The Up and Comer (25 page)

Huh?

I didn't understand, and the look on my face said as much.

"I'll explain later," Jack told me. "Let me know if you have any problem making the switch."

I nodded and watched as he turned and walked out of my office. He had been oblique with me before. Never to that extent.

* * *

A little DUI-DMV primer.

Get nailed for DUI and, in addition to having to answer to the courts, you have the Department of Motor Vehicles with which to contend. They wield a mighty big stick, most would agree, as they are the ones who ultimately decide the fate of your driver's license, a little laminated rectangle that you never realize how much you love and cherish until there's a chance it might be taken away from you.

If at the time of your DUI arrest you agree to perform the Breathalyzer test and fail it, your license gets suspended for three months. If you refuse the Breathalyzer test altogether, your license gets suspended for six months. In both cases, however, you have the right to request a DMV hearing in which to dispute the circumstances. If you have the slightest of arguments, as any lawyer will tell you, it's definitely a right you should exercise. You have nothing to lose… except your license, of course, which you would've lost anyway if you were to forgo the hearing.

That's the upshot. A little simplified, a lot abridged, and still probably more than you'd ever want or need to know. Oh, and one more thing: it so happens that the DMV arranges for practicing attorneys to reside over the hearings.

* * *

I told the lady on the other end of the line that she sounded exactly like Lauren Bacall. It was something I always did. Whenever I needed cooperation, if not an outright favor from a stranger over the phone, I was sure to comment early in the conversation how much he or she sounded like a certain beloved celebrity. High-pitched women were told Goldie Hawn. Younger guys, David Duchovny. Guys a few years senior, Michael Douglas. And in the case of the older, slightly husky-voiced woman named Priscilla whom I got transferred to at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Westchester…. Lauren Bacall. Priscilla really liked that. They always do. They never come right out and say that they're flattered; you can just tell. A generally reliable way to butter someone up without appearing overly fawning or kiss-ass.

After listening to Priscilla tell me that
The Big Sleep
with Bogart and Bacall was one of her favorite movies, I proceeded to explain that I had an important doctor's appointment on the morning for which Sally's hearing had been scheduled.

"Well, we don't want you to miss that, do we?" said Priscilla, sounding most accommodating.

Ever so casually I suggested as an alternative hearing date the Tuesday afternoon that Jack had specified. Through the phone I could hear the pages of Priscilla's desk calendar being turned.

"How's three o'clock?" she asked.

"Perfect," I told her.

"Tuesday at three it is. Hearing room number two," she said.

"Thanks,
shveetheart,"
I said back, doing what was admittedly a really bad Humphrey Bogart. It was good enough for Priscilla, though. She howled in her not-even-close-to-Lauren-Bacall voice and told me to have a wonderful day.

There, I had done as Jack had asked. The problem was, Jack hadn't done what I'd asked: tell me why he wanted me to switch the hearing date. Twice I approached him about it and twice he made some excuse as to why he couldn't explain it to me at that particular moment. It was an odd kind of brush-off. Apparently, I would be told when he was good and ready.

The morning of the hearing arrived. A gray, rainy storm front morning, the Tuesday after Tyler's death. That's when Jack was good and ready. He stepped into my office and closed the door behind him. With the low smattering of thunder rumbling intermittently outside, there was an almost dramatic feeling to the moment. Jack was finally about to explain. Looking me straight in the
 
eyes,
 
he
 
began,
  
"His
 
name
 
is Jonathan Clemments and he has an almost flawless record as an attorney out in Westchester. The
almost
is on account of him having too much to drink one night at a bar association party a couple of years back here in the city. Clemments and a woman other than his adoring wife, Cathy, took it upon themselves to screw each other's brains out behind the closed door of a copier room. How he wishes it had been a locked door. As for me, I thought it was a bathroom."

Jack paused.

"Shit, you walked in on them?" I said.

Jack nodded slowly.

"What'd you do?" I asked him.

"Nothing. I waited until Clemments and I made eye contact and then I closed the door to the copier room and walked away."

"You didn't say anything to him?"

"Nope."

"Not even to him afterward?"

"Nope," Jack said again, shaking his head. "I just tucked it all away for a rainy day."

With that, the corners of Jack's mouth curled up in one very wicked-looking semi smile. We both turned and gazed out the window. Boy, was it ever pouring that day.

By that point I had already pieced it together. Jack saw it in my face… there was no need to say it out loud. He knew Jonathan Clemments was one of the attorneys who resided over DMV hearings in Westchester, and somehow, some way, Jack had been able to find out what his schedule was — that very Tuesday afternoon, it turned out. Not exactly the kind of information the DMV readily hands out, you might imagine.

"So here's what I'd like you to do," said Jack. "First, you and Sally should intentionally arrive ten minutes late to the hearing. Of course, Sally was probably going to do that anyway, but if she happens to be on time, you still wait. When you do go in, introduce yourself to Clemments and hand him your business card. See that he looks at it and sees what firm you're with. If he doesn't, be sure to introduce Sally to him, and say her full name. One way or another I want the name Devine to be kicking around in his head when you apologize for being late. And as for that apology, this is what you should say, word for word:
Sorry to keep you waiting. I was making some copies and, well, you know how screwed up those copy machines can get."

I sat there and stared back at Jack, taking everything in. The absurdity, the cruelty, the brilliance of it all.

"Do you think you'll have any problem doing this?" Jack asked.

I knew he wasn't referring to my memorizing the apology line. He wanted to know if I would have any moral objections to carrying out his game plan.
Moral objections?
Shit, Jack, after Tyler, this was child's play.

I shook my head no.

"Good. Oh, and if you can," he added, "when delivering that line to Clemments, you might want to punch the word
screwed."

"Naturally," I said.

"By the way, what's with the hand?" Jack asked, looking at my bandage.

"A little accident with some scissors, no big deal."

Jack agreed. "Listen, at the hearing, don't worry if things don't go well. I told Sally that if she ends up losing her license, you'd be more than happy to chauffeur her around. How's that for motivation?" he said with a chuckle.

"You're a regular Knute Rockne."

Onward to the hearing.

I had called Sally prior to the drive out to Westchester so she would be sure to meet me inside the front entrance of the DMV. In addition, I told her what to expect during the hearing. She had sounded sober. I kept my fingers crossed.

Sure enough, she was late. Thankfully, though, that's all she was. There was no smell of alcohol, only perfume — something I could tell for sure when she walked right up to me upon arriving and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Apparently, all had been forgiven, or maybe the right word was
forgotten,
since she last left me sitting there in her driveway.

"Am I late? ….I'm sorry," Sally said, closing her umbrella and removing a scarf from around her head.

"It's okay; don't worry about it," I said.

"How do I look?"

I took a step back and eyed her up and down. It was the House of Chanel goes to the Department of Motor Vehicles. With her still perfectly set hair, movie-star makeup, and French-tipped nails, she made for quite the impression. Personally, I was just happy that her shoes matched.

"You look like a million," I told her.

"Is that all?"

Obviously I had forgotten what tax bracket I was talking to. "Make that five million," I said.

"That's more like it," she said with a nod. "Ooh, what happened to your hand?"

I explained.

"I know, I hate scissors," she said.

"So, are you ready?"

"I hope so. Do I have to call this guy
sir
as well?"

"If he asks you anything, yes, though he probably won't."

"That's what you said the last time," she reminded me.

I refrained from pointing out the extenuating circumstances surrounding "the last time." There was no need to revisit it. Instead, I glanced down at my watch to see that it was about ten after three. We were sufficiently late as per Jack. Sally and I walked into the DMV building and made our way up some stairs, finding hearing room two at the end of a hallway.

Jonathan Clemments was skinny, medium height, with black stringy hair that hung on an angle like a guillotine blade across his forehead. He was also annoyed. He had good reason. Here was a guy who was about to decide the driving fate of Sally Devine. The last thing he probably expected was that she and her attorney would have the audacity, the stupidity, to keep him waiting.

Jack, I hope you know what I'm doing.

The room was one long folding table, some chairs, and a reel-to-reel tape recorder for a future transcript of the proceedings. I walked over to Clemments and introduced myself. We shook hands and I pulled out my business card. "Here," I said, handing it to him. "I saw some Japanese businessmen do this once." He didn't find the line funny. Nonetheless, he did look down and read the card. Fact was, seeing the name Sally Devine in the file for his next case would hardly give him pause. It wasn't that uncommon a last name. Seeing it on my business card, however, and putting one and one together would be a different story. His slightly bewildered expression was all I needed to continue.

"I want to apologize for being late; it's all my fault," I said. "I was making some copies back at the office and, well, you know how
screwed
up those copy machines can get."

As fast as you can say "Casper," his already pasty-white complexion turned all the more pale, and I watched as his Adam's apple immediately went south in a none-too-subtle gulp. He looked to be somewhat of a nervous man to begin with. This certainly could not have helped.

"Copy machine?" he repeated, his voice on the verge of cracking.

"That's right, it really screwed me over," I said.

(Jack would love the fact that I got to say the magic word twice.)

For a few seconds, attorney Jonathan Clemments did nothing except stare at me. Eventually, he seemed to come around.

"Uh, should we, ah, get started then?" he stammered, finding his way back to his chair on one side of the table. Sally and I took our seats opposite him. It was only the three of us in the room. From that point, I didn't know exactly what to expect. My experience with the threat of blackmail had been limited to the receiving end. I was pretty sure, though, that it was his move. As for Sally, she was sitting there picking a piece of lint off her suit.

Clemments turned on the recorder and slated the names of everyone in the room, as well as the date and the case number. He opened up his DMV file on Sally and began to sort through some of the papers. I took the opportunity to remove my own file on Sally from my briefcase, laying it on the table across from his. "Mine's bigger," I thought about joking. Looking at the reels of tape spinning on the recorder, however, made me think otherwise. Besides, Clemments probably wouldn't have seen the humor in that line either.

As he picked up and turned over each sheet of paper, Clemments said aloud what it was. The police report... the arresting officer's statement… suspension notice… notice of rights... He went on and on, and as he did he began to regain his poise, sounding very official. I was starting to wonder if maybe Jack's plan wasn't going to work after all.

"Hmmm," said Clemments.

Hmmm?

He had made his way through all the documents, and while scratching his head, picked up the entire pile and started to go through them again. This time, he refrained from announcing their contents. After the second run-through, he delivered the same response.

"Hmmm."

"Anything wrong?" I asked him.

"I don't seem to see the hospital report on the blood alcohol results," he said. "Do you have a copy?"

Amazing.

It was one of the biggest softball lobs that I'd ever had thrown my way. Clemments was claiming not to have the main piece of evidence that would have made all of my possible arguments and excuses on behalf of Sally crash and burn. Was there a chance that the report really wasn't there in his file? Sure. Kind of like there was a chance he had gone home that night a couple years back and confessed to his adoring wife, Cathy, that he had been banging another woman.