Justice Hunter (14 page)
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Both of your parents still alive?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yes. But I’m estranged from my mom,” she confessed. “Or she’s estranged from me. However you want to put it.”
“That must be difficult.”
“Not really. In fact, it’s a long story, which I’d like to believe has something to do with my pursuit of justice.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Did I mention it’s a
long
story?”
“You did.”
“I wouldn’t want to bore you with all the not-so-glamorous details.” She sipped her beer, trying to leave it at that.
“Out with it. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of holed up in this joint. That is unless of course you’re still in the mood to become roadkill.”
She smiled in acknowledgment. “
Almost
roadkill, to be precise.”
“I stand corrected. Pretty skillful maneuvering there.”
“Thanks.”
“Bike messenger in a previous life?”
“Right.” Her smile was engaging.
“Anyway, I’ve got time. And God knows I could live without Mancini for the rest of the afternoon.” He gestured toward Sam, who was coiled into a fetal-positioned blob of uselessness on his favorite chair in front of the window. His snoring was audible even over the movie. “Plus, we have Sam the killer lab to protect us from the bad guys. Just for the peace of mind.”
“Can’t beat that, I guess. So. What’s the deal with Mancini? You can’t stand the guy, huh?”
“That’s another long story, which just might have something to do with why we’re here.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not so fast. You go first. And I’ll need all the really juicy details. The incriminating kind of stuff I can hold over your head if you ever betray me.”
“Insurance policy, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Funny you mention that. I’ve been getting the vibe you have a trust thing going on since we first met.”
“Really?”
“Yup. It’s pretty transparent. Is it me? Something I said?”
“Nothing like that.” She was actually spot on. He was jaded, tending to be dubious of people’s motives. And in this case, he was being particularly cautious. She was assigned by Mancini, after all.
“What is it then?”
“Things are just especially out of sync for me right now.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Got it. That’s fine. I won’t take it personally then.”
“You shouldn’t.”
You should, and you’ve got Mancini to thank.
“So I guess I’ll go first. And I promise I’ll make it good.”
“Quid pro quo, like I said. We have a deal.”
“Then here goes. It’s vital that you trust me.” Hunter looked at her quizzically. “For the trial, of course. What good are co-counsel who can’t trust each other?”
T
rust, like loyalty and respect, was one of those concepts that made the world of relationships turn on its volatile axis. And in America, the land of the free—as in freely narcissistic and sadistic—those time-honored values tended to be elusive, if not downright nonexistent. Outwardly reputable, upstanding people had become increasingly proficient at creating the illusion of good character that, in the end, turned out to be nothing more than a lie. When the family dentist turned out to be a serial pedophile or the prominent surgeon was indicted for dumping medical waste into the bay waters of a tight-knit beach community, there was something rotten in Denmark, as Billy Shakespeare had been known to say in his day.
And then there were the unusual enclaves, where the people lived and died by a completely different code. For the most part, in those places, adhering to time-honored values, such as honesty and loyalty, wasn’t optional. Take South Philadelphia, for instance. Burn the wrong person and you’d wind up dead—simple as that. Screw loneliness and broken hearts. They had their very own subculture there, literally built around those core values. They were handed down from generation to generation. Call it an Italian American cultural phenomenon. Perhaps Vito Armani’s message to immigrants was nothing more than a reminder that they had entered a special realm within an increasingly embattled country. For Vito, illegality was a South Philly concept, much more so than just an American one.
To put it in lawyer’s terms, there were smooth-talking lawyers in courtrooms across the nation who, at any given moment, were shattering the truth and reconstructing entirely persuasive theories and defenses out of its shards. And for what? Was it the fierce intellectual battleground of the courtroom that prompted sparring lawyers to replace reality with some crackpot semblance of the truth? Or perhaps there was some perverse thrill that came with feeding juries immense amounts of bullshit and managing to get away with it? Of course the most obvious explanation was the business of law. Winning was tantamount to survival. Recall Darwin and his “survival of the fittest” theory of evolution. Being “fit” in this day and age meant accumulating the most clients of the paying variety.
Any lawyer worth his salt could bet his bottom dollar that an unsuccessful client wouldn’t be beating down his door anytime soon. Post-trial, it was of no consequence that he might have stuck his neck out for a client of questionable credibility or that he had taken a case all the way to trial with little more than a promise of payment and a well-drafted fee agreement. Defeated clients, no matter their socio-economic composition or stature in society, made for disappointed ones. Referrals, the bloodline of any successful practice, were entirely contingent upon wins. All a loss translated into, even an undeserved one, were charged-off balances and disciplinary actions. After all, what were the odds of disgruntled clients forking over outstanding fees to their latest arch-nemesis, the inept buffoon who just screwed up their case?
All the players knew the stakes, especially the judges, many of whom were once there themselves on the firing lines. And Sheila Primeau was no different. The role of jurist had forced her to develop a filter exclusively designed for tuning out the untruths that spewed from the mouths of the lawyers who tried cases in her courtroom. And her South Philadelphia roots only ensured an even stronger strain of cynicism.
As Hunter sat in Sheila’s chambers later that afternoon on the hot seat, he had very good reason to second-guess his decision to swing by unannounced.
“So did you sleep with her?”
Hunter peered across the antique mahogany desk at Sheila. “Of course not,” he replied, more defensively than he intended.
“Well, did you want to?”
“No.”
Sort of.
“I can tell, though. You’re definitely smitten with her.”
“Really? You can tell?”
“It’s obvious. You haven’t stopped talking about her since you got here.” Maybe it was the guilt associated with his momentary temptation to stray, if one could even call it that, that prompted Hunter to call Sheila. There was also her wisdom, a valuable commodity when the Mafia was sending you death threats and trying to kill, or seriously maim at the very minimum, one’s dearest friends and colleagues.
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“It’s perfectly understandable if you are.”
“Very funny.” Sheila ran her hand through her hair. “So is she attractive?”
“See, you’re jealous. I knew it. This is priceless. The Honorable Sheila Primeau,
Philadelphia Magazine
’s Most Eligible Bachelorette of 2008, of all people.”
“I told you to never bring that up again.” Sheila flushed with embarrassment.
“Right.”
“So answer the question, counselor. Is she attractive?”
“What do you mean by
attractive
?”
“As in you might just get the urge to screw her.”
“She is,” conceded Hunter. After all, he had nothing to hide. “Not in an I’d-like-to-screw-her sort of way, of course. Really more of a collegial observation than anything else.”
Sheila rolled her sparkling blue eyes, pretending to be annoyed with Hunter’s clumsy explanation. “Aha. That’s how it all starts, though. Spending countless hours together, pent up in the posh digs of the blue-chip firm, collaborating on mentally stimulating assignments, then craving stimulation of a completely different and more primal variety.”
“What a fantasy.”
“Seriously, though. When I used to work at Kruger, it was a known fact the partners hired attractive paralegals just to tempt the associates into staying there longer, billing more hours.”
“I can believe it.” Hunter thought about his own paralegal, Debbie. She was attractive in a 1980s sort of way. “Look, I would tell you if I’m considering playing the field, and I’m not. I’m not interested in wasting each other’s time.” Sheila appeared to get the message. “After all, time is a lawyer’s stock in trade,” he said, reaching for a bit of levity. “Isn’t that how the old adage goes?”
“Time
and advice
,” she corrected him. “But something tells me good old Honest Abe wasn’t referring to middle-aged divorcees like me.”
“They had divorcees back then, too, didn’t they?”
“Very funny. And actually, I don’t think they did. I’m a little rusty on my nineteenth-century law, but I think I would’ve been stoned or something if I tried to leave my philandering husband back then.”
“Or sent off to the stocks.”
“That’s true. Can’t forget about those barbaric little contraptions,” she replied with a pleasant smile. She quickly got serious, though. “Well, does she even
know
about us? I mean, has it ever come up?”
“Highly doubt it. I sure as hell didn’t bring it up. I barely know her.”
“Excellent. So this hard-bodied associate, assuredly
very
eager to please, still thinks you’re on the market.”
“Sheila, don’t go there.” The repartee had been relatively harmless up until that point. But Hunter was losing his patience. “We discussed all this. We both agreed to keep things private. And it was primarily your idea, if you remember.”
“Yeah, but…” Sheila checked herself. “No. You’re right,” she admitted. Sheila was unable to contain her vulnerability as it came into full relief for the very first time in their relationship. “I must sound so petty,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” comforted Hunter, who stood and began to make his way past the formal desk. “Don’t be alarmed. Don’t be frightened,” he toyed. “What you’re experiencing is perfectly normal. This is merely a symptom experienced by all the women I seduce.”
She swiveled in her leather desk chair and invited him closer with her eyes. “You must think I’m damaged goods, huh?”
“Aren’t we all, in a way?” pondered Hunter philosophically.
“Maybe.”
Hunter leaned into her space even farther. The clean, sophisticated scent he associated with her Coco Chanel perfume grew more fragrant as the seductive vapors overpowered his senses. Her black skirt could no longer contain her bare, slender legs, which were now spread invitingly.
“If you didn’t protect yourself, I’d lose all respect for you.” Hunter knew her ex-husband screwed her up. And he just discovered Mancini likely had a hand in it, too.
She wrapped her toned arms around the back of his neck and brought him even closer. “You would?”
“I would.” Almost nose-to-nose, their breathing grew faster, heavier. “Let go,” Hunter ordered, before the passion overtook them both and he did what she was craving so badly—overpower her.
“S
o what’ve you been up to, dude? Pulling any hot chicks these days?”
Chris Gates, the total hacker type, was Whitman’s in-house IT guy. And as far as nerds went, he was of the cool persuasion as opposed to the socially inept, introverted types, the kind who drooled on themselves and inadvertently emitted that serial killer vibe. He had feathered blonde hair, a slightly ruddy complexion, and always wore the same pair of worn-down Sketchers. Gates still had a social awkwardness to him, though, which was clearly his way of overcompensating for a pornographically high IQ. He loved to talk about his recent hacker exploits, his proclivity for Guitar Hero, and heavy-metal musicians like Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie. His favorite subject seemed to be Hunter’s love life, though. Gates was in his early twenties and seemed resigned to the fact that he couldn’t get a date. So instead he posed a litany of probing questions, which amounted to his version of vicarious dating.
“Not really,” replied Hunter.
Gates was seated in front of a wall of servers. He hammered away on a keyboard as he talked. Hunter noticed a half-eaten pack of Fun Dip sitting on a nearby laptop, well within striking distance. That might explain Gates’s especially high energy level for so early in the day.
“Yeah, right, dude. Like I believe that. And I’m Trent Reznor.” Gates laughed at his own joke. His snicker bore an uncanny similarity to Beavis from the culturally refined classic
Beavis and Butt-Head,
yet invariably ended in a sort of question mark, when Gates realized he was the only one laughing. This time was no different.
“So what did you find out?”
“Nothing yet, man. Only be another minute or so. For some reason, the system is totally slow this morning. I keep telling Mr. Mancini we’re due for some upgrades, and he keeps blowing me off. If this shit crashes, there’s no way I’m taking the fall. Fuck that.” Although Gates came across as an apathetic slacker, he took his job seriously. He had put the system’s infrastructure in place, soup to nuts, when Whitman made the move to the new building. Killing time, he asked: “So how was the weekend? The hotties in the square were out in full force, huh?”
“Is that all you think about, Gates? We need to find you a girlfriend. Get you laid.”
“Hook me up, dog.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open. How about that?”
“Cool. You’re the man.” Gates hit the enter key decisively and scanned the message that scrolled down the LCD. “Dude, are you ready for this?” he asked, as if he’d just unearthed the coordinates to the Holy Grail.
Hunter leaned over his shoulder to look at the cascade of computer code gibberish. “All right. So what are we looking at?”
“This is what an e-mail account on the server really looks like.”
“Exciting. Really. It is, Gates. But what’s it all mean?”
“What it means, my friend, is that Mr. Mancini wasn’t lying. He really did send you those e-mails.”
“He did?”
“Yup. Unless someone manipulated Mr. Mancini’s account, which is impossible considering that I’m the only one with access at this level.”
Hunter almost choked. “You didn’t say
Mancini’s
account, did you?”
“I did. Why? What’s the big deal?”
“Gates! I told you the least intrusive way possible.”
“I know. And this was. At least if you wanted me to be sure.” Gates turned nervously. “Dude. Chill out. He’ll never know. Just to make you feel better, I’ll delete any trace of my even being here from the server. I’m fucking invisible.”
“Please do,” ordered Hunter.
“Anyway, are you sure you never got them? Because they definitely made it through to your account.”
“I’m telling you, there’s no way.”
“Yup,” said Gates under his breath, pointing to a couple lines of code. “Well, your office must be haunted or some shit, because they were accessed and deleted at your office desktop.”
“Which means someone had to log in first, right?”
“Yeah. Unless someone got to it within thirty seconds of your last keystroke. That’s the default security timer I’ve got the machines running on.”
“I wasn’t in the office until yesterday. And it happened before then.”
“That’s fucked up, man. Does anyone else have your password?”
“No. No one. Except for my paralegal and you…”
“Debbie? She is so hot, dude.”
“Keep it in your pants, Gates.”
“All right,” he replied dejectedly.
“There’s no way Debbie would ever do something like that.” The wheels were turning inside Hunter’s mind.
Who, and more importantly why, would anyone delete those messages?
“And so that only leaves you,” added Hunter, a slightly menacing inflection to his voice.
“Don’t look at me, man. I’m your boy. You know that.”
“I do,” said Hunter, smiling and giving a fraternal nod.
“You never know. If she’s like everybody else, she probably keeps it in Outlook or something under your name. You’d be amazed by how many people do stupid shit like that.” Gates paused and then had a thought. “Do you know who has access to her computer?”
“I can try to find out.”
“I hope everything’s all right,” said Gates sincerely.
“Yeah. Me too.” Hunter started to walk out. “Hey, Gates. One last thing. Is there any way for you to check if someone installed one of those keystroke programs on my machine?”
“A keylogger? No need, man. I would’ve been alerted if somebody had.”
“Just do it anyway.”
“All right. But only because it’s you.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey? When can I call you about that hook-up?” asked Gates. But Hunter was already gone. “Hunter?”