Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

18.

We eventually leave the Landing, though it is painful. I would prefer to sit here all afternoon and throughout the night, just waiting for my little boy to appear and ask, “Where’s my boat?” It is the last place he saw his father. If he’s just lost, then maybe he’ll find his way back. We’re sleepwalking through this, numb and stunned and telling ourselves that this is not really happening.

Lynn Colfax says he’s been through this before, and the best move right now is for us to meet at Central, in his office, and talk about how to proceed. It’s either an abduction, a disappearance, or a kidnapping, and all three pose different problems.

I take my mother to my apartment, where she is met by Partner. He’ll take care of her for a few hours. She’s blaming herself for not being more attentive, and she’s griping because that bitch Judith wouldn’t even acknowledge her presence. “Why did you ever marry that woman?” she asks. It wasn’t by choice. Really, Mom? Can’t we discuss this later?

Colfax has a neat desk and a calm, soothing presence. It means nothing to us—Judith and me. Ava, the third parent, is out of town. He begins by telling us a story about an abduction, one of the few with a happy ending. Most end badly, and I know this. I’ve read the summaries. With each passing hour, the chances of a good outcome get slimmer and slimmer.

He asks if there is anyone that we know of who might be a suspect? A relative, a neighbor, the pervert down the street, anyone? We shake our heads, no. I’ve already thought about Link Scanlon and I’m not ready to bring him into this. A kidnapping does not fit his profile. All he wants from me is $100,000 in cash, a refund, and I cannot believe he would resort to kidnapping my son for ransom. Link would prefer to break my right leg this week and my left leg the next.

Colfax says it’s useful to immediately promise a reward for information. He says a good starting point is $50,000. Judith, the sole parent, says, “I can handle that.” I doubt if she could stroke a check for that amount, but go, girl. “I’ll split it,” I say, as if we’re playing cards.

To make an unbearable situation even worse, Judith’s parents arrive and are escorted into the office. They grab their daughter and all three have a long cry. I stand against a wall, as far away as possible. They do not acknowledge my presence. Starcher lives with these grandparents about half the time, so they are very attached to him. I try to understand their grief, but I have loathed these people for so long I cannot stand the sight of them. When they settle down, they ask what happened and I tell them. Colfax helps me out with a few facts here and there. By the time we get through with the narrative, they are convinced everything was all my fault. Great—now we’re getting somewhere.

I do not have to stay in the room. I excuse myself, leave the building, and return to the Landing. The police are still there, loitering around the boathouse, keeping people away from the men’s restroom. I speak to them and express my gratitude; they are sympathetic. Partner arrives, says my mother has had two martinis and is somewhat subdued. He and I split up and roam the walkways of the park. The sun is setting; the shadows are getting longer. Partner brings me a flashlight, and we continue our search well into the night.

At 8:00 p.m. I call Judith to see how she’s holding up. She’s at home, with her parents, waiting by the phone. I offer to come over and sit, but she says no thanks. She has friends over and I wouldn’t fit. I’m sure she’s right about that.

I roam through the park for hours, shining my light at every bridge, culvert, tree, and pile of rocks. This is the worst day of my life, and when it ends, I sit on a bench at midnight and finally weep.

19.

Aided by whiskey and a pill, I manage to sleep for three hours on the sofa before waking in a pool of sweat. Wide awake now, and the nightmare only continues. I shower to kill time and check on my mother. She’s had some pills and seems to be in a coma. At dawn Partner and I return to the park. There’s nowhere else to go, really. What else am I supposed to do? Sit by the phone? It’s in my pocket and it buzzes at 7:03. Lynn Colfax checks in to see how I’m doing. I tell him I’m at the park, still searching. He says they’ve had a few tips but nothing useful. Just some crackpots interested in the reward money. He asks if I’ve seen the Sunday morning newspaper. Yes, I have. Front page.

Partner brings some muffins and coffee, and we eat on a picnic table overlooking a pond that’s used for skating in the winter. He asks, “Have you thought about Link?”

“Yes, I have, but I don’t think it’s him.”

“Why not?”

“Not his kind of crime.”

“You’re probably right.”

We return to the silence that defines our relationship, a quiet I have always appreciated. Now, though, I need someone to talk to. We finish eating and split up again. I cover the same paths and trails, look under the same footbridges, walk along the same creeks. I call Judith mid-morning, and her mother answers her cell phone. Judith is resting, and, no, they’ve heard nothing. Back at the Landing, the police have removed the crime scene tape and things have returned to normal. The place is bustling with people again, all apparently oblivious to yesterday’s horror. I watch some boys race their boats around the pond. I stand where I stood yesterday when I saw Starcher for the last time. A dull pain rips through my gut and I’m forced to walk away.

At the rate I’m going, Starcher is the only child I’ll ever produce. He was an accident, an unwanted child born in the midst of a raging war between his parents, but in spite of that he has blossomed into a beautiful boy. I haven’t been much of a father, but then I’ve been shut out of his life. I never dreamed I could miss another human so much. But then, what parent can imagine a child being abducted?

Hours pass as I roam the park. I jump out of my skin when my phone rings, but it’s only an acquaintance wanting to help. Late in the day, I sit on a park bench near a jogging trail. From out of nowhere, Detective Landy Reardon appears and sits beside me. He’s wearing a suit under the standard black trench coat.

“What brings you here?” I ask, startled.

“I’m just the messenger, Rudd. Nothing more. Not involved, really. But your kid is okay.”

I take a deep breath and lean forward, elbows on knees, thoroughly confused. I manage to grunt, “What?”

He stares straight ahead as if I’m not here. “Your kid’s okay. What they want is an exchange.”

“An exchange?”

“You got it. You tell me; I tell them. You tell me where the girl is buried, you get your kid back after they find her.”

I don’t know what to think or say. Praise God my kid is safe, but he’s safe because the cops have snatched him and are holding him as bait! I tell myself I should be angry, furious, volcanic, but I am nothing but relieved. Starcher is okay!

“They? Them? You’re talking about some of your own people, right?”

“Sort of. Look, Rudd, you gotta understand that Roy Kemp has pretty much checked out. They’ve put him on administrative leave for a month or so, but no one knows it. He’s a mess, and he’s out there acting on his own.”

“But he has a lot of friends, right?”

“Oh yes. Kemp is highly regarded. He’s a thirty-year man, you know, with a lot of contacts, a lot of pull.”

“So this is an inside job. I don’t believe it. And they’ve sent you to negotiate.”

“I don’t know where the kid is, I swear. And I don’t like being where I am right now.”

“That makes at least two of us. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I should’ve known the cops were not above snatching kids.”

“Back off, Rudd. You got a big mouth, you know that? Deal or no deal?”

“I’m supposed to tell you what Arch Swanger told me about the girl, right? Where she’s buried. And let’s say Swanger is telling the truth, you find the body, he gets busted for capital murder, and my career as a lawyer is over. My son is returned safely to his mother, and I get to spend a lot more time with him. In fact, I’ll be a full-time dad.”

“You’re on the right track.”

“And if I say no, what will happen to my kid? Am I supposed to believe that an assistant chief of police and his thugs will actually hurt a child as revenge?”

“I guess you gotta roll the dice, Rudd.”

PART FIVE U-HAUL LAW

1.

I fight the panic. I tell myself my son is safe, and I believe this. But the situation is so urgent that it is impossible to think rationally. Partner and I go to a coffee joint where we huddle in a corner. I walk through the various scenarios as he listens.

There is really no choice. The only important thing here is the safety and deliverance of my son; everything else fades in comparison. If I divulge the secret and lose my license to practice law, I’ll survive. Hell, I might even prosper somewhere else, and I certainly won’t be dealing with the likes of Arch Swanger again. This could be my ticket out of the profession, my one beautiful opportunity to walk away from the law and to search for real happiness.

I want that little boy in my arms.

Partner and I debate whether I should call Judith and bring her up to date. I decide not to, not now anyway. She will add nothing but stress and complications. And, much more important, she might let it slip to someone else that Kemp and associates have pulled an inside job. Reardon warned me to keep it quiet.

I call Judith anyway, just to check on her. Ava answers the phone and says Judith is in bed, medicated, and not doing well. The FBI just left the house. There is a swarm of reporters out in the street. Things are just awful. As if I don’t know.

At 7:00 p.m. Sunday, I call Reardon and say we have a deal.

It takes an hour to get a search warrant. Obviously, the police have a friendly judge on standby. At 8:30, Partner and I leave the City, with one unmarked car in front of us and one behind, which is nothing unusual. By the time we get to Dr. Woo’s sign, the police are there in force. Spotlights, two backhoes, at least two dozen men with shovels and sticks, and a canine squad of dogs in crates. I’ve told them everything I know, and they’re examining the ground next to the rows of corn. State troopers guard the shoulder of the interstate, waving off any driver who might get curious.

Partner parks the van where they tell us to park, a hundred feet away from the sign and the action. We sit and watch and hope as the first few frantic moments slip away and the long hours begin. They methodically poke into every square inch of soil. They make a grid, comb through it, then make another one. The backhoes are not used. The dogs stay calm.

On the other side of the sign there are several unmarked black cars bunched together in the darkness. I’m sure Assistant Chief Kemp is waiting in one of them. I loathe him and would like to personally drill him between the eyes, but right now he’s the man who can deliver my son.

And then I remember what he’s been through: the horror, the fear, the waiting, the final resignation when he and his wife realized Jiliana was not coming home. Now he’s sitting over there praying his men will find some bones, something for him to bury properly. That’s the best he can expect—a skeleton. My expectations are far greater and certainly more realistic.

By midnight, I’m cursing Arch Swanger.

2.

As they work through the night, Partner and I take turns nodding off. We’re starving and desperate for coffee, but we’re not about to leave. At 5:20, Reardon calls my cell and says, “It’s a dry run, Rudd, there’s nothing here.”

“I’ve told you everything I know, I swear.”

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

“You can leave now. Get back on the interstate, head south to the Four Corners exit. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”

As we pull away, the searchers are packing up their gear. The dogs are still in their crates, resting. Arch Swanger is probably watching and laughing. We head south, and twenty minutes later Reardon calls again. He says, “You know that truck stop at Four Corners?”

“I think so.”

“Park at the gas pumps but don’t buy any gas. Walk inside, the restaurant is on the right, and at the far end, away from the counter, is a row of booths. Your kid will be there eating ice cream.”

“Got it.” I want so badly to say something as stupid as “Thanks,” like I owe someone a debt of gratitude for kidnapping my child, not hurting him, and then giving him back. Truthfully, though, I am overcome with relief, joy, gratitude, anticipation, and a strange disbelief that this abduction just might end on a happy note. This never happens.

A minute later, my phone buzzes again. It’s Reardon and he says, “Look, Rudd, there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing this matter, asking a bunch of questions, running to the press, chasing cameras, you know, your typical routine. We’ll take care of the press and leak it that you pulled off a dramatic rescue, after an anonymous phone call. Our kidnapping investigation will continue but will turn up nothing. Are we on the same page here, Rudd?”

“Yes, I’m with you.” I’ll agree to anything at this point.

“The story is that someone snatched your kid, got fed up with the brat because he probably acts a lot like you, and decided to ditch him at a truck stop. You got the story, Rudd?”

“Got it,” I manage to spit out as I bite my tongue to keep from unloading every vile word in the book.

The truck stop is awash with lights and crowded with rigs stacked in neat rows. We park by the pumps and I walk quickly inside. Partner stays in the van to watch for anyone who might be watching us. The restaurant is busy with the breakfast crowd. The smell of thick grease hangs in the air. The counter is lined with beefy truckers devouring pancakes and sausages. I turn a corner, see the booths, pass one, two, three, and there in the fourth booth, all alone, is little Starcher Whitly, grinning from behind a large bowl of chocolate ice cream.

I kiss him on top of his head, tousle his hair, and sit across from him. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess.”

“Did anyone hurt you?”

He shakes his head. No.

“Tell me, Starcher. Did anyone do anything to hurt you?”

“No. They were very nice.”

“And who is they? Who has been with you since you left the park on Saturday?”

“Nancy and Joe.”

A waitress stops at the booth. I order some coffee and scrambled eggs. I ask her, “Who brought this kid in here?”

The waitress looks around, says, “I don’t know. Some woman was here just a minute ago, said the kid wanted a bowl of ice cream. She must’ve left or something. I guess you’re paying for the ice cream.”

“Gladly. Do you have surveillance cameras?”

She nods at the window. “Out there, but not in here. Something the matter?”

“No. Thanks.”

As soon as she leaves I ask Starcher, “Who brought you in here?”

“Nancy.” He takes a bite of ice cream.

“Look, Starcher, I want you to put the spoon down for a moment, and I want you to tell me what happened when you went into the restroom at the park. You were racing your boat, you had to pee, and you walked to the restroom. Now, tell me what happened.”

He slowly sticks the spoon into the ice cream and leaves it there. “Well, all of a sudden, this big man grabbed me. I thought he was a policeman because he was wearing a uniform.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“I don’t think so. He put me in a truck that was right behind the restroom. There was another man driving the truck and they drove away real fast. They said they were taking me to the hospital because something bad had happened to my grandmother. They said you would be at the hospital. So we drove and drove and then we were out of the City, way out in the country, and that’s where they left me with Nancy and Joe. The men left, and Nancy said my grandmother was going to be okay, and that you would stop by real soon to get me.”

“Okay. That was Saturday morning. What did you do the rest of Saturday, and all day yesterday, Sunday?”

“Well, we watched television, some old movies and stuff, and we played backgammon a lot.”

“Backgammon?”

“Uh-huh. Nancy asked me what games I liked to play and I said backgammon. They didn’t know what it was, so Joe went to the store and bought a backgammon board, a cheap one. I taught them how to play, and beat them too.”

“So they were nice to you?”

“Real nice. They kept telling me you were at the hospital and couldn’t leave.”

Partner finally comes inside. He is relieved to see Starcher and gives the kid a pat on the head. I tell him to find the manager of the truck stop and locate the surveillance cameras; inform the manager that the FBI will want the footage, so take care of it.

My eggs arrive and I ask Starcher if he’s hungry. No, he’s not. He’s been eating pizza and ice cream for the past two days. Anything he wanted.

3.

Since I’ve never been invited into Starcher’s home, I decide that I will not take him there. I don’t want the drama and theatrics. Half an hour from the City, I finally call Judith with the news that her son is safe. He’s sitting on my lap as we ride up the interstate. She is almost too stunned to speak, so I give Starcher my phone. He says, “Hi, Mom,” and I think she has a complete meltdown. I give them a few minutes, then take the phone back and explain that I got a call and was instructed to pick him up at the truck stop. No, he had not been harmed in any way, except maybe too much sugar.

The parking lot outside her office is still empty—it’s only 7:30—and we wait in peace before the storm. The black Jaguar slides into the lot and brakes hard next to the van. I step out with Starcher as Judith gets out and lunges for the kid. She grabs him, bawling and clawing, and right behind are her parents and Ava. They take turns squeezing the kid; everybody’s crying. I can’t stand these people, so I walk over to Starcher, tousle his hair again, and say, “I’ll see you later, bud.”

He’s being smothered and doesn’t respond. I ask Judith to step aside for a moment, and when we’re alone I say, “Can we meet here with the FBI later in the morning? There’s more to the story.”

“Tell me now,” she hisses.

“I’ll tell you when I want to tell you, and that’s with the FBI listening. Okay?”

She hates it when she’s not in control. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and manages to say, “Sure.”

I walk away, refuse to acknowledge her parents, and get in the van. As we drive away, I look at Starcher and wonder when I’ll see him again.

4.

At 9:00 a.m., I’m in court for a preliminary hearing. By then, the news is out, courtesy of a leak by the police, that my son has been found and returned to his parents. The judge grants me a continuance and I hurry out of the courtroom. I have a handful of lawyer pals and several of them want to chat and offer congratulations. I’m just not in the mood.

Fango ambushes me in the hallway, just like he did three weeks ago. I keep walking and refuse to look at him. He falls in beside me and says, “Say, Rudd, Link is getting pretty anxious about the money. I told him about your kid and all, and, by the way, he sends his concerns.”

“Tell Link to worry about his own problems,” I snap as we march stride for stride.

“He is, and one of his problems just happens to be you and the money.”

“Too bad,” I say and walk even faster.

He labors to keep up with me, labors to think of something clever to say, and makes a big mistake with “You know, your kid just might not be that safe after all.”

I wheel around and throw a tight right cross that lands perfectly on his chin. He walks into it and doesn’t see it until it’s too late. His head jerks so violently that I hear the crunching of bones somewhere, and in the first split second I think I’ve broken his neck.

But his neck is fine; he’s been hit before, plenty of times, and has the scars to prove it.

Fango sprawls across the marble floor, and when he finally comes to rest he doesn’t move. Out cold. A perfect knockout punch that I could never replicate. I’m tempted to kick him in the head a few times for good measure, but out of the corner of my eye I see a sudden movement. Another thug is moving toward me and he’s reaching for a pocket and a weapon. Someone yells behind me.

The second thug goes down as hard as Fango when Partner whacks him over the head with a stainless steel baton he carries in his coat pocket. The baton is designed for just such occasions. When contracted it’s about six inches long, but when whipped out properly it extends to eighteen inches and is equipped with a steel knob at its tip. It can easily crack a skull, is in fact designed to do so. I tell Partner to give it to me and disappear. A security guard runs over and looks at the two unconscious thugs. I hand him my bar association ID card and say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. These two goons just tried to jump me.”

A crowd gathers. Fango wakes up first, mumbling and rubbing his jaw, then he tries to stand but can’t find his feet. Finally, with the help of the security guard, he gets up, still wobbly, and wants to leave. A cop makes him sit on a nearby bench while an EMT tends to his buddy. Eventually, the second guy wakes up, with a very large knot on the back of his head. They ice it for a few minutes, then put him on the same bench with Fango. I stand close and glare at them. They glare right back. The EMT gives me an ice pack for my right hand.

Getting punched is nothing for these two and they’re not about to press charges. That would require paperwork, a lot of questions, and no small amount of prying by the police. They work for Link Scanlon and they don’t answer questions. Right now they can’t wait to get out of the building and back on the streets, where they make the rules.

I tell the police that I, too, have no desire to press charges. As I walk away, I lean close to Fango and whisper, “Tell Link that if I hear one more word out of you, or him, I’m going to the FBI.”

Fango sneers as if he might spit in my face.