Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  “I need some wheels. Mind if I start looking online?”

  “Go right ahead. And take care.”

  “You got it, Boss.”

  10.

  Since I cannot, at this moment, stand the thought of being in her presence, and she certainly prefers to avoid looking at me, Judith and I decide to hash things out over the phone. We begin somewhat pleasantly with the latest update on our son. He’s doing well, no damage, no desire to really talk about last weekend. With that out of the way, we get down to business.

  Judith has decided that she does not want to pursue an FBI investigation into Roy Kemp and the kidnapping. She has her reasons and they are solid. Life is good. Starcher is fine. If Kemp and company are desperate enough to snatch a kid in return for information, then who knows what else they might do. Let’s leave them alone. Besides, proving Kemp was involved seems impossible. Can we really trust the FBI to go after a high-ranking law enforcement official? Plus, her trial calendar is packed. She doesn’t want the distraction. Why should we complicate our already stressful lives?

  Judith is a fighter, a tough gal who backs down from nothing. She’s also a conniving tactician who avoids the dangers of unintended consequences. If we push an investigation into Kemp, we have no idea what might happen next. And since we’re dealing with a tough guy who’s not thinking clearly, it’s smart to assume retaliation is likely.

  To her surprise, I do not argue. We reach an agreement, a rare occurrence in our relationship.

  11.

  Our mayor is a three-term guy with the imposing name of L. Woodrow Sullivan III. To the public and the voters, he’s simply Woody, a smiling, backslapping, friendly sort who’ll promise anything for a vote. In private, though, he’s an abrasive, sour prick who drinks too much and is fed up with his job. He can’t walk away, though, because he has no place to go. He’s up for reelection next year and it appears as though he has no friends. Right now his approval rating is around 15 percent, low enough to force any proud politician to quit in disgrace, but Woody’s fought back before. He’d rather do anything than suffer through the meeting we’re about to have.

  The third man in the room is the city attorney, Moss Korgan, a classmate of mine in law school. We despised each other back then and things have not improved. He edited the law review and was headed for a gilded career in a fancy corporate law firm, one that imploded and left him scrambling for lesser work.

  Woody and Moss. Sounds like an ad for hunting gear.

  We meet in the mayor’s office, a splendid room on the top floor of City Hall, with tall windows and views in three directions. A secretary pours coffee from an old silver pot as we take our places around a small conference table in one corner. We struggle through the obligatory chitchat and make ourselves smile and act relaxed.

  Through discovery in the civil trial, I have let it be known that I intend to subpoena both of these guys to the witness stand. This fact hangs over the table like a dark cloud and makes professional politeness almost impossible.

  Woody brusquely says, “We’re here to talk about a settlement, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, and remove some papers from my briefcase. “I have a proposal, one that is rather lengthy. My client, Doug Renfro, prefers to settle all claims and get on with his life, what’s left of it.”

  “I’m listening,” Woody says rudely.

  “Thank you. First, the eight city cops who murdered Kitty Renfro must be fired. They have been on administrative leave since the murder, and—”

  “Do you have to use the word ‘murder’?” Woody interrupts.

  “They haven’t been convicted of anything,” Moss adds.

  “We’re not in a courtroom, okay, and if I want to use the word ‘murder,’ then I’ll use it. Frankly, there is no other word in the English language adequate enough to describe what your SWAT boys did. It was murder. It’s embarrassing that these thugs have not been terminated and that they’re still getting their full salaries. They have to go. That’s number one. Number two, the chief has to go with them. He’s an incompetent jerk who should not have been hired in the first place. He oversees a corrupt department. He’s an idiot, and if you don’t believe me, then ask your voters. According to the last poll, at least 80 percent of the people in this city want him fired.”

  They nod gravely but cannot make eye contact. Everything I’ve said has been said on the front page of the Chronicle. The city council passed a no-confidence vote by three to one against the chief. But the mayor won’t fire him.

  The reasons are simple and complicated. If the eight warrior cops and their chief are terminated before the civil trial, they would likely become hostile witnesses against the City. It’s best if they remain united in their defense against the Renfro lawsuit.

  I continue, “Once the lawsuit is settled you can finally terminate them, right?”

  Moss says, “Need I remind you that our liability is capped at $1 million?”

  “No, you need not. I’m very aware of that. We’ll take the million as a settlement, and you immediately fire the eight cops and the chief.”

  “Deal!” Woody practically yells across the table as he slaps it with a palm. “Deal! What else do you want?”

  Even though the City is on the hook for a measly million bucks, these guys are terrified of another trial. During the first one, I exposed in dramatic detail the gross malfeasance of our police department, and the Chronicle broadcast it on the front page for a week. The mayor, the police chief, the city attorney, and the council members were in bunkers. The last thing they want is another high-profile trial in which I humiliate the City.

  “Oh, I want a lot more, Mayor,” I say. Both look at me with blank faces. Slowly, fear begins to form in their eyes. “I’m sure you remember the story of my little boy getting kidnapped last Saturday. Pretty frightening stuff but a good ending and all that happy horseshit. What you don’t know is that he was kidnapped by members of your police department.”

  Woody’s tough-guy facade melts as his face droops and turns pale. Moss, a former Marine, is proud of his perfect posture, but right now he can’t keep his shoulders from sagging. He exhales as the mayor sticks a fingernail between his teeth. Their eyes meet briefly; identical looks of terror.

  With a bit of drama, I drop a document on the table, just out of their reach. I say, “This is a ten-page affidavit, signed by me, in which I describe, under oath, the kidnapping, an abduction orchestrated by Assistant Chief of Police Roy Kemp, in an effort to coerce me to divulge the location of his missing daughter’s body. Arch Swanger was never my client, contrary to what you’ve read and what you believe, but he did tell me where the body was supposedly buried. When I refused to pass along this information to the cops, my son was kidnapped. I caved, told Detective Reardon what I knew, and a full-scale dig took place at the location last Sunday night. They found nothing; the body was not there. Kemp then released my son. Now he wants me to forget all about it, but that’s not going to happen. I’m working with the FBI. You think you have problems with the Renfro case, just wait until the City finds out how rotten your police department really is.”

  “Can you prove this?” Moss says with a dry throat.

  I tap the affidavit and reply, “It’s all right here. There is surveillance footage from the truck stop where I found my son. He has been able to identify one of his abductors, a cop. The FBI is hot on the trail and chasing leads.”

  This is not entirely true, of course, but how could they know? As in any war, the truth is the first casualty. I remove another document from my briefcase and place it next to the affidavit. “And this is a rough draft of a lawsuit I plan to file against the City for the kidnapping. Kemp, as you know, is on administrative leave, still on your payroll, still an employee. I’ll sue him, the department, and the City for a crime that will be front page from coast to coast.”

  “You want Kemp fired too?” Moss asks.

  “I don’t care if Kemp stays or goes. He’s a decent chap and a goo
d cop. He’s also a desperate father who’s going through hell. I can give him a break.”

  “Mighty nice of you,” Woody mumbles.

  “What’s this got to do with the settlement?” Moss asks.

  “Everything. I’ll bury the lawsuit and forget about it, get on with my life, and keep a closer eye on my kid. But I want another million bucks for Renfro.”

  The mayor rubs his eyes with his knuckles as Moss sags even lower. They are overwhelmed and for one long minute cannot piece together enough words to respond. Finally, Woody mumbles a rather pathetic “Holy shit.”

  “This is extortion,” Moss says.

  “It certainly is, but right now extortion is a few notches down the pole. At the top is murder, followed by kidnapping. You don’t want to start a pissing contest with me.”

  The mayor manages to stiffen his spine and say, “And how are we supposed to find another million bucks to pass along to you and Mr. Renfro without someone leaking it to the press?”

  “Oh, you’ve moved money around before, Mayor. You’ve been caught a couple of times, got embarrassed with the scandals, but you know the game.”

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m not a reporter, so knock it off. Your budget this year is 600 million. You have rainy-day funds, discretionary funds, slush funds, reserves for this and for that. You can figure it out. The best route may be to deal with the city council in executive session, pass a resolution to reach a confidential settlement with Renfro, and handle the money offshore.”

  Woody laughs but not because of anything humorous. “So you think we can trust the city council to keep this quiet?”

  “That’s your problem, not mine. My job is to get a fair settlement for my client. Two million is not fair, but we’ll take it.”

  Moss gets to his feet, looking dizzy. He paces to a window and stares out at nothing. He stretches his back and paces around the room. Woody seems to grasp the reality that the sky is falling and asks, “Okay, Rudd, how much time do we have?”

  “Not much,” I reply.

  Moss says, “We need some time to investigate this, Sebastian. You come in here, drop a bomb like this, and expect us to believe everything. There are a lot of moving parts here.”

  “Indeed, but an investigation will only cause leaks. And where will it take you? You’re going to call in Kemp and ask him if he kidnapped my son? Gee, I wonder what he’ll say. You can dig for months looking for the truth and you won’t find it. And, I’m not in the mood to wait.” I slide the affidavit and the lawsuit across the table in Woody’s direction. I stand and grab my briefcase. “Here’s the deal. Today is Friday. You have the weekend. I’ll be here at ten Monday morning to wrap things up. If you boys can’t figure it out, I go straight to the Chronicle with that little pile of papers. Imagine the story, the damage. Headlines on cable around the clock.”

  Woody is pale again. He says lamely, “I’m in Washington Monday.”

  “Then cancel. Get a bad case of the flu. Ten Monday, gentlemen,” I say as I open the door.

  12.

  Naomi is not too impressed with my rented Mazda. As we make our way downtown toward the auditorium, I explain what happened to my other vehicle. She is shocked that there are bad guys loose in the City who would attach an explosive device to my van to intimidate me and kill Partner. She wants to know how soon the police will catch these guys and bring them to justice. She doesn’t understand when I explain that (1) the police have no real interest in catching them because I am who I am and (2) the police can’t catch them because these guys don’t leave behind clues.

  She asks if she’s safe in my company. When I tell her I have a gun strapped to my torso and wedged just under my left armpit, she takes a deep breath and gazes out the window. Sure, we’re safe, I promise her.

  In an effort at full disclosure, I tell her about my last office and the firebombing. No, the police have not solved that crime either, primarily because they were probably involved in the act. Either them or some drug dealers.

  “No wonder you struggle with women,” she observes. And she’s right. Most of them get spooked early in the game and gravitate toward safer men. Naomi, though, has a gleam in her eye and seems to enjoy the threat of danger. After all, the cage fights were her idea.

  I’ve pulled strings and our seats are ringside, third row back. I buy two tall beers and we settle in to watch the crowd. Unlike the theater or cinema, or the opera or symphony, or even a basketball game, the fans arrive in a rowdy mood, many of them already half-drunk. It’s another nice crowd, probably three to four thousand, and I marvel at the speed with which the sport has gained popularity. I also think of Tadeo, a talented kid now sitting in jail when he should be at the top of tonight’s card. His trial is just around the corner and he still expects me to pull a miracle and walk him out, a free man. For Naomi, I recount, in great graphic detail, the night not too long ago when Tadeo attacked the referee and this entire place turned into a riot. Starcher thought it was cool and wants to return for more fun.

  She thinks that’s a bad idea.

  A trainer recognizes me and stops by for a chat. His kid is a 150-pounder who fights in the second match and has not lost in his last six. As he talks he can’t keep his eyes off Naomi. Because she’s a knockout and dressed fashionably, she’s getting plenty of looks.

  The trainer thinks his kid has a future and they need some backing. Since I’m viewed as a big-shot lawyer with plenty of cash, at least in this world, I’m a player who can make a career. I tell the guy we can talk later. Let me watch the kid for a couple of fights and then we’ll meet. The trainer asks about Tadeo and shakes his head sadly. What a waste.

  When the place is packed, the lights go down and the crowd becomes frantic. The first two fighters enter the cage and introductions are made.

  “You know these guys?” Naomi asks excitedly.

  “Yes, just a couple of brawlers, not much talent. Street fighters really.”

  The bell sounds, the brawl is on, and my hot little schoolteacher sits on the edge of her seat and starts yelling.

  13.

  At midnight we’re in a pizza dive, tucked into a narrow booth and sitting very close together. There has been some touching and hand-holding and there seems to be a mutual attraction. I certainly hope it’s mutual. She nibbles on a slice of pepperoni and prattles on about the main event, a heavyweight blood-fest that ended with a vicious choke hold. The loser stayed on the mat for a long time. Eventually, she gets around to the kidnapping and wants to know how much I know. I explain that the FBI is digging and I can’t say anything.

  Was there a ransom demand? I can’t say. A suspect? Not that I know of. What was he doing at that truck stop? Eating ice cream. I’d like to give her the details but it’s too early; maybe later, when everything is settled.

  As we drive back to her place, she says, “It might be difficult to have a relationship as long as you’re wearing a gun.”

  “Okay. I can lose it. But it will always be close by.”

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  Nothing else is said until I park outside her condo. “I had a great time,” she says.

  “So did I.” I walk her to the door of her condo and ask, “So when can I see you again?”

  She pecks me on the cheek and says, “Seven tomorrow night. Right here. There’s a movie I want to see.”

  14.

  Partner picks me up in another rental, a shiny new U-Haul cargo van with “$19.95 a Day—Unlimited Mileage” splashed on both sides in bright green and orange paint. I look at it for a minute or so before finally getting in. “Nice,” I say.

  “I thought you’d like it,” he says, grinning. His bandages are hidden under his clothing; there’s no evidence of his wounds. He’s too tough to admit soreness or pain.

  “I guess we’d better get used to it,” I say. “The insurance company is dragging its feet. Plus it’ll take a month to get a new one customized.” We’re moving through downtown tra
ffic, just a couple of delivery boys with a van full of furniture. He stops in front of City Hall and parks illegally. A U-Haul van with such vivid colors is bound to attract a swarm of traffic cops.

  “I chatted with Miguel,” he says.

  “And how did that go?” I ask, my hand on the door handle.

  “Okay. I just explained things, said you were getting squeezed by some tough guys and needed a little protection. He said he could take care of it, said it was the least he and the guys could do for you and all that happy crap. I emphasized that no one gets hurt, just a friendly hello to Tubby and Razor so they’d get the message.”