Joel Goldman - Cold truth

"They ever take you?"

Jordan folded her arms in front of her. "Look, let's not talk about my family unless it's about where they were at ten o'clock on Monday night."

Mason couldn't tell if she was just venting or was serious. "Why should I ask your parents if they have an alibi?"

"Forget it," she said. "My brother and my parents have alibis for everything."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"Oh, yes. Brother Trent, the fair-haired son. He's the real master of the alibi. Be sure to ask him."

A stream of kids poured out the front door of the house hurrying to their next projects, slapping hands and touching fists with one another like a football team taking the field. Two girls, one black, one Hispanic, walked past them into the machine shed, giving Jordan a cautious "Hey, girl" while pretending not to notice Mason. They emerged with a chain saw and heavy-duty shears. Jordan looked past Mason to the veranda, nodding her head, Mason following her gaze, Centurion and Terry Nix responding with friendly waves, Jordan putting on her work gloves.

"Time to get back to work?" he asked her.

"Yeah."

"You have a car?"

"Not here," she said, shaking her head. "We're supposed to stay focused and disciplined. Terry says we don't need a car to do that."

"Focused and disciplined," Mason said. "Sounds familiar. What if I wanted to take you back to my office to work on your case, maybe pick up a pizza and beer on the way."

Jordan lowered her head, as if Centurion and Terry could read her lips at a distance. "We can't be focused and disciplined all the time, can we?"

"Centurion and Terry can, but we can't," Mason answered. "I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon around five. One last thing."

"What's that?"

"No more talking to the cops without me. Got it?"

"Got it."

Mason kept his first meeting with Jordan brief, just to get a sense of her until they could spend serious time talking at his office. She said enough to worry him, claiming that she had an alibi but admitting she needed a lawyer. Telling him when she'd had her last appointment with Dr. Gina, but not when she had last seen her therapist. Implying that Terry wasn't the good shepherd after all. Tossing darts at her parents and brother.

Mason knew better than to expect a client to tell him everything. He even knew better than to expect a client to tell him the truth. He was satisfied when a client gave him something to work with. Jordan had done that, but he would need a lot more if she was charged with Davenport's murder.

Mason believed in first impressions, even if they were mixed, muddled, and messy. That's how Claire had described life to him since he was a kid. She was an unsentimental realist with a compassionate streak, a hell-raiser and stickler for the rule of law, proving her point.

Jordan fit the mold. She was tough, strong, and mad at the world, yet still just wanted to have fun. Sanctuary reined her in with its focused discipline. She was free to go but was stuck working in the fields, dependent on others to take her anywhere. Though she was strong enough to throw someone through a window, he didn't know if she was tough enough or mad enough.

Mason put the top up on the TR-6 for the drive back to town, taking a pass on neck burn. His cell phone rang as he climbed the ramp onto I-70. The TR-6 was the perfect car as far as Mason was concerned. Its perfection lay in the heart-stopping jolt it gave him the first time he saw one. Never a car guy, he was possessed nonetheless, happily overlooking shortcomings like the wind-tunnel noise level. He shouted hello into the hands-free microphone.

"Hey, Boss," Mickey shouted back. "You coming in today?"

"Later. I'm stopping at the Cable Depot first. I want to talk with the Hacketts and have a look at Dr. Gina's office. What's up?"

"We got the check in the Coyle case. Do you want me to call Mad Max and have him come in and endorse it?"

Max Coyle was a former professional football player turned professional wrestler until one too many headlocks forced him into a career in sports broadcasting. He wrestled under the name of Mad Max, a moniker he kept behind the microphone. Along the way, he held on to enough money to make a difference, putting it in the hands of David Evans, a lawyer and investment advisor who performed reverse alchemy, turning gold into garbage. Mason had taken the case, convincing the advisor to pay Max back, plus enough to cover Mason's fee.

Max's settlement check was made out to him and Mason, requiring both to endorse it. Mason would deposit the check in his account and write another check to Max after deducting his fee. It was a simple way of making certain the client and the lawyer both got paid.

"Don't bother. I'll swing by the office, pick up the check, find him at the radio station, and have him sign it."

"You get all the good ideas," Mickey said.

"It's all about focused discipline," Mason told him.

The Cable Depot, known by locals just as the Depot, was far from being Kansas City's tallest building, but its location on a bluff on the northwestern edge of downtown elevated it above much of its brick and mortar competition. It was eight stories of Kansas City history, rich enough in gothic architectural detail to be placed on the National Register of Historical Landmarks. That designation, and the tax breaks it carried, made it a good investment for Arthur and Carol Hackett when they bought it twenty years ago. Once renovated, it became an anchor in the redevelopment of the West Side and a favorite of those who lived in Quality Hill a few blocks south.

KWIN's studios and offices were on the eighth floor, space shared with only one other tenant, Gina Davenport, Ph. D. A mix of professionals and a deli on the first floor populated the rest of the building. Mason studied the building directory, surprised at finding one name on the list. David Evans's office was on the fourth floor. Mason pulled Evans's settlement check from his pocket. The address was a post office box, not the Cable Depot.

When Mason filed Max's lawsuit against Evans a year earlier, Evans's office had been on the twentieth floor of a high-rent high-rise on the Country Club Plaza. Though Evans was a lawyer, his malpractice insurance didn't cover Max Coyle's claim since Max sued Evans for cheating him out of his money, not for being a lousy lawyer. Evans came out of his own pocket for $650,000 or borrowed the money from someone else's pocket. Mason figured that hit knocked Evans from the twentieth floor on 47th Street to the fourth floor on 6th Street. Life is hard, Mason said to himself.

Arthur and Carol Hackett were waiting in Arthur's office as Mason walked in.

"What did she say?" Arthur asked, settling in behind his desk.

"Did you ask her if she did it?" Carol asked, their questions stumbling over one another.

"She said she was innocent," Mason said, answering both of their questions.

Arthur motioned Mason to take the chair across from Carol as he shuffled a stack of papers.

"She's our daughter," Carol said with more regret than grief.

"I understand," Mason said, not certain whether he did.

The Hacketts were well educated, well dressed, and buoyant with good fortune, none of which insulated them from the turmoil rocking their family. Mason had learned that many rich people assumed that their success inoculated their kids from bad judgment and bad genes, while poor people more often were resigned to trouble when it found their kids, having spent their whole lives waiting for it. Rich clients expected him to fix everything. Poor ones prayed for a lucky break. Mason knew that bucks and breaks weren't evenly distributed, though a parent's suffering was. Except the Hacketts were more annoyed than anguished.