Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

“I’m not sure I want to date your friends.”

“Come on, Lacy. Trust me. These guys have money and they’re going places. How much does Allie make a year with the FBI?”

“I have no idea and I don’t care.”

“Not much. He’s working for the government.”

“So am I.”

“That’s my point. You can do better. Most of these guys are already millionaires who own their own companies. They have everything.”

“Yeah, including alimony and child support.”

Gunther laughed and said, “Okay, some of that.”

Of course his phone rang, and he was soon lost in a tense conversation about a line of credit. On Saturday morning?

He was still on the phone when she parked near her apartment. They went inside and she left him in the den as she headed for her upstairs bedroom.

Lunch was outdoors on a shaded terrace at an upscale restaurant, far away from downtown. Lacy talked the reservationist into an early table, primarily because she was still hoping to salvage some of her afternoon, alone. They were seated at eleven thirty and the terrace was deserted.

They ordered iced tea for starters, with Lacy quickly going first. If Gunther ordered his usual bottle of wine, then he wouldn’t be flying that afternoon. She was relieved when he ignored the wine list and commented on the menu. Usually, when dining in her town, he made some pithy comment on the lack of good food. Atlanta, again, was far superior. But he let it pass and settled on a crab salad. Lacy ordered grilled shrimp.

“You still eat like a bird,” he said, admiring his sister. “And you’re in great shape, Lacy.”

“Thanks and let’s not dwell on my weight. I know what you’re getting at.”

“Come on. You haven’t gained a pound in twenty years.”

“No, and I’m not starting now. What else would you like to talk about?”

“Of course, you were all skin and bones after your car wreck. I almost called it an ‘accident,’ but it wasn’t that simple, was it?”

A nice lead into her lawsuit, which she was anticipating. She smiled and said, “Once all the plaster and gauze came off, I weighed a hundred pounds.”

“I remember, and you’ve come a long way back. I’m proud of you, Lacy. Are you still in therapy?”

“Physical or otherwise?”

“Physical.”

“Yes, twice a week, but it’s about over. I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll always have little aches and pains, some stiffness here and there, but I’m lucky, I guess.”

Gunther mixed some lemon in his tea and looked away. “I wouldn’t call it luck, but you came out of it better than Hugo. Poor guy. Are you still in touch with his widow, what’s her name?”

“Verna, and yes we’re still close friends.”

“She has the same lawyer, right?”

“She does. We compare notes and lean on each other. Nobody wants a trial. I’m not sure she can handle it.”

“It will never get near the courthouse. The goons will settle.”

Gunther had far more experience with civil litigation, though his disputes dealt with broken contracts and defaulted loans. To her knowledge, he had no experience with personal injuries.

“I guess things are tied up in discovery,” he said, trying to ease into the heart of the matter.

“Looks like it. My lawyer says I may have to give a deposition. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

Gunther snorted in disgust and said, “Oh yeah. A lot of fun. Staring across the table at five lawyers, all scheming to pounce on every word, every syllable, salivating as they dream of getting more of your money. Why can’t your lawyer get the case settled? It should’ve been over months ago.”

“It’s complicated. Sure, there’s a big pile of money, but that only attracts more vultures, more hungry lawyers.”

“I get that. But what would you settle for, Lacy? What’s your figure?”

“I don’t know. We’re not there yet.”

“You’re entitled to millions, Sis. Those bastards deliberately set you up and crashed into your car. You—”

“Please. I know all this, Gunther, and we’re not going over it again.”

“Okay, sorry, but I just worry about you. I’m not sure you have the right lawyer.”

“As I’ve said before, Gunther, I can take care of myself and my lawyer. You don’t need to waste time worrying about it.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m your big brother and I can’t help it.”

Their plates arrived and both seemed to welcome the interruption. They began eating and things went quiet. He was obviously preoccupied with ideas but couldn’t manage to work them into the conversation.

Her biggest fear was that he would need an infusion of cash at the same time she settled her lawsuit. He would never ask for money outright, as a gift, but would use the ploy of an urgent loan. If it happened, she was determined to say no. She knew he borrowed from Peter to pay Paul, hocked everything he owned, and walked the fine line between prosperity and financial ruin. He wasn’t about to touch her money, when and if she ever got it, and if her refusal created a rift, then so be it. She would rather keep the money and deal with an ugly fallout than fork it over, watch him lose it, and then deal with a future filled with empty promises.

He backed away from more discussion of her lawsuit, and proceeded to talk about his favorite subject: his latest project. It would be a planned community with mixed housing, a central town square with a faux courthouse in the center, churches and schools, lots of water and trails, and the obligatory golf course. A regular utopia. A $50 million development, with other investors, of course. Lacy forced herself to seem engaged.

The terrace began to fill and before long they were in a crowd. Gunther contemplated one glass of wine for dessert, but changed his mind when she ordered an espresso. He paid the check at one o’clock and said it was time to head to the airport. Another deal was hanging by a thread and he was needed in Atlanta.

She hugged him goodbye inside the private terminal and watched him taxi away. She loved him dearly, but took a deep breath and relaxed when he was gone.

From his well-stocked closet, Judge Bannick selected a designer suit from Zegna, light gray in color, worsted wool, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a solid navy tie. He admired himself in the mirror and thought the look was rather European. Late Saturday afternoon, he left his home in Cullman and drove into central Pensacola, into an historic district known as North Hills. The streets were shaded with the canopies of old oaks and their thick limbs were draped with Spanish moss. Many of the homes were two hundred years old and had weathered hurricanes and recessions. As a kid in Pensacola, Ross and his pals rode their bikes through North Hills and admired the fine homes. It never occurred to him that he would one day be welcome in the neighborhood.

He turned in to the cobblestone driveway of a beautifully preserved Victorian and parked his SUV next to a shiny Mercedes sedan, then walked across the rear patio and tapped on a door. Melba, the ancient maid who kept Helen’s life together, greeted him with her usual warm smile and said that the lady was getting dressed. Did he want a drink? He asked for a ginger ale and found his favorite seat in the billiard room.

Helen was a widow and a girlfriend of sorts, though he had no interest in romance. Nor did she. Her third or fourth husband had died of old age and left her rich, and she preferred to hang on to the money. All prospective men of an age were after her assets, she assumed. Thus, their relationship was nothing more than a convenience. She loved being escorted around town with a handsome younger man, and a judge at that. He liked her because she was witty and outrageous and never a threat.