William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

I left a new message on my answering machine – “There is no car” – and slipped on my suit and tie. I stopped in the diner for a coffee, large, before heading on. I had just reached Twenty-first Street, and the caffeine had just started opening my eyes, when my cell phone rang.

“Victor Carl here,” I said.

“Hello, yes. Thank you for answering.” It was a woman’s voice, very proper. “I understand you have a litter of Labradoodles you are trying to sell.”

Sometimes, I admit, I can be a little dense, but suddenly I knew who had rung my phone in the middle of the night.

My office, when I arrived, was a madhouse. There were a score of applicants for the open paralegal position, with a base salary of $45,000, plus benefits, plus bonuses, all of which would have made it a pretty sweet gig, except that there was no open paralegal position at our office, and $45,000, plus benefits, plus bonuses, was more than Beth and I were pulling down as lawyers. The group of job seekers was standing in front of my secretary, Ellie, pointing their fingers at the large advertisement in the classifieds.

“I don’t care what it says printed there,” she was telling them, “there is no job. It’s a mistake. Go home.”

When she saw me, she raised her hands in exasperation.

I slipped to the front of the crowd, leaned over, said softly, “Sorry about this. Any messages?”

“You have seven offers for the Jimmy Page-autographed guitar.”

“Jimmy Page? From Led Zeppelin?”

“I didn’t know you had a Jimmy Page-autographed guitar.”

“Neither did I.” I looked around at the crowd. “I’ll be in my office. I need to make a call. Just thank them for coming and tell them all that the job’s been filled. It will be easier.”

“What’s going on, Mr. Carl?”

“Someone’s having a little fun with me.”

“With all this, I’m going to need a raise,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “After we pay the paralegal, there won’t be enough money left for paper clips, let alone a raise.”

I closed the door to my office, sat down at my desk, drained the coffee, watched the lights of my office lines twinkling. So Bob was playing games, calling me in the middle of the night, placing false advertisements in the newspaper to tie up all my phones. He’d have to do better than that, I figured, but still, it was annoying, and I didn’t have any doubt as to how he’d found out about my questions to Torricelli the day before. When a line cleared, I quickly snatched up the phone and dialed.

Whitney Robinson III laughed when I told him what had gone on that morning.

“You didn’t think he’d be happy, did you?” said Whit.

“No,” I said.

“Or that he wouldn’t find out.”

“No, not that either.”

“So there you go, my boy. What else could you have expected? It was a mistake to bring him into it. You are endangering his work.”

“Dentistry?”

“More like a ministry.”

“Whit, I don’t have a choice here.”

“We all have choices.”

“And you chose to act as a spy.”

He chuckled at my accusation. “I like to think I’m performing a service to both of you. Think of me as a conduit. I’m very fond of you, Victor, you know that. And he is a remarkable man, truly an extraordinary man.”

“He’s a dentist.”

“Oh, my boy, he is more than that. He is a sterling example to the rest of us. We all wander through the world spotting poor souls in trouble, and what we do is cluck our tongues in sympathy as we go on our way. But he stops, takes their hands in his, does something to help. I can’t tell you the number of people he’s helped in so many ways, large and small. And you are one of them, Victor, don’t forget. He’s helped you plenty already, and those young children you are so interested in. And he can help you more.”

“Sounds like a bribe.”

“If it does, then you still don’t understand. There is nothing venal here. He sees a woman in trouble, becomes involved in her life, and acts toward her as if she were his responsibility. You aren’t yet a father, Victor, but let me tell you from personal experience, a father will stop at nothing to save his child. Nothing. Remember that. But the extraordinary thing about this man is that he feels that same way toward total strangers. He sees a way he can help and he strikes out after it.”

“Like some sort of Lone Ranger riding the range, trying to lend a hand.”

“And succeeding, my boy. Succeeding.”

“Like he succeeded with Lisa Dubé?”

“He did what he could.”

“He killed her, Whit.”

“Oh, no, he did not. You’re being silly now. His whole life is about helping others. He’s not a murderer. He’s a lifesaver, if anything.”

“He killed her.”

“Stop it, now. You are upset, you haven’t thought this through. Listen to me, my boy. I know you don’t trust me as you used to. I understand that. Divided loyalties. But if ever you did trust what I said, then trust this: He didn’t kill that woman.”

“Who did?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Even if I believed you, Whit, I still have an obligation to my client.”

“Save your client without bringing him into it.”

“But the only way I can see to save my client is to use him to at least create reasonable doubt.”

“Think about it, Victor. Examine all your options. You are endangering more than you know. Not just him, but his mission, too, and that he can’t allow. He can be a wonderful friend, as he has shown, but he can also be a most dangerous foe.”

“I don’t know about that. A few false ads, a few late-night calls. I can handle it.”

“Oh, Victor, my boy. Don’t underestimate him. Our mutual friend is just clearing his throat.”

I liked the image, Mia Dalton swaying on a hammock in a soft breeze, eyes closed, an umbrella drink in her hand and a rumba playing softly on the radio.

“The prosecution rests,” she said.

“I could use a little rest myself,” I mumbled to Beth.

“Did you say something, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

Why did I feel like I was back in fifth grade? “No, sir.”

“Do you have witnesses to present?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Let’s have the jury take a break while we go over some legal matters, and then you can begin your case.”

“All rise,” shouted the bailiff. We all rose. The key for a defense attorney as jurors file out of the courtroom is to maintain your air of benign confidence until the door closes behind them. Then all bets are off, and you can sink back into your seat with a despondent expression of utter defeat.

Beth made the usual motions to dismiss, raised the usual arguments, accepted stoically the usual denials.

“Anything else I can reject?” said the judge.

“My credit card was refused last week,” said Beth, “so I suppose that’s about it.”

“Fine,” said the judge. “Twenty minutes, folks,” and we rose once again when he made his way off the bench.

“That went well,” said Beth.

“About as well as could be expected,” I said as I stood at the table. “Dalton’s case was pretty thorough.”

“Are we ready for our defense?”

“I think so,” I said, but just as I said it, Beth’s eyes grew large and I felt a lurking presence behind me. I winced even before I turned around.

Torricelli.

“His name’s Pfeffer,” said Torricelli. “Robert Pfeffer.”

“How’d you find him?”

“One of the victim’s friends told us. A Mrs. Winterhurst. Turns out she was the one who recommended him to Leesa in the first place. So after we got the name, we swung by his office. Nice little guy. And he seems to know what he’s doing. I had a dental question that he answered quite thoroughly.”