Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

Sara laughed again. “Do you even realize how conceited you are sometimes?”

“Wait a minute. Are you calling me conceited?”

“No, I’m calling you deaf.” Raising her voice, she announced, “You are so conceited!”

Jared tried to avoid the stares of the restaurant customers. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t stand a chance. You’ve got too many buttons to push.”

“So that’s what you’d do? You’d bring the jury to a restaurant and yell like a maniac?”

“Whatever it takes. That’s my motto.”

“It’s a great motto, but it’s not going to get you far in court. Don’t forget, you’ve never even handled a criminal trial.”

“Sure, if you want to be formalistic. But we’re not talking about who knows more about the law. We’re talking about who would win the case. And if you’ve been paying attention, you’d know you wouldn’t have a chance against me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t?”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because while you may be Mr. Book-Smart Sophisticate, you have no idea how to fight.”

“And you do?”

“Boy, I’ve been whipping your ass for the past six years.”

Jared laughed out loud. “Is that another come-on?”

“I’m serious,” Sara said. “To win a fight, you have to know your opponent’s weaknesses. And I know all of yours”

“Name one.”

“You hate it when people say that everything’s been handed to you in life.”

Jared paused a moment. “Name another.”

“Oh, you’re so predictable.”

“Don’t pat yourself on the back so hard,” Jared said. “Now name another.”

“You don’t like seeing me hurt – which means you wouldn’t be effective in a fight against me.”

“Trust me, if I needed to, the kid gloves would come off.”

“You can’t stand it when everything isn’t perfect.”

“And you’re terrified of failure,” Jared countered. “Now let’s hear a real weakness.”

“You’re afraid of cats.”

“I’m not afraid of them. I just think they’re plotting against me.”

“When you were little, you read through an entire volume of encyclopedias.”

“Just the volumes J and Li to Lz . My initials.”

“You have a favorite columnist.”

“Most people do.”

Leaning into the table, Sara held up her pinkie and whispered, “Your penis – it’s teeny.”

“That is not funny,” Jared said, laughing. “Take it back.”

“Fine, fine, I take it back. But don’t tell me I don’t know how to push your buttons.”

“You definitely know how to push my buttons. But I can push yours just as well.”

“That’s why I don’t want to face you in court,” Sara said. “It’d be a bloodbath.”

“Well, lucky for both of us it’s not coming to that. I’m dropping the case as soon as I get back.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sara said. She reached across the table and took both of Jared’s hands in her own. “I just want you to know, I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Sara, you don’t need me to look out for you. I only do it because I love the view.” He pulled her hands close and lightly kissed them. “I’d never do anything to hurt you,” he said. “Now let’s stop stressing about the case. For once, we’ve got the problem solved.”

When lunch was finished, Jared and Sara got up and stepped outside. The day was still pale gray and the clouds were again starting to hover. “More rain,” Sara said.

Jared nodded. “Do you want me to drop you off?”

“No, that’s the opposite direction for you. I can walk from here.”

He gave his wife a kiss good-bye and watched her head up the block. Sara had a slight bounce in her walk, and even though Jared loved to tease her about it, he also loved to watch her in motion. When she turned the corner, he stepped toward the cab that was stopped in front of the restaurant. As soon as he opened the door, he realized someone was already in the backseat. It was Kozlow.

“How’re you doing there, doc?” Kozlow asked. “Come on in.”

Jared hesitated a moment.

“Don’t worry,” Kozlow said. “It’s safe.”

Cautiously getting into the cab, Jared sat next to Kozlow. “What’s going on?” Jared asked. “What’re you doing here?”

“You’ll see.”

“What’re you talking about?” Jared asked as the driver pulled into traffic. “What do you-”

“Shut up already. We’ll be there soon enough.”

The cab pulled up to a landmark town house on East Fifty-eighth Street whose polished brass doorknobs and handrails sparkled even in the absence of sunlight. A uniformed attendant opened the door for Jared, who slowly stepped out of the cab. Kozlow didn’t follow. “You’re not coming?” Jared asked.

“Not my kind of place,” Kozlow said. “You’re on your own.” He slammed the door shut and the cab sped away.

“Mr. Lynch,” the attendant said. “This way, please.”

Jared hesitantly followed.

The attendant ushered Jared through a paneled hall with a magnificent antique mirror along one wall and down a broad, curving, carpeted stairway. Jared nervously ran his hand against the grain of his two o’clock shadow. Craning his neck in every direction, he tried his best to scout ahead. There were no other people in sight, but he was clearly in a club. At the foot of the stairs, a beautifully appointed bar stretched off to the left. Straight ahead was a large lounge decorated in an unusual mix of French antiques and African artifacts. Dark and intimidating, the room had wooden hand-painted tribal masks along the walls and clusters of wing chairs and Louis XV end tables. African music played softly from hidden speakers.

The uniformed man led Jared to an unmarked door in the back, which opened into a private room. Inside, centered around a marble fireplace, were a sofa and two antique chairs. In one of the chairs sat a tall, elegant man with an angular face, wearing a hand-tailored black blazer. His slightly graying blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, and although it was impossible to tell by looking at him, one of his legs was imperceptibly shorter than the other. The disproportion was caused by an old football injury that he wore as a badge of honor. Indeed, for him it wasn’t just a football injury. It was a Princeton football injury. And in his mind, that made all the difference.

Hearing them approach, he stood and extended a well-manicured hand. “So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lynch,” he said.

“Do you mind telling me what this is about?” Jared asked.

The man ignored him. “My name is Oscar Rafferty. Won’t you please sit down?” He gestured to the sofa, then turned to the attendant. “That’ll be it, George, thank you.” The smooth graciousness of Rafferty’s voice suggested that he was a man who was accustomed to having things go his way.

Jared assumed the same when he noticed the signature gold B on the black buttons of Rafferty’s Brioni blazer. Even Thomas Wayne didn’t wear two-thousand-dollar Brioni jackets. So for Jared, Rafferty’s buttons meant one thing: This wasn’t going to be a typical client meeting.

Cautiously taking a seat on the sofa, Jared picked up a matchbook from a bowl on the coffee table between them.

“I understand you’re from Highland Park,” Rafferty said in an engaging tone. “Do you know the Pritchard family, Judge Henry Pritchard? Both his sons are clients of mine. One’s a playwright, the other’s a producer – which means he does much of nothing.”

Confused by Rafferty’s attempt to find common ground, Jared said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something I can help you with, Mr. Rafferty?”