No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (16 page)

Michael took off his suit jacket. He slid it onto the hanger behind the door, and then sat down. Pushing most of the files to the side, Michael picked up two fax confirmation sheets. They indicated that his brief opposing the stay of Andie Larone’s case had been filed and faxed to the court while he was gone.

Then he picked up the phone messages. The first was from the United States Attorney’s Office. He checked the time, and then dialed the number for Brenda Gadd.

Her assistant answered.

“
This is Michael Collins.” He listened. Gadd wanted to meet with him after they received Judge Baumann’s order. “Seems a bit formal.” Michael looked down at the other messages, one from Father Stiles about dinner. Another from Patty Bernice, something related to Lowell Moore and “ASAP!!” underlined twice.

“
Can’t she just call me?”

The assistant continued, excuses were made and further reasons were provided. Eventually, Michael agreed.

“
But, she’s coming here.”

He hung up the phone, and then looked at the last and final phone message. It was from Tammy Duckstein. Michael turned to his computer, and punched in her name for a quick internet search.

There were a number of hits related to “ducks” and German beer “steins,” which were interesting, but not relevant. Michael clicked through a few more pages, and found a site related to the law.

Tamra P. Duckstein, Esq., worked at the New York Attorney Disciplinary Committee.

Michael clicked on the link, and then was routed to the committee’s home page.

Ms. Duckstein was a staff attorney for the First Department Disciplinary Committee for New York and Queens Counties. The committee was part of the state court system, and heard any complaints or grievances about practicing attorneys in those counties.

Michael clicked out of the web page. He decided not to return the call. If a disciplinary committee wanted to speak with him, it wasn’t likely to be good news.

He decided instead to prepare himself for a meeting with the great Lowell Moore.  Michael picked up his legal pad and pen, but before he started, there was an unexpected guest.

“
I heard you wanted to see me.”

Michael looked up. There in his doorway stood the Professor. His hair was slicked back, face cleanly shaven. He wore the standard-issue attorney uniform, complete with striped tie and leather briefcase.

“
Shall I shut the door?” The Professor took another step inside, closing the door behind him.

“
How did you get in here?”

“
I rode the elevator up to your floor, smiled at the lovely receptionist, and walked back to your office.” The Professor sat down in the chair in front of Michael’s desk and got comfortable. “You don’t honestly think the receptionists know every attorney who works in this place, do you?”

“
I’ve got nothing for you.”

“
Perhaps.” The Professor surveyed the office’s bare walls. “But then why were you looking for me, paying a visit to my former place of employment, breaking into a deserted residence in our beloved Alphabet City neighborhood?” He paused. “I know what you’ve been up to, Michael. There are a lot of eyes on you.”

Michael started to respond, but the Professor raised one of his thick hands.

“
If you may allow me the opportunity to posit a theory.” He adjusted his tie, and then cleared his throat. “You were following up on Ms. Larone’s – how do you say in Perry Mason-speak? –  following up on Ms. Larone’s alibi.” When the Professor said the word alibi, he laughed, enjoying himself. “Anyway, you arrive at the First National Building, a truly magnificent representation of art deco design, and learn that the security guard that was working on the evening of Ms. Larone’s arrest was one Daniel Beale, a man who bears a striking resemblance to the man seated before you.”

Michael felt his grip tighten around his pen. He wished he had his gun.

“
You also learn,” the Professor continued, “that there is no Green Earth Investment Capital at the First National Building, and there never was, so you go to Beale’s apartment with no real strategy other than to do something – strike that – do anything that would give you and that Cheech and Chong friend of yours the temporal feeling of progress.”

The Professor leaned toward Michael, and then lowered his voice.

“
Well, let me give you a little hint. You catch me and put me on the stand in your little trial, and you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to say I never saw your little girlfriend before in my life.” His voiced went to a whisper. “It wouldn’t be hard to hang your girlfriend, Mr. Collins, whether I’m on the witness stand or not.” The Professor leaned back. “Unless, of course, you give Mr. Deti his money.”

“
I don’t have it.” Michael looked away. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

The Professor shook his head.

“
You know that isn’t true. You can turn to that little computer, right behind you, log onto the internet, and transfer the money from your offshore account to an offshore account of Mr. Deti’s choosing.”

The Professor opened his briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. The paper was blank, except for thirteen digits printed across the top.

“
Here’s the account number.” The Professor set the piece of paper on Michael’s desk. “Things are changing, Mr. Collins. Perhaps you are aware of recent developments in the philosophy of natural process limits and chaos theory. If not, I would like to take a moment to enlighten you.”

“
If this has anything to do with Dr. Moo Yung Song and the numeric equilibrium, I’m leaving.”

“
Everything is a system,” the Professor said, ignoring the comment. “There are problems within each system that can be internally solved.” The Professor waited for his thesis to be absorbed and appreciated. “This is the classic case of cause and effect – you return Mr. Deti’s money, and in return I go away. Cause and effect. But, when there are a series of simple cause and effect events, these events may trigger external issues outside the control of the internal system that we intended to develop.”

“
Could you get to the point?”

“
Chaos.” The Professor leaned his massive frame forward, again. “If you let this go any further, the grand jury is going to convene and you are going to be indicted. At that point, an external issue will have developed beyond the internal system that we intended to create. The grand jury is beyond my control, and certainly beyond your control. I’ll be forced to accelerate things, and, shall we say, take a less diplomatic approach toward the retrieval of Mr. Deti’s monetary assets.” The Professor took a breath. “Mr. Deti has no intention of watching you go off to jail without getting his money. I want to be clear about that.”

The Professor reached into his briefcase and removed a sheath of paper and a DVD.

“
This is the bonus, Mr. Collins.” He held the paper and the DVD up so that Michael could see them. “Something to incentivize conduct that will allow for a mutually beneficially resolution of this situation. The papers are a copy of the original sign-in sheets from the First National Building, which clearly bear the name and signature of one Ms. Andie Larone.”

The Professor looked down at the piece of paper. “It says that she signed in at 9:03 p.m. and out at 10:20 p.m.”

Michael swallowed hard. It took everything in his power not to jump over his desk and grab the papers out of the Professor’s hand. 

“
And this is a DVD of the security video from that evening. It is, like all security video, time-stamped and dated. This video also clearly indicates the arrival and departure of your girlfriend at one location when she should, according to law enforcement officers and politically ambitious prosecutors, be across town killing a nasty drug-dealing Dutchman, pardon the alliteration.”

Michael tested him: “What about the tip, the man in the apartment who called in the license plate?”

The Professor smiled.

“
I believe that tip was anonymous, and I am also confident that the police will have a difficult time tracking that fine citizen down.” He winked, and then stood, putting the DVD and sheath of papers back in his briefcase. “You have the account number.”

He tapped his finger on the account number printed on the sheet of paper on Michael’s desk.

“
Transfer the money, get the bonus, and get out of here.” The Professor turned and started walking out of the room. “I might even agree to testify, say that I offered the cops this information on the night of the Johannson killing, but they didn’t want it. The cops told me they already had the case pinned on a little brunette cutie-pie, but I found that to be ethically wrong.” The Professor put his hand on his heart and fluttered his eyelashes, a damsel in distress. “I will be morally compelled to testify.” 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Michael sat at his desk and stared at the account number in front of him. His heart and the thoughts running through his head seemed to be racing one another. Michael picked up the sheet of paper, reading the account numbers, again, and then glanced back at the computer. External issues out of their control were coming to a head. That much the Professor was right about. 

The phone rang.

Michael set the piece of paper down, and picked up the receiver. It was Patty Bernice.

“
Yeah,” he said, “I got your message.” Michael looked at the stack of untouched files on the corner of his desk. “I’ll be right down.”

He hung up the phone, and gathered a fresh notepad and pen. Michael got up from his chair, walked out of his office and down the hall, stopping at Patty’s desk.

Noting that the yellow post-it note was gone, he asked, “Doing all right?”

Patty nodded.

“
Got to have a thick skin around here.” Her eyes were still bloodshot from crying. “Lowell’s on the phone,” she glanced at the red light on her phone, “but you can just go right in.”

“
Thanks.” Michael put his hand on her shoulder, touched it briefly, and then walked into Lowell’s office.

“
We need to get to Slim Jim,” Lowell barked. “He can push this thing right through the CPSC and it’ll be on the shelves tomorrow.”

The CPSC was the Consumer Product Safety Commission. Lowell waved Michael inside and pointed at the chair in front of his mammoth desk.

“
Okay, talk to you tomorrow.”

Lowell hung up the phone, and then looked at Michael.

“
Corporate counsel wants to go through their congressman to get this through, and I tell them over and over that if you get the congressman involved, it’s another layer of bureaucracy, another reason for delay, and we can short-cut the whole deal by going to Slim Jim.”

Lowell’s eyes were wide. Every word blurted out, as if there wasn’t enough time in the day to get at all of the important and interesting tasks before him. He was a man who loved the fight.

“
Slim Jim?”

“
James H. Zimmerman,” Lowell said. “He’s head of the CPSC.”

“
What’s the product?”

“
Two-person Jumpin’ Jacks.” Lowell pointed at the papers in Michael’s hand. “It’s all in those files.”

“
Right.” Michael glanced at the unread files. “So what’s the problem?”

“
Well, you know how babies love to bounce, right? And, there’s a huge market for those things that hang off doorways and allow kids to spring up and down in a little chair that’s hooked up to a huge bungee cord. Well, how great would it be if two kids got to do that at the same time? Brother and sister, neighbor and neighbor.”

“
Pretty great.” Michael wasn’t even coming close to matching Lowell’s enthusiasm.

“
Absolutely.” Lowell nodded. “Our client’s done research and there’s a big demand for two-person Jumpin’ Jacks, but some technocrat thinks it isn’t a good idea. Nonsense about the strength of the spring and kids flying into walls and breaking their little necks.”

“
Right.”

“
So I need you to do a fifty-state survey of all the lawsuits related to the one-person Jumpin’ Jack, and then in a letter say how the two-person Jumpin’ Jack has addressed these concerns.”

“
Is there a paralegal or investigator that can help me?”

Lowell winced as the phone rang.

“
Just you,” he said, glancing down at the number on the Caller ID screen. “I need to get this.” He picked up the phone. “Yes.” Lowell listened. “Hang on a second?” He put his hand over the receiver. “We done?”

“
When do you need it by?”

“
Tomorrow it goes out,” Lowell said. “Come by my house tonight, have dinner with Val and me, and I can go over the letter.” His phone rang, again. There was a call on Lowell’s second line. “Patty, who is it now?” Lowell screamed, and Patty screamed back. He looked at Michael. “I should get this too.” Lowell punched one of his phone’s many buttons. “I’ll see you tonight.”