and cold.”
“What’s your weather like?”
“Colder’n a well-digger’s ass. Up in the panhandle, they got upwards of three foot of snow.”
“What kind of vehicle were they driving?”
“Blazer, ’90 model, four-wheel drive, 350 V-8, white, dirty. They were on the road a while, said they was heading north. They were in a big hurry, wanted me to work through the night. I told ’em, you can’t hurry a ring job. Finished up last night, Monday, about nine, got it running pretty good. I ain’t got no help, so that’s the best I could do. Big man, he picked it up first thing this morning. Paid cash. After they left, I was checking my Schwab account and I saw an Amber Alert on my homepage, with her picture. That’s when I called.”
“Can you describe the two men?”
“Didn’t get a good look at the driver. He stayed in the car with the girl.”
“The other man, what about him?”
“Looked like that California governor, Arnold Schwarzenberger, real muscled-up fella. Crew cut, fatigues, Army boots, short gray hair. We see them types every now and then, militia boys wanna play GI Joe.”
“Did you get a license number?”
“No. But they was Idaho plates.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I ain’t much at reading lips, but I’d swear she said help me.”
“Mr. Tucker, do they grow Christmas trees in northern Idaho?”
“Biggest industry up there.”
“Mr. Tucker, I appreciate your time… How did you know the second man was muscled-up?”
Clayton chuckled. “Hell, it’s about fifteen degrees outside, and he ain’t wearing nothin’ but a black tee shirt.”
“His arms were bare?”
“Yep… had the damnedest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”
John was eating dinner with a spoon: a dozen Oreo cookies crushed in milk. It was his favorite meal, but he didn’t taste anything.
Because he was no longer living. He was just going through the motions of life, like one of those creations in the MIT Humanoid Robotics Laboratory. All day, he had engaged in what appeared to be human activities-eating, walking, taking the FBI to the office-but they weren’t. There was no conscious human thought behind his actions.
His only thoughts were of Gracie.
He spat a mouthful of the mushy Oreos into the kitchen sink, a black blob of nothing. Like his life.
“You want refried beans with that?”
Coach Wally was working the late Tuesday shift in the drive-through window at the Taco House out on the interstate. He stood in the small booth, taking orders from motorists hungry for a quick burrito, chalupa, or taco, bagging the orders, making change, and asking each customer the same question: You want refried beans with that?
Over the intercom: “No!”
Into the intercom: “That’ll be seven-twenty-three. Please drive up to the window.”
Wally Fagan clicked off the intercom’s transmit button, grabbed a bag, and went back to the kitchen.
“Hey, Wally, you da mon, mon!” Juaquin Jaramillo, the night cook, said. “Puttin’ that kid fucker in jail, that’s real good, mon.”
Juaquin gestured at Wally with a large spoon dripping refried beans on the cement floor.
“Mon, some mu’fucka wanna try an’ stick his dick in one a my girls …”
Juaquin continued his nonstop rant, which came out in a kind of rap rhythm, as he scooped refried beans onto two flour tortillas, dropped a handful of grated cheddar cheese on top of each, folded the bottoms, rolled them into neat burritos, then wrapped them in the Taco House trademark serving paper.
“… make a fuckin’ burrito outta it, pour some chili over it, feed it to my dog, mon.”
Juaquin thought that was real funny.
“Ya understan’ what I’m sayin’, mon?”
Wally nodded at Juaquin, then he filled the bag with the two bean-and-cheese burritos, chips and salsa, and two Dr Peppers. He returned to the drive-through booth and reached out the window for the customer’s money; he handed the change back to the customers, a man at the wheel and a woman passenger leaning over and looking up at him.
“You’re Gracie’s coach, right?”
Wally nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good job, getting that pervert off our streets,” she said.
The man gave him a thumbs up.
Wally held out their bag of food. They took it, waved, and drove off; they had taped Gracie’s missing-child flier to the rear window. Wally gave them a weak wave. He felt slightly nauseous and not because he had eaten three of Juaquin’s burritos for dinner-because his gut was stewing with doubt. Something wasn’t right about Gary Jennings. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.
Wally had played and replayed Friday night in his head, trying to figure out why his ID of Jennings didn’t feel right: He’s standing with the team at the concession stand after the game, getting down on his cherry snow cone… Gracie comes running past, heading around back
… The man, blond hair, blue eyes, black cap, plaid shirt, walks up and says, “I’m Gracie’s uncle. Her mother, my sister, sent me to get her. Her grandma had a stroke. Where’s she at?” Wally answers, “Around back.” “That way?” the man says, and he points with his right hand, his fingers…
The intercom buzzed with another drive-through customer. Wally extended his right arm and with his right index finger he flicked on the transmit button and said, “You want refried beans with that?”
And he froze.
“That’s it!”
Vic Neal, a sixth-year associate recently relocated to the Dallas office of Crane McWhorter, a prestigious 1,900-lawyer Wall Street firm, gazed upon his newest client curled up in a fetal position on the cot in the jail cell and facing the concrete wall.
“Jennings,” the guard said. “Your lawyer’s here.”
Jennings didn’t move. The guard shrugged, opened the cell door, allowed Vic entry, and then closed and locked the door behind him. Vic pulled the metal chair over near the cot, sat down, placed his briefcase in his lap, opened it, and removed a yellow pad and a pen. He closed the briefcase and wrote at the top of the pad: Gary Jennings/State of Texas v. Gary Jennings/99999.9909. The client’s name, the client matter, and the client billing number, in this case the firm’s marketing number. It was a habit ingrained from his first day at the firm; a Crane McWhorter lawyer didn’t take a crap without writing down a client billing number first.
Of course, this client would never get a bill. The firm had taken this case pro bono: for the good. For the good of Crane McWhorter’s marketing program, that is. A high-profile death penalty case guaranteed invaluable publicity for the firm and the lawyer handling the case. As Old Man McWhorter had said on more than one occasion, “Clients can’t hire you unless they know you.” And as the number of lawyers trolling for clients from D.C. to L.A. had reached three-million-plus, the need to get known had reached epidemic proportions among the learned members of the bar.
So now you can’t turn around and not bump into a lawyer trying to get known. In the name of marketing, lawyers insinuate themselves into and onto every city council, county commission, civic committee, charity, church, club, conflict, crisis, controversy, commotion, corridor of power, or cause celebre. Vic Neal had chosen causes celebres, in particular, death penalty cases; he had recently transferred to the Dallas office because Texas was
