The Brethren (42 page)
“You must be kidding.” Lake was flabbergasted.
“I like this Jayne Cordell on your staff. She’s thirty-eight, smart, articulate, quite pretty though she needs to drop fifteen pounds. Her divorce was twelve years ago, and it’s forgotten. I think she’d make a fine First Lady.”
Lake cocked his head to one side, and was suddenly angry. He wanted to lash out at Teddy, but for the moment words failed him. He managed to mumble, “Have you lost your mind?”
“We know about Ricky,” Teddy said, very coolly, with his eyes penetrating Lake’s.
The wind was sucked out of Lake’s lungs, and as he exhaled he said, “Oh my god.” He studied his feet for a moment, his entire body frozen in shock.
To make matters worse, Teddy handed over a sheet of paper. Lake took it, and instantly recognized it as a copy of his last note to Ricky.
Dear Ricky:
I think it’s best if we end our correspondence. I wish you well with your rehab.
Sincerely, Al
Lake almost said that he could explain things; they were not as they seemed. But he decided to say nothing, at least not for a while. The questions flooded his thoughts—How much do they know? How in hell did they intercept the mail? Who else knows?
Teddy let him suffer in silence. There was no hurry.
When his thoughts cleared somewhat, the politician in Lake came to the surface. Teddy was offering a way out. Teddy was saying, “Just play ball with me, son, and things will be fine. Do it my way.”
And so Lake swallowed hard and said, “I actually like her.”
“Of course you do. She’s perfect for the job.”
“Yes. She’s very loyal.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Start soon. Hold hands with her during the convention. Let the gossip start, let nature take its course. A week before the election, announce a Christmas wedding.”
“Big or small?”
“Huge. The social event of the year in Washington.”
“I like that.”
“Get her pregnant quickly. Just before your inauguration, announce that the First Lady is expecting. It’ll make a marvelous story. And it will be so nice to see young children in the White House again.”
Lake smiled and nodded and appeared to like the thought, then he suddenly frowned. “Will anyone ever know about Ricky?” he asked.
“No. He’s been neutralized.”
“Neutralized?”
“He’ll never write another letter, Mr. Lake. And you’ll be so busy playing with all your little children that you won’t have time to think about people like Ricky.”
“Ricky who?”
“Atta boy, Lake. Atta boy.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Maynard. Very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Of course it won’t. I’ve got the file, Mr. Lake. Always remember that.” Teddy began rolling himself backward, as if the meeting was over.
“It was an isolated moment of weakness,” Lake said.
“Never mind, Lake. Take care of Jayne. Get her a new wardrobe. She works too hard and she looks tired. Ease up on her. She’s going to make a wonderful First Lady.”
“Yes sir.”
Teddy was at the door. “No more surprises, Lake.”
“No sir.”
Teddy opened the door and rolled himself away.
By late November, they had settled in Monte Carlo, primarily because of its beauty and warm weather, but also because so much English was spoken there. And there were casinos, a must for Spicer. Neither Beech nor Yarber could tell if he was winning or losing, but he was certainly enjoying himself. His wife was still tending to her mother, who’d yet to die. Things were tense because Joe Roy wouldn’t go home, and she wouldn’t leave Mississippi.
They lived in the same small but handsome hotel on the edge of town, and they usually had breakfast
together twice a week before scattering. As the months passed and they settled into their new lives, they saw less and less of each other. They had differing interests. Spicer wanted to gamble and drink and spend time with the ladies. Beech preferred the sea and enjoyed fishing. Yarber traveled and studied the history of southern France and northern Italy.
But each always knew where the others were. If one disappeared, the other two wanted to know it.
They’d read nothing about their pardons. Beech and Yarber had spent hours in a library in Rome, reading American newspapers just after they fled. Not a word about them. They’d had no contact with anyone from home. Spicer’s wife claimed to have told no one that he was out of prison. She still thought he’d escaped.
On Thanksgiving Day, Finn Yarber was enjoying an espresso at a sidewalk café in downtown Monte Carlo. It was warm and sunny, and he was only vaguely aware that it was an important holiday back home. He didn’t care because he would never go back. Beech was asleep in his hotel room. Spicer was in a casino three blocks away.
A vaguely familiar face appeared from nowhere. In a flash, the man sat across from Yarber and said, “Hello, Finn. Remember me?”
Yarber calmly took a sip of coffee and studied the face. He’d last seen it at Trumble.
“Wilson Argrow, from prison,” the man said, and Yarber put down his cup before he dropped it.
“Good morning, Mr. Argrow,” Finn said slowly,
calmly, though there were many other things he wanted to say.
“I guess you’re surprised to see me.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Wasn’t that exciting news about Aaron Lake’s landslide?”
“I suppose. What can I do for you?”
“I just want you to know that we’re always close by, just in case you need us.”
Finn actually chuckled, then said, “That doesn’t seem likely.” It had been five months since their release. They had moved from country to country, from Greece to Sweden, from Poland to Portugal, slowly heading south as the weather changed. How on earth could Argrow track them down?
It was impossible.
Argrow pulled a magazine from inside his jacket. “I ran across this last week,” he said, handing it over. The magazine was turned to a page in the back where a personal ad was circled with a red marker:
SWM in 20’s looking for kind and discreet American gentleman in 40’s or 50’s to pen pal with.
Yarber had certainly seen it before, but he shrugged as if he hadn’t a clue.
“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Argrow asked.
“They all look the same to me,” Finn said. He tossed the magazine on the table. It was the European edition of
Out and About
.
“We traced the address to the post office here in Monte Carlo,” Argrow said. “A brand-new box rental, with a fake name and everything. What a coincidence.”
“Look, I don’t know who you work for, but I have a very strong hunch that we’re not in your jurisdiction. We haven’t broken a single law. Why don’t you bug off?”
“Sure, Finn, but two million bucks isn’t enough?”
Finn smiled and looked around the lovely café. He took a sip of coffee and said, “You gotta keep busy.”
“I’ll see you around,” Argrow said, then jumped to his feet and vanished.
Yarber finished his coffee as if nothing had happened. He watched the street and the traffic for a while, then left to gather his colleagues.
Books by John Grisham
A TIME TO KILL
THE FIRM
THE PELICAN BRIEF
THE CLIENT
THE CHAMBER
THE RAINMAKER
THE RUNAWAY JURY
THE PARTNER
THE STREET LAWYER
THE TESTAMENT
THE BRETHREN
A PAINTED HOUSE
SKIPPING CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMONS
THE KING OF TORTS
BLEACHERS
THE LAST JUROR
THE BROKER
THE INNOCENT MAN
PLAYING FOR PIZZA
THE APPEAL
THE ASSOCIATE
FORD COUNTY: STORIES
JOHN GRISHAM has written twenty-one novels, including the recent #1
New York Times
bestsellers
The Associate
and
The Appeal
, as well as one work of nonfiction,
The Innocent Man
. He lives in Virginia and Mississippi. His new book from Doubleday is
Ford County: Stories
.
Read on for an excerpt of
The
Litigators
A Novel
by John Grisham
Published by Bantam Books
CHAPTER 1
The law firm of Finley & Figg referred to itself as a “boutique firm.” This misnomer was inserted as often as possible into routine conversations, and it even appeared in print in some of the various schemes hatched by the partners to solicit business. When used properly, it implied that Finley & Figg was something above your average two-bit operation. Boutique, as in small, gifted, and expert in one specialized area. Boutique, as in pretty cool and chic, right down to the Frenchness of the word itself. Boutique, as in thoroughly happy to be small, selective, and prosperous.
Except for its size, it was none of these things. Finley & Figg’s scam was hustling injury cases, a daily grind that required little skill or creativity and would never be considered cool or sexy. Profits were as elusive as status. The firm was small because it couldn’t afford to grow. It was selective only because no one wanted to work there, including the two men who owned it. Even its location suggested a monotonous life out in the bush leagues. With a Vietnamese massage parlor to its left and a lawn mower repair shop to its right, it was clear at a casual glance that Finley & Figg was not prospering. There was another boutique firm directly across the street—hated rivals—and more lawyers around the corner. In fact, the neighborhood was teeming with lawyers, some working alone, others in small firms, others still in versions of their own little boutiques.
F&F’s address was on Preston Avenue, a busy street filled with old bungalows now converted and used for all manner of commercial activity. There was retail (liquor, cleaners, massages) and professional (legal, dental, lawn mower repair) and culinary (enchiladas, baklava, and pizza to go). Oscar Finley had won the building in a lawsuit twenty years earlier. What the address lacked in prestige it sort of made up for in location. Two doors away was the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth, a chaotic convergence of asphalt and traffic that guaranteed at least one good car wreck a week, and often more. F&F’s annual overhead was covered by collisions that happened less than one hundred yards away. Other law firms, boutique and otherwise, were often prowling the area in hopes of finding an available, cheap bungalow from which their hungry lawyers could hear the actual squeal of tires and crunching of metal.
With only two attorneys/partners, it was of course mandatory that one be declared the senior and the other the junior. The senior partner was Oscar Finley, age sixty-two, a thirty-year survivor of the bareknuckle brand of law found on the tough streets of southwest Chicago. Oscar had once been a beat cop but got himself terminated for cracking skulls. He almost went to jail but instead had an awakening and went to college, then law school. When no firms would hire him, he hung out his own little shingle and started suing anyone who came near. Thirty-two years later, he found it hard to believe that for thirty-two years he’d wasted his career suing for past-due accounts receivable, fender benders, slip-and-falls, and quickie divorces. He was still married to his first wife, a terrifying woman he wanted to sue every day for his own divorce. But he couldn’t afford it. After thirty-two years of lawyering, Oscar Finley couldn’t afford much of anything.
His junior partner—and Oscar was prone to say things like, “I’ll get my junior partner to handle it,” when trying to impress judges and other lawyers and especially prospective clients—was Wally Figg, age forty-five. Wally fancied himself a hardball litigator, and his blustery ads promised all kinds of aggressive behavior. “We Fight for Your Rights!” and “Insurance Companies Fear Us!” and “We Mean Business!” Such ads could be seen on park benches, city transit buses, cabs, high school football programs, even telephone poles, though this violated several ordinances. The ads were not seen in two crucial markets—television and billboards. Wally and Oscar were still fighting over these. Oscar refused to spend the money—both types were horribly expensive—and Wally was still scheming. His dream was to see his smiling face and slick head on television saying dreadful things about insurance companies while promising huge settlements to injured folks wise enough to call his toll-free number.
But Oscar wouldn’t even pay for a billboard. Wally had one picked out. Six blocks from the office, at the corner of Beech and Thirty-second, high above the swarming traffic, on top of a four-story tenement house, there was the most perfect billboard in all of metropolitan Chicago. Currently hawking cheap lingerie (with a comely ad, Wally had to admit), the billboard had his name and face written all over it. But Oscar still refused.
Wally’s law degree came from the prestigious University of Chicago School of Law. Oscar picked his up at a now-defunct place that once offered courses at night. Both took the bar exam three times. Wally had four divorces under his belt; Oscar could only dream. Wally wanted the big case, the big score with millions of dollars in fees. Oscar wanted only two things—divorce and retirement.
How the two men came to be partners in a converted house on Preston Avenue was another story. How they survived without choking each other was a daily mystery.
