Joel Goldman - Cold truth

"Her parents say that she lives here because she's too violent to stay at home. Are they right?" Mason asked.

"Lou," Nix answered, "you know that's confidential."

Mason smiled. "And if I tell you that I need to know so I can represent her, I'll bet you'll tell me to ask her."

It was Nix's turn to smile. "Same drill, man."

Mason suspected that Nix was one of those touchyfeely types who made every roadblock, turndown, and obstacle feel like a damn shame he couldn't do anything about and wouldn't if he could. It was a soft-soap style of aggression that was too slippery to get a grip on.

"Are you and I going to get along on this, Terry?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely, man," Nix answered with a grin that said "not likely."

"Any reason we won't?"

"Depends on what you're after. We do a good job here. Messed-up kids get a safe place to work, live, and get better. Most of them can't handle more of the real world than a hard day's work. Lawyers jack up the karma. That's a bad thing, Lou. Nothing personal."

"Maybe I should talk to Centurion about the karma," Mason said.

"Talk to me, baby," Centurion Johnson said with a deep laugh from behind Mason. "I love karma."

Centurion stood just inside Nix's office, his shoulders blocking the frame, his head barely clearing the top of the door. His father was African-American, his mother East Asian, giving him a dark-skinned mix of racial features that defied easy characterization. Life on the street and time in the prison yard had given him a powerful, heavily muscled build that combined with his natural salesmanship to make him a force of nature.

Mason shook hands with Centurion, watching his own hand disappear in the process. Centurion's grip was solid and reassuring. His oversized grin was comforting. He looked like he was ready for the back nine, wearing bone-colored chinos and a washed-out pink polo shirt that strained against his chest and biceps. Mason tried to picture him selling dope and busting heads, but couldn't summon the image.

"Lou Mason," he said as Centurion released his grip on his hand.

"Centurion Johnson," the big man replied, drawing out his name like a ring announcer, making fun of himself. "If you was my lawyer back in the day, I might never have done time. But if I never done time, I might never have straightened myself out. I woulda kept on dealin' and stealin' till some stone-cold motherfucker capped me with a nine. Then old Terry here be out of a job 'cause nobody gonna hire his sorry ass. Terry, I tell him, this ain't Haight Ashbury. It's fuckin' Missouri, man. Get over it. But these kids relate to him, you know what I'm sayin'? And without Terry, these kids wouldn't have nobody to straighten them out. And this gig is all about them kids, man."

Listening to him, Mason understood Centurion's talent. He played to his audience, picking the stereotype he guessed was expected. He chose a mix of street jive, humor, and humility to make Mason feel like one of his homeys. Mason bet Centurion did a killer Colin Powell for the Chamber of Commerce and a knockout Shug Knight for the brothers. Mason had represented enough street punks and boardroom con artists to withstand Centurion's charm.

"If they clean their plates and take out the trash, do you let them drive the Mercedes on Saturday night?" Mason asked.

Centurion laughed again, an easy chuckle. "You know somethin', Mason? I didn't want that car 'cause I was afraid people like you might get the wrong idea about me. But the dealer, see, he sponsored the garage and said to me, CJ-he's one of those white boys calls everybody by their initials-I can't put the Mercedes logo on the outside of the garage and let you put a Ford Escort inside the garage. How's that going to look? Well, we needed a garage and that was that."

"No sacrifice too great," Mason said.

Centurion kept his smile. "Mason, why are you busting my chops on such a beautiful morning? My man Terry is doing his job. I'm doing my job. We're taking care of these kids. You're wantin' us to cut you some slack with Jordan Hackett. Didn't your momma tell you about getting more bees with honey than vinegar?"

"Sorry," he said to both of them. "You've got a great place here."

"That we do," Centurion said. "And we keep it great 'cause we stay focused and disciplined. Ain't that right, Terry?"

"Focused and disciplined," Terry repeated.

"So everybody makes an appointment in advance to see a resident. Ain't that right, Terry?" Centurion asked.

"Everybody," Terry answered.

"Everybody but you, Mason," Centurion said. "'Cause you got the balls to bust my chops and the good sense to stop before I lose my sense of humor. Terry, you make sure Mason here gets what he needs. And Mason, you be careful. That Jordan is a handful."

Nix told Mason to wait for Jordan outside the machine shed. While he stood in the shade, a pickup truck carrying a load of teenagers in the cab and the truck bed skidded to a stop next to the barn. The kids scrambled out, wiping dust and sweat from their faces, and headed for the house. He could hear them joking and poking one another with the ease of summer camp friendships.

A few minutes later, Jordan drove up on a four-wheel ATV pulling a small flatbed trailer loaded with tools. She killed the engine and looked up at him.

"You Lou Mason?"

"That's me."

"My parents hired you, right?"

"Right."

She stepped off the ATV and began unloading the tools, putting them away in the shed without further comment. Mason watched her work, impressed with her economy and intensity. She was of average height, slender but strong enough to sling a shovel, pick, sledgehammer, and posthole digger over her shoulder one at a time like they were Wiffle-ball bats. Finished, she stood in front of him, hands on hips, narrow chin jutting out like a dare, breath a beat above steady. Her face and neck glistened with sweat.

"I didn't kill her, okay," she said.

"Okay," Mason answered.

He guessed that she'd been working since sunup and, judging from the layer of grime she wore, it had been hard, physical work. Still, she hadn't swung the sledgehammer enough times to pound out the rage he saw in her. It was in the knotted muscles of her shoulders and neck. It was in the impatient tapping of her gloved fingers against her hips. It was in the sharp crease of her eyes as she sized him up.

"We done here?" she asked him.

"Just a few more things."

"What?"

"Your parents are paying me, but you're my client. Do you want me to represent you?"

"Do I need a lawyer?"

"The cops took your fingerprints and they took samples from your clothes and hair. Maybe they're doing that with all of Dr. Gina's patients. But if they find your fingerprints, your hair, or your fibers on the broken window or the body and you don't have a good explanation or an alibi for the night of the murder, you need a lawyer."

Jordan yanked off her work gloves and stuffed them in her belt. "Fine. I need a lawyer. What else?"

"Are you always this much fun?"

She cocked her head, split a small grin, and dialed back her force field a notch. "Yeah," she said. "I'm a barrel of laughs."

"Where were you Monday night around ten o'clock?"

"Here. In my room. Lights-out is at ten."

"Does Terry do a bed check?"

"Whenever he gets a chance," she answered.

Mason filed away her double entendre for future reference. "When was the last time you saw Gina Davenport?"

Jordan straightened, her elbows stiff against her sides. "My last appointment was Friday, before the holiday. You can check her appointment book."

"The cops will do that for me. How did you get to her office?"

"Terry usually took me. Once in a while, Centurion would do it."

"What about your family?"

"What about them?"