Con Law (24 page)

‘Well, good luck.’

‘Thank you, Professor.’

Fred returned to the bar. Carla took a step closer to Book.

‘Saw you out running this morning,’ she said. ‘While I was showering. At the El Cosmico.’

‘Must’ve been cold.’

‘Water was hot.’

‘Ms. Kent, we’re leaving in the morning.’

She took a step back.

‘Nathan Jones was murdered,’ she said.

Book showed her the funeral photo with the circled faces.

‘Ms. Kent, I’ve interviewed everyone in Marfa who had a connection with Nathan—his wife and best friend, his senior partner, his secretary, his co-workers, his client, the sheriff, the mayor … no one took the bait.’

‘What bait?’

‘His letter. I found no evidence of murder and no proof of contamination. His death was an accident.’

‘Same
day he mailed the letter to you?’

‘Just a coincidence.’

She pointed a finger in his face. ‘You’re wrong, Professor.’

She returned to her place at the bar but gave him a long stern look. She seemed a very intense woman. His prior experience with such women proved to be too intense to last; the relationships burned hot, then quickly burned out. But he had to confess, such relationships were exciting while they lasted—which could explain his attraction to such women. That or the fact that he would never marry, and such women never entertained marriage.

‘Told you,’ his intern said.

‘What?’

‘There would be romance.’

‘No time for romance. We’re leaving in the morning.’

‘What about Nathan’s wife?’

‘We’ll talk to Brenda on our way out of town.’

They were led to a table by their waiter; he was an artist. Maiya’s was elegant and expensive with white tablecloths and a $150 price tag for two, but that did not dissuade Nadine from wiping down the silverware and table accessories and then her hands.

‘What did Professor Lawson say about fracking?’

‘That Billy Bob didn’t tell the whole truth—’

‘Like law professors.’

‘—but that what he said was basically true.’

‘So what’s the truth about fracking?’

‘The truth?
That’s a hard thing to know, Ms. Honeywell. What do the words of the Constitution mean? Which politician is correct about fixing the economy? Is global warming real? Was Oswald the lone gunman? Should Roger Clemens be in the Hall of Fame? Is fracking good or bad? I don’t have any answers. Maybe there’s no such thing as the truth. Maybe it’s all just a point of view, like the mayor and Ms. Garza said.’

‘Irma?’

Book nodded.

‘She scares me sometimes, she’s so committed. Like that Carla girl.’

Maiya’s smelled of food and sounded of life. Patrons talked and laughed. Judd’s boxes and Maiya’s food; Marfa was growing on Book. He had the spinach lasagna; Nadine had the grilled rib eye steak with Gorgonzola butter, red-skinned mashed potatoes, and pistachio ice cream with dark Belgian chocolate. She finished off the last bite then sat back and sighed as if utterly satisfied.

‘That was an incredible dinner.’

It was.

‘This is my dream.’

‘To eat pistachio ice cream?’

‘To own a restaurant like this. To create dishes like these.’

‘A law student who wants to be a chef.’

‘And a law professor who wants to be a hero.’ She regarded him. ‘Who
needs
to be a hero.’

His intern was getting too close to the truth for his comfort.

‘How old are you?’

She smiled and sipped her coffee. She seemed at home, as Book was on the Harley.

‘I want to cook all day and make people happy,’ she said.

‘You want to make people happy so you went to law school?’

‘I went to law school to make my dad happy.’

‘That’s his dream, Ms. Honeywell. Chase your own dream. Live your own life.’

‘I’m too afraid.’

‘Of what?’

‘Everything. Germs. Heights. Mosquitoes. Melanoma. Cavities. Gum disease. Failure. My dad.’

‘You want to live life with a net.’

‘What net?’

‘Like acrobats in a circus. They have a net beneath them, so they don’t get hurt if they fall.’

‘What’s wrong
with that?’

‘Nothing … if you’re in a circus. In life, it’s fatal.’

‘But I won’t get hurt.’

‘You won’t live. Life hurts, Ms. Honeywell. That’s the price of admission.’

‘You’re not afraid of getting hurt?’

‘I’m living without a net.’

‘That’s dangerous.’

‘I don’t live with fear—of failing, getting hurt, dying. I live every day as if it’s my last, because it might be.’

‘You’re not afraid of dying?’

‘I’m afraid of not living.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Not living is worse than dying. Death is inevitable. So I’m going out on my own terms, while I can still make the choice. But I can’t accept not doing something with my life. With the time I have. I’m going to matter. Not just be matter.’

‘My therapist says I’m afraid of life because my sister died, and I don’t want to die.’ She studied her coffee. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Why you don’t want to die?’

‘Why you need to be a hero.’

‘I don’t have a therapist.’

‘What do you have?’

‘Regrets.’

John Bookman had always wanted to be a cop like his dad. Wear the uniform. Carry a gun. Ben Bookman had left home that morning in his blue uniform with his holster on his waist and his gun on his hip. He wore a bulletproof vest that protected him against a gunshot to the chest.

But not to his head.

Book rode
his bike to school that day, as he did every day. And he rode it home, past Mary Elizabeth’s house; she was practicing her cheers in her front yard, so he stopped and flirted a bit. She was cute and perky and acted interested in him. He felt manly when he pedaled away. He didn’t know that he was about to become a man in the worst way possible. He turned the corner onto his street and saw the police cars out front of his house. He saw the officers at the front door talking to his mother. He saw her hands go to her face. He saw her collapse on the porch.

He was fourteen years old, and life as he knew it ended that day.

‘Professor?’

Book returned to the moment.

‘My dad was a cop. He died in the line of duty. Shot in the head by the man he was trying to help.’

‘OMG. How old were you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Not fair.’

‘No. Not fair at all. As you well know.’

They pondered their losses—his father, her sister—for a quiet moment in the elegant restaurant in Marfa, Texas. Book knew from her expression that she was wondering what her life would have been like if her sister had survived the cancer, just as he always wondered what his life would have been like if his father had survived the bullet. The moment ended, and their eyes met.

‘So you’re helping people because he can’t?’

‘He made me proud, being a cop. I want to make him proud, being a lawyer.’

‘Professor, your dad would be proud of you.’

Book fought back his emotions and stuck a finger in the air to attract their waiter’s attention. When he arrived, Book asked for the bill.

‘Your bill’s already been paid, sir.’

‘By whom?’

‘Him.’

The waiter nodded
toward the back of the restaurant. Book turned in his chair and saw Billy Bob smiling and holding up a beer bottle as if saluting Book. A young woman kept him company. Book gave Billy Bob Barnett a gesture of thanks; as he turned back, he noticed Carla at the bar. She had observed his interplay with Billy Bob; she shook her head with utter disgust, as if Book had betrayed her.

He turned back to his intern. Nadine Honeywell’s eyes drifted down to her dessert plate. She ran her index finger through the remains of the Belgian chocolate then licked her finger as if she would never again taste chocolate. She spoke softly, as if to herself.

‘Living
without a net.’

‘The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution states that, quote, “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”’

It was ten that night, and they were sitting on the sofa in Elizabeth Taylor’s room on the second floor of the Paisano Hotel. Book was dictating the Welch brief to Nadine; she was a faster typist than Book. They were trying to get the brief finished before returning to Austin the next morning. His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID.

‘Shit.’

‘Is shit capitalized?’

‘No.’

‘It’s lower case?’

‘No. I forgot I had a date with Carmen tonight.’

‘I think you’re going to be late.’

He answered
the phone. Carmen’s voice came over.

‘I’m waiting.’

‘I’m in Marfa.’

‘So I bought a new thong for nothing.’

Carmen Castro worked as a fitness instructor at Book’s gym in Austin.

‘I’ll be home tomorrow.’

Nadine sneezed.

‘Are you alone?’

‘No, Ms. Honeywell is here.’

‘Who’s Ms. Honeywell?’

‘My intern.’

‘Isn’t there a law about that sort of thing, a professor and a student?’

‘Not in college. It’s considered a perk.’

‘Still, she is a bit young for you.’

‘You’re young for me.’

‘Not that young.’

‘We’re working on a brief.’

‘Just keep your briefs on.’

‘Boxers.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Sorry to ruin your night.’

‘That’s okay. I’ll just go to the gun range instead.’

He ended the call.

‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Nadine asked.

‘Carmen’s a girl and a friend. What about you? You got a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?’

‘I’m straight. I’d know if I weren’t. And no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Guys today, their idea of a date is to go to a sports bar, drink beer, watch a football game, and text their buddies about their fantasy football teams, whatever those are. Sometimes I think it might be good to be a lesbian, I’d have someone to talk to.’

‘There’s always Billy Bob.’

‘Gross.
Besides, he’s an Aggie.’

‘Good point.’

‘So your reputation, it’s true?’

‘What reputation?’

‘All your women.’

‘Just rumors.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Okay, where were we on the brief? Oh, read the search-and-seizure cases—’

‘I did. Last year, for your class.’

‘I still can’t place you.’

‘I hid out in the back, behind my laptop. I was too afraid to speak up.’

‘I don’t know why you guys are so afraid of the other students—’

‘We’re afraid of you.’

‘
Me?
’

‘You’re, like, a god at the law school.’

‘I’m just a teacher. Teaching old cases that don’t make a heck of a lot of difference in people’s lives. But out here, I can make a difference. Sometimes.’

‘But not this time?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘You ready to tell me the story?’

‘What story?’

‘How
Nathan saved your life?’

‘You got me fired, you sorry son of a bitch.’

‘Mr. Koontz, my father was a cop. An honest cop. You’re a disgrace to the badge. Hell, you’re a disgrace to the human race. But you shouldn’t worry about losing your job. You should worry about going to prison. You know what the inmates do to dirty cops in prison?’

Book turned away from Buster Koontz. Turning his back on a dirty cop was a mistake, even in a courthouse. He did not see Buster reach to his leg and draw his backup weapon from a concealed ankle holster.

He pointed the gun at Book and fired.

The first letter had arrived four weeks before, on a Monday, the same day Nathan Jones started his tenure as Book’s intern. His first assignment was to read and write responses to incoming mail, typically letters seeking speaking appearances, blurbs for books, recommendations for employment, and comments on important appellate cases—not letters seeking justice.

‘Professor,’
Nathan had said when Book returned from class, ‘you should read this letter.’

Back in the eighties, the bureaucrats running the war on drugs in Washington dreamed up ‘regional drug task forces.’ The idea was to coordinate law enforcement efforts across jurisdictional boundaries to better combat drug distribution in the U.S. Funded by the Feds, managed by the states, and manned by the locals, the task forces were granted authority to fight the war on drugs across wide swaths of America. But federal funding was ‘incentivized’: the more arrests you made, the more funds you got, similar to farm subsidies. If you subsidize corn, you’ll get more corn; if you subsidize drug arrests, you’ll get more drug arrests. The one thousand drug task forces now make two million drug arrests each year in the U.S. And the key to ‘making the numbers,’ as the arrest game is called, is hiring experienced undercover narcotics agents from outside the locality to come in under fake identities and make the ‘buy-bust’ arrests. These agents move from task force to task force. They are not the Eliot Nesses of law enforcement; they are ‘gypsy cops,’ as they’ve come to be known in the business.

Buster Koontz
was one such cop. He saw himself as a Dirty Harry type even though he was short and squat instead of tall and lean like Clint Eastwood. But he was dirty. The badge gave him power, and the power fed his ego. Buster rolled into the small South Texas town in the summer of 2007. In less than a year, he had conducted undercover operations that resulted in the arrest and conviction of fifty-three Hispanics, mostly young Mexican nationals with limited English language skills, all for ‘delivery of a controlled substance,’ i.e., drug dealing. Fifty-three drug dealers in a town of three thousand. His testimony was the only evidence presented at trial. The prosecution offered no corroborating evidence—no surveillance videotapes, no audiotapes, no wiretaps, no photos—nothing except Agent Koontz’s word that he had purchased illegal drugs from the defendants. But his word was enough to secure convictions from juries determined to fight crime in their town and a judge seeking reelection. The mother of one defendant saw Book on television and wrote him the letter. Book turned to his new intern.