Running parallel to Main Street was Broad Street. Elm, the street farthest from the river, started commercial, then curved through a pleasant, tree-shaded, residential section of town until it arrived at the campus of Whitaker State College. On the other side of the college was the hospital.
As Peter walked, he saw battered Ford pickups in the parking spaces and noticed more cowboy hats than he had seen all of last year in Portland. When he reached Main and Fourth, he checked the slip of paper with Geary's address. On both sides of Main were old, two and three-story brick buildings.
Peter saw Dot's coffee shop, B.J.'s beauty salon and an orange-and-black Rexhall sign, but no law office. Then, he glanced up a story and saw AMOS J. GEARY, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW painted in flaking gold letters on a second-floor window. Peter backtracked and found a narrow doorway between the beauty salon and the coffee shop. The door opened directly into a cramped stairwell. Dingy, green linoleum was secured to the stairs by dented brass runners. It creaked underfoot as Peter climbed to the second floor.
The hall at the top of the stairs was dark and musty.
Geary's name and profession were painted in black on a door to the left of the stairwell. The door stuck and Peter had to push hard to get it open. A middle-aged woman with grey hair was sitting behind a desk working at a word processor, the only item in the reception area that did not look as if it had been purchased in a seca ndhand store.
Two issues of Field and Stream and a dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated lay on a low Formica-topped end table next to a couch made of cracked, red imitation leather. A ceiling fixture lit by a dim bulb and a little sunlight that managed to work its way through the dirtcovered front window conspired to cast a dull yellow glow over the room. Peter could not help comparing this iquated dump to the elegant offices from which he had so recently been evicted. The memory of the plush carpets, brass fixtures and polished woods made his stomach seize up in rage and frustration. It just was not fair.
The woman looked up when the door opened and stared at Peter through glasses with thick, black plastic rims.
'I'm Peter Hale. I have an appointment with Mr. Geary for nine.'
The woman eyed him suspiciously.
'You're the young man who's going to work here, aren't you?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Well, take a seat. Mr. Geary's not in just yet. But I expect he'll be along any minute. He has court at ten.'
The secretary-receptionist went back to her work without another word. Peter was shocked by her abrupt dismissal, but decided against reprimanding the woman.
She'd probably be typing his work and did not pay to alienate what appeared to be the only support staff in the office.
Peter sat on the couch. After a while, he looked around the reception room. Except for some cracks in the ceiling plaster, he did not see anything he had not seen the first time he looked. Peter glanced at his watch.
It was nine-fifteen. He decided to check out the Sports Illustrated. It was nine months old but Peter thumbed through it anyway. He was finished skimming it by nine-thirty and was deciding whether to read an article on a Peruvian boxer or start on Field and Stream when the door to the law office opened.
Amos Geary's face was a beet-red matrix of busted blood vessels. What Was left of his unkempt hair was a dingy gray and he had compensated for its loss by growing a shaggy, walrus mustache. His bloodshot eyes were lost in folds of puffy flesh. Geary was as tall as Peter's father and looked twice as heavy. His stomach sagged over his belt and the buttons on his shirt looked as if they were about to pop. Peter was wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit and a tasteful maroon tie. Geary was wearing an awful aquamarine tie spotted with stains that matched those on his rumpled brown suit. Peter's facial muscles twitched with the effort it took to hide his distaste.
Geary studied the young man from the open doorway, mentally reconstructing his face with his mother's features deleted and his father's expanded.
'Peter Hale, I presume?'
'Mr. Geary?' Peter asked hesitantly while he studied Geary's sagging jowls and bulbous, red-veined nose.
Geary shifted his battered briefcase and extended his right hand. It was sweaty and Peter withdrew his own after a light touch as if he feared he could contract alcoholism from the brief contact.
'How was the drive?' Geary asked, ignoring the light and Peter's discomfort.
'Fine,' Peter responded, flinching slightly as Geary's alcohol- and mouthwash-drenched breath hit him full in the face.
'Glad to hear it.'
'Don't forget you have court at ten,' the secretary reminded Geary.
'What case, Clara?'
'Judd.'
'Oh, lord. Not Judd,' Geary answered, turning his back on Peter and trudging down a dark and dingy hall.
'Follow me,' Geary called over his shoulder. Peter trailed his new boss to a poorly lit office that stank of stale smoke. Geary tossed his briefcase on top of a mess of files and papers stacked atop a battle-scarred, wooden desk.
Peter sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. While Geary rummaged through a gray metal filing cabinet for the Judd file, Peter looked around the office. On one wall, among diplomas and certificates attesting to Geary's admission to various state and federal bars, was a black-and-white team photo of the 1956 Oregon State football team. Geary caught Peter looking at it.
'I'm in the front, kneeling down. Your father's behind me on the right. I opened holes for him for four years and I've got cleat marks on my back to prove Geary said with a brusque laugh.
Peter forced a smile. He was not in the mood to listen to an old drunk wax nostalgic about the man who had exiled him to this big zero. Then, he noticed a framed law degree to the right of Geary's OSU diploma.
'You went to Harvard?' Peter asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
'Class of '59. Does that surprise you?'
'Well ... Uh, no,' Peter said, flushing because Geary had read him so easily.
'It should. A Harvard man stuck out here in the boonies. But, then, you're stuck here with me, aren't you?'
This time, Peter flushed from anger. Geary found the Judd file and slumped onto a slat-back chair behind the desk.
'Your father told me everything when he asked me to hire you. To be honest, I was against it. Not because I was unsympathetic to Dick's attempts to save your soul.
I just didn't want to put my practice at risk while your father was fighting for your salvation.'
'If you didn't want me here,' Peter asked resentfully, 'why did you agree to hire me?'
Geary folded his hands behind his head, leaned back and studied Peter without rancor.
'I owe your father a great debt. Supervising your stay in purgatory will take a little off the top. But I made it clear to Dick that I'll drop you like a hot coal if you fuck up. I have a sense of honor, but not a shred of sentimentality. Do we understand each other?'
Peter nodded.
'Good,' Geary said. 'Now, let me tell you the facts of life in Whitaker. There are fifteen lawyers in private practice in this county. Five of them work at Sissler, Macafee and Petersen. They handle every insurance defense case in Whitaker and the five surrounding counties. Those boys make the big bucks. The other ten attorneys, including yours truly, do not.-We fight over the scraps. There's the occasional personal injury case.
One good old boy runs his four-by-four into some other good old boy's four-by-four. I write wills, I handle divorces. If it walks through the door and it doesn't take a lot of expertise, I'm your man, 'Then, there's crime. Crime does pay, only not for the criminals. You're probably wondering how I can afford these palatial digs. Well, I'll let you in on the secret.
About fifteen years ago, the state decided to contract out indigent defense and I was firstest with the mostest. I've had the contract for Whitaker, Blaine and Cayuse counties, ever since. It pays my overhead and makes me a small profit. It's easy money and I aim to keep it. That's where you come in. You're gonna become the Perry Mason of Whitaker County.'
