Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

"Cool buttons, yo."

"Leave them alone." Nat took a seat.

"Good morning, boys and girls," Carling began, and Nat hoped she hadn't made a mistake.

"Call on me, Professor Carling!" Wykoff shouted. "I did the reading!"

"Me, too!" Marilyn Krug yelled, but Carling waved them into silence.

"Please, kiddies, no calling out." Carling's eyes found Nat's, and she shot him a thumbs-up. He squared his shoulders. "We begin our discussion today with Brown v. Board of Ed. Now, in Brown…"

Nat listened as Carling delivered a respectable discussion of the case, which she footnoted when necessary. In the meantime, she worried about the phone call and yesterday's meeting with Machik. She couldn't wait to talk to Angus.

After class, she found the clinic, tucked away by itself in a corner of the lower level, and pushed open its glass door onto an elegant suite of offices, located off a large reception area furnished with cherrywood tables and chairs and matching chair rails. Couches and club chairs in muted mocha hues coordinated with the tan walls and a patterned carpet, and the recessed lighting was subdued and soft, more Ritz-Carlton than Public Interest. A few students hung out, talking and looking at legal papers, and Nat saw more than a few fisherman's sweaters, complete with ponytails, jeans, and cowboy boots. It was clearly the team uniform, and Angus was the counter-culture captain.

Is Professor Holt in?" she asked a female student who'd stepped forward to meet her. The girl had large brown eyes, dark hair that reached to her waist, and a white Indian tunic over her jeans, "He's in, but he can't be disturbed," she answered, eyeing Nat up and down.

"I'm Professor Greco. I work here."

"I know that."

Not today, child. "Excuse me." Nat saw three doors over the girl's shoulder, one of which read, "Clinic Director," and made a beeline for it.

"Stop. You can't bother him." The girl hurried after her, but Nat knocked on the door.

"Angus, it's Nat."

"Natalie?" The door opened. Angus was on the cell phone, wearing a colorful Ecuadorian sweater, jeans, and a new gauze bandage. He motioned her in, shut the door behind them, and flashed her the one-minute sign. She sat down in one of the mesh chairs across from the rough-hewn pine table he used as a desk. There was nothing on it except for an Amnesty International mug of pens and sharpened pencils, an orange iMac, and three stacks of correspondence, each document bearing a yellow Post-it. The desk was immaculate, especially for a socialist.

Angus said into the cell, "Look, we can file an entry of appearance and brief electronically. All you have to do is appear before Judge Pratter, make the motion, and explain that the extern can't be there because the program's been suspended."

Nat looked around, surprised to find she'd been completely wrong about his office. Books, case reporters, and law reviews stood straight as soldiers in clean oak bookcases. Accordion files sat on the credenza in alphabetical order. There was no Che Guevara poster; only tastefully framed reproductions of pirates, sea captains, and knights, painted in vivid washes of watercolor. The signature was N. C. Wyeth. Nat amended her psychological profile of their collector: a socialist with a Hero Complex.

"Then get an associate to do it, Jake. What's your pro bono commitment this year? This family has no heat and it's twenty-five degrees outside."

Diplomas hung discreetly near the window, one from Williams College, another from Harvard Law, and one for "Sally" from The Doggie Obedience School of Delaware County. Black notebooks sat stacked on a table, next to a Bose iPod player and a cube of jazz CDs and mix tapes. A white Sony TV on a shelf played on mute, and on the screen, the female hosts of The View were interrupting one another in merciful silence.

"Great! Thanks, bro." Angus closed the phone and brushed back a stray hair. "Sorry to make you wait. I'm trying to get these appearances covered with no notice, and it's impossible."

"Can't the kids help? Why is Daddy making all the calls?"

"These they can't help with." Angus leaned against the credenza. "I'm cashing in every chit I have. That last guy was the managing partner at Pepper and my law school roommate."

"Who's Alanis Morrisette out front? She almost didn't let me in."

"Deirdre? She's a little protective."

"She's a little in love."

"Admiration is not love." Angus cocked his head. "Why are you so cranky? We didn't get beaten up or yelled at today-though it's still early."

Nat realized she'd sounded oddly jealous. "I got a phone call last night, from a man who told me to stay out of Chester County."

"I got the same call. Did you star-69 him?"

"He was out of the service area."

"Same here." Angus frowned. "But why'd he call you? You're a victim. You're not representing anybody out there."

"If I got a call, it's not related to a representation. It's related to the riot and maybe to Barb Saunders."

"Right. Weird."

"It could be one of Buford's friends or family. He may not want me to testify against him."

"Possible, but not likely. He won't come to trial for a year or so."

Angus shook his head. "I still don't get why he called you. You're not the one who has business in Chester County. I am."

"I am, too." Nat hadn't filled him in about yesterday. "I'm supposed to go to Barbara Saunders's this week. I didn't tell her anything when we went out there. She wasn't up to it."

"So are you saying that's why they called you? You think someone's trying to prevent you from telling her? Why would they?"

"No, not that. Only she and I knew I hadn't told her yesterday."

"Oh." Angus paused, lost in thought. "What about Joe Graf? He's not a fan of ours."

"Did it sound like him to you?"

"I don't know his voice that well."

"Me neither," Nat said. "Why wouldn't he want us out there?"

"Maybe we're a reminder that he didn't help Saunders, or it makes him look bad. Who knows? I'm supposed to go back to the prison today. They're letting me see my client. I wonder if Graf is back on the job."

"I doubt it. Are you still going?"

"Of course, I have to. But you don't." Angus folded his arms, bulky in the thick sweater. "Why don't you call Barb Saunders, instead of going there? It's good enough under the circumstances. Or write her a letter."

"Why don't I just email? 'Re: Your Husbands Last Words'"

Angus smiled. "What does Mr. Greco say to your going out there?"

"Hank? Same as you." Or, we're not speaking.

Angus's cell rang, and he checked the display. "Sorry, I have to take this." He opened the phone. "Frank, thanks for getting back to me. My extern program is on hiatus, and I need a litigator to get me a continuance from Padova today, at two. Can you help?"

Nat looked away. On TV, The View had given way to the local news at noon. An anchorwoman came on, and the scene switched to a living room. A young woman talked into a station-logo microphone as she sat teary-eyed on a couch. The living room looked familiar. So did the woman.

"He picked up a possession charge," Angus was saying. "Coke, second offense. But he's a good kid. He got caught doing a line in the bathroom at a club, Privato. Oh, yeah? Then don't go back, or don't pee.

It took Nat a second to recognize the woman on TV. It was Barb Saunders's sister, Jennifer. The living room was in the Saunders' house. It must be a follow-up story to Ron Saunders's murder at the prison.

"Angus, look." Nat got up, crossed to the TV, and hit the Volume button.

"Hold on, Frank." Angus glanced at the TV screen. "Lemme call you back, bro."

The voiceover said, "The widow and her three children were at the funeral when the burglar struck, absconding with two computers, cash, and jewelry. It seems heartless that someone would take advantage of such a terrible tragedy, but state police say it isn't uncommon. Burglars read the obituaries, too, and know that homes will be empty at that time."