John Lescroart - Guilt

'Too much.'

Christina shrugged. 'Beats the opposite, doesn't it? I'm going out to get some coffee. You think the office will survive fifteen minutes without us here? Or should I bring you back something?'

Sam considered a moment, then brought her feet down off the desk and stood up. I'll leave a note on the door.'

They waited in line at an espresso place down the street from the Center. Sam's general theme on men had narrowed to the specific.

'Wes Farrell?' Christina was saying. 'Where do I know that name?'

'He's Levon Copes's attorney.'

'No, that's not it. I didn't know that before you just told me. I know that name from somewhere else.'

Sam had omitted the details of her interaction with Wes Farrell, leaving it only that they'd met and she'd given him a piece of her mind.

'Maybe you saw it on one of Glitsky's reports or something.'

'Maybe.' Christina ordered a latte, her brow still furrowed, trying to remember. When they'd gotten served, they sat at a tiny two-seat table up by the window, in the sun. They shared the sill with two cats, and one of them purred up against Christina's arm. 'Anyway,' Christina said, 'I didn't think last week was the greatest time to tell you – just when you were finally starting to believe that I was a real person who genuinely cares about the people I try to help, which I am.'

'I know that now. I see that.'

'Well, but… so now this is a little awkward, but I wanted to give you notice that pretty soon I'm going to have to stop coming into the Center, doing this.'

A long dead moment. 'Because of this Tania Willows thing?'

'No. Really because in about a month I'm taking finals, then graduating, then studying for the Bar and working full-time for a firm downtown, which I hear is about a hundred hours a week. Then taking the Bar. I'm not going to have any time.'

Sam stirred her coffee. Stopped. Her eyes restlessly scanned the street in front of them. 'Damn,' she said finally. This always happens.'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'It's all right. I just get so tired of it, when it seems you finally get to where you might connect with somebody…'

'Then they leave. I know.' Christina was holding her coffee mug in both hands, trying to keep them warm. 'So you didn't convert Wes Farrell away from defense work?'

Sam made a face. 'I was dumb. I just got mad at him. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, whatever I did. Copes would just go out and hire another one. Fucking lawyers… oops, sorry.'

Christina waved it off. 'That's okay. I'm not a lawyer yet, and I'm not going to be that kind of one anyway.'

'It's funny, because he seemed like a nice guy otherwise. A great guy, really.'

'Who?'

'Who are we talking about? Wes Farrell.'

Christina looked over her coffee. 'You liked him, didn't you?'

'I don't know. I might have. Maybe I would have. I don't know.'

'Call him up. Say hi. He's got to be in the book. Tell him he's making a mistake with Levon Copes but that you were too hard on him. You'd like to buy him a drink.'

Sam shook her head. 'I don't think so. I don't know if I want to buy him a drink.' Sighing. 'It's not that simple.'

'But wouldn't it be nice?'

The conference room at McCabe & Roth was meant to intimidate. The dark cherry table was twenty-four feet long and the shine on its surface encouraged neither relaxation nor work. It was a table at which to sit. And listen. And be impressed. The subliminal message from such perfection was that to leave so much as a fingerprint upon it was to vandalize a work of art, so briefcases stayed on the floor, notes were taken on laps.

Coffee cups? Paperclips? Drinks? Food? Forget it.

At one end of the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows worked their power-view magic, while the walls were covered with heavily textured, light green cloth wallpaper. Original oils in heavy frames glowered. Sconced lighting kicked in when the black-out drapes were drawn.

After his debacle with Trang earlier in the day, Dooher was primed to win one. He'd had a bad day all around, in fact, with the Archbishop giving vent to his frustration that even his top offer of $600,000 had not been immediately accepted. Dooher still found himself smarting from the carefully phrased reproof. 'It's really not like you, Mark, to let a beginner get the upper hand like that in your negotiations.'

There had been nothing he could say. And now close of business had come and gone and he hadn't heard back from Trang, so the Archbishop's offer was no longer on the table. And Dooher knew it was all going to get much worse.

But for now, this moment, he was going to enjoy himself. He sat at the head of the conference table, and checked his watch – 5:40. The other eight partners should begin arriving any minute.

He found himself smiling, thinking of David and Bathsheba, and of Bathsheba's poor first husband, whom David sent off to war, promoting him so that he would be at the front of the troops, leading the charge against the Philistines, a hero.

Alas, never to return.

'Joe, you may have heard rumors to the effect that the firm has been considering expanding into new market areas. Well, we're all gathered here now to put an end to those rumors. They're absolutely… true.'

A polite ripple of masculine chuckle.

Joe Avery smiled nervously from his end of the conference table. Several of the other men looked his way, nodding and smiling. Dooher continued, 'We've reached the decision that the first satellite office should be in Los Angeles. As you know, we do a lot of business down there – many of the cases you've been working on, as a matter of fact. We've all been impressed with the hours and effort you've put in over the years here, and we'd like to reward you now by asking you to put in some more.'

Another round of club laughter.

'But seriously, and before we get down to the nitty-gritty of what we're expecting down in LA, all of us wanted to take a minute and say congratulations. And, I should add – I'm afraid I've hinted at this to you before' – here Dooher included most of the partners around the table in a conspiratorial wink – 'we kind of rushed your partnership through committee a little earlier than you might have expected.

'We'd like you to take the helm down in Los Angeles, Joe, open the office, get us up and running and put us on the map down there.' Again, an inclusive gesture around the room. 'Gentlemen. I've seen the future of McCabe & Roth and its name is Joe Avery. Congratulations, Joe.'

Heartfelt applause. Joe Avery stood, beaming and basking in his colleagues' approval. And Dooher knew that even if it meant losing Christina, the fool wouldn't let this job get away.

On the next Thursday night, Dooher suddenly stopped his reading in the library on the lower floor of the turret. His eyes raked the shelves quickly, all of his senses alert with an overwhelming prescience. Something was going to happen – he could feel it!

The telephone rang. He knew who it was and he trusted these things implicitly. Besides, the timing was about right – four days since Avery had been promoted. He picked it up on the first ring, resisting the urge to answer with her name.

Instead, he was as he always was. 'Mark Dooher here,' he said. The library doubled as his private office, with a personal phone that he answered in business tones.

A longish pause, then: 'Mark, hi.' Another breath. 'It's Christina Carrera. I'm sorry to bother you at home.'

'Christina!' Heartfelt surprise and enthusiasm. 'It's no bother. I wouldn't have given you my home number if I was going to get mad at you for using it.' Dooher carried the portable phone across the room and quietly pushed the door closed. It was a little after 9:00 p.m. and Sheila was watching television in the kitchen, doing the dinner dishes. The closed door was a signal that he was working – she wouldn't disturb him. 'To what do I owe this pleasure? What can I do for you?'