The Jury Master (7 page)

“Yeah, I think I read that somewhere.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, you tell the president he doesn’t need to sweat this one, Rivers. I’ll see to it personally.”

There was a pause. “I’m sure you would handle the matter adequately, Detective.”

Molia heard a “but” coming, and as his son T.J. liked to say, it was a
big butt.
The assistant U.S. attorney did not disappoint him.

“But not this time. The Department of Justice will handle this matter. You are to cease any further work and transfer your files to me.”

“All due respect to you and the president, Riv, but the body—”

“Detective Molia, did you just call me Riv? Let me explain some-thing. I don’t have a nickname. I have a title. I am an assistant United States attorney. That’s with the Department of Justice. And that is where you will send your file. Do I make myself clear?”

Molia had been willing to give Jones the benefit of the doubt, to assume he was overworked and stressed like most government types and had simply left his manners at home, but he really hated it when people dropped authority on him. His father had been fond of saying that titles were like assholes—everyone had one. In Washington, some people had two, which usually made them twice the asshole.

“Well, that
is
a mouthful, isn’t it?” he said. “You sure you’re in an air-conditioned office, Rivers? You’re sounding a little hot under the collar this morning.”

“As I was saying—”

“Actually, I was the one talking, Rivers. You interrupted me. Not the first time, either, I might add. And what I was saying was, all due respect to you and the president, but the body was found in West Virginia by a Charles Town police officer. That makes it a local police problem—or, more specifically, since I was the lucky son of a gun to get up at the crack of dawn and leave my comfy bed to drive out there, it makes it my problem.”

“Not any longer,” Jones hissed. “The Department of Justice’s jurisdiction supersedes your jurisdiction, and the White House has personally requested that this office handle the investigation. Any attempt by you to interfere will be met with harsh penalties.

Do I make myself clear, Detective?”

“What investigation?”

What followed was what some people liked to call a “pregnant

pause,” but what Molia called “bullshit time.” Rivers Jones, assistant United States attorney with the Department of Justice, was pulling his tongue out of the back of his throat, buying bullshit time, stalling for an answer.

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘
investigation,’
Rivers. What
investigation
are you talking about?”

“If I said ‘investigation,’ I misspoke. Force of habit. I meant to say ‘matter.’ We will handle this matter.”

Not good enough. “You didn’t misspeak. You said the White House has asked you to conduct an
investigation.
Clearly, I might add.”

There was another pause. Now Jones was about to get angry, which was also predictable. When you pushed a person who didn’t have a good answer, they either crumbled or got angry. Again the assistant United States attorney did not disappoint him.

“Detective Molia, are you fucking with me? Because if you are, I want you to know I don’t find it the least bit amusing. I don’t have the time. My orders come from the president of the United fucking States. If those orders are good enough for me, I sure as hell know they are good enough for you.”

Molia removed the pencil from behind his ear and sat forward, sticking the pencil in a half-eaten hamburger on a piece of grease-stained yellow wax paper. He’d pushed a button, as intended, and Jones didn’t have the brains or temperament to talk his way out of it. People with something to hide were either evasive or aggressive. Jones was both. In the process he’d likely made two mistakes, letting Molia know there was an investigation
and
that the White House was involved. His stomach was never wrong.

“Well, Assistant United States Attorney Rivers Jones, I’m just a police detective trying to do the job I swore to do to the best of my abilities twenty years ago. So until I receive the proper authority from
my
superiors, I will conduct
my investigation
in the interest that is best for the people of Jefferson . . . fucking . . . County.”

“Who is your authority, Detective Molia?”

“That would be Police Chief J. Rayburn Franklin . . . the Third,” he said, and heard Rivers Jones hang up.

9

Law Offices of Foster & Bane,

San Francisco

S
LOANE STEPPED FROM
the elevator and hurried through a reception area of Italian marble, Persian throw rugs, leather furniture, and artwork secured to the walls. Similarly furnished reception areas greeted clients on each of Foster & Bane’s five floors: expensive decor befitting a firm of nearly a thousand lawyers generating $330 million in annual revenues in offices scattered throughout the United States, Europe, and Hong Kong.

Sloane was behind schedule; the police had taken their time getting to his apartment. Once there, they appeared less than interested, asking the obligatory questions, which was as far as their investigation would go. Sloane had no clue who had trashed his apartment, or why, and since nothing of value was taken, not even the Rolex, he figured pawnshops wouldn’t be of any help, either. He suffered through the exercise because he knew enough about insurance companies to know that his insurer’s first question would be whether he had filed a police report. Now that the report was out of the way, he needed to file the claim, and he kept his insurance information at the office.

At just before eleven o’clock, the office would be in full swing, which meant answering questions about why a man who was supposed to be on his first vacation in five years was at the office. He decided to keep his answer simple. He was just tying up a loose end before leaving town.

He strode past the receptionist on the nineteenth floor, framed by a panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay stretching from Angel Island to the Bay Bridge, and leaned around the corner. The hallway was empty, though he heard voices spilling from the offices—associates toiling to secure “billable hours.” More precious than gold, billable hours were the means big law firms used to measure associate productivity and commitment to the firm—not to mention to bill their clients for their services.

Tina Scoccolo did a double take as he strode past her glass-enclosed cubicle. There would be no getting past her unnoticed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She sounded more annoyed than curious.

Sloane put a finger to his lips, not breaking stride, keeping his focus on the finish line at the end of the hall: the door to his northwest corner office. “I’m not. You don’t see me.”

She stepped from behind the glass as he blew past her. “Then I take it we’re not having this conversation?” Her question chased him down the hallway.

“We’re not. Hold my calls.”

“You’re limping.”

He pushed open his office door, took a half step forward, and stopped suddenly, like a tourist behind a red rope at a museum. His eyes shifted to the nameplate on the wall:
MR. DAVID SLOANE.

He didn’t recognize his own office. The clutter from nearly fourteen years of practice had miraculously disappeared. Two potted ficus trees had replaced the stacks of pleadings, yellow notepads, and trial exhibits that had stood teetering for years in the corners of his office. He noticed that the maroon carpet had a bluish-gray diamond pattern. A modest pile of mail sat neatly arranged on the desk pad next to his in-box, which was empty. The last time he recalled seeing the bottom of the tray was his first day at the firm. He felt both violated and liberated. Like most attorneys, he found comfort in clutter, and Sloane wrapped himself in it like a quilt. But now he couldn’t recall why all the papers had been so important, and felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He called down the hall, “Tina?”

“Sorry,” she yelled back. “Can’t hear you. You’re not here.”

He smiled, stepped across the threshold, and ran a finger across his desk, detecting a wood-treatment product and a hint of lemon. She had even straightened the abstract painting above his credenza, just next to his diplomas on the ego wall, which was where he spotted it. They had framed the article and hung it amid the diplomas to try to hide it, for some as yet unknown purpose. The headline shouted arrogance:
SAN FRANCISCO’S TOP GUN.

And below it his photograph, the one Patricia Hansen had slapped against his chest, was worse than the headline, if that was possible. The photographer had positioned Sloane against the edge of a conference room table, leaning him like the Tower of Pisa. A recent haircut had caused stubborn strands of hair to stand like porcupine quills, and the heavy dose of gel he applied as a last-minute solution had colored his dark brown hair a shoeshine black and molded it like a plastic Halloween mask. The light through the tinted windows cast shadows like ruts in a road across his prominent jaw and cheekbones, aging him ten years. He looked forty-seven. His olive complexion, thick eyebrows, and full lips ordinarily softened his appearance, but with the sinister shadows and sculpted hair he looked like a smug comic book villain.

Befitting the headline and the photograph, the article was a pompous-sounding sketch on “the best wrongful-death lawyer in San Francisco.” Bob Foster had insisted that Sloane talk to the reporter—something Sloane was loath to do—then added to the ego piece by providing the reporter with quotes that were all about getting the firm more clients and nothing about saving any semblance of modesty Sloane possessed. Since the article’s publication, Sloane felt like a man with a bull’s-eye on his back. His active cases had doubled in number, and any hope he harbored of settling some of them evaporated with the article. His clients were now emboldened about their chances of success, and opposing counsel saw it as a challenge to be the lawyer who knocked his ego from its perch.

Sloane removed the frame from the wall, turning to slide it in his desk drawer, when the door to his office burst open and a parade of attorneys, paralegals, and staff marched in behind Tina, shouting “Surprise!” and slinging confetti. Someone blew a party horn in his ear. Tina carried a half-eaten cake with two candles on top, a “1” and a “5,” though upon closer inspection the “1” had been crudely carved from a “3.” The six associates who worked for Sloane jockeyed for position like kids in a school play wanting to be seen, and those still lobbying to be part of the “Sloane trial machine,” as it was now being called, made sure to shake his hand.

Tina held out the cake to him. Sloane put the framed article on his desk and brushed blue and gold stars from his shoulders and pulled streamers from his hair. The frosting letters looked like part of an unfinished crossword puzzle:

PY

THDAY

“Whose birthday cake?”

Tina ignored the question. “Blow out the candles,” she instructed. She put the cake on his desk and began cutting slices. “I planned to have a victory party on Monday, when you
said
you were coming back. Sorry, but this was the best I could do on short notice.” She handed him a paper plate with a square of chocolate.

“What is all this goddamned noise?”

Bob Foster, his voice rough from a two-pack-a-day habit, sounded like a tired engine turning over on a cold morning. He entered Sloane’s office resplendent in a tailored blue shirt with white collar, onyx cuff links, and hand-painted tie, a stubborn holdout against the casual-dress craze made popular by the tech industry and to which San Francisco law firms had reluctantly conceded. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses.

Foster confronted Sloane. “Two hours? You kept the jury out two hours, Sloane? Didn’t I teach you better than that?” he asked with mock indignity that brought laughter from the group. He gripped Sloane’s hand. “Nice work. I didn’t think you’d pull our ass out of the fire on this one. Frank Abbott called me first thing this morning. He’s very happy. I might even beat him at golf this weekend.”

Sloane forced a smile. “Great.”

Foster leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know the little prick is a major pain in the ass. Everyone knows it, but it’s his grandson, and believe me, with Paul Abbott at the helm, Abbott Security will be sued more than pigs on a farm, which is good business for us. He fired all his other counsel. He’s sending over seven active files.”

Sloane felt sick.

“Let’s just hope this Scott episode doesn’t change company procedures
too
much.” Foster leaned back and released Sloane’s hand. He eyed Sloane’s windbreaker, San Francisco Giants baseball cap, and blue jeans as if just noticing them. “What the hell are you doing here anyway? You haven’t taken a vacation since my hair was brown. I thought you were supposed to be climbing a rock somewhere.”

“Just came in to take care of a few loose ends.”

Foster arched an eyebrow. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sloane. One or two loose ends on a Friday becomes half the day; then you decide you might as well complete the day to keep your weekend free, but you don’t get to the first thing on your short list of loose ends because the phone is ringing off the hook, your associates spend more time in your office than their own, and you don’t have time to take a piss. The next thing you know, it’s Sunday night and your wife’s on the phone telling you she wants a goddamned divorce and half your income—I know.”

The room laughed, though there was more truth than humor in Foster’s routine. Half the partners at Foster & Bane had divorced at least once, Foster twice. He eyed his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Then I’m personally kicking your ass out of here.” He turned to the rest of the group. “All right, you people, eat your cake and get back to work so the man can go on his vacation.” He rolled a large slice onto a plate, licked the chocolate from his fingertips, and turned the corner, barking down the hall at a ringing telephone, “I’m coming for Christ’s sake.”