Joel Goldman - Final judgment

The image of his father filled Mason with pride, restoring polish to a tarnished memory.

“What happened?”

Fish hauled himself out of his chair and picked up Mason’s cup. “Refill?” Mason nodded. “I’ll tell you what happened. Your father left the room. I told the board I would pay the people back and they let me stay. I never got the chance to thank your father. That was the night your parents were killed in a car accident. It was raining like hell when I drove home. Nearly had a wreck myself.”

Mason was numb, his arms and legs pinned to his chair as Fish lumbered toward the kitchen and disappeared. The newspaper account of the accident said his father had lost control on a slick, wet road; that their car had crashed through a guardrail and run down an embankment, and his parents had been pronounced dead at the scene. The investigating police officer blamed his father, calling it intentional.

Claire had explained when he finally forced her to tell him the truth. His father had been having an affair with Brenda Roth. He tried to break it off and she accused him of rape. He was supposed to turn himself in to the police the next day. None of that ever made the papers. It was a different time in journalism.

Fish came back, carrying two steaming mugs, the mixed aromas of tea and coffee rousing Mason.

“What did you hear about my father after he was killed?”

Fish lowered himself into his chair, careful with his coffee, sipping it before he answered. “There are always stories, especially after a tragedy. People love them. When they tell enough of them about you, you stop listening. So, I don’t listen and I don’t remember. What I do remember is that your father took a chance for me when he had bigger problems of his own.”

“Maybe was talking about himself when he stood up for you.”

“Maybe he was talking about both of us. What matters is that he was there when no one else was. That was enough for me. I repaid the people who wanted to throw me out. I never had the chance to repay your father until now.”

Mason paced the room, setting his cup on the mantel above the fireplace next to a photograph of Fish with his daughters and grandchildren. “Where are their husbands, your sons-in-law?”

“Always out of town on business. My daughters hated me for being gone all the time, then they married men who do the same thing.”

“I thought they hated you because you were a con man.”

“Of course they do. But people will forgive a lot if you are there for them when they need you. I never was.”

Mason looked at Fish. He saw a lonely old man filled with regret who was looking for a way to balance the books even if the credits wouldn’t match the right debits. He looked around the living room. It wasn’t a storehouse of memories so much as it was a reminder of lost opportunities. He caught his reflection in a mirror hanging in the front hall. The low light and distance made his image shimmer and shift as if he might disappear in an instant only to materialize thirty years from now, heir to Fish’s regret.

“There is a woman named Vanessa Carter,” he began.

Fish listened as Mason told him about Blues, Ed Fiori, and Vanessa Carter. He interrupted occasionally with questions, grunted at some of the details, chuckled when Mason told him that Vanessa Carter would have granted bail for Blues anyway. He nodded with understanding when Mason explained again why the photograph of Blues outside Rockley’s apartment made it impossible for Mason to continue representing him. He let out a long sigh when Mason finished, pushed himself out of his chair, and disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a fresh cup of coffee.

“So, this conflict of interest you’re so worried about-I don’t think it’s a conflict at all.”

“Then you weren’t listening. The FBI has to give the photograph of Blues to the cops sooner or later. When they do, the cops will be convinced you killed Rockley. I can’t explain the photograph without turning myself in.”

“So we’ll find the real killer. Problem solved.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. There’s an angle to all of this that ties the blackmailand the murder together. We have a lot better chance of figuring it out if we work together. I’ll take the U.S. attorney’s offer. It’s the only way to find out what they’re up to. You have to stay on my case because that’s the only way we can help each other.”

“Avery, a lawyer has to put his client’s interest above his own. I can’t do that if I’m trying to save my ass and yours at the same time.”

“Look at it this way-if you save one of our asses you’ve got a lot better chance of saving the other.”

Mason looked down at Fish, whose wide body filled the chair as if he’d been poured into it. “You’re taking a big chance.”

“I don’t think so. You trusted me with the truth. Who does that? It’s good enough for me.”

Mason knew a lawyer who described his practice as juggling knives. Every case was a gleaming, razor-sharp blade arcing over his head, waiting for him to grab it and toss it back in the air before he caught the next one in his neck. Mason knew the feeling and the difference between their practices. If his friend took one in the neck, he bled his client’s money. Mason and his clients bled the real thing.

Studying his dry erase board early Monday morning, he saw too many knives to possibly avoid them all. He wrote Galaxy Casino in the upper right-hand corner and Carol Hill in the upper left. Across the top, he wrote Vanessa Carter, connecting her name to both Carol Hill and Galaxy. On the left-hand margin he drew a line down from Carol Hill connecting her to Mark Hill, Ed Fiori, and, at the bottom, Vince Bongiovanni. He listed Charles Rockley, Johnny Keegan, and Al Webb in a vertical parade on the right-hand margin ending in the bottom corner with Lari Prillman. He filled in the bottom margin with Avery Fish in the center.

He stepped back from the board and realized what he’d left out. He wrote Lou Mason in the middle of the board, like a bull’s-eye, then drew more lines, each one a dagger aimed at him. On the line between him and Vanessa Carter he wrote deadline Friday. He connected Ed Fiori, Vanessa Carter, Al Webb, and Lari Prillman to one another and to him with audio tape, then erased it using CD instead.

He wrote Why me? on the line connecting him to Johnny Keegan. He wrote Why Fish? between Fish’s and Rockley’s names. He finished by writing Get out on the line between his name and Fish’s, then added Can’t.

The exercise in visualization didn’t produce any answers. It did make clear how little he knew and how little time he had to figure it all out. The answers wouldn’t suddenly appear if he just sat in his office and waited for them. He closed the cabinet doors over the dry erase board and called Pete Samuelson.

“We’re ready to make a deal,” he told the assistant U.S. attorney.

“Outstanding. When can you come downtown?”

“You come here. Tonight, ten o’clock. We’ll meet you in the bar downstairs. Just you and Kelly Holt.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What’s the problem? Past your bedtime?”

“I don’t get it. What’s wrong with meeting in an office during business hours?”

“You don’t have to get it. All you have to do is show up.” Mason hung up before Samuelson could protest any more.

The phone rang an instant later. Samuelson’s number flashed on Mason’s caller ID.

“Quit bitching about working late. Just be there,” Mason told him, hanging up before Samuelson could utter a word.

His next call was to Vince Bongiovanni.

“You better have a good reason for stiffing me twice in one day,” Bongiovanni told him.