Though he was not a criminal lawyer, he knew quite well the power of the federal government. The FBI could be brutal, unfair, unforgiving, even ruthless. The prosecutors could be unsympathetic, ambitious, and were always fond of publicity. With over five thousand criminal statutes on the books, there were ways to nail just about anybody.
He had to devise a plan but no two thoughts stuck together. Fear overwhelmed every thought. He slept on and off and was up at daybreak with a pot of coffee, still in his boxers, still roaming around his office.
At 7 A.M. his phone dinged and he grabbed it. A text from Paula:
Janie has a soccer game at 9. Rain make up from Wed. Are you going?
You gotta be kidding. Soccer on a Sunday morning? But he knew it was true because it had happened before.
I don’t know. Forgot about it.
Of course. She slept with me last night, quite upset. We should be there.
Okay.
He showered quickly — all showers in The Closet were ramped-up — and left his office. He walked down the street, bought a Sunday newspaper, and settled into a booth at Ethel’s Diner for eggs and bacon.
He needed to talk to Spade.
One dark corner of Chub’s was reserved each Sunday afternoon for men who smoked long, black, and extremely strong cigars. Spade brought a box of them to share, claimed he got them from a Cuban smuggler. He was sitting with two friends, puffing away, watching three games at the same time. He did a double take when Simon approached, then smiled and asked, “What brings you here on Sunday?”
“Had to get out of the house.”
“Want a smoke?”
“No thanks.”
“Who you got?”
“Dallas, tonight.”
“Same here. Same all around. That’s a bad sign.”
They laughed, puffed some more, watched the games. Simon was paranoid to the point of breathing erratically, but managed to appear calm. What if some of these guys were wired? What if the FBI was watching with hidden cameras?
When one friend left for more beer and the other stepped away to talk on his phone, Simon leaned in close to Spade and said, “The Feds are here.”
Spade took it calmly but his eyes said it all. Simon had his attention. The lawyer was not a player in the underworld but he was still a lawyer, with contacts. And he was a gambler who’d been a regular at Chub’s for years.
“Fibbies?” Spade mumbled.
“Yep.”
“Contact?”
“Last night. Here.”
“You talked to them?”
“No, they talked to me.”
Spade drank his beer. Simon whispered, “Can you tell Chub?”
Spade exhaled and rolled his eyes as if that might not work. He shrugged and said, “Don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
The friend with the phone sat down and the conversation was over. But the message was delivered. Simon hung around for another beer, then said goodbye. At the bar he chatted with Valerie. Surely she wasn’t wired. He looked for Chub but didn’t see him.
It was getting dark when he stepped outside, and looking back he wondered when, if ever, he would be back.
Chapter 19
After another restless night that was continually interrupted by nightmares of handcuffs and headlines, Simon went downstairs, in jeans and a T-shirt, and made coffee. It promised to be another dreary Monday. He had a list of eleven unpleasant phone calls that he had carried over from the last unproductive week. First, though, he had to deal with his wealthiest client and her mounting legal problems.
He actually paused for a moment and stared at his phones. Which one should he use? Cell or landline? Since he was such a small-time gambler, would the FBI really have an interest in him? Would Yolanda send him a warning if he were a serious target? And would they really be listening in? Such thoughts had kept him awake all night. He decided to use the old phone on his desk.
Regarding Eleanor’s auto insurance, he felt compelled to at least notify the company that she had received three tickets for moving violations. He was careful to point out that he, as her lawyer, was contesting the charges, and that there had been no final adjudication. He was just putting Allstate on notice.
He placed a call to the city prosecutor’s office and talked to a secretary. The assistant prosecutors were quite busy, it was after all a Monday morning, but someone would call him back. Half an hour later, a rookie prosecutor called to inform Mr. Latch that she did not have the authority to reduce the penalties for traffic violations. She was stiff and important and seemed to equate bad driving with capital murder. After the call, Simon checked her out online and learned that she finished law school in May and had just passed the bar exam.
His banker finally called him back just before ten, and Simon was forced to sing and dance through the same routine about needing another jolt to his line of credit. The terms of that wretched agreement were clear and did not require him to justify anything. The $25,000 was there for his taking, no questions asked, but he was expected to notify the bank before hitting it again.
He cursed the line of credit every day of his life. The damned thing was not his fault. Five years earlier, he had been working at his desk late one night when he saw a pile of mail Tillie had opened and left in the in-tray on his desk. The friendly solicitation from Union Bank asked, “Do you need $10,000?” In fact, at that moment he did. The first paragraph proclaimed that the money was his because he had somehow qualified. No application. No credit check. No security. No repayments for twelve months. The money was his simply because he was a self-employed lawyer. Cautiously, he signed on for only $4,000. That relieved some pain and was so easy. Within the year he was up to the limit, needed more, and the bank happily raised him to $15,000. His excuse had been a dispute with the IRS, something the bank heard all the time from lawyers. More tax problems followed and the bank finally stopped the bleeding at $25,000.
After the first round of Monday morning phone calls, he was in a dark mood and decided to make matters even worse. There would never be a good time to tell Tillie, and doing so would not be pleasant. So why not do it during an already awful day, as opposed to ruining a good one?
Just before lunch he asked her to step into his office, close the door, have a seat, and ignore the phone. Neither could remember the last time she sat down in his office.
“Paula and I are getting a divorce.”
She took it with a sad face but also with a little nod that said she figured as much. Indeed, she had known for some time that the marriage was not stable. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time here at the office.”
“Are you living here?”
“Basically, yes.”
“I’m sorry, Simon. It must be awful.”
“It is, especially for the children. But it’s also been awful with the two of us living in the same house.”
Tillie and Paula had long since realized that their lives were easier if they remained in their own separate corners. Paula had lost interest in Simon’s career years earlier and wanted nothing to do with it, except, of course, the income it generated and what that meant to their ever-straining budget. Tillie had always seen her as aloof, probably because she had a college degree and a professional job.
“May I ask if things are civilized?”
“You may and they are, for the most part. I’ve prepared a simple property settlement agreement and she’s considering it. She gets everything, basically, including the kids. I have liberal visitation. We’re splitting expenses, with me paying the mortgage. So far, no fireworks. There are no allegations of bad behavior.”