An Equal Justice

by Chad Zunker

  David made his way over to Claire at the bar.

  “Hey, Claire,” he said.

  “Hi, David. I was happy to hear when you accepted at H&K.”

  “I feel the same.” He glanced over as his rival joined them. “Hey, Tidmore.”

  “Hey, Trailer Park,” Tidmore replied, grinned.

  “Boys, be nice,” Claire suggested.

  The Ivy League jerk had started calling him that stupid nickname last summer after finding out about David’s humble upbringing. David wanted to punch him in the face each time he said it, just like tonight. But he’d have to take it out on him in other ways. The partners had strategically placed their offices right next to each other, a clear attempt at encouraging their cutthroat competition. David knew they would push each other to the limits. He looked forward to it. Between studying and bartending, he’d already learned to live off four hours of sleep. He was determined to bury that snobby punk.

  A few minutes later, Marty Lyons took command of the dinner from the front of the room, and all voices silenced. Lyons had personally recruited David to Hunter & Kellerman. As head of litigation, Lyons had twice been on the cover of the American Lawyer. With prestige, power, and incredible wealth, he embodied everything David hoped to become one day. The job offer the partner had made over dinner several months ago was one of the great moments of David’s life. It had made him feel instantly rich after a lifetime of being dirt-poor. Lyons had dark hair with a few touches of gray above the ears and wore a perfectly tailored blue suit. David knew from interning last summer that the partner owned an entire closet of expensive suits. David had counted four different Rolex watches on the man’s wrist at different points. He’d spotted Lyons behind the wheel of both a $100,000 Mercedes and a shiny black Porsche 911 Turbo. He’d heard that Lyons owned a thousand-acre ranch in south Texas and a five-thousand-square-foot cabin in Vail.

  Lyons said a few nice things about each of the new associates, officially welcomed them to the greatness of the firm, made a toast toward the upcoming year, then invited everyone to eat and drink to their hearts’ delight. Two buffet lines opened, serving lamb chops and salmon filets, among other delicious items. David loaded up a plate and sat with Thomas and his wife, Lori, who invited David to their home for dinner on Sunday night. Lyons came by to give him another heartfelt welcome and told David how excited he was to have him as part of the family. The eating and drinking lasted several hours until everyone started making their way for the exits, some stumbling out the doors because they’d spent too much time at the bar.

  David was on the sidewalk outside the restaurant when he spotted one of the other associates having a difficult time getting into his Lexus sedan at the curb. The guy slumped over, banged up against the car door, uttered some curse words. He was clearly drunk.

  “You okay, bud?” David asked, walking up to him.

  He looked over, eyes red. “Just splendid.”

  The guy was in his early thirties, with neat black hair.

  “Carlson, right?” David asked.

  The guy nodded. “Yep. Nick Carlson.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to climb behind the wheel right now.”

  “I’m fine, I swear.”

  Just as soon as he’d said that, Nick stumbled forward again, and David caught him before he took a serious nosedive straight into the concrete.

  “How about I give you a ride, Nick?”

  “Sure, if you insist.”

  With one arm holding the man upright, David guided Nick a block over to where his truck was parked along the curb in front of their office building. He helped Nick get into the passenger seat and then pulled the seat belt around his plump body. Nick immediately slumped over against the window. Climbing in next to him, David started up the truck.

  “Where to, my friend?” David asked.

  “Far West,” Nick mumbled, managing to give David his address.

  David drove out of downtown proper, caught the MoPac Expressway north, and headed up the highway toward Far West Boulevard.

  “Nice truck,” Nick said, sitting up a bit. “Reminds me of my dad’s. He loved that truck. God rest his soul.”

  “Your dad passed?”

  Nick nodded. “A few years ago.”

  “Well, your dad had good taste.”

  “And class, too,” Nick added. “Hell, I wish I was half the man he was.”

  “Come on, I’m sure he’d be proud of your success.”

  “Not if he knew the truth . . . ,” Nick muttered, staring out the side window.

  David tilted his head. Nick was a sad drunk. “I guess you’re not from money?”

  Nick laughed. “Hell no. My dad was a truck driver in Mississippi.” He had trouble saying the Mississippi part, his speech was slurring so much. “I had to earn all of this the hard way, probably like you.” He turned more fully to David. “Listen, man, you can’t let jerks like Tidmore get to you. I heard him sticking it to you again over by the bar. Guys like Tidmore are a dime a dozen around firms like Hunter & Kellerman. Families worth so much damn money that they get hired by partners just with the hope that the firm can pick up the family as clients. Annoying as hell, but just part of it.”

  “Yeah, that guy really pisses me off. But I guess I’ve just got to get used to the ribbing.”

  “I wouldn’t. I’d just leave.”

  David looked over at Nick. He sat there stone-faced and wasn’t joking.

  “I’m not going to let jerks like Tidmore run me off.”

  Nick sat very still, eyes forward. “I’m not talking about Tidmore. The firm is dark, man. So very dark. Before you know it, Lyons will take your soul. You should get out before you run into real trouble—like me.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Nothing, man. Just talking.”

  David finally pulled up to a small but nice redbrick house along a well-kept street of other nice little houses. He parked at the curb out front, damn near had to carry Nick to the front door, and then helped him use his key to unlock it.

  “You going to be all right, bud?” David asked.

  Nick looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Time will tell.” He reached out, grabbed David by the arm. “I’m serious, man. You should leave. Now. Before it’s too late for you, too.”

  “Go sleep it off, Nick. I’ll see you at the office, okay?”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  After shutting the door behind Nick, David returned to his truck. He was halfway back downtown when he looked over and realized Nick had left his wallet on the passenger seat. Sighing, David turned the truck around, drove back up to Far West, and again parked along the curb in front of Nick’s house. He knocked firmly several times on the front door, but there was no response. Nick was probably already passed out on the floor somewhere, although David thought he saw shadows of movement through a side window. He knocked again. Still no answer. Spotting a mail drop box next to the front door, David placed the wallet inside and then returned to his truck. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through a personal phone number list he’d been given by the firm, and typed out a quick text to Nick to give him a heads-up about the wallet.

  Before driving away, he peered toward Nick’s house one more time and noticed a figure suddenly emerge from around the side, as if coming from the back. David squinted. Was that Nick? When the guy passed briefly under a security light by the garage, David realized it was not. This guy was thinner, with short white hair. Could Nick have a roommate? He hadn’t mentioned anything. The guy gave a quick glance over in David’s direction and then tucked back into the shadows and disappeared down the sidewalk.

  THREE

  Frank Hodges stood at the balcony doors inside the presidential suite at the Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin. Night was upon the city, and Frank could see Austin’s famed Sixth Street below him, bustling with raucous activity. Music blared from every bar venue, and the sidewalks were busy with people. At sixty-seven, Frank was not in town to party.
He was here on business. A potential new client had flown him in from Florida earlier that evening. Frank checked his wrist. The man who’d rented the expensive suite for this private meeting would be arriving at any moment. The client had insisted on meeting in person and limiting phone and email communication. This was not uncommon in Frank’s line of work. All his clients had become paranoid about hackers. He couldn’t really blame them. As long as they paid his expensive sit-down fee, he would gladly jump on a plane.

  Frank had spent nearly forty years with the CIA, where he’d run point on covert operations in more than two dozen countries. Although he was not ready to quit the Agency, Frank had been pushed into retirement a few years earlier. It was a young man’s game now, he’d been repeatedly told by his smug new supervisor—a guy twenty-five years younger who’d never even been in a hostile situation. His new boss had somehow worked his way up the ranks from behind the protection of a damn computer screen. He’d never slept in a cramped prison cell in an obscure third-world country for seventy-eight straight days while his government had tried to secretly get him out. He’d never had to kill a man to protect his own identity and complete an assignment. His supervisor hadn’t been shot four different times and been left with the scars and limp to prove it. At his so-called retirement party, after a few too many drinks, Frank had seriously thought of breaking his boss’s neck and stuffing him in the trunk of his car. Thankfully, he’d had two friends there who’d wisely dragged him away.

  After leaving DC, Frank had bought himself a small condo along the Florida coast and tried his hand at fishing. He’d had an old Agency friend, who’d also been forced into retirement, who loved fishing for tarpon and somehow seemed content with just kicking his feet up and casting a rod every day. So Frank had thrown his own line in the water and waited. But forty years’ worth of adrenaline does not fade fast, he’d quickly learned. Like an aging NFL quarterback struggling to retire, Frank got bored within months and wanted back in the game. He couldn’t stand the thought of spending his final days sitting next to other lifeless old men who drank cheap beer, wore flowery silk shirts, griped about the weather, and listened to Jimmy Buffett all day. Frank’s version of “Margaritaville” was sitting in an unmarked van doing surveillance on a potential perp. Or chasing a mole through a dark alley and wrangling the truth out of him.

  Frank put the fishing rod away and instead put up a shingle for private security consultation. Special ops for the private sector. It was a dark and dirty world out there, and men with his unique skill set and experience had become extremely valuable. Frank could be hired only by those in the know who had serious money and real problems to solve. He wasn’t interested in trailing cheating husbands for brokenhearted wives. Frank ran only legit operations. Since opening, his firm had been inundated with job opportunities. Frank had actually made more money in the last few months than he’d made during almost forty years with the Agency.

  Turning away from the balcony, Frank took a look at himself in a mirror on the wall and straightened his black sport coat. Although his hair had turned gray a long time ago, he still had a full head of it. Most of his friends couldn’t say the same. His build had remained lean and muscular—he ran three miles a day on the beach back in Florida. His brown eyes, though wrinkled, were every bit as sharp as they’d been when he’d joined the Agency as a young man. His Brazilian girlfriend, Maria, said she loved his eyes. She was thirty years younger. He loved absolutely everything about her.

  Frank turned when the door to the hotel suite opened. A midfifties man entered wearing a suit and carrying a black briefcase. Frank shut the doors to the balcony for complete privacy. The two men shook hands, exchanged brief greetings, and then sat on opposite sides of a coffee table in the dimly lit living room. The man in the suit was all business, which was just fine with Frank.

  “Thanks again for meeting me on such short notice, Mr. Hodges,” the man said. “I know you have your choice of clients, as your reputation is absolutely stellar, so I appreciate your flying out here to discuss this with me in person.”

  “Tell me about your situation,” Frank said, hands crossed in his lap.

  “We’re being blackmailed.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “We need you to find some people for us as quickly as possible.”

  “How many people?”

  “Six men, in particular.”

  “These men know each other?”

  “They served together in the navy a long time ago.”

  The man opened his briefcase, pulled out a faded color photograph, and slid it across the coffee table to Frank. He picked it up and studied it. In the photo, seven young sailors all stood together on a dock. There was nothing distinguishable about them or their location. From the look of their uniforms, Frank guessed the group photo had been taken in the midseventies, which would make these men all around his age now.

  “I count seven,” Frank mentioned.

  “We do not need you to find the second man from the right.”

  “You have any names?”

  “Only for three of the men, unfortunately. We need you to find these guys and figure out if one of them might be behind the blackmail effort.”

  “Has an ask already been made?”

  “Yes. We’re prepared to pay it—for now. We’d like you to handle the exchange.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Not a problem.”

  The man opened his briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid it across the table to Frank. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

  Frank leaned back in the leather chair. He knew better than to ask the obvious questions. He was paid a lot of money to handle matters for wealthy and powerful people without having to know their reasons behind them, unless they were relevant to his completing an assignment. Most times, the less he knew, the better he slept at night. Plus, it protected him from being in the line of fire should one of his clients end up in a courtroom or find him- or herself sitting in front of a congressional panel. Staring at the photograph, he felt this was a rather easy job. These were all old men. Finding them shouldn’t be too difficult. His crew was in between operations right now, so he could have them jump on this immediately.

  “You’re comfortable with my financial requirements?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. The money will be wired to your account tonight. We need this handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. Both time and secrecy are of the essence.”

  Frank nodded. All his clients said that.

  “We’ll get started right away.”

  FOUR

  David arrived at the firm at five thirty on Monday morning.

  The office was eerily quiet. No one was there yet—except for Tidmore, which really pissed David off. He couldn’t believe the guy had actually beaten him to the punch on their first official day with the firm. Ignoring the light coming from his rival’s office, David circled his desk and began to get himself organized.

  Tidmore was standing at his doorway a second later.

  “I was wondering if you were ever going to show up.”

  David looked up, shook his head. “You sleep under your desk?”

  “No, but I’m not opposed to it to get the job done.”

  “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

  Tidmore gave him his usual cocky smile. “You keep telling yourself that, Trailer Park, while I go submit my first hour of billable work.”

  “You go do that, Tidmore.”

  Rolling up his sleeves, David took his first billable action as a new attorney. Thomas had already dumped six thick expandable folders on his desk—discovery for one of their cases. He wanted David to take a crack at drafting a motion of summary judgment by Thursday morning. David stared at the massive pile. It would take him two days just to review it all. The client was a huge software company worth billions. Fortunately, a company worth billions gets sued weekly. For his work, David would bill them $475
per hour—more than he had made bartending in a full week. Thomas billed $700 per hour. Partners at H&K billed up to $1,200 per hour. Was any human being really worth that? It was standard firm policy to bill clients in six-minute increments. If David even thought about a client in the shower for a few seconds, he was supposed to hit them with a sixer, which basically meant in the time it took him to shift the heavy folders around his desk, he’d already made the firm seventy-nine dollars. He was off and running!

  The office came to life around eight. His administrative assistant was Margie, a portly woman with red hair. In her midforties, she’d been with the firm for over twenty years. Margie had an edge to her and took to bossing David around immediately. Thomas said she was one of H&K’s best and brightest and probably knew more about the law than David ever would. He was lucky to have her, Thomas suggested. His paralegal was a sharp young Brazilian guy named Leo, who immediately began helping David get his office organized and caught him up to speed on all the litigation cases. Leo had been with the firm for six years and knew all the nuances and oddities of each associate and partner, which he gladly shared with David. He liked Leo from the beginning.

  At nine, Marty Lyons called an urgent meeting for all attorneys to immediately gather in the main conference room. The whole group huddled around a long conference table, where they gossiped about why Lyons had called the meeting. Was there a big new case? Lyons finally walked into the room, looking somber, and made his way to the head of the table. The room fell silent.

  “I have difficult news to share with you all and wanted to do it in person this morning. Yesterday afternoon, police informed me that Nick Carlson took his own life on Saturday night.”

  A chorus of gasps bounced around the room. David’s was one of them.

  “I won’t get into the details,” Lyons continued. “But this is obviously a tragic situation for all of us. Nick was a terrific attorney and was well liked around here. He will be sorely missed. I will keep you posted on funeral arrangements as they come together with his family. You’ll be receiving an email from HR in a few minutes to connect you to counseling services, should any of you need help with handling a horrible situation like this one, as well as the ongoing stress that comes with our jobs here. I only wish we’d been able to get Nick the help he clearly needed before it was too late.”