Gray Mountain (48 page)

“He’ll follow us to Bristol and watch our tail. He also has the documents we hauled out last Saturday, the first batch.”

“I thought you said Vic has a pregnant girlfriend and wanted no part of this.”

“It’s true. She is pregnant, but they got married a week ago. You want a taco?”

“I want a martini.”

“I doubt if you can find a good one around here.”

“What, may I ask, is in Bristol?”

“An airport. Beyond that, if I tell you then I’ll have to kill you.”

“You’re on a rampage, go ahead.”

The aroma hit them, and they were suddenly starving.

T
here were only five airplanes parked on the general aviation ramp at the Tri-Cities Regional Airport near Bristol, Tennessee.
The four small ones—two Cessnas and two Pipers—were dwarfed by the fifth, a sleek, glistening private jet with all lights on and the stairs down and waiting. Samantha, Jeff, and Vic admired the aircraft from a distance as they waited for instructions. After a few minutes, three large young men dressed in black met them outside the terminal. The documents—in two coolers, three backpacks, and two cardboard boxes—were handed over and immediately wheeled out to the jet.

One of the three men said to Jeff, “Mr. London would like to see you.” Vic shrugged and said, “Oh why not? Let’s check out his little toy.”

“I’ve actually flown on it,” Jeff said. “It’s a step up from the Skyhawk.”

“Well aren’t you the big shot,” Vic snarled.

They were led through the empty terminal, onto the ramp, and to the jet. Jarrett London was waiting at the top of the stairs with a huge smile and a drink in hand. He waved them up and welcomed them to his “second home.”

Samantha had a friend at Georgetown whose family owned a jet, so this was not her first glimpse at one. The massive chairs were covered in deep, rich leathers. Everything was trimmed in gold plate. They sat around a table while a flight attendant took their drink orders. Just take me to Paris, Samantha wanted to say. And come get me in a month.

It was clear that Vic and London knew each other well. As Jeff gave the details of their escape from Gray Mountain, the drinks were served. “Would you like dinner?” London asked in Samantha’s direction.

“Oh no, Jeff treated me to Taco Bell. I’m stuffed.”

Her martini was perfect. Jeff and Vic had Dickel on the rocks. London explained that the documents would be flown right then to Cincinnati, where they would be copied on Sunday. On Monday, the originals would be flown to Charleston and handed over to a U.S. marshal. The judge had agreed to lock them up until he could review them. Krull Mining had not been informed of this
agreement and had no idea what was about to happen. The FBI had backed off completely, for the moment anyway.

“Do we have friends in Washington to thank for this, Samantha?” London asked.

She smiled and said, “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

He took a sip, rattled his cubes, and said, “What are your plans now?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, it would be nice to have another lawyer on the ground in the Krull case. You’re obviously familiar with it. Donovan trusted you, and his firm is still in the hunt for some serious money. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Krull will surrender when they learn we have the documents. A settlement is not unlikely, albeit a confidential one. If they play hardball, then we crank it up and push for a trial. Frankly, that’s what we want—a spectacle, a grand exposé, a two-month-long production in which all of the bad stuff gets hashed out in open court. Then, a spectacular verdict.”

Shades of Donovan. Shades of Marshall Kofer.

He was on a roll: “There’s plenty of work for all of us, including you, Samantha. You could join my firm in Louisville. You could hang out your shingle in Brady. You could take Donovan’s office. A lot of options. My point is, we need you.”

“Thanks, Mr. London,” she said properly, then knocked back another gulp. She was on the spot and didn’t like it.

Vic sensed this and changed the subject by quizzing him about the jet. A Gulfstream V, the latest marvel. Virtually unlimited range and so on, cruises at forty thousand, far above the airlines. Very quiet way up there. As the conversation lost steam, London glanced at his watch and asked, “Could I drop you guys off somewhere?”

Ah, the perks of a private jet. Drop-offs here, pickups there. Anything’s possible.

They declined and said they had places to go. He thanked them profusely for delivering the documents and walked them back to the terminal.

M
attie arrived earlier on Monday, and they huddled in her office with the door closed. Samantha reported that the documents had been delivered, somewhat safely, and that if all went as planned they would be handed over to an officer of the court later in the day. She left out the more colorful aspects of the adventure—the shoot-out that left someone with a bum leg, the dead bear, the miraculous presence of Vic Canzarro, and the quick cocktail on Jarrett London’s handsome jet. Some things were better left unsaid.

At any rate, the documents were now in safer hands, where they could be fought over by other lawyers. Somebody else would make sense of them. Samantha speculated that the FBI was now on the sidelines. There was even a hint that the investigation might turn 180 degrees and begin probing into the actions of Krull Mining. Nothing definite as of yet, just a word or two out of Washington.

After the death of Buddy Ryzer and the drama of the documents, life might possibly return to normal within the confines of the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic. The two lawyers certainly hoped so. Samantha was due in court at ten o’clock, in a case that had nothing to do with coal, documents, or federal authorities, and she was looking forward to an uneventful day. Jeff, though, was
lurking around the courthouse, as if he knew her schedule. “Can we talk?” he said as they walked up the stairs to the main courtroom.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you for a while,” she said.

“Sorry, no chance. How long will you be in court?”

“An hour.”

“I’ll meet you in Donovan’s office. It’s important.”

D
awn, the secretary and receptionist, was gone, terminated. The firm was out of business, its offices shuttered and gathering dust. Jeff unlocked the front door, opened it for Samantha, then closed it and relocked it. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, to the war room where the walls were still lined with enlarged photos and courtroom exhibits from the Tate trial. Files and books and papers were scattered about, lingering evidence of the FBI raid. It seemed odd to her that no one had bothered to clean up the mess, to tidy up the room. Half the lights were out. The long table was covered in dust. Donovan had been dead for almost two months, and as Samantha looked around the room at his work, at the remains of his big cases, she was hit with a wave of sadness and nostalgia. She had known him so briefly, but for a second she longed to see his cocky smile.

They sat in folding chairs and drank coffee from paper cups. Jeff swept a hand over the room and said, “What am I supposed to do with this building? My brother left it to me in his will and no one wants it. We can’t find a lawyer to take over his practice, and so far no one wants to buy it.”

“It’s early,” she said. “It’s a beautiful building and someone will buy it.”

“Sure. Half the beautiful buildings on Main Street are empty. This town is dying.”

“Is this the important matter you wanted to discuss?”

“No. I’m leaving for a few months, Samantha. I have a friend who runs a hunting lodge in Montana, and I’m going for a long
visit. I need to get away. I’m tired of being followed, tired of worrying about who’s back there, tired of thinking about my brother. I need a break.”

“That’s a great idea. What about your sniper work? I see where the reward is now a million bucks, cash. Things are heating up, huh?”

He took a long sip of the coffee and ignored her last comment. “I’ll pop in from time to time to take care of Donovan’s estate, whenever Mattie needs me. But long term, I think I’ll relocate out west somewhere. There’s just too much history around here, too many bad memories.”

She nodded, understood, but did not respond. Was he attempting a bit of drama here with some lame lover’s farewell? If so, she had nothing for him. She liked the boy all right, but at that moment she was relieved to hear he was headed for Montana. A full minute passed without a word, then another.

Finally, he said, “I think I know who killed Donovan.” A pause as she was expected to ask “Who?” But she bit her tongue and let it pass. He went on: “It’ll take some time, five maybe ten years, but I’ll hide in the bushes, lay my traps, so to speak. They like airplane crashes, so I’ll give them another.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Jeff. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison?”

“I’m not going to.”

“Famous last words. Look, I need to get to the office.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There was nothing at the office but the Monday brown-bag lunch, a rowdy gossip fest that she hated to miss. There seemed to be a code among the five women who participated in the lunch: If you skip it, you’ll probably be discussed at length.

He said, “Okay, I know you’re busy. I’ll be back in a couple of months. Will you be here?”

“I don’t know, Jeff, but don’t think about me.”

“But I will think about you, I can’t help it.”

“Here’s the deal, Jeff. I’m not going to worry about whether
you’re coming back, and you don’t worry about whether I’m here or in New York. Got it?”

“Okay, okay. Can I at least kiss you good-bye?”

“Yes, but watch your hands.”

S
amantha returned to her desk and was greeted with the latest from New York. Andy wrote:

She read it twice, printed it, and admitted to herself that she was getting tired of Andy and his e-mails. She found her brown bag and went to lunch.

I
t was 6:00 p.m. before Mattie’s last client left. Samantha had been puttering around her desk, stalling, waiting for the right moment. She poked her head into Mattie’s office and said, “Got time for a drink?” Mattie smiled and said of course.

Monday’s drinks were of the diet-soda variety. They poured themselves stiff ones and met in the conference room. Samantha slid Andy’s latest e-mail across the table. Mattie read it slowly, smiled, laid it down, and said, “Wow. That’s quite an offer. Nice to be wanted. I guess you’ll be leaving sooner than expected.” The smile was gone.

“I’m not ready to go back, Mattie. As generous as it sounds, the work is tedious, just hour after hour of reading and proofing and preparing documents. Try as they might, they can’t jazz it up and make it even remotely exciting. I’m just not ready for that, and I don’t think I ever will be. I’d like to stay awhile.”

Mattie smiled again, a smug little grin that conveyed a lot of satisfaction. “I’m sure you have something in mind.”

“Well, not long ago I was an unpaid intern. Now I’m dodging job offers, none of which I find that appealing. I’m not going back to New York, not now anyway. I’m not working for Jarrett London. He’s too much like my father. I’m wary of trial lawyers who bounce around the country on their own jets. I don’t want Donovan’s office, too much baggage there. Jeff will own the building and be on the payroll, and knowing him as intimately as I do I can see a lot of trouble. He would assume the role of the boss and
there would be tension from day one. He’s dangerous and reckless and I’m shoving him away, not getting closer. We’re having a romp every now and then but nothing serious. Besides, he says he’s leaving town.”

“So you’re staying here?”

“If that’s possible.”

“For how long?”

“There are three things I want to do. The most important client is the Ryzer family. I feel like I’m needed there, and I can’t just up and leave them in a few months. They’re vulnerable right now, and for some reason they think I can help. I’ll do the best I can. I like the idea of handling the Tate appeal, from start to finish. Lisa Tate needs us. The poor woman is living on food stamps and still grieving. I want to win the appeal and get her the money she deserves. And by the way, I think 40 percent is too much for Donovan’s estate. He may have earned that money, but he’s gone now. Lisa lost her boys; Donovan did not. With that set of facts, a lot of lawyers could have won the case. I guess we can discuss it later.”

“I’ve had the same thought.”

“During my second year of law school, we had to do a mock appellate case; write the briefs and argue before a three-judge panel, really just three law professors, but they were notorious for grilling the students. Oral argument was a big deal—coats and ties, dresses and pumps, you know?”