leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
T he police arrived in minutes. Trip was handcuffed and placed in the backseat of a patrol car. DeeAnna cried without effect, then she tried flirting with the cops, and this proved slightly more useful. In the end, though, Trip was hauled away to face charges of assault and vandalism.
When the excitement was over, Rochelle and Oscar went home, leaving Wally and David to sweep up the broken glass and finish signing the Krayoxx letters. They worked for an hour, mindlessly signing Wally’s name and also discussing what to do about the broken window. It could not be replaced until the following day, and the office wouldn’t survive the night with a missing window. Preston wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood, but no one left keys in cars or doors unlocked. Wally had just made the decision to sleep at the office, on the sofa, next to the table, with AC nearby and the Colt within reach, when the front door swung open and dear DeeAnna popped in for the second time.
“What are you doing here?” Wally demanded.
“We need to talk, Wally,” she said in a voice that was unsteady and much softer. She sat in a chair near Rochelle’s desk and crossed her legs in such a way as to leave most of the flesh exposed. She had very nice legs and was wearing the same hooker’s heels she had displayed in court that morning.
“Ooh la la,” Wally said under his breath. Then, “And what would you like to talk about?” he asked.
“I think she’s been drinking,” David whispered as he kept signing.
“I’m not sure I should marry Trip,” she announced.
“He’s a brute, a real loser, DeeAnna. You can do better than that.”
“But I really want my divorce, Wally, can’t you help me out here?”
“Then pay me.”
“I can’t get the money before court tomorrow. I swear that’s the truth.”
“Then too bad.”
David decided that, had the case been his, he would do whatever necessary to get the divorce so DeeAnna and Trip would be history. An extra $300 wasn’t worth all the hassle.
She recrossed her legs, and her skirt inched up even higher. “I was thinking, Wally, that maybe we could make some other arrangements. You know, just me and you.”
Wally sighed, looked at the legs, thought for a second, and said, “Can’t do it. I gotta stay here tonight because some jackass knocked out the front window.”
“Then I’ll stay too,” she cooed, licking her bright red lips.
Wally had never possessed the willpower to run from these situations, not that he encountered them all the time. Seldom had a client been so open and obvious. In fact, he could not, at that dreadful yet thrilling moment, remember one being so easy. “We might work something out,” he said, leering at DeeAnna.
“I’m outta here,” David said, jumping to his feet and grabbing his briefcase.
“You can hang around,” she said.
The visual was instantaneous and ugly-happily married David romping around with a cute slut who’d had as many divorces as her chubby and naked lawyer. David ran for the door and slammed it behind him.
T heir favorite late-night bistro was within walking distance of their home in Lincoln Park. They had often met there for a quick dinner just before the kitchen closed at eleven, just as David staggered home from another crushing day at the office. Tonight, though, they arrived before nine and found the place bustling. Their table was in a corner.
At some point, about halfway through his five-year career at Rogan Rothberg, David had adopted the policy of not discussing his work, of never bringing it home. It was so unpleasant and distasteful, and boring to boot, he simply could not dump it on Helen. She happily went along with this policy, and so they usually talked about her studies or what their friends were doing. But things were suddenly different. The big firm was gone, as were the faceless clients and their tedious files. Now David worked with real people who did incredible things that had to be retold in great detail. Take, for example, the two near gun-fights David had survived with his sidekick, Wally. At first, Helen flatly refused to believe that Wally had actually fired a shot in the air to scatter the street thugs, but she eventually softened under David’s relentless narrative. Nor did she believe the Trip story on the first telling. She was equally skeptical of the Wally-Judge Bradbury shakedown of DeeAnna Nuxhall in open court. She was incredulous that her husband would fork over all of his cash to Iris Klopeck, then sign an IOU for more. Oscar getting mauled by an angry (female) divorce client was slightly more believable.
Saving the best for last, David wrapped up his unforgettable first day at Finley amp; Figg with: “And, dear, even as we speak, Wally and DeeAnna are naked on the sofa having a romp with the window open and the dog watching and the unpaid fee getting satisfied in spectacular fashion.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish. The $300 will be forgiven, and DeeAnna will be divorced by noon tomorrow.”
“What a sleazeball.”
“Which one?”
“How about both? Do most of your clients pay this way?”
“I doubt it. I mentioned Iris Klopeck. I suspect she’s more in line with the firm’s client profile. The fee couch couldn’t hold up under the pounding.”
“You can’t work for these people, David. Come on. Quit Rogan if you want, but let’s find a different firm somewhere. These two clowns are a couple of crooks. What about ethics?”
“I doubt if they spend much time discussing ethics.”
“Why not look for a nice midsized firm somewhere, with nice people who don’t carry guns and chase ambulances and swap labor for sex?”
“What’s my specialty, Helen?”
“Something to do with bonds.”
“Right. I know a lot about high-yield, long-term bonds issued by foreign governments and corporations. That’s all I know about the law because that’s all I’ve done for the past five years. Put that on a resume, and the only people who might call are a handful of eggheads at other large firms, just like Rogan, who might be in need of someone like me.”
“But you can learn.”
“Of course I can, but no one will hire a five-year lawyer at a nice salary and put him in kindergarten. They demand experience, and I don’t have it.”
“So Finley amp; Figg is the only place you can work?”
“Or someplace like it. I’ll treat it like a seminar for a year or two, then maybe open my own shop.”
“Great. One day on the job and you’re already thinking about leaving.”
“Not really. I love the place.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Yes, and it’s so liberating.”
CHAPTER 13
Wally’s mass-mailing scheme proved futile. Half of the letters were returned by the postal service for a variety of reasons. Phone traffic spiked a bit in the week that followed, though most of the calls were from former clients who demanded to be removed from Finley amp; Figg’s mailing list. Undaunted, Wally filed a lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Illinois, naming Iris Klopeck and Millie Marino, as well as “others to be named later,” and claimed their loved ones had been killed by the drug Krayoxx, manufactured by Varrick Labs. Throwing darts, Wally asked for an even $100 million in total damages, and he demanded a trial by jury.
The filing was not nearly as dramatic as he wished. He tried desperately to attract the media to the lawsuit he was brewing, but there was little interest. Instead of simply filing it online, he and David, both dressed in their finest dark suits, drove to the Everett M. Dirksen U.S. Courthouse in downtown Chicago and hand delivered the twenty-page lawsuit to the clerk. There were no reporters and no photographers, and this upset Wally. He harangued a deputy clerk into snapping a photograph of the two grim-faced lawyers as they filed the lawsuit. Once
