Текст книги "Gray Mountain"

Автор книги: John Grisham

Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

34

Her first glimpse of Gray Mountain had been by air. Her second had been by boat and four-wheeler, a much more intimate visit two and a half weeks before last Christmas. Her third was by pickup truck, a more traditional means in those parts. Jeff picked her up in Knox, where she left her car in the same library parking lot. One look at the truck and she said, “You get a new one?” It was a massive vehicle, a Dodge something or other, and definitely not the one she’d seen before.

“No. It belongs to a friend,” he said, vague as always. In the back were two red kayaks, a cooler, and several backpacks. “Let’s go.” They left town in a hurry. He seemed tense and his eyes kept darting from one mirror to the other.

“Are those canoes back there?” she asked.

“No, they’re kayaks.”

“Okay. What does one do with a kayak?”

“You’ve never been in a kayak?”

“Again, I’m from the city.”

“Okay, with a kayak one goes kayaking.”

“Or one sits by the fire with a book and a glass of wine. I’m not getting wet, you hear?”

“Relax, Sam.”

“I still prefer Samantha, especially from the guy I’m currently sleeping with. Sam is okay when it’s my father, never my mother, and now Mattie can get away with it. Sammie will get a person slapped. It’s confusing, okay, but for now why don’t you just stick with Samantha?”

“It’s your name. I’m getting sex with no strings so I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“Get right to the point don’t you?”

He laughed and turned up the stereo—Faith Hill. They left the main highway and bounced along a narrow county road. As they began a steep ascent, he suddenly turned onto a gravel road, one that ran along a ridge with forbidding canyons below. She tried not to look, but flashed back to her first adventure with Donovan, when they climbed to the top of Dublin Mountain and looked down at the Enid Mine site. Vic had startled them, and then they were spotted by security. It seemed so long ago, and now Donovan was dead.

Jeff turned again, and again. “I’m sure you know where you’re going,” she said, but only to register concern. “I grew up here,” he said without looking. A dirt trail still half-covered with snow stopped at a dead end. Through the trees she could see the cabin.

As they were unloading the truck, she asked, “What about the kayaks? I’m not hauling these things.”

“We’ll have to check the creek. I’m afraid the water might be too low.” They lifted the small cooler and backpacks from the truck and carried them to the cabin, fifty yards away. The snow was four inches deep and covered with the tracks of animals. There appeared to be no boot prints or signs of human visitors. Samantha was pleased that she noticed such things. A real mountain girl now.

He unlocked the cabin, entered slowly as if he might disturb something, and looked around. They placed the cooler in the small kitchen and the backpacks on a sofa. “Are those cameras still out there?” she asked.

“Yes, and we just triggered them.”

“Any trespassers lately?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“It’s been a long time. Too much traffic raises suspicions. Let’s check the creek.”

They walked over some rocks at the edge of the stream. Jeff said it was too low for the kayaks. Instead, they followed it deep into the hillsides, far away from the cabin and any land owned by his family. Though she wasn’t sure, she thought they were going west, away from Gray Mountain. With the ground covered in snow, it was impossible to find trails, not that they were needed. Jeff, like his brother, moved through the terrain as if he walked it daily. They began a climb that grew steeper, and at one point stopped for water and a granola bar. He explained that they were on Chock Ridge, a long steep hill that was thick with coal and owned by people who would never sell. The Cosgrove family, from Knox. Donovan and Jeff had grown up with the Cosgrove kids. Good folks and so on. They climbed another five hundred feet and crested the ridge. In the distance, Jeff pointed out Gray Mountain. Even covered with a white blanket it looked bare, desolate, violated.

It was also far away, and after an hour trudging through the snow her feet were beginning to freeze. She decided to wait a few more minutes before complaining. As they began a descent, shots rang out, loud thunderous cracks of gunfire that echoed through the hills. She wanted to hit the ground but Jeff was unfazed. “Just deer hunters,” he said, barely breaking stride. He had a backpack but no rifle. She was certain, though, that there was a weapon somewhere in there with the granola bars.

Finally, when she was convinced they were hopelessly lost in the woods, she asked, “Are we headed back to the cabin?”

He glanced at his watch and said, “Sure, it’s getting late. Are you cold?”

“My feet are frozen.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful toes?”

“Happens every day.”

“No, seriously?”

“Am I blushing? No, Jeff, I can honestly say that I do not remember anyone ever saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Let’s go thaw them.”

The route back took almost twice as long as the venture out, and the valley was dark when they found the cabin. Jeff quickly built a fire, and the chill was replaced by a smoky warmth that Samantha could soon feel in her bones. He lit three gas lanterns, and as he hauled in enough firewood for the night, she unpacked the cooler and inspected dinner. Two steaks, two potatoes, and two ears of corn. There were three bottles of merlot, carefully selected by Jeff because of their screw-off caps. They drank the first cup as they warmed by the fire and talked about politics. Obama would take the oath in a few days, and Jeff was contemplating a road trip to D.C. for the festivities. Her father, long before his fall, had been active in the Democratic politics of the plaintiffs’ bar, and now seemed to be regaining his enthusiasm for the fight. He had invited her to come share the moment. She liked the idea of watching history, but wasn’t sure of her schedule.

She had told no one about the offer from Andy, and she would not bring it up now. Doing so would only complicate things. Halfway through the second cup he asked, “How are the toes?”

“They’re tingling,” she said. They were still tucked away in thick woolen socks, socks she planned to keep on regardless of what happened. He went to light the charcoal on the porch, and before long they were preparing dinner. They ate by candlelight on a primitive table built for two. After dinner, they attempted to read novels by the light of the fire, but quickly abandoned that idea for more pressing and important matters.

She awoke in the midst of the quilts and blankets, naked except for her socks, and it took a few seconds to realize Jeff was not somewhere in the pile. Coals smoldered in the fireplace as the last of the logs burned out. She found a flashlight and called his name, but he wasn’t in the cabin. She checked her watch: 4:40 a.m. Pitch-black outside. She walked to the porch, shined the light over it, softly called his name, then quickly returned to her warm spot by the fire. She refused to panic. He wouldn’t leave her alone if she were in danger. Or would he? She put on jeans and a shirt and tried to sleep, but she was too wired. She was also frightened, and as the minutes ticked by she tried to stifle her anger. Alone in a dark cabin deep in the woods—this was not supposed to happen. Every sound from the outside could be a threat. Five o’clock crept by. She almost dozed off but caught herself. She had brought a small backpack with a toothbrush and a change of clothes. He had hauled in three large ones of the serious-backpacker variety. She had noticed them immediately in the back of the truck in Knox, and she had glanced at them occasionally. He used one for the hike; the other two appeared to be stuffed with something. They had been tossed on the sofa at first, then placed by the door. Now they were gone.

She took off her jeans and shirt and flung them on the sofa, as if nothing had happened. When she was still and warm again, she took deep breaths and assessed the situation. What was obvious became more so. For those watching Jeff’s every move, today’s visit to Gray Mountain was nothing more than a romantic getaway. The kayaks were a nice touch, bright and red and stacked in the back of the truck for all to see, but never close to actually getting wet. Kayaking, hiking, grilling on the porch, snuggling by the fire—just a pleasant little tryst with the new girl in town. In the early hours of the morning, when the valley was at its stillest, he awoke and eased away with the skill of a cat burglar. At that moment, he was deep in the bowels of Gray Mountain stuffing the backpacks with invaluable papers filched from Krull Mining.

He was using her for cover.

The door opened and her heart froze. She couldn’t see it in the pitch blackness, and the sofa was blocking it too. She was lying on a thick mat layered with quilts and blankets, trying to breathe normally and praying that the person over there was Jeff. He stood perfectly still for what seemed like an hour, then moved slightly. When he placed his jeans on the sofa the belt buckle rattled slightly. When he was undressed, he gently eased back under the covers, careful not to touch her or wake her.

She really hoped that naked man inches away was Jeff Gray. Feigning sleep, she rolled over and flung an arm across his chest. He pretended to be startled and mumbled something. She mumbled back, satisfied that she, in fact, knew the guy. With a hand that was a bit too cold for the occasion, he fondled her rear end. She mumbled no, and turned away. He moved closer, then pretended to fall asleep. Before she drifted off, she decided to play along with the game for the time being. Give it some time and thought, and keep an eye on those backpacks.

The cat burglar was moving again, now slowly getting to his feet and reaching for the stack of wood. He tossed two logs on the fire, stoked it, and whispered, “Are you awake?”

“I think so,” she said.

“This place is freezing.” He was on his knees, lifting covers and reburying himself next to her. “Let’s sleep some more,” he said, groping, going for the body heat. She grunted something in reply, as if she’d been in a coma. The fire was popping and crackling, the chill was suddenly gone, and Samantha managed to finally drift away.

35

The forecast for Monday was a high of fifty-five degrees and lots of sunshine. The last of the snow was melting quickly as Samantha walked to work. January 12, but it almost felt like spring. She unlocked the office and went about her early morning routine. The first e-mail was from Izabelle:

Hey Sam: Andy says he’s made contact and you’re almost on board. He made me promise not to discuss the job and the specifics; afraid we’ll compare notes and try to squeeze him for a better package I guess. Can’t say that I’ve really missed him that much. You? I certainly haven’t missed the firm and the city and not sure I’m going back. I told Andy I’d take the job but having second thoughts. I certainly can’t drop everything and be there in a month. You? Nor have I missed the thrill of reading and revising contracts ten hours a day. I need the money and all, but I’m surviving okay and I really enjoy the work. As I’ve told you, we advocate for kids who have been prosecuted as adults and are stuck in adult prisons. Don’t get me started. The work is fascinating as well as depressing, but each day I feel like I’m making a small difference. We walked a kid out of prison last week. His parents were waiting by the gate, and everyone was in tears, including me. FYI—one of the other new associates at Spane & Grubman is that turd Sylvio from tax. Remember him? The worst halitosis in the entire firm. Knock you down from the other side of the conference table. And he insists on talking nose to nose. Spits too. Gross! FYI—according to unnamed sources, one of the blue ribbon clients at Spane & Grubman will be Chuck Randover, that great indictment-dodger who thinks just because he’s paying you $900 an hour he has the right to rub your ass. You know him too well.

But you didn’t hear this from me. FYI—Serious second thoughts. You? Izzie

Samantha chuckled as she read the e-mail, and wasted no time firing one right back:

Iz, I don’t know what Andy is smoking, or telling, but I haven’t said yes. And if he’s playing this fast and loose with the facts it sort of makes me question everything else he says. No, I cannot pack up and leave here in a month, not with a clear conscience. I’m thinking of asking for a start date a few months down the road, say around September 1.

Randover was the only client who ever made me cry. He ridiculed me once in a meeting. I held things together until I could get to the restroom. And that chump Andy sat right there and watched it happen, no thought of protecting his people. No way. He wasn’t about to cross a client. I was wrong, but it was such a simple and harmless mistake.

Any idea what the package will be?

Izabelle replied:

I swore I wouldn’t divulge it. But it’s impressive. Later.

The first surprise of the day came in the mail. Top Market Solutions sent a check for $11,300, made payable to Pamela Booker, with the required releases attached. Samantha made a copy of the check and planned to frame it. Her first lawsuit and her first victory. She proudly showed it to Mattie, who suggested that she drive it over to the lamp factory and surprise her client. An hour later, she entered the town of Brushy and found the near-vacant industrial park on the edge of town. She said hello to Mr. Simmons and again thanked him for rehiring Pamela.

On break, Pamela signed the release and cried over the check. She had never seen so much money and seemed thoroughly overwhelmed. They were sitting in Samantha’s car, in the parking lot, among a sad collection of ancient pickup trucks and dirty little imports. “I’m not sure what to do with this,” she said.

As a multitalented legal aid lawyer, Samantha had a bit of financial advice. “Well, first, don’t tell anyone. Period. Open your mouth and you’ll have all sorts of new friends. How much is your credit card debt?”

“Couple thousand.”

“Pay it off, then cut up your cards. No debt for at least a year. Use cash and write checks, but no credit cards.”

“Are you serious?”

“You need a car, so I’d put two thousand down on one and finance the rest over two years. Pay off your other bills, and put five thousand in a savings account, then forget about it.”

“How much of this do you get?”

“Zero. We don’t take fees, except in rare cases. It’s all yours, Pamela, and you deserve every dime of it. Now hurry and stick it in the bank before those crooks bounce it.”

With her lips twitching and tears dripping off her cheeks, she reached over and hugged her lawyer. “Thank you, Samantha. Thank you, thank you.”

Driving away, she looked in her rearview mirror. Pamela was standing, watching, waving. Samantha wasn’t crying, but she had a tightness in her throat.

The second surprise of the day came during the Monday brown-bag lunch. Just as Barb was telling a story about a man who’d fainted in church yesterday, Mattie’s cell phone vibrated on the table beside her salad. Caller unknown. She said hello, and a strangely familiar, but unidentified, voice said, “The FBI will be there in thirty minutes with a search warrant. Back up your files immediately.”

Her jaw dropped as the color drained from her face. “Who is this?” she asked. The caller was gone.

She calmly repeated the message, and everyone took a deep, fearful breath. Judging from the tactics used when the FBI raided Donovan’s office, it was safe to assume they would walk out with just about everything they could carry. The first frantic order of business would be to find some flash drives and start downloading the important data from their desktops.

“We’re assuming this is also related to Krull Mining,” Annette said, looking suspiciously at Samantha.

Mattie was rubbing her temples, trying to stay calm. “There’s nothing else. The Feds must think we have something because I’m the attorney for Donovan’s estate. Bizarre, absurd, outrageous, I can’t think of enough adjectives. I, we, have nothing they haven’t already seen. There’s nothing new.”

To Samantha, though, the raid was far more ominous. She and Jeff had left Gray Mountain Sunday morning, and she was assuming the backpacks were loaded with documents. Barely twenty-four hours later, the FBI was charging in, snooping on behalf of Krull Mining. It was a fishing expedition, but also an act of effective intimidation. She mentioned nothing, but hurried to her office and began transferring data.

The women whispered as they scurried about. Annette had the bright idea of volunteering Barb to leave with their laptops. They would explain that she was driving over to Wise to have them serviced by a technician. Barb gathered them and was more than happy to leave town. Mattie called Hump, who was one of the better criminal lawyers in town, retained him on the spot, and asked him to saunter over once the raid started. Hump said he wouldn’t miss it for anything. When the flash drives were loaded, Samantha placed them in a large envelope, along with her spy phone, and walked down to the courthouse. On the third floor, the county maintained a long-neglected law library that hadn’t been cleaned in years. She hid the envelope in a pile of dusty ABA Journals from the 1970s and hurried back to the office.

Agents Frohmeyer and Banahan wore dark suits and led the fearless team as it barged into the heavily fortified offices of the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic. Three other agents—all in navy parkas with “FBI” stenciled from shoulder to shoulder in yellow letters as large and as bright as possible—followed their leaders. Mattie met them in the front hallway with “Oh no, not you again.”

Frohmeyer said, “Afraid so. Here’s the search warrant.”

She took it and said, “I don’t have time to read it. Just tell me what it covers.”

“Any and all records relating to the legal files from the law offices of Donovan Gray and pertaining to correspondence, litigation, etc., relative to what is commonly known as the Hammer Valley case.”

“You got it all last time, Frohmeyer. He’s been dead seven weeks. You think he’s still producing paperwork.”

“I’m just following orders.”

“Right, right. Look, Mr. Frohmeyer, his files are still over there, across the street. The file I have here is his probate file. We’re not involved in the litigation. Understand? It’s not complicated.”

“I have my orders.”

Hump made a noisy entrance, barking, “I represent the clinic. What the hell is this all about?” Annette and Samantha were watching from their open doors.

Mattie said, “Hump, this is Agent Frohmeyer, the leader of this little posse. He thinks he has the right to take all of our files and computers.”

Annette suddenly barked, “Like hell you do. I don’t have a single piece of paper in my office that’s even remotely related to Donovan Gray or any of his cases. What I do have is an office full of sensitive and confidential files and cases involving such things as divorce, child molestation, domestic abuse, paternity, addiction and rehab, mental incompetency, and a long sad list of human misery. And you, sir, are not entitled to see any of it. If you try to touch any of it, I’ll resist with all the physical might I can muster. Arrest me if you will, but I promise you first thing tomorrow morning I’ll file a federal lawsuit with your name, Mr. Frohmeyer, and the names of the rest of you goons, front and center, as defendants. After that, I’ll hound you to hell and back.”

It took a lot to stun a tough guy like Frohmeyer, but for a second his shoulders slumped, slightly. The other four listened wide-eyed and uncertain. Samantha almost laughed out loud. Mattie was actually grinning.

“Very well put, Ms. Brevard,” Hump said. “That sums up our position nicely, and I’ll be happy to call the U.S. Attorney right now and clarify things.”

Mattie said, “There are over two hundred active files and a thousand more in storage. None of which have anything to do with Donovan Gray and his business. Do you really want to haul them back to your office and dig through them?”

Annette snarled, “Surely, you have better things to do.”

Hump raised both hands and called for quiet. Frohmeyer stiffened his back and glared at Samantha. “We’ll start with your office. If we find what we’re looking for, we’ll take it and leave.”

“And what might that be?”

“Read the search warrant.”

Hump asked, “How many files do you have, Ms. Kofer?”

“Around fifteen, I think.”

Hump said, “Okay, let’s do this. Let’s place her files on the conference room table and you boys have a look. Go through her office and inspect whatever you want, but before you remove anything let’s have a chat. Okay?”

“We’re taking her computers, desktop and laptop,” Frohmeyer said.

The sudden interest in Samantha’s files was puzzling to Mattie and Annette. Samantha shrugged as if she had no idea. “My laptop is not here,” she said.

“Where is it?” Frohmeyer snapped.

“The technician has it. Some type of bug, I think.”

“When did you take it in?”

Hump threw up another hand. “She doesn’t have to answer that. The search warrant doesn’t give you the right to interrogate potential witnesses.”

Frohmeyer took a deep breath, fumed for a second, then gave them a sappy grin. He followed Samantha to her office and watched closely as she removed her files from the army surplus cabinet. “Nice place you got here,” he said like a real smart-ass. “Won’t take long to search this office.” Samantha ignored him. She carried her files to the conference room where Banahan and another agent began flipping through them. She returned to her office and watched Frohmeyer slowly poke through her two file cabinets and the drawers to her rickety desk. He touched every piece of paper but took nothing. She hated him for invading her private space.

One agent followed Mattie into her office; another followed Annette. Drawer by drawer, they looked at all the files but removed nothing. Hump walked from door to door, watching and waiting for an altercation.

“Are all the laptops gone?” Frohmeyer asked Hump when he finished digging through Samantha’s office.

Annette heard the question and said, “Yes, we sent them all together.”

“How convenient. Guess we’ll be back with another search warrant.”

“All fun and games.”

They picked through hundreds of retired files. Three of them climbed into the attic and pulled out records Mattie hadn’t seen in decades. The excitement gave way to monotony. Hump sat in the hallway and shot the bull with Frohmeyer while the ladies tried to return calls. After two hours, the raid lost steam and the agents left, taking with them nothing but Samantha’s desktop computer.

As she watched it leave, she felt like the helpless victim in a backward country where the police ran rampant and rights were nonexistent. It was simply wrong. She was being bullied by the cops because of her association with Jeff. Now her property was being confiscated, and her clients’ confidentiality was compromised. She had never felt so helpless.

The last thing she needed was a good grilling at the hands of Mattie and Annette. They had to be highly suspicious of her at this point. How much did she know about the Krull matter? What had Jeff told her? Had she seen any of the documents? She managed to sneak out the back door and retrieve the flash drives and spy phone from the law library. She went for another long drive. Jeff was not answering the phone and this irritated her. Right now she needed him.

Mattie was waiting when she returned to the office at dark. The laptops were back, safe and untouched.

“Let’s go sit on the porch and have a glass of wine,” Mattie said. “We need to talk.”

“Is Chester cooking?”

“Well, we never skip dinner.”

They had a nice stroll to Mattie’s house and decided along the way it was too chilly for porch sitting. Chester was busy elsewhere, so they were alone. They sat in the den and had a sip or two before Mattie said, “Now, tell me everything.”

“Okay.”