Текст книги "Gray Mountain"

Автор книги: John Grisham

Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

39

A heavy, midweek rain drained into the rivers and streams of Curry County, and Yellow Creek was high enough for kayaking. It was warm for mid-January, and Samantha and Jeff spent most of Saturday afternoon racing up and down the creek in dueling kayaks, dodging boulders, floating on the still waters, and avoiding any mishaps. They built a fire on a sandbar and cooked hot dogs for a late lunch. Around 4:00 p.m., Jeff thought they should head for the cabin, which was about half a mile away upstream. By the time they arrived they were exhausted. Wasting no time, Jeff grabbed three backpacks and a rifle. He said, “Give me thirty minutes,” and disappeared toward Gray Mountain.

Samantha put a log on the fire and decided to wait on the porch. She took a quilt outside, settled under it, and tried to read a novel. She watched two deer ease into the shallow water of the creek and take a drink. They left and vanished into the woods.

If everything went as planned, she and Jeff would leave after sunset. In the Jeep—Donovan’s Jeep Cherokee—they would have in their possession all of the remaining Krull Mining documents. Jeff estimated their weight at about a hundred pounds. They would take them to a location he had yet to disclose. The less he told her, the less complicit she would be. Right? She wasn’t so sure. He had promised she would not touch the documents, and hopefully not even see them. If somehow they got caught, now or later, he would take all the blame. She was reluctant to help, but she was also eager to close this complicated chapter of her life and move on.

Two rifle shots suddenly rang out, and she jumped out of her skin. Then two more! They were coming from just over the ridge, from Gray Mountain. She stood on the porch and looked in that direction. One more shot, for a total of five, and then nothing but silence. She could hear her heart pounding, but other than that there was complete silence. Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen. She was holding her cell phone but there was no service.

Minutes later Jeff emerged from the woods, not on the trail, but from the dense forest. He was walking as fast as possible as he lugged the three backpacks. She ran to meet him and took one of them. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, then was silent as they tossed the backpacks onto the porch. He sat on the front steps, breathing heavily, almost heaving. She handed him a bottle of water and asked, “What happened?”

He slurped the water and poured some over his face. “As I was coming out of the cave, I saw two goons, both with rifles. They had followed me, then I guess they got turned around. I made a noise. They turned and fired, both missed. I hit one in the leg and scared the other one.”

“You shot someone!”

“Damned right I shot someone. When they have guns it’s best to hit them before they hit you. I think he’s okay, not that I care. He screamed and his buddy was dragging him away last I saw.” He gulped the water as his breathing settled down. “They’ll be back. I’ll bet they’ve called for help and more thugs are on the way.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re getting out of here. They were too close to the cave and they might have seen me go in. I can get it all in one more load.”

“It’s getting dark, Jeff. You can’t go back there.”

He didn’t hear anything but mumbled, “We gotta work fast.” He jumped to his feet, grabbed two of the backpacks and pointed to the third. “Get that one.” Inside, they unzipped them, carefully removed stacks of paper and placed the loot on the kitchen table. Two empty picnic coolers had been sitting suspiciously in a corner since Samantha’s first visit. He pulled them over and opened them. From the inside pocket of his vest he produced a black pistol and laid it on the table. He grabbed her shoulders and said, “Listen to me, Samantha, as soon as I leave, place the documents into these coolers. There’s a roll of cargo tape inside, make sure they’re sealed tightly. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“There’s a gun on the table,” she said, wide-eyed.

He picked it up and said, “Have you ever fired one?”

“Of course not. And I’m not doing it now.”

“You’ll do it if you have to. Look, it’s a 9-millimeter Glock automatic. The safety is off so it’s ready to go. Lock the door behind me and sit right here on the sofa. If anyone shows up and tries to get in, you have no choice but to pull this little trigger. You can do it.”

“I want to go home.”

“Buck up, Samantha, okay? You can do this. We’re almost finished, and then we’re outta here.”

He did inspire confidence. Whether it was foolishness, bravery, the love of adventure, or a rush of adrenaline, he was assertive and sure of himself and made her believe she could hold the fort. If he was daring enough to return to Gray Mountain at dusk, the least she could do was sit by the fire and hold the gun.

The least she could do? Why was she even there?

He pecked her on the cheek and said, “I’m off. Does your phone have any coverage?”

“No. None.”

He grabbed the empty backpacks and his rifle and left the cabin. She stood on the porch, watched him disappear into the woods, and shook her head at his guts. Donovan knew he would die young. What about Jeff? Once you accept death, is it easier to charge into the darkness? She would never know.

Inside, she gingerly picked up the Glock and placed it on the counter. She stared at the documents, and for a split second was tempted to at least scan a couple. Why not, after all their controversy? But her curiosity passed quickly and she stuffed them into the coolers. They barely fit, and as she was fumbling with the tape she heard two shots in the distance.

She forgot about the Glock and ran to the porch. After a few seconds, there was a third shot, then a shriek of an indistinguishable nature. Under the circumstances, she was reasonably sure it was the sound of a man getting hit by gunfire, not that she had any experience with such situations. As the seconds passed she became convinced it was Jeff who’d been hit. Ambushed by the backup thugs, or goons, or whatever.

She began walking along the creek, headed for the trail where she had seen him disappear. She stopped for a second and thought about the gun, then kept walking. The documents were not worth dying for, not when her life was on the line. If the bad guys grabbed her, she was betting that they would not kill her. Unarmed, anyway. If she burst into the woods blasting away, she wouldn’t last three seconds. And how valuable was she in a gunfight? No, Samantha, guns are not your thing. Leave the Glock in the cabin. Leave it there with all those wretched documents and let the thugs have them all. Live another day and before long you’ll be back in New York where you belong.

She was at the edge of the woods, staring into blackness. She froze and listened; nothing. She called out softly, “Jeff. Jeff. Are you okay?” Jeff did not answer. One foot slowly followed the other. Fifty feet in, she called out again. A hundred feet into the woods and she could not see the opening behind her.

Trying to find Jeff or anyone else, or anything in particular, at that moment in those woods was a ridiculous idea. She was not following orders. She was to stay inside the locked cabin and guard things. She turned around and hurried out of the woods. Something snapped loudly behind her and she gasped. She glanced back, saw nothing, but walked even faster. Out of the woods, the sky lightened a little and she could see the silhouette of the cabin a hundred yards away. She scampered along the creek until she hit the porch at full speed. She sat on the front steps, catching her breath, watching the trail, praying for a miracle.

She walked inside, locked the door, lit a lantern, and almost fainted.

The coolers were gone, as was the Glock.

There was a noise on the porch, heavy footsteps, bags being dropped, a man’s cough. He tried to open the door, rattled it, yelled, “Samantha, it’s me. Open up!”

She was wrapped in an old quilt, cowering in a corner, armed only with the poker from the fireplace, and ready to use it if necessary in a fight to the finish. He found a key and burst inside. “What the hell!” he demanded. She laid down her weapon and began crying. He rushed to her and said, “What happened?”

She told him. He kept his cool and said only, “Let’s get outta here. Now!” He poured water on the fire, turned off the lantern, and locked the door. “Take that one,” he said, pointing to a backpack. He threw one onto his back, slung the other over his shoulder, and had his rifle in a ready position. He was sweating and agitated and barked, “Follow me!”

As if she might choose another course of action.

They headed for the Jeep, which, along with everything else, was lost in the night. The last time Samantha checked her phone the time was 7:05. The trail was straight and within minutes they were in the opening. Jeff hit the key and the Jeep’s lights came on. He yanked open the hatch, and as they tossed in the backpacks Samantha saw the two coolers. She barely managed to say, “What?”

“Get in. I’ll explain.” As they were driving away, he turned off the lights and drove slowly along the gravel road. He said, “It’s a basic tactical maneuver. The good guys are on-site doing a mission. They know the bad guys are watching, trailing them. What the bad guys don’t know is that the good guys have a backup team that’s watching and trailing the bad guys, sort of a security ring.”

She mumbled, “More stuff they didn’t teach us in law school.”

A yellow light flashed twice in front of them and Jeff stopped the Jeep. “Here’s our backup team.” Vic Canzarro yanked open a rear door and jumped inside. No greetings, no hellos, nothing but “Nice move, Sam, why did you leave the cabin?”

“Knock it off,” Jeff barked over his shoulder. “Have you seen anything?”

“No. Let’s go!”

Jeff turned on the lights and they were moving again, much faster now, and were soon on a paved county road. The fear was fading, replaced by a bit of relief. Each mile took them farther away, they thought. Five minutes passed without a word. Vic was texting away, his rifle still in his lap.

Finally, Jeff calmly asked her, “Why did you leave the cabin?”

“Because I heard gunshots, and I thought I heard someone scream. I thought you were hurt, so I panicked and went to the trail.”

“What the hell were the gunshots?” Vic thundered from the backseat.

Jeff began laughing and was quite amused with himself. He said, “Well, I was racing through the woods, pitch-black, you know, and I ran into a black bear. A big one. They’re hibernating this time of the year so they’re practically brain-dead. This guy wasn’t moving too quick, but he was irritated anyway. Figures it’s his neck of the woods, you know, so he takes offense at getting run over by a trespasser. We had words, he wouldn’t move, I had no choice but to shoot him.”

“You shot the bear?”

“Yes, Samantha, I also shot a human, though I suspect he’s okay.”

“Aren’t you worried about the police?”

Vic laughed loudly as he cracked a window and lit a cigarette.

“No smoking in here,” Jeff said.

“Sure, sure.”

Jeff glanced at Samantha and said, “No, dear, I’m not worried about the police or sheriff or anyone else, not for shooting an armed thug who was stalking me on my own property. This is Appalachia. No cop will investigate, and no prosecutor will prosecute because no jury will ever convict.”

“What will happen to the guy?”

“I guess he’ll have a sore leg. He’s lucky. The bullet could have hit him between the eyes.”

“Spoken like a true sniper.”

Vic said, “He’ll show up in an emergency room with a tall tale. Did you get everything?”

“Every piece of paper. Every scrap so skillfully confiscated by my dear brother.”

“Donovan would be proud of us,” Vic said.

In the town of Big Stone Gap, they turned in to a Taco Bell and waited in the drive-thru. Jeff ordered a sack of food with drinks, and as he was paying Vic opened the door and got out. He said, “We’re headed to Bristol.” Jeff nodded as if that was expected. He watched closely as Vic opened the door to his pickup, a truck Samantha recognized from her excursion into Hammer Valley with Donovan.

She said, “Okay, what are we doing now?”

“He’ll follow us to Bristol and watch our tail. He also has the documents we hauled out last Saturday, the first batch.”

“I thought you said Vic has a pregnant girlfriend and wanted no part of this.”

“It’s true. She is pregnant, but they got married a week ago. You want a taco?”

“I want a martini.”

“I doubt if you can find a good one around here.”

“What, may I ask, is in Bristol?”

“An airport. Beyond that, if I tell you then I’ll have to kill you.”

“You’re on a rampage, go ahead.”

The aroma hit them, and they were suddenly starving.

There were only five airplanes parked on the general aviation ramp at the Tri-Cities Regional Airport near Bristol, Tennessee. The four small ones—two Cessnas and two Pipers—were dwarfed by the fifth, a sleek, glistening private jet with all lights on and the stairs down and waiting. Samantha, Jeff, and Vic admired the aircraft from a distance as they waited for instructions. After a few minutes, three large young men dressed in black met them outside the terminal. The documents—in two coolers, three backpacks, and two cardboard boxes—were handed over and immediately wheeled out to the jet.

One of the three men said to Jeff, “Mr. London would like to see you.” Vic shrugged and said, “Oh why not? Let’s check out his little toy.”

“I’ve actually flown on it,” Jeff said. “It’s a step up from the Skyhawk.”

“Well aren’t you the big shot,” Vic snarled.

They were led through the empty terminal, onto the ramp, and to the jet. Jarrett London was waiting at the top of the stairs with a huge smile and a drink in hand. He waved them up and welcomed them to his “second home.”

Samantha had a friend at Georgetown whose family owned a jet, so this was not her first glimpse at one. The massive chairs were covered in deep, rich leathers. Everything was trimmed in gold plate. They sat around a table while a flight attendant took their drink orders. Just take me to Paris, Samantha wanted to say. And come get me in a month.

It was clear that Vic and London knew each other well. As Jeff gave the details of their escape from Gray Mountain, the drinks were served. “Would you like dinner?” London asked in Samantha’s direction.

“Oh no, Jeff treated me to Taco Bell. I’m stuffed.”

Her martini was perfect. Jeff and Vic had Dickel on the rocks. London explained that the documents would be flown right then to Cincinnati, where they would be copied on Sunday. On Monday, the originals would be flown to Charleston and handed over to a U.S. marshal. The judge had agreed to lock them up until he could review them. Krull Mining had not been informed of this agreement and had no idea what was about to happen. The FBI had backed off completely, for the moment anyway.

“Do we have friends in Washington to thank for this, Samantha?” London asked.

She smiled and said, “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

He took a sip, rattled his cubes, and said, “What are your plans now?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, it would be nice to have another lawyer on the ground in the Krull case. You’re obviously familiar with it. Donovan trusted you, and his firm is still in the hunt for some serious money. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Krull will surrender when they learn we have the documents. A settlement is not unlikely, albeit a confidential one. If they play hardball, then we crank it up and push for a trial. Frankly, that’s what we want—a spectacle, a grand exposé, a two-month-long production in which all of the bad stuff gets hashed out in open court. Then, a spectacular verdict.”

Shades of Donovan. Shades of Marshall Kofer.

He was on a roll: “There’s plenty of work for all of us, including you, Samantha. You could join my firm in Louisville. You could hang out your shingle in Brady. You could take Donovan’s office. A lot of options. My point is, we need you.”

“Thanks, Mr. London,” she said properly, then knocked back another gulp. She was on the spot and didn’t like it.

Vic sensed this and changed the subject by quizzing him about the jet. A Gulfstream V, the latest marvel. Virtually unlimited range and so on, cruises at forty thousand, far above the airlines. Very quiet way up there. As the conversation lost steam, London glanced at his watch and asked, “Could I drop you guys off somewhere?”

Ah, the perks of a private jet. Drop-offs here, pickups there. Anything’s possible.

They declined and said they had places to go. He thanked them profusely for delivering the documents and walked them back to the terminal.

40

Mattie arrived earlier on Monday, and they huddled in her office with the door closed. Samantha reported that the documents had been delivered, somewhat safely, and that if all went as planned they would be handed over to an officer of the court later in the day. She left out the more colorful aspects of the adventure—the shoot-out that left someone with a bum leg, the dead bear, the miraculous presence of Vic Canzarro, and the quick cocktail on Jarrett London’s handsome jet. Some things were better left unsaid.

At any rate, the documents were now in safer hands, where they could be fought over by other lawyers. Somebody else would make sense of them. Samantha speculated that the FBI was now on the sidelines. There was even a hint that the investigation might turn 180 degrees and begin probing into the actions of Krull Mining. Nothing definite as of yet, just a word or two out of Washington.

After the death of Buddy Ryzer and the drama of the documents, life might possibly return to normal within the confines of the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic. The two lawyers certainly hoped so. Samantha was due in court at ten o’clock, in a case that had nothing to do with coal, documents, or federal authorities, and she was looking forward to an uneventful day. Jeff, though, was lurking around the courthouse, as if he knew her schedule. “Can we talk?” he said as they walked up the stairs to the main courtroom.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you for a while,” she said.

“Sorry, no chance. How long will you be in court?”

“An hour.”

“I’ll meet you in Donovan’s office. It’s important.”

Dawn, the secretary and receptionist, was gone, terminated. The firm was out of business, its offices shuttered and gathering dust. Jeff unlocked the front door, opened it for Samantha, then closed it and relocked it. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, to the war room where the walls were still lined with enlarged photos and courtroom exhibits from the Tate trial. Files and books and papers were scattered about, lingering evidence of the FBI raid. It seemed odd to her that no one had bothered to clean up the mess, to tidy up the room. Half the lights were out. The long table was covered in dust. Donovan had been dead for almost two months, and as Samantha looked around the room at his work, at the remains of his big cases, she was hit with a wave of sadness and nostalgia. She had known him so briefly, but for a second she longed to see his cocky smile.

They sat in folding chairs and drank coffee from paper cups. Jeff swept a hand over the room and said, “What am I supposed to do with this building? My brother left it to me in his will and no one wants it. We can’t find a lawyer to take over his practice, and so far no one wants to buy it.”

“It’s early,” she said. “It’s a beautiful building and someone will buy it.”

“Sure. Half the beautiful buildings on Main Street are empty. This town is dying.”

“Is this the important matter you wanted to discuss?”

“No. I’m leaving for a few months, Samantha. I have a friend who runs a hunting lodge in Montana, and I’m going for a long visit. I need to get away. I’m tired of being followed, tired of worrying about who’s back there, tired of thinking about my brother. I need a break.”

“That’s a great idea. What about your sniper work? I see where the reward is now a million bucks, cash. Things are heating up, huh?”

He took a long sip of the coffee and ignored her last comment. “I’ll pop in from time to time to take care of Donovan’s estate, whenever Mattie needs me. But long term, I think I’ll relocate out west somewhere. There’s just too much history around here, too many bad memories.”

She nodded, understood, but did not respond. Was he attempting a bit of drama here with some lame lover’s farewell? If so, she had nothing for him. She liked the boy all right, but at that moment she was relieved to hear he was headed for Montana. A full minute passed without a word, then another.

Finally, he said, “I think I know who killed Donovan.” A pause as she was expected to ask “Who?” But she bit her tongue and let it pass. He went on: “It’ll take some time, five maybe ten years, but I’ll hide in the bushes, lay my traps, so to speak. They like airplane crashes, so I’ll give them another.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Jeff. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison?”

“I’m not going to.”

“Famous last words. Look, I need to get to the office.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There was nothing at the office but the Monday brown-bag lunch, a rowdy gossip fest that she hated to miss. There seemed to be a code among the five women who participated in the lunch: If you skip it, you’ll probably be discussed at length.

He said, “Okay, I know you’re busy. I’ll be back in a couple of months. Will you be here?”

“I don’t know, Jeff, but don’t think about me.”

“But I will think about you, I can’t help it.”

“Here’s the deal, Jeff. I’m not going to worry about whether you’re coming back, and you don’t worry about whether I’m here or in New York. Got it?”

“Okay, okay. Can I at least kiss you good-bye?”

“Yes, but watch your hands.”

Samantha returned to her desk and was greeted with the latest from New York. Andy wrote:

Dear Samantha:

Old Spane & Grubman is growing by leaps and bounds. It now has 17 of the best and brightest associates signed on for what promises to be an exciting endeavor. We need two or three more. We need you! I’ve worked with a handful of these brilliant people—Nick Spane has worked with some others—so it’s fair to say I don’t know them all. But I know you, and I know I can trust you. I want you on my team and covering my back. A lot of sharks up here, as you know.

Here’s the total package: (1) beginning salary of $160,000 (up slightly and the highest offer so far so please keep this quiet—wouldn’t want to start trouble from the get-go); (2) an annual bonus to be determined by performance and overall firm productivity (no, the two partners do not plan to keep all the profits); (3) full health insurance—medical, dental, optical (everything but Botox and tummy tucks); (4) a savings and retirement plan which includes matching contributions to a rather generous 401K; (5) overtime pay beyond 50 hours a week (yes, dear, you read that right; S&G is probably the first law firm in history to offer overtime; we’re serious about the 50 hour workweek); (6) three weeks of paid vacation; (7) your own private office with your own designated secretary (and probably your own paralegal too but can’t make that promise right now); (8) advancement; we do not want our associates cutting throats to make partner, so we’re considering a plan whereby one can stake out an equity position at 7 to 10 years with the firm.

Top that, will you? And you can start July 1 and not May 1.

I’m waiting, dear. I need an answer in a week or so. Please.

Andy

She read it twice, printed it, and admitted to herself that she was getting tired of Andy and his e-mails. She found her brown bag and went to lunch.

It was 6:00 p.m. before Mattie’s last client left. Samantha had been puttering around her desk, stalling, waiting for the right moment. She poked her head into Mattie’s office and said, “Got time for a drink?” Mattie smiled and said of course.

Monday’s drinks were of the diet-soda variety. They poured themselves stiff ones and met in the conference room. Samantha slid Andy’s latest e-mail across the table. Mattie read it slowly, smiled, laid it down, and said, “Wow. That’s quite an offer. Nice to be wanted. I guess you’ll be leaving sooner than expected.” The smile was gone.

“I’m not ready to go back, Mattie. As generous as it sounds, the work is tedious, just hour after hour of reading and proofing and preparing documents. Try as they might, they can’t jazz it up and make it even remotely exciting. I’m just not ready for that, and I don’t think I ever will be. I’d like to stay awhile.”

Mattie smiled again, a smug little grin that conveyed a lot of satisfaction. “I’m sure you have something in mind.”

“Well, not long ago I was an unpaid intern. Now I’m dodging job offers, none of which I find that appealing. I’m not going back to New York, not now anyway. I’m not working for Jarrett London. He’s too much like my father. I’m wary of trial lawyers who bounce around the country on their own jets. I don’t want Donovan’s office, too much baggage there. Jeff will own the building and be on the payroll, and knowing him as intimately as I do I can see a lot of trouble. He would assume the role of the boss and there would be tension from day one. He’s dangerous and reckless and I’m shoving him away, not getting closer. We’re having a romp every now and then but nothing serious. Besides, he says he’s leaving town.”

“So you’re staying here?”

“If that’s possible.”

“For how long?”

“There are three things I want to do. The most important client is the Ryzer family. I feel like I’m needed there, and I can’t just up and leave them in a few months. They’re vulnerable right now, and for some reason they think I can help. I’ll do the best I can. I like the idea of handling the Tate appeal, from start to finish. Lisa Tate needs us. The poor woman is living on food stamps and still grieving. I want to win the appeal and get her the money she deserves. And by the way, I think 40 percent is too much for Donovan’s estate. He may have earned that money, but he’s gone now. Lisa lost her boys; Donovan did not. With that set of facts, a lot of lawyers could have won the case. I guess we can discuss it later.”

“I’ve had the same thought.”

“During my second year of law school, we had to do a mock appellate case; write the briefs and argue before a three-judge panel, really just three law professors, but they were notorious for grilling the students. Oral argument was a big deal—coats and ties, dresses and pumps, you know?”

Mattie was nodding and smiling. “We did the same thing.”

“I guess all law students suffered through it. I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep the night before. My co-counsel gave me a Xanax two hours before the argument, but it didn’t help. I was so stiff I could barely utter the first word, then something strange happened. One of the judges hit me with a cheap shot, and I got mad. I began arguing with him. I unloaded case after case to support our position and really blasted the guy. I forgot about being scared—I was too focused on showing this judge how right I was. My ten minutes flew by, and when I sat down everybody just stared at me. My co-counsel leaned over and whispered one word: ‘Brilliant.’

“Anyway, it was my finest moment in law school, one I’ll never forget. Which is to say, I’d love to take the Tate case all the way to the Supreme Court of Virginia, present the oral argument, make fools out of the lawyers for Strayhorn Coal, and win the case for Lisa Tate.”

“Go girl. It’s all yours.”

“So that’s eighteen months, right?”

“Something like that. You said there were three things you want to do.”

“The third is simply to finish the cases I have, take some new ones as they come along, and try to help our clients. And in doing so, I’d like to spend more time in the courtroom.”

“You have a flair for it, Samantha. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Thank you, Mattie. That’s very kind. I don’t like being shoved around by the Trent Fullers of the world. I want respect, and the only way to get it is to earn it. When I walk into a courtroom, I want all the boys to sit up straight and notice, and not just my ass.”

“My, my, haven’t we come a long way?”

“Yes, we have. Now, about this internship. If I’m spending the next two years here, I need some sort of a salary. Not much, but something I can live on.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. We can’t quite match your guy up in New York, but we can do okay for rural Virginia. Annette and I both make forty a year, so that’s the ceiling. The clinic can pay you twenty. Since you’ll be handling the Tate appeal, I can get the court to authorize another twenty out of Donovan’s estate. How’s that?”

“Forty might cause a little resentment from you know who.”

“Annette?”

“Yes. Let’s go with thirty-nine.”

“We can do thirty-nine. Deal.” Mattie thrust her hand across the table and Samantha shook it. She picked up Andy’s e-mail and said, “Now I need to get rid of this jerk.”