Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

by Randy Singer

  The man rifled through the wallet, and Harry heard something hit the ground. The mugger had probably pocketed the credit cards and thrown down the rest. Harry didn’t carry cash in his wallet.

  “I’ve got some cash in my front pocket,” Harry said. Maybe this would satisfy the guy. Maybe he could get a glimpse of the man’s face, a reflection from the nearby cars. He would make sure this thug got every day of jail time he deserved. But for now, Harry just needed to survive.

  “It’s not about your cash,” the voice said. “It’s about keeping your nose out of other people’s business.”

  Harry had only a split second. His eyes shifted to the right, catching the reflection from a rear window. He couldn’t make out the man’s features, but he could see one thing. The barrel of the gun. Extended. A silencer.

  This wasn’t a mugging. It was an execution!

  But Harry McNaughten was not going down without a fight.

  He spun, swinging his left elbow back, hoping for the element of surprise. The approach had served him well for so many years in court—drastic action that nobody anticipated.

  But this time, even before he connected, he felt a flash of pain at the base of his skull. The world went white. And Harry McNaughten crumpled to the ground.

  He was dead before he hit the concrete.

  ///

  The assassin checked Harry’s pockets and took his cash. He looked around—the coast was still clear—and slid the gun into a chest holster hidden under his jacket. He walked to a stairwell and a few minutes later was at the side street where he had parked.

  Before pulling away, he sent a text.

  Finished assignment. No glitches. 50% courtesy discount. Subject was a lawyer.

  ///

  Landon learned about the shooting at ten thirty that night. He was still at his desk, the only lawyer in the office, trying to make up for the fact that he hadn’t worked at all on Sunday.

  Rachel was the one who called, and Landon could tell she had been crying.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Landon waited a moment for her to continue, his stomach in his throat. He assumed it was something to do with her and Brent. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

  “Harry’s been shot,” Rachel managed. She sniffled, and it sounded like she was hyperventilating. “He’s dead, Landon. Somebody killed him.”

  The news stunned Landon—a gut punch—and the rest of the phone call was a blur. He asked Rachel if she was sure. She struggled to hold it together as she gave him what few details she knew. Harry had been shot in a parking garage; whoever did it took his cash and credit cards. The police were investigating. It looked like a random mugging.

  Landon still couldn’t believe it. There had to be some mistake! He felt like he had stepped into another dimension.

  Numb, he hung up the phone and stared at it. The office suddenly seemed suffocating. The silence deafening. He was very much alone.

  Strangely, he wished he could be with Rachel. Or even Brent Benedict or Parker Clausen. Someone who could understand what he was feeling right now.

  Harry McNaughten was dead.

  After a few minutes, he got up and walked down the hallway. He turned on the lights to Harry’s office and stepped inside. He sat down at his mentor’s desk and smelled that musty old-man smell that seemed to follow Harry around. He let his mind wander to the Character and Fitness Committee, to the General District Court trial, to the gruff calls from this office to his own. “Landon! Come here a minute!”

  He would give anything to hear that voice right now.

  He picked up a pair of Harry’s reading glasses, held them the way Harry would have—between his thumb and index finger, twirling them a bit—then put them down.

  Harry McNaughten was dead.

  Landon leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He thought about Harry, realized how much the man had become like a father to him, and wept. Fifteen minutes later, his heart still aching, he left the office.

  “Thanks for believing in me,” he said.

  42

  DETECTIVE ANGELA FREEMAN was waiting for Landon when he arrived at work on Tuesday morning. The officer was short and thin with long, straight dark hair. She wore a blue blouse tucked into black slacks and appeared to be in pretty good shape. Her most striking features were big dark eyes that seemed to bug out a little and slightly oversized ears. She was pretty and probably would have been prettier if she smiled. But homicide detectives seldom allowed themselves that luxury.

  “Detective Freeman is investigating Harry’s death,” Brent Benedict explained. “She wants to ask us each a few questions.”

  She ushered Landon into the firm’s main conference room and closed the door. It felt awkward—just the two of them sitting at the massive slate table. Landon took a seat on the end. Freeman chose the nearest chair on the side and slid it closer. She took out a tablet and made a few notes, pretty much right under Landon’s nose so he could read every word. She pulled out a Dictaphone and placed it on the table.

  “Is it okay if I record this?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  After a few preliminary questions, she asked Landon whether Harry McNaughten had any enemies, anybody who might want him dead. She stared at Landon as he processed the implications of the question.

  “I thought this was a random mugging,” he said.

  “It probably was. But a few things have me concerned. The suspect shot out the security cameras in the garage before the event. Nobody heard any gunshots, indicating he may have used a silencer. The kill shot went through the occipital lobe in the back of the head. It’s a very efficient way to kill someone. He left a wallet behind, but the only fingerprints on it belonged to Mr. McNaughten. Either this mugger knew what he was doing or he got very lucky. So we need to look at every angle. Were you aware of any enemies?”

  “He was a criminal-defense lawyer. He had lots of enemies.”

  “Does anybody in particular come to mind? Any recent death threats, for example?”

  Landon thought for a moment. Even Harry’s enemies seemed to have a grudging respect for the man. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want Harry dead.

  “No. Nothing stands out.”

  “I understand that you were Harry’s associate.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’ll need a list of all his active cases. I need to know names of defendants that he was representing as well as the victims of their crimes. Also, if you recently lost any cases, I’ll need to know the names of those clients and the types of cases.”

  “I need to check with Mr. Benedict on that,” Landon said. “But I’ll give you what I can.”

  “I already spoke to Mr. Benedict this morning, while we were in Mr. McNaughten’s office,” Freeman said tersely. She had been too close for comfort throughout the entire conversation, and the space seemed to shrink now. “He said the firm would cooperate fully. I’ll set up a firewall in our department so that anything you tell me will never be used against any of your clients. It may just be a random shooting from a mugging gone bad, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Okay,” Landon said. “I’ll do anything I can to help you catch this guy.”

  But even as he said it, Landon was already drawing battle lines in his mind. He would give Freeman the names of Harry’s clients. That couldn’t hurt. The names of the victims and the cases Harry lost were matters of public record. He would just be saving the police time on those issues.

  But Landon wasn’t about to share any details from the case files, and he knew Brent Benedict would back him. There was nothing that Landon wanted more than for Harry’s killer to be brought to justice. Yet that didn’t mean he could violate the attorney-client privilege.

  Nor could he forget the number one rule that Harry had always taught him: never trust the cops.

  43

  HARRY MCNAUGHTEN’S MEMORIAL service took place at the largest funeral home
in Virginia Beach, and there still wasn’t enough room for everyone. In keeping with his wishes, Harry had been cremated, so there was no casket. Instead, there were pictures of Harry scattered across the front of the auditorium. Landon and Kerri got a kick out of seeing what Harry looked like in his younger days. Even then he had the round shoulders and drawn face that resembled a vulture, but his hair was dark and long. He had been handsome by the standards of the day.

  Harry had been married three times. There were pictures of wives one and two but not a mention of wife three. He had four kids and a half-dozen grandkids who all lived out of town. They were all accounted for at the funeral, each undoubtedly hoping for a piece of Grandpa’s estate.

  A minister from some local church presided over the service, but there was really nothing spiritual about it. The speakers were Harry’s friends and partners and a Virginia Beach Circuit Court judge. They all told stories about Harry, and most of them started by saying, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but . . .”

  Brent Benedict performed the main eulogy and gave a stirring tribute. Harry McNaughten was, according to Brent, the greatest trial lawyer in Virginia, perhaps on the entire East Coast. If Brent had his life on the line, he would want Harry to defend him. The man had a heart for the underdog, and he loved a good fight. Just to emphasize the point, Brent told a few war stories about some of Harry’s most famous fights. Landon found himself laughing and missing Harry more than ever.

  Before he sat down, Brent turned serious. “Harry was like a father to me,” he said. “He would give you the shirt off his back. And he was a tough old codger.

  “In fact, I remember one case where his appendix burst in the middle of the trial. It was a three-day case, and after the second day, Harry complained about a stomachache. The next day, he gave one of the best closing arguments I’d ever heard and then checked himself into the hospital while I waited for the verdict. The doctor said Harry might have died if he had waited a few hours longer. But I knew he wouldn’t have. It always seemed to me that Harry McNaughten was indestructible.

  “In life, there are people who get heart attacks and people who give them to others.” Brent smiled wryly. “No doubt about it. Harry was in the heart-attack-giver category. That’s why I thought for certain that he would outlive me. Even when he was diagnosed with cirrhosis, I was sure of it.”

  Brent paused for a moment and collected himself. He swallowed hard and surveyed the crowd. “Frankly, it just never occurred to me that Harry might be the first to die. I may be the managing partner at McNaughten and Clay, but Harry was our heart and soul. I never thought about the practice of law without him, and I can’t imagine it now.”

  Brent paused and turned his attention to the family members in the front row. “Your father was a good man,” he said. “Your granddaddy was a great man.” He then looked at Harry’s ex-wives. “Admittedly, your ex-husband had a few flaws, but we loved him anyway.”

  The room chuckled. Brent Benedict smiled. He looked toward the ceiling.

  “Rest in peace, Harry,” he said.

  ///

  That night, Landon and Kerri got a babysitter for Maddie, donned windbreakers, and went for a walk on the beach. They took off their shoes and felt the cold sand between their toes. They stayed just out of reach of the lapping waves. For long stretches, they didn’t say a word.

  In the last few days, they had replayed their own Harry McNaughten stories. If it weren’t for Harry, Landon wouldn’t be a lawyer at all. Kerri had harbored mixed emotions about the man while he was alive because he made Landon work unreasonable hours and didn’t seem to care much about family. But now that he was dead, she was coming around to Landon’s way of thinking. Harry had believed in her husband just like she did. He’d given Landon opportunities that most fifth-year lawyers didn’t get. And nobody would dispute that he was one heck of a mentor and trial lawyer.

  But something had been eating at Landon, and he chose this moment, walking hand in hand with Kerri on a chilly April evening at the beach, to talk about it.

  “You notice what was missing from the memorial service today?”

  “They should have had you speak.”

  “No, I’m talking about the whole tone of the thing. The absence of any spiritual dimension. It was all about Harry as a lawyer and a friend and a partner at the firm.”

  “I noticed that too,” Kerri said, softening her voice. “Do you think he was a Christian?”

  It was the question that had been haunting Landon since Harry’s death. All of those weeks they spent together and they had never once discussed anything spiritual. After his conversion in jail, Landon had become a serious follower of Christ. For him, it was as natural as breathing.

  Yet for some reason, he had turned it off at the office. Maybe Harry had intimidated him. Maybe he was just glad to have a job and didn’t want to push the issue. But now he was filled with regret that he had never once shared with Harry how important faith was in his life.

  “I saw a Bible in his office once,” Landon said hopefully. “But I never saw him read it. He may have been one of those guys who just kept his faith private. That’s his generation, you know.”

  “He obviously didn’t go to church,” Kerri said. “That minister didn’t know a thing about him.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty obvious.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Landon. He knew where you stood. Don’t forget that hearing before the Character and Fitness Committee. Plus, he saw the way you lived. You’ve just got to trust that God gave him the opportunities to hear what he needed to hear.”

  “Thanks,” Landon said. But he knew she was just saying it to make him feel better.

  Kerri edged closer to him, and he put his arm around her as they walked. He wouldn’t forget this night—the crisp wind, the smell of salt water, the incessant breaking of the waves as they approached the shore—or the moment of clarity that Harry’s memorial service had provided. People had talked about what a great trial lawyer Harry was, but his family life had been a disaster. And the last few months, Landon had been so consumed with becoming a great lawyer himself that he had lost all sense of perspective.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a husband or father lately,” he said to Kerri. “I don’t want people talking about what a great lawyer I am at my funeral. There are a lot of other things more important.”

  Kerri stopped, and Landon turned to her. She wrapped her arms around his body and leaned in, pressing the side of her face against his chest. He placed his cheek gently on top of her head, the way he had so many times in the past. Neither of them spoke. Not during that embrace, not after the kiss, and not for several more minutes as they walked back in the same direction they had come.

  Kerri was the one who finally broke the silence. “You’re the best husband ever,” she said softly.

  44

  ON MONDAY MORNING, two days after Harry’s memorial service, Landon sat in his truck for a few minutes before he mustered the strength to walk into the building and head upstairs to his office. Something about the memorial service had made it final. Harry was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

  Landon would not only be alone on the second floor again today, but his job was to go through every one of Harry’s files so he could give Brent Benedict a status report. He’d also been charged with cleaning out Harry’s office and boxing stuff up for storage.

  Landon climbed the steps, put his briefcase down in his office, plugged in his laptop, and eventually made his way to Harry’s office. He took a seat in one of Harry’s client chairs and stared at the old man’s desk.

  There were pieces of Harry everywhere. Pictures of the grandchildren. A United Way pledge card with a box checked for two thousand dollars. Behind the desk were a few mementos from prior cases. Harry had lined them up on his credenza like little soldiers in formation. A spent bullet casing. A lab report with DNA evidence. A phone log. A small square of carpeting with dried blood. A small cloth doll with needles
stuck in it, a relic from an insanity case. Each one had a story.

  “You want some help?”

  The voice startled Landon. He turned and saw Rachel, standing in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee.

  “Sure.” If nothing else, he wanted the company.

  Compiling a status report on each of Harry’s cases would be a daunting task. Before he could do that, Landon had to make sure the case files were not missing anything, meaning he had to find a home for the reams of paper and pleadings and exhibits scattered around Harry’s office.

  A couple of months ago, Landon had been determined to get every file on the second floor organized so they could find stuff they needed and know the status of each file in a heartbeat. But he had been overwhelmed with other work and had procrastinated on the clerical tasks. It was probably just as well, because it gave him something to focus on now—something to take his mind off how much he missed Harry.

  Landon and Rachel rolled up their sleeves and began the tedious process of putting every scrap of paper where it belonged. It was like somebody had taken eighty different puzzles and dumped all the pieces into Harry’s office, then shaken it up. Before you could put any of the puzzles together, you first had to separate the pieces box by box. It was a frustrating task, but neither of the two young lawyers wanted to be too critical of a man whose ashes were not yet cold.

  45

  THE DAY ENDED with an hour-long meeting of the four lawyers in the main conference room. They went over each of Harry’s files and made decisions about whether they should try to keep the clients. Brent Benedict was in a foul mood because Harry hadn’t gotten a big enough retainer on several of the cases, so if the firm kept those clients, they would essentially be working for free. Plus, Brent was worried about Landon getting in over his head if they kept any of the more complicated felony files.