John Grisham - The Brethren

"You just make sure he can't get out:"

"The Texaco driver was drunk." she said, opening the door. "Don't screw this up."

Trevor froze, slack jawed, glassy-eyed, his deadened mind suddenly springing to life. One third of $2 million, $4 million, hell, $10 million if he was really drunk and punitive damages kicked in. He wanted to at least straighten his desk, but he couldn't move.

Wes stared out the front window, stared at the rental, where his buddies were staring at him. He kept his back to the ruckus down the hall because he was struggling to keep a straight face. Footsteps, then Jan said, "Mr. Carson will see you in just a moment."

"Thanks." he said softly, without turning around.

Poor guy's still grieving, she thought, then walked to the dirty kitchen to make coffee.

The deposition was over in a flash, and the other participants miraculously vanished without a trace. Wes followed her down the hall to Mr. Carson's cluttered office. Introductions were made. She brought them flesh coffee, and when she was finally gone, Wes made an unusual request.

"Is there any place to get a strong latte around here?"

"Why, certainly, yes, of course," Trevor said, the words jumping across the desk. "There's a place called Beach Java just a few blocks away"

"Could you send her to get me one?"

Absolutely. Anything!

"Yes, of course. Tall or grande?"

"Tall's fine."

Trevor bounced out of his office, and a few seconds later Jan hit the front door and practically ran down the street. When she was out of sight, Chap left the rental and walked to Trevor's. The front door was locked, so he opened it with a key of his own. Inside, he latched the chain, so poor Jan would be stuck on the porch with a cup of scalding latte.

Chap eased down the hall and made a sudden entrance into the lawyer's office.

"Excuse me," Trevor said.

"It's okay," Wes said. "He's with me."

Chap closed and locked the door, then he yanked a 9-millimeter pistol from his jacket and almost pointed it at poor Trevor, whose eyes bulged and heart froze.

"What-" he managed to emit in a high-pitched painful voice.

"Just shut up, okay," said Chap, handing the pistol to Wes, who was sitting. Trevor's wild eyes followed it from one to the other, then it disappeared. What have I done? Who are these thugs? All my gambling debts are paid.

He was very happy to shut up. Whatever they wanted.

Chap leaned on the wall, pretty damned close to Trevor, as if he might lunge at any moment. "We have a client." he began. "A wealthy man, who has been snagged in the little scam run by you and Ricky"

"Oh my god." Trevor mumbled. His worst nightmare.

"It's a wonderful idea," Wes said. "Extorting from rich gay men who are still hiding in the closet. They can't complain. Ricky's already in prison, so what does he have to lose?"

"Almost perfect," Chap said. "Until you hook the wrong fish, which is exactly what you've done."

"It's not my scam," Trevor said, his voice still two octaves above normal, his eyes still searching for the pistol.

"Yes, but it wouldn't work without you, would it?" Wes asked. "There has to be a crooked lawyer on the outside to shuttle mail. And Ricky needs someone to direct the money and do a little investigative work."

"You're not cops, are you?" Trevor asked.

"No. We're private thugs," Chap said.

"Because if you're cops then I'm not sure I wanna talk anymore."

"We're not cops, okay"

Trevor was breathing and thinking again, the breathing going much faster than the thinking, but his training kicked in. "I think I'll record this." he said. "Just in case you're cops:"

"I said we're not cops."

"I don't trust cops, especially the FBI. The fibbies would walk in here just like the two of you, wave a gun around, and swear that they weren't fibbies. I just don't like cops. I think I'll get this on tape."

Don't worry, pal, they wanted to say. It was all being recorded, live and in high-density digital color from a tiny camera in the ceiling a few feet behind where they were sitting. And there were mikes planted all around Trevor's littered desk so that when he snored or burped or even cracked his knuckles somebody across the street heard it.

The pistol was back. Wes held it with both hands and examined it carefully.

"You're not recording anything," Chap said. "As I told you, we're private boys. And we're calling the shots right now" He took a step closer along the wall. Trevor watched him with one eye, and with the other helped Wes examine the pistol.

"In fact, we come in peace." Chap said.

"We have some money for you." Wes said, and put the damned thing away again.

"Money for what?" Trevor asked.

"We want you on our side. We want to retain your services."

"To do what?"

"To help us protect our client," Chap said. "Here's the way we see it.You're a conspirator in an extortion scheme operating from inside a federal prison, and you've been discovered by us.We could go to the feds, get you and your client busted, you'd be sent away for thirty months, probably to Trumble, where you'd fit right in. You'd be automatically disbarred, which means you'd lose all this." Chap casually waved his right hand, dismissing the clutter and dust and heaps of old files untouched in years.

Wes jumped right in. "We're prepared to go to the feds right now, and we could probably stop the mail out of Trumble. Our client would probably be spared any embarrassment. But there's an element of risk our client is not willing to take.What if Ricky has another cohort, either inside or out of Trumble, somebody we haven't found yet, and he somehow manages to expose our client in retaliation?"

Chap was already shaking his head. "Its too risky. We'd rather work with you, Trevor. We'd rather buy you off, and kill the scam from this office."

"I cannot be bought," Trevor said with only a trace of conviction.

"Then we'll lease you for a while, how about that?" Wes said. "Aren't all lawyers leased by the hour anyway?"

"I suppose, but you're asking me to sell out a client."

"Your client is a felon who's committing crimes every day from inside a federal prison. And you're just as guilty as he is. Let's not get too sanctimonious here."

"When you become a criminal, Trevor." Chap said gravely, "you lose the privilege of being self-righteous. Don't preach to us. We know it's just a question of how much money."

Trevor forgot about the gun for a moment, and he forgot -about his law license hanging on the wall behind him, slightly crooked. As he so often did these days when faced with yet another unpleasantry from the practice of law, he closed his eyes and dreamed of his forty-foot schooner, anchored in the warm, still waters of a secluded bay, topless girls on the beach a hundred yards away, and himself barely clad, sipping a beverage on the deck. He could smell the salt water, feel the gentle breeze, taste the rum, hear the girls.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on Wes across the desk. "Who is your client?" he asked.

"Not so fast." Chap said. "Let's cut the deal first."

"What deal?"

"We give you some money, and you work as a double agent. We get access to everything. We wire you when you talk to Ricky. We see all the mail.You don't make a move until we discuss it."

"Why don't you just pay the extortion money?" Trevor asked. "It'd be a whole lot easier."

"We've thought of that," Wes said. "But Ricky doesn't play fair. If we paid him, then he'd come back for more. And more."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Really? What about Quince Garbe in Bakers, Iowa?"

Oh my god, thought Trevor, and he almost said it aloud. How much do they know? All he could manage was a very weak "Who's he?"

"Come on, Trevor." Chap said. "We know where the money is hidden in the Bahamas. We know about Boomer Realty, and about your little account, currently with a balance of almost seventy thousand bucks."