THREE
The door opened and Pete Samuelson breezed in, dropping his file on the table. He was tall, thin, and bald with a shiny forehead that jutted out like the granite face of a cliff, his eyes chiseled out of the rock like half-hidden caves kept in perpetual shadows regardless of which way he turned. He may have been thirty, but there was no exuberance of youth in him. He was a grinder. A humorless lawyer committed to working endless hours rigidly enforcing the law. He was a perfect prosecutor.
“Busy day?” Mason asked.
“Yeah,” Samuelson answered, biting the word and his lower lip at the same time. He opened Fish’s file, picked up a sheet of paper, and studied it for a moment as if he were the only one in the room.
“Pete,” Mason began, stopping when Samuelson raised his hand.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Samuelson said, putting the page back in the file and closing it. “Your guy is dead- nuts guilty. We’ve got his promotional pieces promising people they’d get everything but laid. We’ve got wiretaps of the owners of the vacation properties telling him they couldn’t handle anywhere near the number of time-shares he was selling and him telling them it didn’t matter so long as he collected the money from the dumb schmucks. Dumb schmucks is a direct quote, by the way.”
Mason leaned forward across the table, cutting the distance between him and Samuelson in half.
“My guy’s name is Avery Fish and he’s sitting right here, in case you hadn’t noticed. He’s not a terrorist or a dope dealer or a bank robber. He’s a grandfather and an active member of his synagogue who’s never been convicted of a crime. We’re not here to argue about your case against him. We’re here to make a deal.”
Samuelson turned to Fish. “Mr. Fish, I meant you no disrespect. I just want you to know that I can put you away for a long time, maybe the rest of your life depending on your health. You’ve got a good lawyer, but not even he is good enough to keep you out of the penitentiary if we don’t make a deal right now in this conference room. Do you understand that?”
Fish had a sudden image of Pete Samuelson wrapped in plastic in the trunk of his car. “I’m an old man, Mr. Samuelson. Don’t worry. You scared me. Talk to my lawyer.”
Samuelson nodded and reopened his file. He took out the page he’d already studied and slid it across the table to Mason. “Eighteen months, two hundred fifty thousand in restitution and a fine for another two-fifty.”
Mason ignored the page in front of him. “Let’s go, Avery,” he said, standing.
Fish looked at Mason, eyes wide. “Go? Where? We aren’t done. We haven’t made the deal.”
“We haven’t made the deal, but we are done. Mr. Samuelson is too proud of his case. He thinks he can bully you into taking a deal that’s no worse than you’d get at trial, where he’s got no better than a fifty-fifty chance at a conviction. He’ll be lucky to get the wiretaps into evidence, and I’ll bet when we start digging, we’ll find out that he made a sweetheart deal with those people in Florida to testify against you in return for their own time-share out of jail. Let’s go.”
Fish didn’t move, but he did sweat. A moist layer that bubbled onto his brow as his skin paled. His breath came in quick bursts. “I want to make a deal. Now,” he managed.
Mason had told Fish that this could happen when they met the day before. He predicted that Samuelson would come on hard and that they would respond by walking out, counting on Samuelson to back up rather than tell his boss that he blew the negotiations. The government’s case was strong but not invincible. Mason bet that Samuelson had been given orders to get rid of the case. No one liked sending old men to jail. Fish was supposed to follow Mason out the door, not fold and beg.
“You’re a smart man, Mr. Fish,” Samuelson said, the first hint of a smile leaking from the corners of his narrow mouth.
“Fortunately, he’s got a smarter lawyer,” Mason said. “If you want to negotiate, we’ll negotiate. But you can save the take-it-or-leave-it crap for somebody else. If my client wants the deal you put on the table, he’ll have to get another lawyer, and you know as well as I do, no lawyer is going to tell him to take that deal. I’m not selling him out. Avery, get your ass out of that chair!”
Fish pushed himself away from the table, still holding on to it. He rose, picking up his coat, his round shoulders sagging as Mason opened the door.
“Okay, Mason,” Samuelson said. “You made your fee speech. Everybody sit down and you tell me what you’re looking for.”
Mason nodded at Fish, who collapsed into his seat. Mason remained standing, one hand on the doorknob. “No jail time. Twelve months suspended with probation. A hundred thousand in restitution and a seventy-five- thousand-dollar fine.”
“You’re not sitting down,” Samuelson said.
“Not until I know if we’re in the ballpark.”
Samuelson ran his hand over his bald head, Mason catching the glow of sweat from his shiny pate. He had been right to call Samuelson’s bluff.
“Same ballpark, but still a long way from home plate. Sit down. I can’t do probation.”
“He won’t pay what you want without probation. That’s not negotiable.”
“Fine. I’ll give you something else that’s not negotiable. Money doesn’t buy probation.”
There was a knock at the door before Mason could answer. Dennis Brewer opened it, not waiting to be invited in. He was the FBI agent on Fish’s case: a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man wearing an expensive dark suit and a flat expression on his ruddy face. The first time they met, Brewer had made it clear to Mason that he had more important things to do than screw around with a small-time con man like Fish. He shot the cuffs of his shirt to make the point, his gold cufflinks with diamond centers catching the light. Mason wanted to ask him, Who’s your daddy?
Brewer took two quick steps to Samuelson, bent down, and whispered in Samuelson’s ear, cupping his hand to shield what he was saying. Finished, he stood, giving Fish a hard stare.
“You’re certain?” Samuelson asked Brewer.
“Absolutely,” Brewer answered.
“Another emergency?” Mason asked. “Take your time.”
Samuelson frowned, the little light in his eyes dimming. “Not necessary. We’re done. Our deal is off the table.”
“Done? Why?” Mason asked.
“There’s a dead body in the trunk of your client’s car.”
FOUR
Clients never tell their lawyers everything. Mason knew that. Expected it. He tried different things to encourage their candor. He worked hard to build rapport that translated into trust. He provided a sympathetic audience of one ready to receive confessions without passing judgment. He extolled the sanctity of the attorney- client privilege, assuring his clients that their darkest secrets would remain locked in his ethical vault.
But he knew better than to be disappointed or surprised when a client held something back. It was a self- protective human impulse, the remnants of a primordial survival instinct. Knowledge is power. Confession is weak. Truth is a commodity to be bartered for freedom.
Avery Fish had raised the bar for holding back to new heights. A dead body wasn’t easy to overlook or ignore. One parked in the trunk of your car was positively unforgettable, however unmentionable.
Samuelson and Brewer left them in the conference room, Brewer telling Fish to stay put until the police arrived. Mason cracked the door open a moment later. A deputy U.S. Marshal stared at him from the hallway, motioning him back into the conference room with one hand, the other resting on the butt of his service weapon.
Mason closed the door and turned to Fish, who was slumped on the table, his head on his folded arms.
“I’ve got at least fifty questions I could start with,” Mason said.
“Do me a favor,” Fish mumbled. “Pick an easy one.”
