“So it was attorney-client?” says Ortiz.
“I thought we already established that.”
“If Rush was your friend, why wouldn’t you want to help us catch his killer?” says Padgett.
“Why don’t you ask me if I still beat my wife?” I tell him.
“Do you?” he asks.
“She died of cancer several years ago,” says Harry.
Padgett looks at me. “Sorry.”
“All we want to know is what Metz told you during your initial client interview,” says Ortiz.
“Unless and until I’m told by a judge to the contrary, any communications I’ve had with any clients are privileged.”
“Even dead clients?” says Ortiz.
“Even dead ones,” I tell him.
“I see, you don’t make the rules, you just follow them, is that it?” says Padgett.
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” says Harry.
“Harry. They’re just trying to do their job,” I say.
“And you’re not helping much,” says Ortiz.
“I’m sorry. But I have to do mine,” replies Harry.
“How long did you know Nick Rush?” Ortiz takes a different tack.
“Ten years. More or less.”
“How did you meet?”
“I’ve thought about that a few times since it happened. You know how it is. When you lose someone you know. I think it was probably a conference or a seminar. Continuing education of the bar maybe. But to be honest, I can’t remember the specific event or where it was.”
“Let me ask you a question. How could Metz be a client if you didn’t take his case?” Padgett doesn’t want to give it up.
“You know as well as I do, whether I declined representation or not, whatever a client told me in an initial interview…” He’s starting to write in his notepad. “And mind you, that’s not saying that I ever talked to Mr. Metz about legal matters, but if I did, it would be covered by privilege.” He scratches it out, closes his notebook. As he does, he sees the device on my desk. He looks at it for a second. My heart gains ten extra beats.
“I’m told you don’t do drug cases,” says Ortiz.
I try to look at him, but my gaze keeps going back to his partner who is still looking at the device on my desk.
“Is that true?”
“Excuse me?”
“That you don’t do drug cases?”
“As a general policy, no. I don’t handle cases involving narcotics.”
If Padgett picks up the device, turns it on, and sees Nick’s name, we will all be finishing this downtown, probably in front of a judge where I can be charged with concealing evidence in a capital case.
“So maybe you have some redeeming qualities after all.” Padgett forgets about the device for a moment and looks at me.
I smile at him.
“Why don’t you do narcotics?” he asks.
“I have no expertise in the field.”
“I take it back,” he says.
“Is that the only reason?” says Ortiz.
“Any other reasons would be personal and have nothing to do with any particular client or case,” I say.
“Is that why you wouldn’t take the Metz case? Because it involved drugs?”
“Assuming Metz was my client, for purposes of an initial interview, the reasons that I might not take such a case would be privileged.”
“We’re back to that?” says Padgett.
“That means it’s none of your business,” says Harry.
“You’re wrong,” says Padgett. “They’re both dead, and that is our business. Besides, who are you protecting, a client who doesn’t exist?”
“Until a court tells me otherwise.”
“I think if Metz were here he might want you to help us,” says Ortiz. “I sure would if somebody pumped me full of holes while I was standing on the sidewalk minding my own business.”
“And your friend?” says Padgett. “I would think you’d want to help us out on that one just out of professional courtesy if nothing else. You know, one shark to another.”
Suddenly I’m out of my chair. Harry is off the credenza to stop me.
Padgett is on his feet, shoulders back, hands ready.
I slowly reach across my desk and take one of my business cards from the little holder on the corner and flip it to him. Pumped with adrenaline, he has trouble trying to catch it in the air, ready for a fight when the test is one of dexterity. If I wanted to nail him, now would be the time.
“Why don’t you call me next time you want to talk,” I tell him. “So I can decide if I want to be in or not.”
Padgett stands there looking foolish, ready for a fight that isn’t going to happen. My card on the floor. He doesn’t know what to do, so he bends over and picks it up.
I use the opportunity to reach for the handheld device, quietly sliding it across the desk and into the center drawer, then closing it. Ortiz is still looking at his partner and doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, it doesn’t seem to register.
“Then you won’t help us?” He looks back at me.
“If I could help I would, but I can’t. The simple fact is, I don’t know anything.”
Ortiz gives me a mocking smile. He doesn’t believe this. As I study the grin, I get the feeling this is as close as the man ever gets to humor.
“Without talking about specifics, clients, or cases, there are good reasons why a lawyer might decline a case,” I tell him.
“Such as?” says Ortiz.
“Speaking hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically,” he says.
“Perhaps a feeling that the client is not telling you the truth.”
“Metz lied to you?” he says.
“We’re not talking clients or cases,” I remind him.
“Of course not.”
Padgett smiles, still standing at the edge of my desk. Finally getting somewhere. “What did he lie about?” he asks.
I give him a look, like “do you really expect me to answer that?”
“What? You only deal with truthful drug dealers, is that it?”
I don’t take the bait.
“But it was narcotics, wasn’t it?” he says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said that’s why you didn’t take his case.”
“He never said anything about Mr. Metz.” Ortiz wants to hear more. Whatever I will tell him.
“Then you wouldn’t have any idea who killed them? Or is that covered by attorney-client privilege as well?” Padgett asks.
“No, I don’t. But if I were you, I’d start by talking to the United States Attorney’s Office.”
“We’ve been there. Like talking to a fucking wall,” says Padgett.
Ortiz shoots him a look to kill. The sergeant’s expression is that of a man who wishes he could inhale his words and swallow them.
The feds aren’t sharing information.
I look up at Harry. We have suddenly learned more than they have.
