A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (19 page)

Sam sat still. "Who bought them?"

"A couple Nevada corporations."
 

"Shell companies?"
 

"Don't know yet," Lindsey said. "There's more. I think the mayor's getting paid off."

Sam's bushy eyebrows jumped skyward. "That's interesting."

That was high praise from Sam.
 

"How do you know this?"
 

"I haven't confirmed it yet," she said. Her editor wasn't going to understand that it was merely a hunch at this point. No editor would, so Lindsey really wanted to keep that information to herself.
 

Sam squinted at her.
 

"If I press you on it, you're going to tell me. But for now—" He waved his hand toward the newsroom. "Get out there and write up what you know on the bonds. We'll deal with the mayor's extracurricular activities later."
 

"The bonds? But you told me—"

"I know what I told you. That was then. Get out there. Start writing."

She started toward the door again.
 

"One more thing," Sam added as her hand touched the doorknob. She turned back to her editor, who was leaning back against his desk, chewing on his pen. "Don't tell anyone you’re back on the arena story. Let's wait until it's nailed down. I don't want Jeff getting wind of this. Or that fucking sports editor."

Chapter Sixteen

The conference room was stifling. Ben regretted scheduling this deposition at the plaintiff's law firm—a small office in an ancient building beset with an air conditioning unit that barely coughed out lukewarm air. For all its flaws—and he could think of a thousand—Stanton & Lowe valued comfort and high-end accoutrements to the practice of law. The conference rooms at his firm were large, well-appointed, with views of the city on one side and the two rivers that flowed around the city on the other. If he were to leave Stanton & Lowe, he'd be giving that up, along with the best investigators and paralegals, and the most ambitious associate attorneys. Not to mention an air conditioning system that rivaled a meat packing plant. And the firm seemed eager to promote him to partner.
 

It was depressing as hell to think he was good at a job he despised. What if this was his calling? Negotiating with personal injury lawyers for the lowest possible settlements with accident victims, taking depositions of barely injured idiots who thought their fender bender was their winning lottery ticket, putting up with Stanton day in and day out. The thought was suffocating. What was wrong with him? He never even thought about having a "calling" before. At least, not before Lindsey. Her passion for her job was shining a bright spotlight on the fact that he was miserable at his. Or her enthusiasm was contagious. Either way, he was pretty sure he was happier before he started wondering if working at Stanton & Lowe was the best he could do.

He tried not to think about the sun beaming in the windows and the lack of air, or be distracted by the plaintiff's lawyer's incessant fanning of himself with a stack of deposition exhibits. To his right, he saw Gordo doing the same thing, a sheen of sweat forming on his upper lip. He needed to focus on questioning Marcus Patterson, who sat across the mahogany table from Ben wearing a foam neck brace. Ben glanced down at the outline he'd prepared. His mind may be elsewhere, but his job was right here—questioning Mr. Patterson about the life-altering results of a fifteen-miles-per-hour fender bender.

"How long ago was the accident?" he asked.
 

"About seven months ago," Patterson said.
 

"And you're still wearing a neck brace?"

"Doctor's orders."

"Which doctor?"

"My chiropractor."
 

Ben kept his eyes on his list of questions. His mind wandered during Patterson's answers. As was becoming a habit, he found himself worrying about Lindsey. Where was she now? Was she being careful? Was she getting what she needed for her story and to keep her job?
 

He felt a slight pressure on his shin and realized that Gordo had just kicked him. His mind snapped back to the present and he glanced quickly at the outline in front of him.
 

"How have your life activities been curtailed by the injuries you say you sustained?"
 

While the plaintiff recounted his sob story, Ben’s mind wandered back to his conversation with Dave that morning. Lindsey was doing fine, Dave assured him, and the SUV and the motorcycle were no longer following her. She took Steve and went home and there hadn’t been any further problems. He knew Dave wouldn't let Lindsey put herself at risk and trusted his judgment, but it just didn't sit right that Lindsey's troubles would suddenly disappear.
 

There was a pause in the plaintiff's litany of woes and Ben found the man in the neck brace watching him expectantly. Gordo silently slipped a manila folder in front of Ben. Ben took it without looking down. He opened it and slid out some eight-by-ten photos, passing the first one to the man across the table.

"I'm going to show you some photographs that I've marked as Defendant's Exhibit Thirteen," Ben said, sliding another copy of the photograph to the man's lawyer. "Do you recognize anyone in those photographs?"

Patterson cursed under his breath as he studied the photograph of himself waterskiing, executing an athletic jump over the wake of a speedboat. The photographs were crisp and clear and caught every detail, down to the plaintiff's joyous expression and distinct lack of neck brace. The firm's investigator had done an excellent job of getting evidence proving the plaintiff's injuries weren't nearly as bad as he was claiming.

"How did you—" Patterson gasped. "I was out of state. Is that legal?"

The last question was directed at his lawyer, who struggled to keep the disappointment off his face. Patterson stood up and grabbed the stack of photographs, thumbing through them with a palpable sense of panic as it became clear the photographer had captured a full day of boating fun.
 

Ben tapped one of the glossy photos that had fallen to the table. "This one is my favorite," he said, pointing at the image of the plaintiff on a wake board, showing off a complicated turn. This sort of moment, where he knew he had just cut short a dead-end case, was about the most fun he usually had at work, but today it left him empty.
 

The man sat down in the chair with a thud. A few minutes later, the deposition ended and the plaintiff's lawyer pulled Ben aside for a quick conference in a corner of the room. "Maybe we should get this settled," the attorney said.
 

"Make me an offer," Ben said.
 

He didn't want to pay the faker a dime, but the insurance company would settle for nuisance money. For a nominal sum, the plaintiff and his case would go away and the insurance company wouldn't have to spend any more money defending the lawsuit.
 

The attorney walked to the door with the plaintiff. "I'll get you something in writing this afternoon," he said, holding the door open for Marcus Patterson, whose main injury now looked like it was to his pride.
 

"I don't know how they got that shot," Patterson said. "I know no one was following me. I checked all the time."
 

The door closed behind them and Ben began helping Gordo pack up the files.
 

"That was awesome," Gordo said, still excited from the gotcha moment in the deposition. "Thanks for bringing me along. Did you hear about Stanton's latest? The client wants to settle that bus accident case. A dozen kids hurt, the driver's still in a cast, and the company's maintenance records look like they were created yesterday by the office receptionist. He tells the client 'no problem, we can make this go away for two hundred fifty thousand dollars.' What an ass. He's going to bill at least that trying to get those kids' parents to take pennies for the injuries."
 

Ben didn't want to even think about work and he really didn't want to talk about Stanton and his questionable ethics.
 

"Can I ask you something?" he asked. "Are you happy working at Stanton & Lowe?"

Gordo froze, a file folder slipping from his hand. "Why? Oh, crap. Am I getting canned? God damn it! Did Stanton find out I'm the one who killed his plant? Is that it? Oh, fuck! I have massive student loans. What am I going to do?"

"Calm down, Gordo. You're not getting fired. I'm just asking a question."
 

Gordo put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "Christ, Ben, you just scared the shit out of me. For that, you owe me a beer."
 

"Sorry, didn't mean to panic you," Ben said. "What plant did you kill?"
 

"You didn't hear that," Gordo said. "But hypothetically, one of those orchids in Stanton's office looked a little thirsty, so I—I mean
someone
may have poured the last of his coffee into it. My plants don't mind. I didn't think it would kill it. And you know how Stanton is about his fucking orchids."

Ben laughed. Those flowers were probably the only living things Gregory Stanton loved.

"Seriously, do you like your job?" Ben asked. He picked up a stack of manila folders and slid them into his rolling briefcase.

 
Gordo shrugged. "You know, it's a job. I mean, I like the paycheck. But I'm not going to like any job because basically, I'm pretty lazy."
 

"You're not lazy. I’ve seen you hustling on the court." Ben could barely keep up with Gordo in their pickup basketball games. He also watched Gordo put in sixty-plus-hour work-weeks on a regular basis.
 

"No, it's true, I am," Gordo said, sounding sincere. "I mean, I try and do a good job on every assignment that I'm given, but I'd rather be doing anything else. I might as well be working at Stanton & Lowe as any other place. The pay's above average and I can ride my bike to work."

"So you're working at the firm because it's conveniently located?" Ben asked, shaking his head. "What about your career goals? What would your dream job be?"

"In-house counsel for Victoria's Secret." Gordo answered so quickly that Ben suspected he had thought this through.
 

"You know you wouldn't be working with the models if you're an attorney, right?"
 

"Don't care. I've have better odds of running into a model if I worked there than I do now at Stanton & Lowe," Gordo said. "And just the chance of sharing an elevator with a lingerie model? That would be enough to get me out of bed in the morning."
 

Ben shook his head. How had he ended up seeking career advice from Gordo?

"Why are you asking me this?" Gordo asked. He brushed his hair off his forehead and it slid right back into his eyes. "Are you quitting?"

Ben ran a hand through his hair. "I am really not happy at the firm."

"Yeah, well, I think that's the firm's mission statement. No one is happy there. I mean, my God, Stanton? That man is the devil. The clients? Delusional corporate overlords who rip off injured school kids to save a few bucks for their shareholders. Jesus, your secretary is probably going to go on a rampage with that letter opener she's always waving around. I mean, everyone associated with the place is borderline psychotic," Gordo said. "Well, except you and Dave."
 

"Thanks," Ben said, stacking the photographs of the waterskiing plaintiff, then sliding them into a folder.
 

"So where are you going? Out on your own?" Gordo paused, his eyes widened and he grinned. "No, you got an offer, didn't you? Was it from Angell, Harding & North? I hear they pay for your country club membership."
 

Ben looked around the empty conference room, then shook his head. He had friends from law school working at that firm and it wasn't any better than Stanton & Lowe. "No, not them. I haven't decided."
 

Gordo turned on his sad puppy-dog eyes. "You did get an offer, though?"

He still wasn’t sure why he’d emailed his resume to Jude Fields, since he was supposed to be signing the partnership agreement at Stanton & Lowe. Ben nodded. "An informal offer."

Gordo stared at him, not saying a word. The only reason Ben would feel guilty for wanting to leave Stanton & Lowe is that he’d be leaving Gordo behind.

Ben sighed. "From Jude Fields."
 

Gordo's eyebrows rose. "Well, damn."
 

"I haven't said yes. I don't even have a firm offer. No salary info, nothing like that."
 

"Still, Jude Fields. You gotta do it."

Ben paused. "Why?"

"Because it's Jude Fucking Fields, moron! He's, like, the best criminal defense attorney in the city. He's really, really good. He represented that kid who was charged with killing those antique dealers, the gay couple. Remember? Everyone looooooved those guys and everyone haaaaaated that kid. He not only got that kid cleared of all charges, he ended up finding the evidence that convicted the two men who really did kill the couple. He kicks ass."

"Yeah, I remember that."
 

Ben had followed the story avidly in the newspaper. The crime had captivated the city three or four years ago—a beloved elderly couple murdered in their bed, the victims of an apparent hate crime. A suspect, Micah Rainey, was arrested within a day, with the police department heralding the work of its lead detective in catching a dangerous and angry young man. Ben recalled the image of a scared nineteen-year-old in jailhouse orange, shackled in the courtroom during the arraignment.
 

Jude Fields took the case, demanded a jury trial, and refused all comment. Then days before the jury was to be seated, the district attorney announced they were dropping the charges and had found evidence two other men had committed the crime—and the kid standing at Jude Field's side was innocent.
 

By then, though, Micah had been in jail for months. He missed so much school that he had to drop out of college. He lost his job. He had been branded by the DA and the press as a murderer. His girlfriend dumped him. His friends deserted him. But Jude Fields gave him a job. Micah went back to school, graduated, and wrote a best-selling memoir about his experience, in which Jude Fields came off as a saint.