James Patterson - Truth or Die

Good thing my face had healed, because it was time for my close-up.

I was on.

Hey, rookie, look out for the left hook!

During my first year with the Manhattan DA’s office, when I was as green as a plate of peas, the chief assistant district attorney — a former Golden Gloves welterweight champion from Jersey City — used to put up his fists and bark that at me before the start of every trial. In other words... expect the unexpected .

“Watch your step,” warned Mr. Henchman.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The guy pointed to the ground as we walked through the French doors. “The drop-off,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said. That’s what you meant.

And with that, I stepped down onto a massive patio of blue slate with grass edgings, immediately wondering if I’d perhaps stumbled upon the set of a Ralph Lauren ad.

There were about fifty people, evenly split between genders. The men were all in blue blazers with Popsicle-colored slacks — cherry, orange, and lemon. On the women were sleeveless sundresses exposing tanned and toned arms.

Suddenly, I was keenly aware of the fact that I’d been wearing the same pair of brown chinos for the past three days. At least the sport coat and white button-down were new, purchased just for this occasion.

“He’s over here,” said Mr. Henchman with a glance back over his shoulder at me.

After another twenty feet, he peeled off at the exact moment that Brennan turned around to face me as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

“I know everyone else here, so you must be Trevor Mann,” he said, flashing a near-blinding grin. He promptly extended his hand. It was hard not to notice that in his other hand was a double-barreled shotgun.

At least it wasn’t pointed at me. Not yet.

No sooner did Brennan shake my hand than he practically spun me around so he could introduce me not just to the two couples he was talking to but to the entire guest list.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, playing up what remained of his Southern drawl after decades in DC, as well as a few years in Manhattan. “I think it was Will Rogers who famously said that you never get a second chance to make a good first impression. With that in mind, I have a favor to ask you all.”

He promptly put his arm around me as if he’d known me for years.

“This here is Mr. Trevor Mann,” he continued. “He’s an esteemed professor up north with the Columbia Law School, which, much to the chagrin of my Confederate flag — waving father, happens to be my alma mater. Mr. Mann called me two nights ago because he’s also a freelance writer for the New York Times and they’re looking to do a profile on me for their Sunday magazine. So the favor is this: Should Mr. Mann corner one of you at any point this afternoon and ask for your opinion about me, here’s what I need you to do. Lie with impunity. ”

Everyone laughed, except for the Jessica Lange look-alike who weaved her way toward me, rolling her eyes.

“You’ll have to forgive my husband, there’s nothing he likes more than the sound of his own voice,” she said.

“Mr. Mann, may I present my beautiful and brutally honest wife, Abigail,” said Brennan.

The polite smile she gave me soured quickly as she caught sight of the shotgun in her husband’s hand. “Josiah, you promised,” she said.

He turned to me with no admission of guilt. “Have you ever done any skeet shooting, Mr. Mann?”

“No, I never have,” I said.

“Terrific sport, but the wife hates it, I’m afraid.”

“What the wife hates is having pieces of clay birds scattered all over her lawn,” said Abigail.

“They’re called pigeons, darling. Though would you rather I shoot at real birds instead?”

Abigail linked her arm in mine. It was flirtatious, but it was also an act. If I had to bet, I’d wager she was even smarter than her husband. “Have you ever noticed that, Mr. Mann?” she asked me. “The way lawyers have a comeback for everything?”

“I think that’s what makes them lawyers,” I said.

Brennan liked that answer. “Did you know that Mr. Mann here used to be quite the practicing attorney himself?”

“ Used to be?” asked Abigail.

“Mr. Mann made a principled stand in a rather noteworthy trial up in New York,” said Brennan.

“Some say principled, others say boneheaded,” I pointed out.

“Indeed,” he said. “That’s the dilemma of a man’s integrity, isn’t it? One way or the other, there always seems to be a price to pay.” Brennan held my stare for a few moments before flashing that blinding grin again. “Now, c’mon, let’s go dirty up my wife’s lawn.”

Social etiquette may vary from country to country, but in the good old USA, when the host of a party asks his guests if they’d like to watch him show off, there’s really only one answer.

Looking like a preppy parade, everyone followed Brennan off the patio to a long stretch of grass that was somewhere between a six and a seven iron. Off to either side were the small houses — or traps, as they’re also called — for launching the clay pigeons. One trap releases high, the other low.

Okay, so I lied to Brennan. It was more like a fib, really. I’d been skeet shooting before. Twice, actually. Speaking of my principled stand, the head of the hedge fund where I’d been general counsel was a huge fan of the sport. I’m sure he must have missed it terribly during his two-year stint behind bars.

Then again, in these white-collar-crime prisons that double as country clubs, maybe the skeet course was next to the tennis courts.

“Who’s first?” asked Brennan as we gathered in a semicircle around him. Translation? Who wants to suck at this first so I’ll look that much better when it’s my turn?

There were no takers, which hardly seemed to disappoint Brennan. If anything, he relished the apprehension among his invited male guests.

Finally, he got his volunteer. By choosing him.

“Harper,” he said, pointing. “I believe you’re the youngest of the firm’s partners, isn’t that right?”

Poor Harper, whoever he was. The guy stepped forward with a forced smile, taking the shotgun from his boss like a vegetarian picking up a double cheeseburger. Clearly, he was a city boy. Probably the only hunting he’d ever done in his life was for an apartment.

Brennan provided him with a quick tutorial before giving nods in the direction of both traps, each being manned by a guy sporting the universal hired-hand pose: feet slightly spread, arms behind the back, fingers clasped.

Pull!

Harper missed terribly with both shots. On the bright side, he didn’t kill himself or any of the rest of us. Same for the other “volunteers” Brennan summoned after him. No one could shoot a lick.

“Your turn, Mr. Mann,” I kept waiting to hear, and to be honest, the thought of shattering at least one of those little clay suckers, if not both, was feeling pretty damn good.

Brennan, however, never looked my way. “Perhaps it’s time I give it a whirl,” he announced instead.

But before he could even reach down into the box of shells by his feet, his wife, Abigail, chimed in with a nod to Title IX and her fellow women. “What about one of the girls?” she asked.

Brennan didn’t miss a beat. “Honey, we both know how much life insurance I have. The last thing I’m about to do is hand you a loaded gun.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” she said once the laughter subsided. “Perhaps one of our female guests would like to try.”

“You’re right,” said Brennan. What else could he say? “How about it, ladies? I didn’t mean to exclude you.”