First, Kill the Lawyers, page 7
“I didn’t want you to find the body.”
“Would I have?”
“I couldn’t take the chance. You’re pretty resourceful. Taylor, my brain just started screaming at me to tell someone, anyone. Tell the police. Tell the prosecutor. Tell Dawn’s family and help relieve their suffering. If you were a normal person, that’s what you would do. Simple morality would demand it. It would be your duty as a human being. But a lawyer …
“As a society, we want clients who are accused of crimes to communicate fully and openly with their counsel. So we set up rules by which the lawyer is obligated to keep everything the client says confidential. Otherwise, if a lawyer were to go running off to the authorities every time a client admitted to a crime, then all of a sudden the lawyer would become an agent of the state, a member of the police department and the prosecutor’s office. He would essentially be helping to convict the client. You need to ask, what is the higher moral good? I’m content that I did the right thing, Taylor. I would do the same thing again. Only if it gets out, if NIMN uploads my notes…”
He drank some more bourbon while I finished his thought.
“What happened to Frank Armani and Francis Belge will happen to you,” I said. “Only worse. With today’s social media and the twenty-four-hour news cycle, it will be much, much worse.”
“I’m no hero, Taylor. I’m not looking to martyr myself for the Fifth and Sixth Amendments. It’s taken me a long time to get where I am today.”
“Where are you today?”
“I’m recognized as one of the best attorneys in Minnesota. I have a highly successful practice. I employ five lawyers.”
“Certainly sounds successful.”
“I don’t want to lose it.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“What would you have done, Taylor? Tell me. If it was you?”
“I’m not as honorable as you are, John. I’m not as law-abiding. I probably would have made an anonymous phone call.”
Kaushal shook his head sadly. “No. You can’t. If you’re not willing to go all in, you shouldn’t be sitting at the table.”
We drank some more.
“What about Peterson?” I asked. “If the notes get out—”
“The court will still consider it privileged information. As such, it’s inadmissible. Even if it becomes common knowledge, it can’t be used against him. In any case, he’s protected by the double jeopardy clause. I refused to allow him to take the witness stand and tell the jury he was innocent when I knew he wasn’t, so he can’t be tried for perjury, either.”
“He wins anyway?”
Kaushal’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened, and said, “I’ll be right there.” As he rose from his chair, he added, “You can ask him yourself.”
Kaushal left the office. I stood and waited. A minute later, he returned. Behind him was a tall, good-looking middle-aged man with sunglasses perched on top of his head and a smile that suggested he knew exactly which Scotch to order in a high-class saloon.
“Clark Peterson,” Kaushal said, “this is Taylor.”
Peterson offered his hand, and I shook it even as my own brain screamed, Are you fucking kidding me?
“Taylor,” he said. “John-Boy told me about you. You’re trying to help us with our little problem. I hope you can. There’s a possibility I could lose a lot of money because of this.”
“In what way?”
“Dawn’s family filed a wrongful death suit against me in civil court. The estate has been frozen until this matter is dealt with. If the jury finds against me, I’ll lose all the money I inherited when she died. A tidy sum, if I do say so myself.”
I pivoted toward Kaushal.
“Are you defending him?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“He can’t,” Peterson said. “Isn’t that right, John? See, they couldn’t make me take the stand in my criminal case. In the civil case, though, I’ll be deposed and called to testify whether I like it or not. When I swear that I didn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of my wife, I’ll be lying. As an attorney sworn to uphold the law, John-Boy can’t be part of that. He’d be suborning perjury. Isn’t that right? So I had to hire a different attorney to rep me, one that doesn’t know that I—”
“Clark,” Kaushal said.
“I thought you said that anything I tell Taylor in your office is protected by attorney-client privilege.”
“He doesn’t need to know everything.”
You got that right, I told myself.
“Anyway,” Peterson said, “even though my confession can’t be used against me in civil court, a sneaky lawyer might find a way to use it to impeach my testimony.”
“Unlikely,” Kaushal said.
“Yeah, well, I’d just as soon not take the chance. Besides, if everyone knows what really happened, and they will with the media the way it is, c’mon. You know it’s going to be tough for me to get a fair trial.”
Peterson smiled some more. Actually, he hadn’t stopped smiling since he entered the office. For a moment, he made me feel the way that Kaushal said he felt when Peterson had confessed his crimes to him. I wanted to call the cops, call the prosecutor, call his wife’s family—I wanted to burn the sonuvabitch to the ground. Yet I was trapped. Just like Kaushal.
“Is that bourbon?” Peterson asked.
Kaushal got him a glass.
“Ice?”
Kaushal left his office. I presumed the suite had an employee break room with a freezer, because he returned a few minutes later with a bowl full of cubes.
“What do you say, Taylor?” Peterson asked. “Ice or no ice?”
“It depends on how fast you want to get drunk,” I told him.
Peterson dropped three cubes in his glass and filled it an inch high with alcohol. I kept drinking mine straight.
“I’ve been drinking only in moderation ever since Dawn disappeared,” he said. “Cheers.”
He sat on the sofa next to me. Kaushal resumed his perch on the chair opposite.
“John tells me that his wasn’t the only law firm that’s been hacked,” Peterson said.
“There have been others,” I said. “Right now we’re trying to determine if there’s a connection.”
“Anything so far?”
“Let’s talk about your enemies.”
Peterson thought that was awfully funny.
“All five and a half million of them? The Minnesota media had me convicted of killing Dawn long before my trial even took place. When I was declared not guilty, all that meant to people was that I got away with murder. Should I tell you how shitty my marriage was, Taylor?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. No one wants to hear about my problems. I can’t even get a librarian to talk to me, much less the kid at the coffeehouse down the street. Once my legal problems are behind me, I’ll probably move. What do you think of New Orleans?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“I hear it has a pretty wide-open lifestyle.”
We talked some more. I was shocked at how forthcoming Peterson was. Kaushal would glower with warning whenever the conversation veered toward his wife, yet beyond that he was happy to answer my questions. I thought it must be a social media thing. Average people have become so accustomed to answering any number of personal inquiries on Facebook and Twitter and God knows where else that now we’re nearly incapable of telling people to mind their own damned business. It seems these days virtually anyone will reveal virtually anything about themselves once they’re convinced that the questions and answers are purposeless. Which is one reason why identity thieves have it so easy.
Eventually I asked, “What do you know about the Guernsey family?”
The question seemed to surprise Peterson.
“Nothing,” he said. “The Guernseys? Nothing at all. We didn’t associate even during the best of times. I mean, here’s us.” Peterson held his hand palm down in front of his face. “Here’s them.” He moved his hand far above his head. “I think Dawn might have known the younger brother and sister, though. In school, I think. She was in the same class as—was it him or her? I don’t remember.”
“Kurtis and Melissa?”
“One of them. Like I said, though, I never met either. Does it matter?”
“Hell if I know.”
It went on like that until the ice melted in Peterson’s glass. He behaved very pleasantly. If he hadn’t been a stone-cold killer, I probably would have liked him.
After a while the conversation ground to a halt. Everyone stood up. Kaushal thanked Peterson for dropping by. They shook hands. I gave Peterson a business card and the same spiel as everyone else—if you should think of something … He shook my hand, too.
“I hope you can help us out,” he said. “It’ll save us a lot of trouble all around.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I told him.
“Good man.”
With a smile and a wave, he was gone. I finished my drink and set the empty glass on the table.
“What do you think?” Kaushal asked.
“I think he’s going to do well in his civil case.”
“Probably. Goddammit, Taylor. I want so much to—is it possible for a knot to get any tighter than this?”
“I’m reminded of a line from The Godfather, the second one—It’s the life we’ve chosen.”
“It is kind of exciting, isn’t it?”
The remark surprised me. The alarm must have shown on my face.
“Like you said,” Kaushal told me. “We could’ve done something else for a living.”
“If a man can’t enjoy himself he might as well go out and get a real job,” I said. But I didn’t mean it. At least, I didn’t think I did.
I shook Kaushal’s hand.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said.
I headed for the door but stopped before I reached it.
“Just out of curiosity, whatever happened to Robert Garrow?” I asked.
“He was convicted and sent to prison for twenty-five years to life. Four years later, he escaped, leaving behind a hit list that included the names of Armani and Belge. Something else. During Garrow’s trial, Armani’s teenage daughter came to the courthouse to see her father. Garrow said to her, ‘Nice to see you again, Dorina.’ Since Dorina had never met the man and Armani never spoke of her, it became apparent to Armani that Garrow must have been stalking her before he was arrested. Because of that, Armani disclosed to the police information that Garrow had given him in confidence that led them to a field where Garrow was hiding. He was shot and killed when he refused to surrender.”
“So Armani maintained his client’s confidentiality until his own family was threatened,” I said.
Kaushal raised his glass to me.
“Nothing is ever completely black and white, Taylor,” he said. “Not even the letter of the law.”
* * *
Dr. Alexandra Campbell didn’t look like a tenured professor in the Department of Horticultural Science at the University of Minnesota with a PhD in agronomy and plant genetics. When she opened her front door, appearing before me in a tight Golden Gophers T-shirt and shorts, her auburn hair tied back, she reminded me of a phys-ed teacher who did her own gardening.
“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Alex opened the door wide to let me pass inside. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”
The way she hugged and kissed me, I believed her.
Alex went to the sofa and sat, curling her bare legs beneath her. She took the tie from her hair and shook her head so that that it fell loose. She looked up at me with soft little-girl eyes and spoke in a soft little-girl voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Man. I don’t have the money to pay my rent this month.”
I smiled at her; of course I did. The simple truth was she pleased me. Hell, she delighted me. I never grew tired of watching her, of playing with her. Yet I didn’t love her, and I don’t think she loved me. I wasn’t even sure the word appeared in either of our vocabularies. I had believed in it once, believed in love everlasting. Only a drunk driver put an end to that when he ran a red light and killed my wife and daughter. I didn’t become a cynic about it, though, until an attorney named Cynthia Grey stomped on my heart with remarkable thoroughness. As for Alex, sex to her seemed to be a purely natural urge that demanded satisfaction. She felt the urge quite often. This didn’t make her a bad person in my eyes. Far from it. I just didn’t think love was part of the equation.
“Alex, can we pretend to be ourselves tonight?” I asked.
The smile left her mouth, but not her brown eyes.
“What’s the fun in that?” she asked.
“It’s been one of those days,” I told her.
She unfolded her legs and tapped the cushion next to her. I sat.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Sadly, I’m not allowed to tell you. I wish I could. Then you’d be as appalled by humanity as I am.”
“That bad, huh?”
“It isn’t that people do crazy things, it’s just that sometimes they do them for reasons that seem so sane that instead of being outraged you come away feeling, I don’t know. Confused, I guess. I’m a little confused. Nearly every person I spoke with today is a rat. Most of them are my clients. Some are my friends.”
“There isn’t anyone you couldn’t learn to love once you’ve heard their story. Fred Rogers said that. You know, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?”
“Should you love them, though? That’s the question. I make no claims to virtue, God knows, yet these guys have offended even my tenuous sense of right and wrong. Alex, all defendants lie in court. They’re criminals, after all. All lawyers are taught, are trained, to take advantage of loopholes, to pat and prod and squeeze and manipulate the system to benefit their clients. I know that. Everybody knows that, understands that. How many years has Law and Order been on TV, for God’s sake? But to actually see it up close and personal—it’s just so depressing.”
“I love mankind. It’s people I can’t stand. Charles Schulz wrote that.”
“You’re quite the quote machine tonight, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Holland. You can’t give me specifics about your case, I appreciate that. But it means I can’t really advise you. I’m not sure you’re looking for advice, anyway. Are you?”
“Not really. I just wanted to vent. Usually you call me Taylor, like everyone else except my mom.”
“Right now you seem more like a Holland.”
She rested her hand on my thigh and began to stroke me ever so gently through the material of my Dockers. The air suddenly felt alive.
“You’re welcome to jump up and down and wave your arms,” Alex told me. “I can take it. You’d be astonished by the hue and cry around Alderman Hall when midterm grades come out.”
“What do you tell your irate students when they go off on you?”
“I tell them you get what you deserve.”
“If only that were true.”
“Oh, it’s true. Sooner or later we all get what’s coming to us. It’s spelled K-A-R-M-A. But it’s pronounced ‘Screw you.’”
“I like that philosophy.”
“Well, then…”
I stood abruptly, placed my hands on my hips, and looked down at her.
“What’s this about you not being able to pay your rent?” I asked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For the second consecutive day, Freddie beat me into the office. I said, “Are you going for a personal record?” He didn’t know what I was talking about, and I didn’t feel like explaining. I went to the coffeemaker instead and brewed a cup.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Between John Kaushal’s bourbon and Alex Campbell’s imagination, with any luck I’ll be dead by noon.”
Freddie smiled at the mention of Alexandra’s name.
“The professor teachin’ the old dog new tricks, is she?” he asked.
“Shut up, Freddie.”
“Touchy.”
I sat behind my desk. Freddie sat behind his, his fingers locked behind his head.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“The Fredericks part of Fredericks and Taylor is doin’ good. I’m not so sure about the Taylor part.”
“Are we all caught up with our other clients?”
“Close. What about the lawyers?”
I told him.
“Man.” He made the word sound like it had multiple syllables.
“I’ve only spoken to three of them so far,” I said. “God knows what the others have to say.”
Freddie placed an index finger against his cheek.
“The fact that all three cases somehow involve the Guernsey family makes me go ‘Hmm,’” he said.
“I don’t know. The hacker works for them in Helin’s divorce case, but he works against them in Puchner’s class action suit. As for Kaushal’s murder, all it proves is that rich people sometimes are acquainted with other rich people.”
“At least it gives us a place to start.”
“I suppose.”
I sipped my coffee without appreciating it. Freddie watched me do it.
“What’s your story t’day, Taylor?” he asked. “Feelin’ sorry for yourself or somethin’?”
“There’s a guy out there who killed his wife and stashed her body, and he not only got away with it, he’s gonna profit big-time.”
“You sound like this is somethin’ new, guys gettin’ away with shit. It happens every day. You and me know that. Man, what we do for a living, sometimes we help.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that when I woke up this morning my first thought was—do we really want to catch this guy? The hacker, I mean. Do we really want to stop him?”
“The way I look at it—we’ve talked about this before. The way I look at it, we’re workin’ for the lawyers, not their clients, you know? I don’t care all that much for Puchner. Man’s kind of a dick. But the others—Helin, Scott Mickelson, Doug Jernigan, Kaushal. If the hacker’s shit hits the fan, they’re the ones gonna get fucked up. I like those guys. They’re good customers. So, yeah, let’s get this asshole. What? We gotta talk about it?”
