Stuart Woods - Lucid Intervals

“They’re both trying to kill me,” Herbie replied.

“How do you know that?”

“You were in Elaine’s when they fired through the window.”

“Okay, Herbie, the bullets may have had your name on them-I buy that-but they didn’t have Moe and Joe’s names on them. The police would have noticed.”

“I just have a very strong feeling about it,” Herbie said.

“Herbie, being an attorney, as you sort of are, you do understand that your feeling, no matter how strong, is not admissible as evidence in a court of law.”

“Well, it ought to be,” Herbie said, “when I feel this strong about it.”

“Let’s go back a minute. Did you say that Moe-he’s the bookie, right?”

“Right.”

“Did he say he was going to kill you?”

“If I bet with anybody else,” Herbie said.

“Have you bet with anybody else?”

“I told you, I’m not betting anymore.”

“Then Moe has no motive for killing you.”

Herbie thought about this. “That’s important, isn’t it?”

“I think you’re getting the picture,” Stone said.

“Then I can’t sue him?”

“Not until you can prove that he has tried to kill you, and if you’re in a position to do that, it would be much faster to let the police take care of it.”

“Why?”

“Because, Herbie,” Stone said with all the patience he could muster, “lawsuits take months or years, but when the police have good evidence, they make an arrest immediately. That’s also cheaper than a lawsuit.”

“But he could get bailed out, couldn’t he?”

“Not if we can prove that he might try again to kill you.”

Herbie nodded gravely. “That makes a lot of sense, Stone.”

“Thank you, Herbie. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other work to do.”

Herbie stood. “Yeah, okay, I understand. But…”

“But what?” Stone asked and was immediately sorry that he had.

“But what if he hires somebody else to kill me while he’s in jail?”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “whether it’s a civil or a criminal matter, that’s a chance you’re going to have to take.”

“Okay,” Herbie said, then left.

Stone took deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

Joan came to Stone’s office door. “How’d it go with Herbie?” she asked.

“Joan,” Stone said, “I’m having a great deal of trouble impressing upon you my desire not to see or speak to Herbert Fisher.”

“Oh, I completely understand,” she said.

“Not completely; otherwise you would not have allowed him into my office only a few minutes ago.”

“No, I understand completely,” Joan reassured him. “It’s just that we have certain ethical obligations to Herbie now.”

“Ethical obligations?”

“Yes. We’ve taken his money, so we owe him our time.”

“And just how much of our time do you reckon we owe him?” Stone asked.

“Well, your time, really. About a year: all day, every day, five days a week.”

“So you think I should spend all of the next year with Herbie?”

“It’s what he’s paid you for,” she said.

“He didn’t pay me, he paid you,” Stone pointed out, “and you rashly put the money in the bank and paid all my bills. I’m innocent of this, really.”

“You think it’s rash to put money in the bank, pay taxes and pay bills?”

“Not usually,” Stone admitted. “Just when the money comes from Herbie.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t see the difference between Herbie’s money and that of other clients. I mean, he didn’t print it himself, did he?”

“I’ve been assured it’s real,” Stone replied. “If it weren’t, the bank would have sent the Secret Service over here by now.”

The office doorbell rang, and Joan looked over her shoulder. “I hope to God that’s not Dolce,” she said.

“Can you see who it is?”

“Yes. It’s two men in business suits.”

“Is there a woman with them?”

“No.”

“Then please go and see who they are.” Stone rearranged the papers on his desk to appear busy. A moment later, Joan was back with the two men.

“Mr. Barrington, two gentlemen from the Secret Service to see you,” she said, and hastily closed the door behind them.

The two men flashed IDs, and Stone shook their hands and offered them seats. “What can I do for the Secret Service this morning, gentlemen?” Stone asked cheerfully, but his stomach didn’t feel just right.

“Mr. Barrington,” one of them said, “did you make a large cash deposit at your bank recently?”

“No,” Stone replied.

“You did not deposit a million dollars in your bank account?”

“Oh, that deposit. My secretary did that.”

The man removed a plastic envelope containing a banknote and placed it on Stone’s desk. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

Stone leaned forward and examined the note. “I believe I do,” he replied. “It appears to be a fifty-dollar bill, United States currency.”

“That’s what it appears to be, certainly, but it is not.”

“Then what is it?” Stone asked innocently.

“It’s an extremely good counterfeit note,” the man replied.

“You could have fooled me,” Stone said.

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“I’ve seen many fifty-dollar bills,” Stone replied, “but I don’t recall ever having seen this one.”

“What was the source of the cash your secretary deposited in your bank account?” the other man asked.

“The funds came from a client.”

“And where did he obtain them?”

“From the New York State Lottery, I believe.”

“The New York State Lottery does not give people large sums of cash,” the man said.

“I thought that was why they were in business,” Stone said, “apart from also taking large sums of cash from other people.”

“Quite true,” the man said, “but their policy is, I believe, to issue a check on the state treasury’s funds or to wire transfer winnings to the account of a winner.”

“Well, I can’t argue that with you,” Stone said. “Now that you mention it, when I asked my client where he got the funds and he told me about winning the lottery, I pointed out that very same thing to him.”

“And what did he have to say about that?” the agent asked.

Stone shrugged. “I don’t suppose it would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality if I told you he told me he cashed a check.”

“On what bank?”

“He didn’t mention its name.”

“And you think a bank would just give your client a million dollars in cash?”

“After corroborating his balance, certainly.”

“Can you tell me how your client managed to include a single counterfeit fifty-dollar bill in a one-million-dollar payment to you?”

“That fifty-dollar bill was not in the cash my client gave me. He gave me only one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“Did you look through all the hundreds?”

“No, I did not.”

“So, it may have been among the cash he gave you?”

“If it was, it was a mistake of his bank,” Stone replied.

“And you don’t know which bank it was?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Would you mind if we asked your client?”

“Not as long as you don’t expect me to give you his name,” Stone replied. “That would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.”

“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, sighing. “We are agents of the federal government. As an officer of the court you are obliged to help us in our inquiries.”

“As long as they don’t involve a breach of client confidentiality, I’m happy to help you,” Stone replied.

“Could you do this, then: Could you call your client and ask him for the name and address of his bank?”