John Lescroart - The First Law

This morning, Freeman barely woke up in time to catch Roake as she was out the door on her way to work. He reminded her of the depositions that had now begun on Panos, and wondered if she might make it back here for lunch, even a little early if possible, since they wouldn't get dinner together for who knew how long.

Now he checked his watch: 11:20. She should be home any minute. Billy Joel's CD of piano concertos-a Gina find-played almost inaudibly in the background. Rubbing his palms together, he was shocked to find them damp with nerves. He caught a glimpse of himself in a wall mirror and shook his head in amusement. David Freeman hadn't been nervous arguing before the Supreme Court. He couldn't remember his last attack of even minor jitters, but he had to admit he had them now. His eyes left his own image and went to the little eating nook in the cramped and narrow kitchen. Normally the table was a mess, piled high with yellow legal pads, lawbooks, half-empty coffee mugs, wineglasses and sometimes bottles, newspapers, binders and file folders.

Today, it looked perfect and elegant. He'd spent most of an hour removing the usual detritus and what remained were two simple place settings in silver, crystal champagne glasses, one yellow cymbidium in the center of the starched white cloth, echoing the sunlight that just kissed the edge of the table. There was a beaded silver champagne bucket to one side, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot's La Grande Dame, purposely chosen for the name of course, nestled in it in chilled splendor. He'd arranged for Rick, the chef downstairs at the Rue Charmaine, to deliver the light lunch- pike quenelles in a saffron broth and an artichoke-he art-and-pancetta salad-precisely at noon.

One last glance at himself, and he had to smile. Certainly, no one would mistake him for handsome. But he'd done all right, and today he looked as good as he could, which is to say he probably wouldn't scare most small children. He wore the one nice suit, a maroon-and-gold silk tie. He'd managed to shave without cutting his neck and his collar was free of his trademark brown specks of dried blood. It would have to do.

And here she was. On time, cheerful, kissing his cheek. God, he loved her.

"You're looking good today, mister. If I didn't have a meeting in two hours…" She kissed him again, then backed up a step. "I thought clients didn't trust nice clothes."

"This isn't for a client." He realized he had taken her hand when she'd come up to him and hadn't released it. "Come look at something."

She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and turned to him. "Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?" Then, more seriously, "This is beautiful, David. Is it an occasion? Don't tell me we started seeing each other a year ago today and I didn't remember."

"It might be an occasion someday," he said, "in the future." He drew in a deep breath and came out with it. "I wanted to know if you'd be interested in marrying someone like me."

She looked quickly down to the ground, then back up, staring at him with a startled intensity. "Somebody like you? Do you mean hypothetically?"

"No. I said that wrong. I meant me. Will you marry me?"

For an eternal two seconds-they were still holding hands-she did not move, looking him full in the face. She brought her other hand up and held it over her mouth, obviously stunned. "Oh, David…" Her eyes filled. "I never thought…" She looked at him, hopelessly vulnerable, terrified. A tear spilled out onto her cheek.

But still the word didn't come. "I love you," he said. "Please say yes."

"Oh God, yes. Of course yes." Her arms were around his neck and she was crying openly now, kissing his face, eyes, lips again and again. "Yes yes yes yes yes."

"This Saturday?"

It was mid afternoon and they were taking a break in the deposition of their old friend Aretha LaBonte while she used the ladies' room.

Panos's lawyer Dick Kroll was waiting, taking notes back in the conference room, a large sunlit enclosure resembling a greenhouse that they called the Solarium. Freeman and Hardy were ostensibly filling their coffee cups in the old man's office.

Freeman nodded. "If you're free." "I'll get free. It's not that. I'm flattered that you'd ask me. I'm just a little surprised. No, I'm flabbergasted. I didn't know you were even thinking of it." "Well, there you go. You don't see everything." "And isn't Saturday a little soon if you just got engaged today?"

"Why would we want to wait once we decided?" "I don't know. Most people do, that's all. Send out invitations, plan the party."

Freeman was shaking his head. "None of that, Diz. We don't want a party. Just a best man-that's you-and a maid of honor and a judge. Oh, and Gina's mother." "It's nice you remembered her. Can Frannie come?" "And Frannie, naturally. Goes without saying." Hardy drank some coffee. "You know, I've been a best man twice now in two years. I stood up for Glitsky."

"Good for you." Freeman's enthusiasm was restrained. "You'll be in practice."

"I didn't need it. It was pretty easy. Like Aretha here." Again, Freeman shook his head. "Don't get complacent. Kroll's good, even if he's got no principles. In fact, it might be why he's good."

"I don't know," Hardy said. "I'm not seeing much yet." Freeman opened the door out to the lobby. Aretha was back at her place in the Solarium, and smiling, Freeman waved at Kroll, who was staring angrily in their direction. He pointed at his watch in an impatient gesture. Freeman waved again, turned back to Hardy. "He'll come up with something."

"I'm just saying we've got him on the ropes. I don't see him coming up with a legal something."

"You wait," Freeman said, "you'll see." Then, an afterthought, "What do you mean, legal something? What else is there?"

The law offices of Richard C. Kroll were located in one of the recently built and controversial loft spaces south of Market Street at Third and Folsom. For the past twenty minutes, Kroll had been turned around in his swivel chair, looking out of his second story, floor-to-ceiling window, for the familiar sight of Wade Panos to appear on the street below. It was the day after his latest deposition with Aretha LaBonte at David Freeman's office.

And now here Wade was, half a block down, on foot and in uniform as always, stopping to look into the shops as he passed them, even occasionally raising a hand to acquaintances on the street. An extraordinarily successful man in his element, Panos bestrode the pavement like a parade marshal, confident and unassailable.

Kroll's stomach rumbled, and he clutched at it. Taking a few antacids from a roll in his desk drawer, he stood up. In the mirror over the bar area, he got his face composed so that it wouldn't immediately telegraph the bad news he was about to deliver. By the time his secretary buzzed him with the word that Wade had arrived, he was back at his desk, apparently lost in other work. When Panos opened the door to the office, he looked up and motioned to the wing chair in front of his desk. He'd be done in just a moment.

Closing the folder, he finally found the nerve to look at his client. Wade, for his part, sat back comfortably, an ankle resting on a knee, his eyes half closed. He was always a patient man, and the small wait until his lawyer gave him his attention didn't seem to rankle in the least. Still, when Kroll closed the folder, he came out of his trance, suddenly all business. "So how bad is it?" he asked.

Kroll tried to smile. "How do you know it's bad?"

"You want to see me in person, Dick, it's bad. It's one reason I like you. Other guys, they get bad news, they give it to you over the phone, or leave a message. You? You got the balls to be here and try to break the fall. I appreciate that. So how bad is it?"

Kroll templed his hands on his desk. "Pretty bad."