’s direct admonition that you do so and despite the fact that you have the wherewithal to do so. Then we can proceed with Farrell’s lawsuit and the Bar proceeding. Up to you, Jake.”
Money has never been that important to me. Sure, that sounds strange coming from a lawyer. But I earned league minimum as a pro football player, and so far I’d never made any real dough practicing law. There’s a disease in our culture where money is concerned. It’s become the measuring rod of success. The bigger house, the fancier car, the juicier expense account. The acquisition of material things has become the hallmark of the shallow life. Which is why I seek “excellence,” rather than “success.”
Excellence measures the quality of work, not its financial payoff. I long for the cause that is just and the client who is deserving. Those two requirements alone often rule out a financial windfall. Too often in our justice system, money rides the back of the wrongdoer. The good are shuffled aside in the courtroom, just as they are on the streets.
But now I had achieved a just result for a deserving client. The only one to be shortchanged was me. Fine, there would be other cases.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked Kim.
She smiled as sweetly as she could, stifling the barracuda within. “Dinner tonight, Jake?”
“What? After the stunt I pulled on you?”
“The phony phone message? I admire your cleverness. How’d you know I’d go through your things?”
“Hell, you used to do that when we were on the same side of cases. You can’t help yourself.”
She was still smiling. What would be an insult to most people sounded like praise to her. “We have more in common that you think,” she said.
“No way.”
“C’mon, Jake. You break the rules to win.”
“Only if my cause is just.”
“Every cause is just if it’s your cause. We’ll work on that.”
“There is no ‘we.’ No dinner, either. Not tonight. Not ever.”
I took the envelope with Cadillac’s check and jogged south, emerging from the shade of the banyan trees, feeling the luxuriant heat of the blazing sun.
30. Epilogue
Sherrell Johnson apologized for calling me names when I turned down the seventy-five thousand dollar offer.
Cadillac Johnson thanked me and said the retirement home he was moving into had a finely manicured croquet court if I wanted to come over for a game. He also invited me to a show he was putting on for the other residents, and I told him I’d be there.
Doc Charlie Riggs asked me to go fishing in the Glades, something that involved more drinking th
an casting, but I accepted that invitation, too.
My trusty secretary, Cece, finally hung my Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote posters on the walls of my garage office. She placed some more ads in the Beach Gazette, and the customers – I mean clients – started showing up. Just this morning, a nervous middle-aged lady came in with a tale of woe involving a second mortgage and an impending foreclosure sale of her house.
“You’re my last hope, Mr. Lassiter,” she said.
“Jake. Please call me Jake.”
“Every lawyer in town has turned me down, Jake. They say my case is impossible.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
She looked at me, her eyes wanting to believe I spoke the truth.
“If your cause is just,” I said, “no case is impossible.”
#
THE JAKE LASSITER SERIES
“Mystery writing at its very, very best.” – Larry King, USA TODAY
TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD: Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter begins to believe that his surgeon client is innocent of malpractice…but guilty of murder.
NIGHT VISION: After several women are killed by an Internet stalker, Jake is appointed a special prosecutor, and follows a trail of evidence from Miami to London and the very streets where Jack the Ripper once roamed.
FALSE DAWN: After his client confesses to a murder he didn't commit, Jake follows a bloody trail from Miami to Havana to discover the truth.
MORTAL SIN: Talk about conflicts of interest. Jake is sleeping with Gina Florio and defending her mob-connected husband in court.
RIPTIDE: Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful woman and stolen bonds from Miami to Maui.
FOOL ME TWICE: To clear his name in a murder investigation, Jake follows a trail of evidence that leads from Miami to buried treasure in the abandoned silver mines of Aspen, Colorado. (Also available in a new paperback edition.)
FLESH & BONES: Jake falls for his beautiful client even though he doubts her story. She claims to have recovered "repressed memories" of abuse…just before gunning down her father.
LASSITER: Jake retraces the steps of a model who went missing after his one-night stand with her 18 years earlier. (Also available in a new paperback edition.)
SOLOMON vs. LORD SERIES
(Nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber awards.)
“A cross between ‘Moonlighting’ and ‘Night Court.’ Courtroom drama has never been this much fun.” – FreshFiction.com
SOLOMON vs. LORD: Trial lawyer Victoria Lord, who follows every rule, and Steve Solomon, who makes up his own, bicker and banter as they defend a beautiful young woman accused of killing her wealthy, older husband.
THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI: Solomon and Lord come together – and fly apart – defending Victoria’s “Uncle Grif” on charges he killed a man with a speargun. It’s a case set in the Florida Keys with side trips to coral reefs and a nudist colony where all is more –and less – than it seems.
KILL ALL THE LAWYERS: Just what did Steve Solomon do to infuriate ex-client and ex-con “Dr. Bill?” Did Solomon try to lose the case in which the TV shrink was charged in the death of a woman patient?
HABEAS PORPOISE: It starts with the kidnapping of a pair of trained dolphins and turns into a murder trial with Solomon and Lord on opposite sides after Victoria is appointed a special prosecutor, and fireworks follow!
STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
IMPACT: A jetliner crashes in the Everglades. Is it negligence or terrorism? When the legal case gets to the Supreme Court, the defense has a unique strategy. Kill anyone, even a Supreme Court Justice, to win the case.
BALLISTIC: A nuclear missile, a band of terrorists, and only two people who can prevent Armageddon. A “loose nukes” thriller for the 21st century. (Also available in a new paperback edition.)
ILLEGAL: Down-and-out lawyer Jimmy (Royal) Payne tries to re-unite a Mexican boy with his missing mother and becomes enmeshed in the world of human trafficking and sex slavery.
PAYDIRT: Bobby Gallagher had it all and lost it. Now, assisted by his 12-year-old brainiac son, he tries to rig the Super Bowl, win a huge bet…and avoid getting killed in the process. (Also available in a new paperback edition.)
Visit the author’s website at http://www.paul-levine.com for more information. While there, sign up for Paul Levine’s newsletter and the chance to win free books, DVDs and other prizes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of 16 novels, Paul Levine won the John D. MacDonald fiction award and was nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber prizes. A former trial lawyer, he also wrote more than 20 episodes of the CBS military drama “JAG” and co-created the Supreme Court drama “First Monday” starring James Garner and Joe Mantegna. The critically acclaimed international bestseller “To Speak for the Dead” was his first novel. He is also the author of the “Solomon vs. Lord” series and the thrillers “Illegal,” “Impact,” “Ballistic,” and “Paydirt.” You can sign up for the author’s free newsletter and be eligible for signed books, DVDs and more at http://www.paul-levine.com
Copyright © 2012 Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.
Cover design by Jeroen Ten Berge
Interior Design by Steven W. Booth, www.GeniusBookServices.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.
CLIENT – Parnell Hall
Praise for Parnell Hall’s mystery CLIENT
“Mr. Hall slyly wins our respect for Stanley’s intelligence and perseverance—qualities that give him the edge over his bolder and brawnier competition. And the last laugh, too.”
—Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review
“Hall deftly mixes mirth and murder with a dash of wry philosphy, and his series hero … is a never-failing delight.”
—The San Diego Union
“Good writing and plenty of laughs make Client a winner.”
—Phil Thomas, Associated Press
“The plots are interesting, the locales authentic, the dialogue witty, and the characters real. These are exceptionally good mysteries. Don’t miss them!”
—Mystery News
“Hall serves up another highly readable mystery starring one of the most unusual private eyes ever to take a case.”
—Booklist
Client
Parnell Hall
Copyright © 1990, 2011 by Parnell Hall
Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2011.
e-reads.com, 2003
ISBN:978-0-759215-60-3
Published by NAL-Onyx, 1991.
ISBN:0-451-40249-9
Originally published by Donald I Fine, Inc., 1990.
ISBN:978-1-556111-69-3
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-936441-40-2
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-41-9
Cover design: Michael Fusco Design | michaelfuscodesign.com
For Jim and Franny
1.
I HAVE BAD TEETH.
I guess I was fated to have bad teeth. See, I’m on the far side of forty, which means I grew up before the age of enlightenment. When I was a boy, people didn’t know what they know now. Even the high school coaches, people whose job it supposedly was to tune and mold our fine young bodies, knew no bett
er. The basketball coach gave us gum to chew during the game, and soda pop after. And this was in the days before Trident and Diet Pepsi—the effect was like soaking our teeth in a concentrated solution of sugar-water.
Things weren’t any better in terms of prevention. As I’ve said, public awareness was limited at best. Fluoride had arrived, but was still perceived by many to be a communist plot to pollute our water system. As a result, Crest toothpaste was fighting an uphill battle to convince the public that it was, indeed, “an effective decay-preventive dentifrice that can be of significant value when used in a conscientiously applied program of oral hygiene and regular professional care.” That was a bit of a mouthful for anyone, with or without good teeth, and not everyone was buying it. Crest did better after they shortened the slogan to, “Look Ma, no cavities!” God how I hated that exuberant, smiling eight-year-old kid who grinned his pearly whites at me on the one snowy channel our secondhand black and white TV could pick up in those days. No cavities. I remember when I was twelve years old going to the dentist, and, “Look Ma, eighteen cavities.”
Eighteen.
It took four visits to fix ’em all. And the fourth, wouldn’t you know it, was my two front teeth, which miraculously, had never been affected before. So all my previous fillings had been silver, and I had four anxious weeks to fantasize what my impending sex life would be like with ugly metallic fillings forever messing up my endearing smile. Which didn’t happen, of course. My front teeth were filled with porcelain, or something white, which didn’t look all that bad, and though I was an awkward, confused, nervous adolescent and my sex life was no great shakes anyway, I didn’t have my dentist to blame for it.
