“Well?” he asked.
Agnes sighed. It wasn’t an easy decision. Even taking a phone call could be dangerous. The man
“Don’t you dare take any chances, Harry Swyteck.”
The governor smiled appreciatively, then came to her and kissed her on the lips. “I’ll call you when it’s over. And don’t worry-I’m the original Chicken Little remember?”
Agnes nodded but without conviction. In the beginning of their marriage, when Harry had been on the police force, such assurances were offered on a daily basis. It was her knowledge of her husband’s innate bravery that worried her so much.
He pulled away, then stopped as he reached the door. “But if I don’t call by one-”
“Don’t say it, Harry,” she said, eyes glassy now with tears. “Don’t even think it.”
He nodded slowly. “I’ll call you,” he promised. Then he was out the door.
More out of an ingrained sense of obligation than passion for his work, Jack put on jeans and a polo shirt- typical summer attire at the Freedom Institute-gave Thursday a friendly pat on the rump, and headed out the door. In the car he brooded on whether he would tender his resignation. When he arrived at nine o’clock, he still hadn’t come to a decision. It was his first day back in the office in almost three weeks, since the Goss trial had begun. He stood in the foyer, taking a hard look at the place where he’d worked for the past four years. The reception area was little more than a hallway. Bright fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor-outdoor carpet. A few unmatched chairs lined the bare white walls. An oversized metal desk was at the end of the hall. It belonged to the pregnant woman who served as both the Institute’s receptionist and only secretary. Behind her were four windowless offices, one for each of the lawyers. Beyond that was a vintage sixties kitchen, where the lawyers did everything from interviewing witnesses to eating their bagged lunches.
“Victory!” chorused Jack’s colleagues as he stepped into the kitchen. All three of the Institute’s other lawyers were smiling widely and assuming a celebratory stance around the Formica-topped table. There was Brian, a suntanned and sandy-haired outdoor type who moved as smoothly in court as he did on water skis. And Eve, the resident jokester who helped everyone keep sanity, the only woman Jack had ever known to smoke a pipe. And Neil Goderich, who’d lost his ponytail since establishing the Institute twenty-eight years ago, but who still wore his shirt collar unbuttoned beneath his tie-not just to be casual, but because his neck had swollen more than an inch since he last bought a new dress shirt.
The home team cheered as they broke out a six-dollar bottle of cold duck and popped the cork.
“Congratulations!” said Neil as he filled four coffee-stained mugs.
They raised their cups in unison, and Jack smiled at their celebration; although he didn’t share the festive mood, he appreciated the gesture. He considered them all friends. At his first interview four years ago he’d learned they were down-to-earth people who believed in themselves and their principles. They were honest enough to tell even the son of a prominent politician that anything “politically correct” was a walking oxymoron. It was the strength of their collective character that made it hard for Jack to leave. But suddenly, he knew the time had come.
“Excellent job!” said Neil, a sentiment echoed by the others.
“Thank you,” said Jack, hoping to stem any further backslapping. “I really appreciate this. But. . as long as everyone’s here, I might as well take this chance to tell you.” He looked at them and sighed. “Guys, Eddy Goss was my last case. I’m leaving the Institute.”
That took the fizz right out of their cold duck.
Jack placed his cup on the table, turned, and quietly headed toward his office, leaving them staring at one another. The announcement had been awkward, but he didn’t feel bike explaining. With no other job offer in hand, he was having a hard time explaining it to himself.
He spent a couple of hours packing up his things, going through old files. At eleven o’clock Neil Goderich appeared in his doorway.
“When you first came here,” Neil began, “we honestly wondered if you’d ever fit in.”
Jack picked up some books, placed them in a box. “I wondered the same thing.”
Neil smiled sadly, like a parent sending a kid off to college. He took a seat on the edge of Jack’s desk, beside a stack of packed boxes. “We never would have hired your type,” he said as he stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. “You had ‘big greedy law firm’ written all over your resume. Someone who clearly valued principal and interest over interest in one’s principles.”
“Then why’d you hire me?”
Neil smiled wryly. “Because you were the son of Harold Swyteck. And I could think of no better way to piss off the future law-and-order governor than to have his son come work for a long-haired leftover from a lost generation.”
It was Jack’s turn to smile. “So you put up with me for the same reason I put up with you.”
“I suspected that was why you were here,” he said, then turned serious. “You were tired of doing everything your old man said you
Jack fell silent. He and Neil had never spoken about his father, and Neil’s unflattering perception of the relationship was more than a little disturbing.
Neil leaned forward and folded his hands, the way he always did when he was speaking on the level. “Look, Jack. I read the papers. I watch TV. I know you’re catching hell about Goss, and I know the bad press can’t be doing the governor’s campaign any good. Maybe you feel guilty about that. . maybe your old man is even pressuring you to leave us. I don’t know, and that’s none of my business. But this much is my business: You’ve got what it takes, Jack. You’re an incredibly talented lawyer. And deep down, I know you’re not like all those people out there who are perfectly content to put up with poverty and drugs and homelessness and all the other problems that turn children into criminals, so long as the criminal justice system allows them revenge. The Freedom Institute deprives them of that revenge-of
Jack looked away, then sighed. He had never been as sure about right and wrong as Neil was, though there had indeed been times when he saw the higher purpose, when he actually believed that each acquittal reaffirmed the rights of all people. But it took more than vision to defend the likes of Eddy Goss day after day. It took passion- the kind of passion that started revolutions Jack had felt that passion only once in his life: the night his father had executed Raul Fernandez. But that was different. Fernandez had been innocent.
“I m sorry, Neil. But the lofty goals just don’t drive me anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t be leaving if I’d defend d just
Neil nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. “I
“Thanks.”
“Got time for lunch today?”
Jack checked his watch. Almost eleven-thirty. He had no official plans, but right now he figured he needed a stronger dose of good cheer than Neil could provide. “I’d like a rain check on that, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Neil said, giving him a mock salute as he turned and left.
Ten minutes later, Jack’s thoughts were on Cindy as he walked toward his car, weighed down with three of the ten boxes he’d packed. He’d still had no return call from her. Which meant either she hadn’t gotten his messages or she was sending him a message of her own.
He thought back to the last night they’d been together, how she’d told him she was going over to her best friend Gina’s to console her. The story might have been believable if it had been anyone but Gina-a woman to whom the adjective
