Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“You want me to solve it? Then this is what I’m doing: Instead of hitting her with the subpoena tonight, I’ll have a couple of officers serve it on her early Monday morning. That way, if there’s any trouble, the officers are there to protect her. And they’ll also be there to make sure she comes in.”

Conrad was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Good. That’s a nice start.”

“Then let’s discuss how this happened in the first place. I assume we all agree it was Kozlow?”

“Hey, boss,” Guff interrupted. “It’s two-thirty.”

“Are you serious?” Sara asked, looking at her watch. She stood up. “I’m sorry, but I really have to run. I have an appointment I can’t miss.”

“What about preparing for the grand jury?” Conrad asked. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“Trust me, that’s my top priority,” Sara said, grabbing her jacket from the coatrack. “Grand jury means indictment , which means trial , which means win , which means happily ever after . There’s no way I’m losing in the first round – especially when there’s still so much to dig up.”

“That’s a wonderful use of the transitive property, but when are you actually going to prepare for this miraculous event?”

“We have tomorrow, and Guff said we could all meet this weekend.”

“Really?” Conrad asked, looking at Guff.

“What’s the big fuss?” Guff said. “You’re here every weekend.”

“I’m busy tomorrow, but I can do Saturday,” Conrad said. “Let’s not forget I have my own cases to deal with.”

“I know – and I really appreciate the help,” Sara said, dashing for the door. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Hold on,” Conrad said. “Don’t run out just yet. What’s so important that you have to leave right now?”

“I have a meeting with my little sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Not a real sister,” Sara said. “I volunteer as a mentor through the Big Sisters program.”

“Really?” Conrad asked. “What do you do on the weekends? Donate blood or feed the homeless?”

“That’s original,” Sara said sarcastically.

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Since about a month after I got fired from my law firm. That was about how long it took for me to get sick of sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. I figured this was better for my psyche than paying for that extra session at the therapist – not to mention far more fun.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Guff said. “Good for you.”

“Thanks for the approval,” Sara said. “And while I’d love to recruit you both to the cause, I’ve really got to go. I’m late.”

“One last thing,” Conrad said. “When you get home tonight, talk to your husband about your witnesses. Tomorrow morning, we have to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Consider it done,” Sara said as she ran to the door.

At twenty after three, Sara crossed 116th Street and ran up Amsterdam Avenue. On her right were the modern, state-of-the-art facilities of her alma mater, Columbia Law School, and on her left were the timeworn, regal buildings of Columbia University. As she headed north, however, the buildings became far less majestic, and in the span of one block, marble statues, Gothic architecture, and sculpted archways gave way to run-down storefronts, beat-up automobiles, and the worst of the city’s potholed streets. At 121st Street, Columbia University officially ended. And as Sara had learned during her first year at the law school, there was a clear line between the Ivy League and Harlem, New York.

When Sara reached Ralph Bunche Elementary School, the front entrance of the battered brick building was humming with hundreds of kids glad to be done with the school day. As she turned the corner and made her way through the crowd of students, Sara heard a voice yell, “You’re late.” Sitting on the trunk of a white car was Tiffany Hamilton, Sara’s little sister. Sara knew that Tiffany was tall for a seventh-grader, but her recent decision to start wearing lipstick made her look far older than thirteen. She had wide eyes, dark brown skin, and a long, immaculate braid that ran down her back. She also had an attitude that hit like a truck.

“I said, you’re late,” Tiffany repeated.

“I heard what you said,” Sara said as she reached the car. “I just chose not to respond.”

“Where were you?”

“At my job.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Tiffany said, hopping off the car. Her pink lipstick was shining in the afternoon sun. “I forgot you started. Can you arrest people yet? Do they give you a badge?”

“No, we don’t get a badge,” Sara said, laughing. “We just get a bucketful of lipstick. These days, that can be quite a weapon – blinding our opponents and all that.”

“Very funny,” Tiffany said, squeezing her lips together self-consciously. “So tell me more about work. Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. This case I’m working on is driving me a little bit crazy, though.”

“Really? Is it a murder? A shooting?”

“It’s a burglary. And guess who the defense attorney is?”

“Perry Mason.”

“How do you know who Perry Mason is?”

“I got a TV.”

“Well, you’re still wrong. Guess again.”

“Is he fatter or thinner than Perry Mason?”

“What makes you think it’s a man? Women can be lawyers.”

“Okay, fatter or thinner?”

“Thinner.”

“Uglier or better looking?”

“Better looking.”

“Taller or shorter?”

“I don’t know. Let’s say the same.”

“Now I know it’s a guy. More or less hair?”

“Less,” Sara laughed. “Especially in that one spot right on the back of his-”

“Jared?”

“The one and only.”

“Oh, my God! You’re going to wipe the floor with him! Can I come and watch?”

“We’ll see,” Sara said.

“What’s it like going up against him? Is it weird? Is he scared?”

“I don’t think he’s too scared,” Sara said as she thought about her two witnesses.

“That means he’s beating you, doesn’t it? How bad is it? Are you about to lose?”

“He’s not beating me,” Sara said. Hoping to change the subject, she added, “Now tell me about school. How’re you doing?”

“Great,” Tiffany said as they passed Columbia Law School. “So where’re we going today?”

“That depends. How’d you do on your math test?”

“Eighty-nine percent.”

“I don’t know – that’s still not an A.”

“C’mon, Sara, you said if I got it up to ninety-”

“I know what I said – and last I checked, eighty-nine is still lower than ninety.”

“Sara, please. I worked all last week to get that grade. And I’m only one tiny point away. One teeny, tiny point.”

“Fine, fine, fine. You’re breaking my heart. Name your poison.”

“Can we go back to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

“That’s great with me, but answer this: Do you actually want to go to the Met, or do you just want to sit on the stairs and play Count the Tortured Artists?”

“I want to play Count the Tortured Artists. With fifty extra points for black berets.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sara said. “Pick another poison.”

“How about we go bowling and then eat dinner at Sylvia’s?”

“I can’t do dinner tonight,” Sara said. “I have to prepare for – Hey!” Sara had the wind knocked out of her when someone walking in the opposite direction crashed into her. She lost her balance and fell back on the concrete. Caught up in the momentum, he stumbled over her.

Looking up, Sara saw a dark-haired man.