“Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“I could show you the paperwork, but I don’t think that will be necessary.” She dug into her purse again and offered up a snapshot.
“This is Brian,” she said.
A moment passed as the photograph seemed to hover before him. Finally, he reached across his desk and took it by the corner, as if his past might burn him if he grasped too much of it. His gaze came to rest on the smiling face of a ten-year-old boy. He’d never seen the child before, but he knew those dark eyes, that Roman nose.
“I’m his father,” he said in a distant voice, as if the words were involuntary.
“No,” she answered, her tone gentle but firm. “His father’s dead. And if you don’t help me find the man who killed him, his mother could go to jail for the rest of her life.”
Their eyes met, and Jack searched for words that suited a situation no criminal defense lawyer could possibly be prepared to face. “I guess you’re right,” he said quietly. “This is personal.”
2
Jack didn’t think of himself as a drinker, but after the head-spinning meeting with the adoptive mother of his biological offspring-“son” seemed way too personal at this point-he found himself in need of a drink. His friend Theo Knight owned a bar called Sparky’s near the entrance to the Florida Keys, which was a long way to go for a glassful of solace, but Theo had a way of making it worth the trip.
“Bourbon,” Jack told the bartender. He knew the risk of not ordering a premium brand, but just walking through the door at a place like Sparky’s was living dangerously, so what the hell?
Sparky’s was an old gas station that had been converted into a bar, the term “converted” used loosely. If you looked around, you’d swear the guys from the grease pit had never left, just sidled up to the bar in their grimy coveralls, wondering where the awesome band and drunken bikers had suddenly come from. The joint was a definite moneymaker, often crowded, especially when Theo picked up his sax and blew till dawn. He could have afforded to do a little renovation, but clearly he liked things the way they were. Jack suspected that it was all about ego, that Theo smiled to himself every time some tight ass and his Gucci-clad girlfriend visited a dive they wouldn’t ordinarily be caught dead in, all just to hear Theo and his jazz buddies belt out tunes worthy of Harlem ’s best.
It was still early evening, and the band wasn’t up yet. Theo was on stage alone. He didn’t often sing or play the piano, except when his closest friends were around. Jack watched from his bar stool, nursing a throat-singeing bourbon as Theo sang his heart out and put his own satirical lyrics to popular tunes. Tonight’s victim was Bonnie Raitt and her 1991 R amp;B megahit, “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” a thoroughly depressing song in its own right about a woman who takes her cold-hearted boyfriend to bed one last time before getting dumped. Theo’s shtick was to doctor it up and rename it, simply, “The Suicide Song.”
The audience was in stitches. Theo never failed to deliver. At least among drunks.
“Hey, Jacko!” Theo had finally spotted him, and, like it or not, his arrival had been announced to the entire crowd. Theo stepped down from the small stage and joined his friend at the bar.
“Funny gig,” said Jack.
“You think suicide is funny?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Wrong answer. Everything’s funny, Jack. Until you learn that, I’m afraid I’m just gonna have to keep charging you double for rot-gut whiskey.”
Theo signaled to the bartender, who quickly set up a round of drinks. Another bourbon for Jack, club soda for Theo. “Gotta play tonight,” said Theo, as if apologizing for the soft drink.
“That’s the whole reason I came here.”
“Liar. After ten years, you think I don’t know you? Jack Swyteck don’t drink straight bourbon from the well unless he’s been dumped, indicted, or both.”
Jack gave a little smile, though it was somewhat disconcerting to be so transparent.
Theo was suddenly looking past him, and Jack followed his gaze across the bar, where his bass player was setting up for the evening gig. A crowd started gravitating toward the stage, staking out the good tables, and Jack knew he didn’t have his friend’s attention for long. But what else was new?
“So, what happened this time?” asked Theo.
“Two words for you: Jessie Merrill.”
“Whoa. How weird is it to hear that name, right after I sang ‘The Suicide Song’?”
“She’s back.”
“From the dead?”
“I didn’t mean literally, moron.”
Jack took a minute to bring him up to speed on Lindsey Hart. Theo wasn’t a lawyer, but if Jack decided to take Lindsey’s case, Theo would surely find his way into an investigative role, so it wasn’t a breach of the attorney-client privilege. Besides, Jack needed to talk this out with someone, and Theo was one of the few people who knew the whole Jessie Merrill story. He was also the only client Jack had ever known to spend time on death row for a murder he didn’t commit.
Theo let him finish, then smiled and shook his head. “For a guy who gets laid on about every other solar eclipse, you sure have a knack for squeezing the maximum fuck-up value out of relationships.”
“Thanks. And for the record, that’s every other partial solar eclipse.”
“You’re an animal, dude.” Theo grabbed a handful of peanuts, munched as he spoke. “This Lindsey in deep shit?”
“Not sure. I tried to read the investigative report before I came over here, but my mind’s all over the place.”
“That talk about Jack Junior caught you a little off guard, huh?”
“A little? I’ve known about the adoption for a couple years now, ever since Jessie passed away. But I guess it really hit home when Lindsey showed me his picture. I actually have a kid out there.”
“No, it’s her kid. All you did was have sex with your girlfriend.”
“It’s not that simple, Theo. He looks just like me.”
“Does he, really? Or do you just see it because his mother says so, and for some weird-ass Darwinian reason you want it to be true?”
“Trust me. There’s a strong resemblance.”
“Could have been worse, I suppose. Could have looked like one of your friends.”
“Can you ever be serious?”
“No, but I can fake it.” Theo took a drink. “So, you gonna be her lawyer?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What’s your gut tell you? She innocent?”
“Why should that matter? I’ve represented lots of clients who were guilty. I even thought you were guilty when I first took up your appeal.”
“But I wasn’t guilty.”
“I would have fought just as hard even if you were.”
“Maybe. But I sense that this case is different.”
“You see the dilemma, too?”
“Yeah, except where I come from, we don’t call it no dilemma. We call it gettin’ caught in your own zipper.”
“Ouch. But I guess it applies.”
“Course it applies. Let’s say your client is charged with murdering her husband and you agree to be her lawyer. Let’s say she’s guilty, but you’re able to work your magic and convince the jury she’s not. She walks. Where does that leave you?”
“Forget me. Where does it leave her son?”
“Living with a murderer, that’s where.”
Jack stared down into his bourbon and said, “Not something any self-respecting criminal defense lawyer should do to his own flesh and blood.”
“On the other hand, if you don’t take the case…Let’s say she’s innocent, but some boob of a lawyer blows it-like my trial lawyer did-and she gets convicted. The boy ends up losing both his mom and his dad, or at least the only mom and dad he ever knew. Can you live with that?”