At six o’clock the bedroom began to brighten, hinting at a new day. Jack had a severe case of the Monday- morning blues. He was staring at the ceiling, having drifted in and out of sleep since retiring around one A.M. Andie was sound asleep, her head and torso on Jack’s side of the bed, her legs and feet on hers. Andie’s idea of sharing a mattress was a bit like their golden retriever’s notion of sharing the couch. At least Andie didn’t drool when she kissed him.
“Quiet, Max,” he whispered.
Max was the most talkative dog Jack had ever known. Mornings especially. It was a throaty rumble that preceded the insertion of a big wet nose into Jack’s ear and seemed to say,
Jack snatched a slipper from Max’s mouth and rolled out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Andie. Max happily followed him to the bathroom, the kitchen, the backyard for a pee-the dog, not Jack-and then back to the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Weeks had passed since Jack and Max had started the week with a Monday- morning run to the beach and back. As Jack pulled on his cycling pants and shoes, Max was obviously fooled into thinking that today was the day when life returned to situation normal: Dogs rule. Jack hated to disappoint him, but he was cycling into work-a one-way trip, no dogs allowed.
“Sorry, pal,” he said. “Andie will have to take you.”
Max didn’t understand a word of it, but he looked sad, and part of Jack imagined that it was because Andie could actually outrun Max.
Jack filled his water bottle, sneaked into the garage without Max, and hopped onto his eighteen-speed with the titanium frame. The touring bike had been a fortieth birthday present from a group of friends who swore they were just trying to save his knees from running. Jack wondered if they were trying to get him killed. Key Biscayne had bike trails-some of the most scenic in the world. But cycling just about anywhere else in Miami was the great battle of man versus automobile, where most drivers were of the mind-set that anyone with the audacity to enter the roadway on two wheels deserved swift and severe punishment. After several brushes with instant death, Jack attached an extra water-bottle carrier to the frame to hold an air horn. It was useless against true homicidal maniacs, but it would at least save him from the growing number of idiots who thought they could text and drive at the same time. Jack gave it a test blast before leaving the driveway. The ringing in his ears confirmed that it was still in working order.
By six thirty Jack was on his way. He didn’t need to be in the office until after eight A.M., which meant that he had time to pedal over the bridge, onto the mainland, and into Coconut Grove for breakfast. He was a regular at Greenstreet’s, a corner cafe on Main Street where an hour or so at an outdoor table beneath a shade umbrella could feel like a visit to the Left Bank. Jack made the mistake of checking his e-mails over coffee, and his quick breakfast turned into an hour of thumb exercises. It was after nine o’clock by the time he got back on the bicycle and reached his office. Central Grove had the canopy of a rain forest, and tucked behind a stand of oaks and royal poinciana trees that lined Main Highway was an eighty-year-old house with yellow siding and bright blue shutters. It didn’t look like a law office, and that was what Jack liked about it. He carried the bike inside, along with his helmet and trusty air horn. His assistant was already at her desk and on the phone.
“Morning, Bonnie.”
She hung up the telephone and glared in his direction. From the tense expression on her face, Jack might have guessed she’d been negotiating a hostage release.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What’s wrong? You want to know what’s
The phone rang. Bonnie didn’t flinch.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asked.
“No. You answer it.”
Jack didn’t know what was up, but he’d worked with Bonnie long enough to know that tone. He got it himself: “Swyteck and Associates.”
“And associates?” the caller said. “Who in their right mind would
Jack hung up. Immediately, the phone rang again. He glanced at Bonnie, who breathed out through her nose with the force of a charging bull.
“Go right ahead,” she said. “Answer it again.”
He did. “Swyteck and-”
“How do you live with yourself, you disgusting piece of-”
Jack slammed down the phone.
Bonnie shot him a look of desperation. “This has been going on all morning,” she said. “It’s even worse than when the verdict was announced.”
A third call. Jack answered and braced himself.
“This is blood money of the worst kind, you repulsive-”
Jack held the phone away, put the air horn to the mouthpiece, and gave it a five-second blast. Then he checked the line. The caller was gone.
“Here,” he said, handing Bonnie the horn. “This ought to take care of it.”
Bonnie took it and smiled. Jack wheeled his bicycle down the hall toward the back bedroom, then stopped when he heard Bonnie’s phone ring in the other room-followed by a blast from the stadium air horn.
“It works!” she shouted.
She was actually using it, which made him chuckle. He checked the closet to make sure he had a business suit-charcoal gray would do-and then headed to the bathroom for a shower. Bonnie headed him off in the hallway, telephone in hand.
“It’s Andie,” she said, wincing apologetically. “She might be a little perturbed. I blasted her by accident.”
“Oh, boy,” said Jack. He stepped away and took the call in his office.
“Has Bonnie lost her mind?” said Andie. “She nearly busted my eardrum.”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “I really gotta get her to lay off the breakfast burritos.”
“What?”
“Nothing. What’s up?”
“Just-please tell me it’s not true,” said Andie.
Jack wadded up a stray Post-it and pitched it into the trash can. “Tell you what’s not true?”
“I’ve heard this from a half dozen people already. Faith Corso was on one of the morning talk shows. Her latest ‘exclusive’ is that you went to Jackson last night and tried to talk the Laramore family into filing a lawsuit with you as the lead attorney.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it? On our car ride home, you were awfully vague about what you and Mr. Laramore talked about.”
“That’s because an attorney’s conversation with a prospective client is no less confidential than a conversation with an existing client.”
“So it
“No. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that it didn’t go down the way Corso is reporting it.”
“Oh, my God. Jack, you can’t be serious. You are actually trying to convince these poor people that they should sue BNN?”
“What?”
“That’s what Corso’s sources are saying-that you are cooking up a lawsuit against BNN for getting the crowd so whipped up that someone attacked a Sydney Bennett look-alike.”
“Wait a second,” said Jack. “First of all, I’m smart enough to know that no one has ever succeeded in suing the media for inciting some nut-job TV junkie to commit a violent act. Second, I could get disbarred for going to a hospital and trying to talk the victim’s family into filing a lawsuit. I’m not an idiot.”
“Faith Corso says you
Jack gripped the phone, amazed that just ten hours earlier he had been trying to convince Ben Laramore that Corso had a good heart. “Very odd to me that Corso is the first journalist in the country to find out that I went to the hospital last night. And even more interesting that she presumes to know what Ben Laramore and I talked
