Джон Гришэм - The Partner

“With or without ninety million?”

“Either way.”

“Of course not. It’s not the same. I love my wife, you didn’t. I have three great kids, your situation was different. No, I wouldn’t run. But I don’t blame you.”

“Everybody wants to run, Karl. At some point in life, everybody thinks about walking away. Life’s always better on the beach or in the mountains. Problems can be left behind. It’s inbred in us. We’re the products of immigrants who left miserable conditions and came here in search of a better life. And they kept moving west, packing up and leaving, always looking for the pot of gold. Now, there’s no place to go.”

“Wow. I hadn’t thought of it through a historical perspective.”

“It’s a stretch.”

“I wish my grandparents had clipped someone for ninety million before they left Poland.”

“I gave it back.”

“I hear there might be a small nest egg left over.”

“One of many unfounded rumors.”

“So you’re saying the next trend will be looting of clients’ money, the burning of dead bodies, and the flight to South America, where, of course, there are beautiful women just waiting to be caressed?”

“It’s working well so far.”

“Those poor Brazilians. All these crooked lawyers coming their way.”

Sandy entered the room with yet another sheet of paper for another signature. “Trussel is really edgy,” he said to Karl. “The pressure is getting to him. His phone is ringing off the hook.”

“What about Parrish?”

“Nervous as a whore in church.”

“Let’s get it done before they get cold feet,” Patrick said as he signed his name.

A bailiff walked to the bar and announced that court was about to convene, so please have a seat. People hushed and moved hurriedly for empty spaces. Another bailiff closed the double doors. Spectators lined the walls. Every clerk in the courthouse had business near the bench. It was almost five-thirty.

Judge Trussel entered with his customary rigid dignity, and everybody stood. He welcomed them, thanked them for their interest in justice, especially at this late hour of the day. He and the District Attorney had agreed that a quick hearing would reek of a sleazy deal, so things would proceed deliberately. They had even discussed postponing it, but decided a delay would give the impression that they had been caught trying to sneak something through.

Patrick was led through the door by the jury box, and stood next to Sandy in front of the bench. He did not look at his audience. Parrish stood nearby, anxious to perform. Judge Trussel flipped through the file, inspecting every word on every page.

“Mr. Lanigan,” he finally said, deeply and slowly. For the next thirty minutes, everything would be said in slow motion. “You have filed several motions.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Sandy said. “Our first is a motion to reduce the charges from capital murder to mutilating a corpse.”

The words echoed through the still courtroom. Mutilating a corpse?

“Mr. Parrish,” His Honor said. It had been agreed that Parrish would do the bulk of the talking. The burden would be his to explain to the court, for the record, and, more important, for the press and the citizenry listening out there.

He did a wonderful job of detailing recent developments. Wasn’t a murder, after all, but something far less. The state did not oppose the reduction of charges, because it no longer believed that Mr. Lanigan killed anyone. He paced around the courtroom in his best Perry Mason routine, unshackled by the customary rules of etiquette and procedure. He was the spin doctor for all sides.

“Next, we have a motion by the defendant for this court to accept a plea of guilty to the charge of mutilating a corpse. Mr. Parrish?”

The second act was similar to the first, with Parrish relishing the story of poor old Clovis. Patrick could feel the heated stares as Parrish delighted in as many details as Sandy had given them. “At least I didn’t kill anyone!” Patrick wanted to scream.

“How do you plead, Mr. Lanigan?” His Honor asked.

“Guilty,” Patrick said, firmly but with no pride.

“Does the state have a recommended sentence?” the Judge asked the prosecutor.

Parrish walked to his table, fumbled through his notes, paced back toward the bench, and along the way finally said, “Yes, Your Honor. I have a letter from a Ms. Deena Postell of Meridian, Mississippi. She is the only surviving grandchild of Clovis Goodman.” He handed a copy to Trussel as if it were something brand-new. “In the letter, Ms. Postell pleads with this court not to prosecute Mr. Lanigan for burning her grandfather’s corpse. He’s been dead for over four years, and the family cannot survive any more suffering and agony. Evidently, Ms. Postell was quite close to her grandfather, and took his death very hard.”

Patrick cut his eyes at Sandy. Sandy wasn’t about to look at Patrick.

“Have you spoken with her?” the Judge asked.

“Yes. About an hour ago. She became quite emotional on the phone, and pleaded with me not to reopen this sad case. She vowed that she would not testify in any trial, nor would she cooperate with the prosecution in any way.” Parrish again walked to his table and rifled through some more papers. He spoke to the Judge but addressed the courtroom. “Given the feelings of the family, it is the recommendation of the state that the defendant be sentenced to serve twelve months in jail, that the incarceration be suspended pending good behavior, that he pay a fine of five thousand dollars and all court costs, and be placed on probation.”

“Mr. Lanigan, do you agree with this sentence?” Trussel asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick said, barely able to lift his head.

“It is so ordered. Anything further?” Trussel picked up his gavel, and waited. Both lawyers shook their heads.

“We are adjourned,” he said, rapping it loudly.

Patrick turned and made a quick exit from the courtroom. Gone again, vanished before their very eyes.

He waited with Sandy for an hour in Huskey’s office while darkness settled in and the last of the courtroom stragglers reluctantly gave it up and went home. Patrick was anxious to leave.

At seven, he said a long, fond good-bye to Karl. He thanked him for being there, for standing by him, for everything, and he promised to keep in touch. On his way out the door, he also thanked him again for serving as one of his pallbearers.

“Anytime,” Karl said. “Anytime.”

They left Biloxi in Sandy’s Lexus — Sandy at the wheel, Patrick sitting low in the passenger’s seat, subdued and taking in for the last time the lights along the Gulf. They passed the casinos on the beaches at Biloxi and Gulfport, the pier at Pass Christian, and then the lights spread out as they crossed the Bay of St. Louis.

Sandy handed him the phone number, and he called her hotel. It was 3 A.M. in London, but she grabbed the phone as if she were watching it. “Eva, it’s me,” he said, with restraint. Sandy almost stopped the car so he could get out while they talked. He tried not to listen.

“We’re leaving Biloxi now, on the way to New Orleans. Yes, I’m fine. I’ve never felt better. And you?”

He listened for a long time, his eyes closed, his head leaning back.

“What’s today?” he asked.

“Friday, November sixth,” Sandy said.

“I’ll meet you in Aix, at the Villa Gallici, on Sunday. Right. Yes. I’m fine, dear. I love you. Go back to sleep, and I’ll call you in a few hours.”

They crossed into Louisiana in silence, and somewhere over Lake Pontchartrain, Sandy said, “I had a very interesting visitor this afternoon.”

“Really, who?”

“Jack Stephano.”