William Lashner - Fatal Flaw

I was just the man for the job.

STANDING ATthe reception desk on the ground floor of the Dawson, Cricket and Peale building, I could feel them working above me, the swarm, buzzing and fussing, drafting and faxing, answering phones, answering complaints, answering insults with insults, investigating, inventing, tendering offers and refusing offers, wheeling, dealing, hustling, bustling, holding firm, holding firmer, shopping for experts, shopping for forums, shopping online, filing interrogatories, answering interrogatories, deposing, defending, coaching witnesses, browbeating witnesses, browbeating secretaries, snapping pencils, complaining with righteous indignation, responding with moral sincerity, filing motions to dismiss, filing motions for summary judgment, filing motions for sanctions, responding to motions for sanctions, exploding with anger in calculated bursts, filing trial memos, filing witness lists, hiring jury consultants, conducting mock trials before focus groups, meeting, discussing, shuddering with fear, settling, settling, always settling, quickly, before the next complaint arrived. Standing at the reception desk on the ground floor of the Dawson, Cricket and Peale building was like standing beneath a hive of drones and feeling the vibrations of a hundred thousand wings beating in crazy disorder toward the common goal of honey, honey, and more honey.

“Jonah Peale,” I said to the receptionist. She presided over a desk beside the elevator, an armed guard behind her, and behind him the firm’s name spelled out in steel. Between the elevator and the front door sat a large marble fountain, a huge copper fish leaping out of the water with a foul spray erupting from its mouth. The spitting of the fish was almost loud enough to drown out my words.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No.”

“Then I’m sorry, but Mr. Peale has a very busy-”

“Get him on the phone. He’ll see me,” I said. “Tell him it’s Victor Carl. Tell him I’m here to talk about his beloved son-in-law.”

Peale grabbed my arm as I came out of the elevator on the sixth and top floor. He was ten inches shorter than me, but his grip was iron and so was his voice. “I’m meeting with clients in my office,” he said as he pulled me into the conference room. “We’ll talk in here.”

The room was large, long, with a huge wooden table and a wall of windows. Peale was wearing a black pin-striped suit with a bright red tie bursting with flowers. He sat me down and then walked around the table until he stood directly across from me, his arms straight, his fists resting on the tabletop as he leaned forward. With the light streaming in from behind him, he seemed taller, the red tie glowed with power. I felt like a trash hauler negotiating a union contract with the chairman of the board.

“We’ve met before,” he said.

“At Leila and Guy’s wedding.”

“Feh.” Disgust twisted his hard features as if a piece of gristle were stuck in his teeth.

“Maybe you should be more careful in vetting your recruits.”

His eyes flashed anger. He had a way of speaking as if every declarative statement were a barroom challenge. “I wasn’t recruiting for Leila. What you want in a litigator is very different from what you want in a son-in-law. But I was wrong about him as a lawyer, too. What the hell kind of man gets a tattoo like that on his chest?”

“The kind that good daughters inevitably fall for.”

“To their regret. Your friend betrayed my daughter, he betrayed my grandchildren, he betrayed his vows. That he finally betrayed his lover by murdering her is no great surprise. I hope you received your fee in advance, or he’ll betray you, too.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“It’s his nature to cheat.”

“I’m not talking about my fee, I’m talking about the murder.”

“How do I know? Because he’s family.” His tongue moved angrily within his cheek, still searching for the gristle.

“If you’re that certain, Mr. Peale, then why are you so anxious for him to plead to a lesser charge?”

“Am I?”

“Yesterday morning a man named Phil Skink” – I left out the adjective that had become for me like a middle name – “invaded my breakfast at a neighborhood diner.”

“Skink? Phil Skink? Don’t know him.”

“Really, now. In our conversation this Skink wanted me to plead your son-in-law out to manslaughter. In fact, he wanted it so badly he bound the request in a threat. I assumed he was speaking for you, since Guy had told me Skink did some work for your firm. If he wasn’t speaking for you, then the detectives investigating Hailey Prouix’s murder would surely want to speak to him about his peculiar interest in the case. I thought I’d check with you before I gave the information to the police.”

I stared calmly at him and he stared fiercely back. He was a little man with a little mustache, but his eyes beneath his wire-frame glasses burned with intensity as bright as his tie. I remembered then that his wife was exceptionally large and the two of them made a comically proportioned couple, but no one ever dared laugh. I remembered then that he had been caught in some scandal involving a congressman and his aide a few years back and that the congressman’s aide was a tall, full-size blonde named Agatha.

“Mr. Skink,” he said finally, “is occasionally contracted by this firm to provide investigative services. He may have taken it upon himself to voice my concerns about the effects of a lengthy murder trial on my family.”

“He threatened me.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I don’t like to be threatened.”

“Things happen to all of us that we don’t like. I’ll be blunt. I don’t want that bastard’s picture in the papers staring at me for the next six months. I don’t want the articles talking about my daughter. I don’t want her forced to testify. I don’t want my grandchildren used as pawns. I don’t want the tragedies of my family played out in the tabloids. I want it to be over. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Your familial concern is touching.”

“So you’re touched. Is that all? Because I have a client in my office.”

“Give him the newspaper. Tell him to do the Jumble while he waits. I have more questions.”

“I have no more answers. You can send any request for further information to my lawyer. Good day, Mr. Carl. We are through.” He started the long walk around the table.

“Do you want a subpoena, Mr. Peale? Because I have one in my briefcase with your name on it.”

“I’ll quash it.”

“I’ll quash back. I was a Division Two quash champion in college. And then, when you’re under oath, maybe I’ll start asking about the promises you made to support Troy Jefferson’s future political aspirations in exchange for a quick plea.”

He stopped. “There were no promises.”

“Call them what you will. The only way a political opportunist like Jefferson backs away from a high-profile murder trial is if the political payoff is higher than all those appearances on the six o’clock news. What does he want to be, DA? Attorney general? Lieutenant governor? What does he want to be, the big man himself?”

“Troy Jefferson is a young man with sterling qualities who would be an asset to the commonwealth in any public role.”

“Yes, and he had a nice jump shot, too, but that’s not what’s going on, is it? Why are you trying to end this case before it starts?”

“I told you. My family-”

“No. Try again.”

“My daughter-”

“Sorry, wrong answer.”

“My grandchildren-”

“I don’t think so. Not unless you have a grandchild named Juan Gonzalez.”

Peale pressed his thin lips together, his head jerked within his starched collar. He took hold of the closest seat and sat down. His voice, when it came, had lost its iron edge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”