John Lescroart - The First Law

"What a sweet thing to say. And so sincere." She squeezed his hand. "I don't have a problem with him. Really. Or with you. I don't know if I understand the attraction-if you were a woman, okay-but I don't like to see you hurting."

"I'm not so wild about it either. But you hang out with John Holiday, there's a chance you'll drink too much sometimes. And in spite of all this, by the way, today wasn't a total loss. Maybe I should have a drink, after all. Celebrate."

"What?"

"You know that motion to suppress…"

He told her about his afternoon in the courtroom, getting Nick Sephia's evidence kicked out, which led to Aretha LaBonte's case being dismissed. "Not that it's going to change her life in any meaningful way. She's probably back on the street even as we speak, although if she's smart she's not working one of Wade Panos's beats. But it was nice to serve notice that this stuff isn't flying anymore. When it was over, David even had a little moment of actual drama right there in the Hall of Justice."

The curmudgeonly and unkempt seventy-seven-year-old legal powerhouse that was David Freeman wouldn't give Wade Panos or his hired thug Nick Sephia the satisfaction. Further, he did not believe in revealing pain or weakness under any conditions, but most especially in a professional settling. So even Dismas Hardy, who'd been there, wasn't aware of how badly he'd been hurt. How badly he still hurt. At first, he even tried to fake it with Roake. On her sixth full day of automatic redial, she had finally succeeded in getting dinner reservations for them both at the legendarily swank restaurant, Gary Danko. Freeman wasn't going to whine and ruin the special night she'd so painstakingly orchestrated. So after the successful hearing and the little problem he'd had with Sephia and Panos, he'd forgone any celebration with Hardy and instead had beelined home from the Hall of Justice, hailing a cab as soon as he was out of sight around the corner. In his apartment, he popped a handful of aspirin with a hefty shot of Calvados. Then he ran a hot bath and soaked in it before dragging himself into bed, where he slept for three and a half hours until his alarm jarred his aching body into a disoriented awareness.

It cost him a half hour, laboring mightily through the pain, to get himself dressed. Freeman held fast to a lifelong core belief that juries didn't trust nice clothes, and so of the seven business suits he owned, six were brown and straight off the rack. But the last one was a khaki Canali that Roake had bought him last Christmas. He was wearing that one tonight, with a red silk tie over a rich, ivory, custom-made shirt. His scuffed cordovan wingtips were the only sign of the usual Freeman.

By the time Roake had come by to pick him up at seven o'clock, he had steeled himself and thought he was ready. But then she surprised him, or perhaps his flashy clothes surprised her. In any event, she hung back in the doorway and whistled appreciatively, frankly admiring him for a moment, then took a little skip forward and threw her arms around him, squeezing hard.

A cry escaped before he could stop it.

"What is it? David? Are you all right? What's the matter?"

He was righting for control, his jaw set, brow contracted, blowing quick, short little breaths from his mouth.

Now, two hours later, he awoke again from his third brief doze. He was back in bed, in his pajamas, and Roake was sitting at his side, holding his hand. "You really ought to see a doctor," she said.

But he shook his head. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And nothing's broke."

"But you're hurt."

He started to shrug, then grimaced. "Tomorrow I'll be dancing. You wait." He put a hand to his neck and turned his head slowly from side to side a couple of times, then stopped and fixed her with a sheepish gaze. "I feel like such a fool."

"What for? You didn't ask for this."

"No. But I knew who I was dealing with. I should have been prepared. In the old days, I would have been."

"Prepared for Nick Sephia to knock you over?"

The old man, looking every year of his age, nodded wearily. "They set me up."

"How did they do that?"

"Child's play with a trusting soul like myself." He sighed in disgust. "I'd already had a few words with the elder Mr. Panos after Dismas beat the hell out of Sephia on the stand."

"What in the world prompted you to do that?"

"Hubris, plain and simple." Another sigh. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to crow a little, though I thought I'd done it subtly enough in the guise of giving him a friendly warning of what was coming."

Roake allowed a small smile. "Hence your nickname, Mr. Subtle."

"In any event, it didn't fool him much. So afterwards a bunch of their guys-Dick Kroll's there, too. You know Dick? Sephia's lawyer? And Panos and one of Nick's pals I'd seen in court with him before, some greaser. Anyway, all these guys are having some kind of powwow out in the hall. So Wade sees me come out with Hardy and motions to me over Nick's shoulder. Come on over."

"And you went?"

"What was I gonna do? I tell Diz to wait and give me a minute. I'm thinking no doubt I put the fear of God in Wade and he's talked to Kroll and decided to cave and try to cut some kind of deal right there."

"That hubris thing again."

Freeman raised his shoulders an inch, acknowledging the truth. "Occupational hazard if you happen to be cursed with genius. Anyway, it's here to stay." Another shrug. "So I'm like two steps away when Nick the Prick suddenly whirls around-whoops, late for a bus-and next thing I know I'm flat on my keister, stretched out on the goddamn floor, and there's Nick leaning over me, all 'Sorry, old man, didn't see you.' " Finally, his eyes got some real fire back into them. "Sorry my ass. Wade gave him some kind of sign and he turned on cue. That was his warning back at me-fuck with me and you'll get hurt." He went to straighten up in the bed, but his bones fought him and won. He gave it up, falling back into his pillow.

Roake put her hand on his chest, brought it up to stroke his cheek. "You guys," she said gently. Then, in a minute, "It could have been an accident, after all, couldn't it?"

"No. No chance."

"So now you need to get back at them, is that it?"

He nodded. "In the words of Ol' Blue Eyes, I'll do it my way, but bet your ass I will." Reading her reaction, he added, "That's the only message they hear."

"And how about you? Which one do you hear?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you warn them, they attack you, now it's your turn again, and it all escalates, until somebody really gets hurt. Maybe it doesn't always have to be that way."

"With some people, maybe it does. What else do you do when they're pulling shit like today? You fight back, is what."

Roake had her hands back in her lap. "Then you're both still fighting. And what's that prove?"

"When somebody wins, it ends. And I intend to win."

"And that's what it's all about, is it? Who wins?"

"Yep." Defiantly. "What else?" he asked. "What else is there?"

Roake sat with it for a beat. She blew out in frustration. Finally, she looked down at him and stood up. "How very male of you."

"There's worse ways to be, Gina. What else do you want?"

She looked down at him. "I want you to be smart. Don't get drawn into playing their games. This doesn't have to continue being personal, especially if they believe in doing things like today, in actually hurting people. That's all I'm saying. File your papers, keep out of it, and let the law do its work."

"That's exactly my intention. What else would I do?" Freeman patted the bed. "Come, sit back down. I'm not self-destructive, you know. I'm not going to fight anybody physically."

Roake lowered herself down next to him again. "That's what I thought you were saying." She took his gnarled hand in both of hers.