Rogue Lawyer (20 page)

Partner parks our van in a crowded lot and walks into the mall. He'll enter a two-story restaurant that anchors one wing of the mall, and he'll find a window seat in a small bar area on the upper level. From there, he'll watch the van to see who else is watching the van.

At 4:00 p.m., Arch Swanger knocks on the sliding door. I open it. Welcome to my office. He takes a seat in a comfortable recliner and looks around. He smiles at the leather, the television, the stereo, the sofa, the refrigerator. “Pretty cool,” he says. “Is this really your office?”

“It is.”

“I figured a big shot like you would have a fancy office in one of those tall buildings downtown.”

“I had one once, but it got firebombed. Now I prefer a moving target.”

He stares at me for a second as if he's not sure I'm serious. The goofy blue glasses have been replaced by black readers that actually succeed in making him appear somewhat more intelligent. He's wearing a black felt driving cap that looks authentic. It's a nice look, an effective disguise. From ten feet away you wouldn't know it was the same guy. He says, “Really, your office was firebombed?”

“It was, about five years ago. Don't ask who because I don't know. It was either a drug dealer or some undercover cops. Personally, I think it was the narcs because the police showed little enthusiasm when it came to investigating the fire.”

“You see, that's what I like about you, Mr. Rudd. Can I call you Sebastian?”

“I prefer Mr. Rudd, until I'm hired. After that, you can call me Sebastian.”

“Okay, Mr. Rudd, I like it that the cops don't like you and you don't like them.”

“I know a lot of the guys on the force and we get along fine,” I say, fudging just a little. I like Nate Spurio and a couple of others. “Let's talk business. I've had a chat with the detective, our pal Landy Reardon, and they don't have much in the way of evidence. They're pretty sure you're the guy; they just can't prove it yet.”

This would be the perfect time for him to deny his guilt. Something simple and thoroughly unoriginal like “They got the wrong guy” would be appropriate. Instead, he says, “I've had lawyers before, several of them, most appointed by the court, and I never felt like I could trust them, you know? But I feel like I can trust you, Mr. Rudd.”

“Back to the deal, Arch. For a fee of $10,000 I'll represent you through the indictment stage. Once you're indicted, and facing a trial, my representation will end. At that point we'll sit down to discuss our future together.”

“I don't have $10,000 and I think that's too much just to get to the indictment. I know how the system works.”

He's not completely wrong about this. Ten grand for the initial skirmishes is a bit steep, but I always start on the high side. “I'm not going to negotiate, Arch. I'm a busy lawyer with a lot of clients.”

From his shirt pocket he pulls out a folded check. “Here's five thousand, from my mother's account. It's the best we can do.”

I unfold the check. Local bank. Five grand. Signed by Louise Powell. He says, “Powell was her third husband, dead. My parents divorced when I was a kid. Haven't seen my dear old dad in a long time.”

Five grand keeps me in the game and in the news and it's not a bad fee for the first round or two. I refold the check, stick it in my shirt pocket, and pull out a contract for legal services. My cell phone is sitting on the small table in front of me. It vibrates. Partner's calling. “Excuse me a second. I gotta take this.”

“It's your office.”

Partner says, “You got two cops in a white Jeep fifty feet away, just pulled in and watching the van.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.” I tell Swanger, “Your buddies picked up your tail. They know you're here and they know my van. Nothing wrong with a lawyer meeting with his client.”

He shakes his head and says, “They follow me everywhere. You gotta help me.”

I slowly walk him through the contract. When everything is clear, both of us sign it. For good measure I say, “I'm going straight to the bank. If the check doesn't clear, the contract is void. Understand?”

“You think I'd write a bad check?”

I can't help but smile. I reply, “Your mother wrote it. I don't take chances.”

“She drinks too much but she's not a crook.”

“I'm sorry, Arch. I didn't mean to imply that. It's just that I see my share of bad checks.”

He waves me off and says, “Whatever.”

We stare at the table for a minute or so, and I finally say, “Is there something you'd like to talk about, now that you have a lawyer?”

“You got a beer in that cute little fridge?”

I reach over, open the door, and pull out a can of beer. He pops the top and takes a long swig. He likes it, says with a laugh, “I guess this is the most expensive beer I've ever had.”

“That's one way of looking at it. Keep in mind that no other lawyer would serve you a drink in his office.”

“Got that right. You're the first.” Another gulp. “So, Sebastian, it is Sebastian now, right, now that I've forked over the fee and we've signed a contract?”

“Sebastian works.”

“Okay, Sebastian, in addition to some beer, what do I get for five thousand bucks?”

“Legal advice, for starters. And protection—the cops won't be tempted to drag you in and rough you up in one of their infamous ten-hour interrogations. It'll be hands off as they play it by the book. I have a relationship with Detective Reardon and I'll try to convince him that they don't have enough evidence to move forward. If they find any evidence, chances are I'll know about it.”

He turns the can up, drains it, wipes his mouth with a sleeve. A thirsty frat boy could not have finished the beer any faster. It's another perfect moment for him to say something like “There is no evidence.” Instead, he belches and says, “And if I'm arrested?”

“Then I'll be at the jail trying to get you out, which will be impossible. A charge of murder in this city means no bail. I'll file a bunch of motions and make some noise. I have friends at the newspaper and I'll leak the fact that the police have little in the way of evidence. I'll start intimidating the prosecutor.”

“Doesn't sound like much for $5,000. Could I have another beer?”

I hesitate for a second and quickly decide that two will be his limit, at least in my office. I hand him another can and say, “I'll refund the money right now, Arch, if you're unhappy with our arrangement. As I've said, I'm a busy lawyer with a lot of clients. Five thousand bucks is not going to change my life.”

He pops the top and takes a reasonable sip.

I ask, “You want the check back?”

“No.”

“Then stop bitching about the fee.”

He glares at me and for the first time I catch the cold, hollow stare of a killer. I've seen it before. He says, “They're gonna kill me, Sebastian. The cops can't prove anything, they can't find their man, and they're under a ton of pressure. They're afraid of me because if they arrest me then they have to deal with you, and since they have no evidence they don't want to go to trial. Imagine a not-guilty verdict after a huge trial. So, to sort of short-circuit everything, they're just gonna take me out and save everyone the trouble. I know this because they've told me. Not Detective Reardon. Not the big shots down at Central. But the cops on the street, some of those guys who follow me nonstop, twenty-four seven. They even watch the trailer when I'm asleep. They harass me, cuss me, threaten me. And I know they're gonna kill me, Sebastian. You know how rotten this department really is.” He goes silent as he takes another drink.

“I doubt that,” I say. “Sure, we have some bad apples, but I've never known them to rub out a murder suspect just because they couldn't nail him.”

“I know a guy they killed, a drug dealer. Made it look like a botched delivery.”

“I'm not going to argue about this.”

“Here's the problem, Sebastian. If they put a bullet in my head, then they'll never find that girl's body.”

My stomach flips but I remain stone-faced. It's customary for the accused to deny guilt. It's unheard of for him to admit to the crime, especially at such an early stage. I never ask criminal defendants if they're guilty; it's a waste of time and they lie anyway. I proceed carefully with “So you know where her body is?”

“Let me get this straight, Sebastian. You're now my lawyer and I can tell you anything, right? If I killed ten girls and hid their bodies and told you all about it, you couldn't repeat a word, right?”

“That's right.”

“Never?”

“There's only one exception to the rule. If you tell me something in confidence, and I believe that it will endanger other people, then I am allowed to repeat it to the authorities. Other than that, I can never tell.”

Satisfied, he smiles and takes a drink. “Relax, I didn't kill ten girls. And I'm not saying I killed Jiliana Kemp either, but I know where she's buried.”

“Do you know who killed her?”

He pauses, says yes, then goes silent again. It's obvious he's not naming names. I reach into the fridge and get a beer for myself. We drink for a few minutes. He watches every move, as if he knows my heart is pounding away. Finally, I say, “Okay, I'm not asking for any information, but do you think it's important for someone, maybe me, to know where she is?”

“Yes, but I have to think about it. Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow. Maybe not.”

My thoughts turn directly to the Kemp family and their unspeakable nightmare. At this moment I hate this guy and would love to see him locked up, or worse. Sipping a beer in my van like he's Joe Cool while the family suffers.

“When was she killed?” I asked, pushing it.

“I'm not sure. I didn't do it, I swear. But she did not give birth in captivity, if that's what you want to know. There was no baby sold on the black market.”

“You know a lot, don't you?”

“I know too much and it's about to get me killed. I may have to disappear, you know?”

“Taking flight is a clear sign of guilt. It will be used against you in court. I wouldn't advise it.”

“So you want me to stay here and take a bullet.”

“The cops do not kill murder suspects, okay, Arch? Trust me on this.”

He crushes his can and leaves it on the table. “I got nothing else to say right now, Sebastian. I'll see you later.”

“You have my number.”

He opens the door and gets out. Partner watches him as he glances around, looks for the cops, then enters the mall and disappears.

Partner and I drive straight to the bank. The check is no good. I call Arch for an hour and finally get him. He apologizes and promises the check will be good tomorrow. Something tells me I'd be a fool to believe him.

It's 4:33 in the morning and my phone is ringing. I grab it and don't recognize the number. This is always trouble. “Hello,” I say.

“Hey, Sebastian, it's me, Arch. Got a minute?”

Of course, Arch. Oddly enough, I'm not that busy in the middle of the night. I take a deep breath and say, “Sure, Arch, I have a minute. But it's four in the morning, so this better be good.”

“I'm out of town, okay, officially on the run. I shook 'em off and slipped through their net, and I'm not coming back, so they'll never catch me.”

“Big mistake, Arch. Better find yourself a new lawyer.”

“You're my lawyer, Sebastian.”

“The check is rubber, Arch. Remember what I said?”

“You still have it, run it through today. I swear it'll clear.” His words are fast and clipped, and he sounds as though he'd been running. “Look, Sebastian, I want you to know where that girl is, okay? Just in case something happens to me. There are others involved, and I could easily end up on the short end of the stick, know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“I can't explain all of it, Sebastian. It's complicated. I got folks after me, cops as well as some guys who make cops look like Cub Scouts.”

“Too bad, Arch. I can't help you.”

“You ever see that billboard down the interstate, about an hour south of here, big bright sign in a cornfield, says, ‘Vasectomy Reversals.' You ever see it, Sebastian?”

“I don't think so.” Every reasonable thought and instinct tells me to cancel this call immediately. Just hang up, stupid. And never speak to him again. Physically, though, I freeze and cannot do it.

His voice is animated now, as if he's thoroughly enjoying this. “ ‘Vasectomy Reversals by Dr. Woo. All insurance accepted. Call twenty-four hours a day. Toll-free number.' That's where she's buried, Sebastian, under that billboard, right next to a cornfield. My father had a vasectomy two years before I was born, not sure what went wrong and my mother was certainly perplexed. Maybe she was seeing someone on the side. So who's my daddy, right? I guess we'll never know. Anyway, I've always had this fascination with vasectomies. A snip here and a snip there, drive yourself home and shoot blanks for the rest of your life. Such a simple procedure but such dramatic results. You had the Big V, Sebastian?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so. You're such a stud.”

“So you buried her, is that what you're saying, Arch?”

“Ain't saying anything, Sebastian. Except good-bye and thanks for keeping this a secret. I'll check in later.”

I wrap myself in a blanket and sit outside on the small terrace. It's cold and dark and the streets far below are quiet and empty. In moments like these, I wonder why I became a criminal defense lawyer. Why have I chosen to spend my life trying to protect people who, for the most part, have done horrible things? I can justify it on the usual grounds, but at times like this my heart is not really in it. I think about architecture school, my second choice. But then, I know some architects and they have their own issues.

First scenario: Swanger is telling the truth. In that case, am I bound by ethics and duty to stay quiet? Hand in hand is the question, am I really his lawyer? No and yes. We signed a contract, but he breached the contract by paying with a bad check. No contract means no representation, but it's never that clear. I met with him on two occasions, and during both he considered me to be his lawyer. Both were clearly lawyer-client meetings. He asked for advice. I gave it. He followed most of it. He confided in me. When he told me about the body, he certainly thought he was talking to his lawyer.

Second scenario: Let's say I'm his lawyer, I never see him again, and I decide to tell the police what he told me. It would be a serious breach of client trust, probably enough to get me disbarred. But who will complain? If he's on the run, or dead, how much trouble can he cause me?

Third scenario: Plenty. If the body is where he says it is, and I tell the police, then Swanger will be hunted, found, tried, convicted, and given death. He would blame me, and he would be correct. My career would be over.

Fourth scenario: I cannot tell the police, under any circumstances. They don't know what I know, and I'm not about to tell them. I think about the Kemp family and their nightmare, but there's no way I can break a confidential relationship. With luck, the family will never know that I know.

Fifth scenario: Swanger is lying. He seemed too anxious to tell me. He's playing games and sucking me into some awful scheme that will only end badly. He knew the check would bounce. His poor mother has never seen $5,000 in her life, nor has he.

Sixth scenario: Swanger is not lying. I can leak the information to Nate Spurio, my mole deep in the department. The body will be found. Swanger will be caught and put on trial and I will be nowhere near the courthouse. If he killed the girl, I want him locked up.

I kick around several other scenarios and things get foggier, not clearer. At 5:30, I put on the coffee. While it brews I rack all fifteen balls and break with a rather soft shot. The neighbor next door has complained about the noise of clacking balls at weird hours, so I work on my finesse game. I run the table, sink the 8 ball in a corner, pour a cup of strong coffee, and run the table again. Another rack, and I leave the 4 ball an inch from the pocket. Thirty-three in a row. Not bad.

Vasectomy reversals?