Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Roosevelt Holmes raised one hand an inch off the table, stopping his subordinates from responding.

“Mr. Mason, you’d be surprised just how much things do hop down here. In fact, we can make just about anything or anyone hop, skip, or dance. You keep that in mind.” He glanced at his watch and stood. “You’ll excuse me. I have another meeting,” he said and left.

“This must be good,” Mason said. “Your boss wants us to know he’s behind whatever you’re about to offer, but he wants the plausible deniability that comes from not being here when you offer it. Makes it lonely in the middle.”

Samuelson leaned back in his chair, confident in the support from his boss.

“We will tell the police the identity of the victim. However, we do have some flexibility regarding when and what else we tell them because of an ongoing investigation being conducted by our office and the FBI. That’s where Mr. Fish comes in. We’d like his help. If he agrees, we’ll tell you what we know.”

“You’ll have to tell us what this other investigation is about and what you expect my client to do,” Mason said.

Samuelson shook his head. “I can’t do that without an agreement in advance that we have a deal. It’s too sensitive.”

“And if he refuses to sign on for a secret mission too secret to tell us what it’s about up front, you’ll let him be prosecuted for a crime you know he didn’t commit? Do you really think you can get away with that?”

“Let’s be clear about a couple of things,” Samuelson said. “We may know who the murder victim is, but we don’t know whether Mr. Fish is innocent or guilty. We won’t interfere with that investigation and we won’t set up your client to take the fall for a crime he didn’t commit. The murder is the state’s problem. Our concerns are at the federal level.”

“Mr. Holmes promised that you would treat me fairly and justly,” Fish said. “So you’ll tell the police the name of the dead man, who, by the way, I didn’t kill. When the police find out who the man was, they’ll realize I had nothing to do with it. So why should I be interested in your investigation?”

“There’s very little we can tell the police without compromising our investigation and we aren’t prepared to do that. But what we can tell them won’t be helpful to you,” Samuelson said.

Mason came out of his chair and leaned over the table. “How do you think this will play after I hold a press conference about your strong-arm tactics?”

Kelly stood, planting her palms on the table, squaring off against Mason and letting him know that the past was past. “Take your seat, Lou.”

Samuelson said, “I’d take her advice, Mason. Nothing you could tell the press will change Mr. Fish’s problems. He will be charged with murder and he will be convicted of mail fraud. Now mail fraud may not sound as bad as murder, but I guarantee it won’t help him with the jury in the murder case.”

Fish reached for Mason’s arm, tugging on his sleeve and gesturing for Mason to speak to him privately. Mason leaned toward Fish.

“The name,” Fish whispered in his ear. “Just get the name.”

Mason nodded, took his seat, and waited for Kelly to stand down. “You can turn the screws all you want, but at least you’ve got to give us the name. We’ve got to have something to go on besides faith in your compassion for my client. If we can do business, we will. If not, we’ll take our chances.”

Kelly gave Samuelson a look. “Your call,” she told Samuelson, who nodded at her. “Fair enough,” Kelly said. “Charles Rockley was the man in the trunk of Mr. Fish’s car.”

Cheating spouses deny infidelity with facile deceit. Con men nimbly tap-dance around implausibility. Criminals beat lie detector tests with steady breathing and beta blockers that control the involuntary tremors of a lie. Their survival depends on practiced deception. They are ready when the gun sounds and the games begin.

Mason was good, but not that good. Vanessa Carter had knocked him off track. Kelly Holt had resuscitated dormant memories he thought he had discarded. He hadn’t expected either woman to leap from his past into his present, though he managed to keep his game face on.

But writing Charles Rockley’s name on the toe tag for the corpse in Fish’s trunk took his breath away. It was like finding his pants down around his ankles in front of a disappointed audience. Certain that his eyes were bugging out as if he had a runaway thyroid, he wished for a sudden palsy that would subdue the quivering muscles in his face. Mason barely heard Fish say he didn’t know anyone by that name.

Kelly pulled a photograph from her file, sliding it across the table to Fish. “Do you know this man?”

It was a grainy color photo taken during the day in front of an apartment building. The man was tall and broad, his features well known to Mason though he was a stranger to Fish. Blues was the man in the picture.

The photograph shook Mason out of his stupor. “Where did you get this?” he asked before Fish could answer.

“That’s not important,” Kelly said.

“The hell it’s not!”

He quickly saw the alignment of the planets. The FBI had Rockley’s apartment under surveillance. Kelly recognized Blues in the photograph. She knew that Mason represented Fish and that Blues did Mason’s investigative legwork. Once the FBI identified Rockley’s body, she assumed that Mason had sent Blues to Rockley’s apartment because he knew that Rockley was the murder victim, something he could have learned only from Fish. The last piece was easy. Fish knew because he had killed Rockley.

It was obvious, logical, and wrong, but Mason couldn’t tell them why. If the FBI gave the photograph to the cops, school was out. Fish would be indicted. Blues would be subpoenaed and forced to testify. Blues could tell the truth and exonerate Fish. Or he could lie and save Mason.

Kelly looked at Mason, her eyes flickering with regret, though Mason knew her sympathies were misplaced. She turned toward Samuelson, a silent gesture telling Mason that it was out of her hands.

“We’ll let you talk privately,” Samuelson said. “When you’re ready, call my secretary at extension two-two-one.”

Fish waited until they left before picking up the photograph, pointing it at Mason. “You know this man?”

Mason took a deep breath, got up, and walked to the windows, leaning against the glass. For a moment, he wondered if he could push hard enough to force the glass from the frame. He already felt like he was falling.

“I’ll get you another lawyer.”

Fish swiveled in his chair toward Mason. “Why do I need another lawyer? Who is this man?”

Mason looked at Fish, hands in his pockets. “It’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated? You know this man and you don’t want to tell me who he is or how you know him. Tell me and we’ll see how complicated it is.”

The practice of law was about lines. Some of them were bright. Some of them were blurred. Either way, lawyers made their living on the margins. Mason shook his head, unable to squeeze more room from the tangled lines wrapped around him. His problems with Vanessa Carter and Charles Rockley created the mother of all conflicts of interest for his representation of Avery Fish.

He couldn’t represent Fish any longer, but he couldn’t tell Fish why or anything else that might come back to haunt him. As much as he liked Fish, he had to assume that Fish would ultimately do what every other defendant in a tight spot does. Make a trade. Mason didn’t want to end up as the player to be named later. Still, he knew that Fish would eventually learn that Blues was the man in the photograph.