James Grippando - Last to die

“I can pay you.”

“It’s not the money.”

“Then what, you don’t like me?”

“This isn’t a date. I don’t have to like you.”

“Or maybe you think you’re Perry Mason and only represent innocent people. Well, let me tell you something: If someone’s trying to pin this woman’s murder on me, I am innocent. So what do you say, Perry? You my lawyer?”

“It’s not that easy. I’m pretty busy right now.”

“This has to be a lot juicier than whatever else you got on your plate.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Right. Take a look at this picture,” he said as he handed Jack the same newspaper clipping that Theo had shown him.

Jack took it but said nothing. Tatum said, “Here’s a gorgeous, twenty-nine-year-old woman. She’s just finagled forty-six million dollars from some rich, old fool she was married to for a year and a half. First thing she does is go around looking to hire someone who’ll blow her brains out. Don’t it make you wonder what’s the deal here?”

Jack stared into Sally’s eyes, looking for signs of trouble. Her photo stared right back.

“Don’t it, Jack?”

“It has a certain pull.”

“Tell me this much: Would you meet with this probate lawyer, if you was me?”

“Not without a lawyer of my own.”

“Then come with me. Worst that can happen, you make three bills an hour.”

“If it was all about money, I’d be working for the mob.”

Tatum leaned into the table, as if on the level. “Let me lay it on the line here. Yeah, I popped a few guys. That’s all in the past. Trust me, the world don’t miss the scum I did away with. I never killed no one like this woman here, this Sally Fenning.”

Jack gave him a hard look.

“Come on,” said Tatum, groaning. “I think someone’s trying to fuck me here. Sure, I did some bad shit in my life. But this time, damn it, I’m innocent. For a real-life criminal defense lawyer like you, that’s about as good as it gets, ain’t it?”

Jack nearly smiled. The guy had a point. “Just about.”

“So you with me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jack offered the letter back, but Tatum held up his hands, refusing.

“Keep it. You might need it.”

Jack folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. “Might,” he said.

On Friday night Jack went back to high school. The Cavaliers of Coral Gables Senior High were battling Miami Lakes on the gridiron, and he thought it would be fun to take his Little Brother to cheer on his alma mater. Jack was part of the local Big Brothers Big Sisters of America program, and he liked nothing better than to take Nate places that his mother didn’t take him-like football games and more football games. It seemed like a nice thing to do for a single mother trying to raise a boy on her own, which was why he’d volunteered in the first place. Nate turned out to be a great kid, which was why Jack loved doing it.

Tonight, however, Jack had an agenda of his own.

As usual, there was a good crowd on hand. Jack and Nate flowed with the stream of excited fans through the turnstyle at the main entrance gate. The marching band was on the field, putting their collective heart into the familiar school fight song. The grandstands were filling up quickly, as a lighted scoreboard at the far end of the field blinked down to fourteen minutes and counting till kickoff. A long line of football players suddenly rushed past him and Nate. Their pregame warm-up was over, and they were hooting and hollering all the way back to the locker room for last-minute game prep.

It had been almost twenty years since Jack played varsity ball, and for a moment he could hardly believe that he’d ever actually looked that young in his gray and crimson uniform.

“Did they wear helmets back when you played?” asked Nate. He was eight years old and sometimes had a way of making Jack feel like eighty.

“Not always,” said Jack. “Which explains an awful lot.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing,” he said, pulling Nate along as they walked toward the stands.

“Why do you always say that?”

“Say what?”

“Whenever I ask what you mean, you always say ‘nothing.’”

“I don’t always do that.”

“Uh-huh. My mom says you do it, too.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“She says you’re afraid to let people know what’s really inside your head.”

“She really said that?”

“Does that sound like something I would make up?”

Jack smiled, though it troubled him to think that Nate’s mother saw him as someone who erected emotional barriers. Funny, but his ex-wife used to say the same thing. “Don’t want people inside my head, huh? What exactly is that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Nate said smugly.

“Wise guy.”

It was the sixth game of the season, no losses so far, and Jack could feel the excitement around the stadium. They’d arrived too late to get prime seats, but Jack wasn’t in a hurry to sit anyway. He waited behind the bleachers at the fifty-yard-line entrance, watching the fans pass by. This section was where players’ parents usually sat, and the Cavaliers’ quarterback was Justin Grasso. His mother, Vivien Grasso, never missed a game.

Jack had intended to call Vivien before the weekend but was caught up in an arbitration proceeding in Orlando. Her letter to Tatum Knight had scheduled the mystery meeting for Monday afternoon. Jack figured he’d accidentally-on-purpose bump into Vivien at the game, find out what it was all about, and then decide whether it sounded interesting enough to offset the hassle of dealing with a loose cannon like Tatum as a client. Jack wasn’t overly picky, but it had been one of those weeks where it seemed that if it weren’t for clients, judges, and other lawyers, the practice of law wouldn’t be such a bad way to make a living.

“Let’s go,” said Nate.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. Vivien was headed toward them, and Jack had a bead on her in the crowd. He hadn’t seen her since his father’s farewell party as governor, but she looked the same-lean and athletic, little to no makeup, as if she’d gone for a twenty-mile run, jumped in the shower, and rushed over to see her son rip the visiting team to pieces. No one wondered where the star player for Gables High got his abilities.

“Jack Swyteck,” she said with a smile. “How’s your old man?”

“Doing great. I think he’s fishing in North Carolina this month.”

“Slacker. We need to get him out of retirement and run for Senate. Unless maybe his son is interested in politics.”

“My interest is limited to voting. Even then, it’s pretty much limited to voting for immediate family members.”

She laughed. Jack was about to introduce her to Nate, but the boy was already engrossed in deep conversation about Harry Potter with Vivien’s ten-year-old son. It was the diversion Jack needed.

“Funny I ran into you,” said Jack, lying. “I was meaning to call you.”

“What about?”

“Friend of a friend situation. A guy named Clarence Knight.”

She seemed to be searching her mind, then it registered. “Oh, yeah. One of the Sally Fenning heirs.”

“Heirs?” said Jack.

“I sent him a letter inviting him to the reading of the will. You’re coming with him?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“A will contest isn’t your cup of tea, huh?”

“There’s a contest?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. Could be, I suppose. But no one’s said anything. Yet.”

“Are you telling me I should or shouldn’t get involved in this?”

“Forget what I said,” she said, smiling. “Just a lawyer’s cynicism. Anytime there’s this much money at stake, you expect the heirs to fight.”