The Four-Night Run (3 page)

5

T
HE
C
LIENT

Scrbacek insisted that Dyer take him one place first before dropping him at his home. Dyer shrugged and said, “No problem.”

The courthouse elevator sank slowly down.

The subbasement lockup was a dank warren of concrete tunnels and maintenance offices, with one large section divided into six holding cells. Each morning the stillness of the subbasement was trampled by a herd of prisoners brought in from the buses, thick leather belts around their waists, hands cuffed to the belts. Group by group, they were guided into the various cells by sheriff’s deputies, where, shackles removed, they were left to await their perfunctory moments in court, after which they would be returned to their temporary cells. As the day wore on, the decibel level rose, the stench of prisoner sweat filled the stifling air, the catcalls and hoots and bodies bashing against bars grew more frequent, more dangerous. To call it bedlam would be an insult to Bedlam. Then, in the evening, one by one, the cells were emptied. Group by group, the prisoners, belts and shackles in place, were led back to the buses. Cell by cell, the floors were mopped with a heavy concentration of ammonia to hide the stink of sweat and fear and blood. And a stillness fell once again upon the lockup.

Because of the late announcement of the verdict, and the probation revocation hearing scheduled for the next day, the sheriff had left Caleb Breest to stay overnight in one of the lockup cells. But Breest was not a talkative man and did nothing to disturb the subbasement’s quiet. Instead he sat on his cot, massive torso leaning forward, heavy black shoes flat on the floor, elbows resting on knees, huge hands clasped together, silent and still.

Normally, Scrbacek would have been required to talk to a client in the courthouse lockup through the thick cell bars, but since Breest had been just that day acquitted of capital murder, and there were no other prisoners, the sheriff allowed Scrbacek to bring a chair into the cell. Scrbacek would have preferred, actually, the protection of sturdy steel between himself and his client.

His client.

It was how Scrbacek referred to Caleb Breest, as his client, but his relationship to Caleb Breest was like no lawyer-client relationship he had ever experienced. Through the whole of Scrbacek’s representation of Caleb Breest, the client had spit no more than a few monosyllabic words at his lawyer. Instead, Scrbacek dealt almost exclusively with Breest’s number two.

It was Joey Torresdale who had appeared at Scrbacek’s storefront office one afternoon and dropped a briefcase filled with cash onto his desk. Scrbacek had a busy practice and wasn’t actively searching for new clients, but a briefcase filled with cash always got his attention, as did a high-profile client and the mash of publicity that would inevitably come with him. Short and dapper, with razor-cut gray hair and a nose like a blob of putty, Joey Torresdale told Scrbacek he came highly recommended, though Torresdale wouldn’t say by whom. It was Joey Torresdale who laid the ground rules for the attorney-client relationship:
(1) Scrbacek would refrain from asking Caleb Breest any questions about his past or specific matters relating to the crime, (2) all legal strategies were to be approved in advance by Torresdale, (3) any investigative work had to be conducted by a PI named Trent Fallow, whose work was to be reviewed by Torresdale, and the most important rule of all, (4) Scrbacek must never ever anger Caleb Breest, lest the surfeit of emotion injure Breest’s fragile, oversize heart.

In the weeks leading to the trial, during numerous late-night strategy meetings at Dirty Dirk’s with Joey Torresdale, Scrbacek had discovered Torresdale’s mind to be sharp as a shiv. Torresdale would have been a crackerjack attorney, Scrbacek was certain, had he chosen law school over the rule of the streets. Some of the ideas Torresdale casually floated in their meetings had been beyond brilliant and greatly aided in the crafting of Breest’s defense. Torresdale’s innate street smarts, and the way he had insinuated himself into every aspect of Breest’s defense, had caused Scrbacek to wonder if Caleb Breest was merely a puppet, being manipulated by the small but insanely clever Joey Torresdale. It was because of that suspicion that Scrbacek had taken more than due care in keeping his client informed of all trial preparations, though Caleb Breest, in the county jail, had rarely acknowledged Scrbacek’s words, except with a nod or a cruelly curled lip.

Now, as Scrbacek brought his little metal chair into the cell, unfolded it, and placed it in front of Breest, his client’s huge body stayed immobile while his eyes followed Scrbacek’s halting steps. They were strange, Caleb Breest’s eyes, the palest blue with a character of derangement. One of his eyes wandered up and to the left, so that you could never be sure whether Caleb Breest was staring at you or over your left shoulder, whether he was contemplating ripping out your lungs or the lungs of the man behind you. It was this very character that had prompted Scrbacek to purchase the fake glasses for Breest, so as to hide those eyes as much as possible from the jury. Scrbacek wished the glasses were still in place. The two eyes stared crazily at Scrbacek and behind Scrbacek and, as there was no one standing now behind Scrbacek, he had a pretty good idea of whose lungs Breest was contemplating at this very moment.

Scrbacek sat and leaned forward so his voice couldn’t be heard by Special Agent Dyer. “Did anyone tell you what happened behind the courthouse?” said Scrbacek softly and slowly.

Breest didn’t move.

“Someone placed a bomb under my Ford Explorer after word went out that the jury had reached a verdict. It blew up when my intern started the engine. You may have heard the explosion. My intern was incinerated immediately. This was the same car you and I were supposed to take from the courthouse to Dirty Dirk’s after the acquittal.”

Breest still didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed.

“Surwin kept me for questioning. He thinks someone was trying to kill you, and possibly me, too. He is setting up a task force to determine who set the bomb. He asked me if I knew of anyone who might be making a move to take over your territory. I told him I had no idea.”

Breest remained motionless.

“He also mentioned something about a gang. A gang called the Furies.”

Breest’s eyes widened and then narrowed again. It took only an instant, this widening and narrowing, but still it was the greatest show of emotion Scrbacek had ever seen from Caleb Breest.

“I haven’t spoken to Joey or anyone else since the explosion. I don’t know any other details. I thought you ought to know.”

Breest stared at Scrbacek for a long moment, a stare that unnerved Scrbacek with its intensity, like Breest was accusing Scrbacek of blowing up his own car. Then Breest, still with that awful stare, nodded, the movement so slight Scrbacek wondered if it had happened at all.

“Is there anything you want me to do?” said Scrbacek.

“No,” said Caleb Breest in the slow graveled whisper that was his normal speaking tone, the snarl of a great predator cat.

Scrbacek sat there for a moment more before slapping his own thigh and standing. “Fine, then. I’ll see you tomorrow at the hearing. Surwin’s yanking at straws on this probation thing. The state’s burden of proof is lower for a revocation, but the jury’s verdict should convince the judge to rule in our favor.”

Breest’s body didn’t stir as his deviated gaze followed Scrbacek’s movements.

“Have a nice night, Mr. Breest.”

Scrbacek lifted the chair, folded it, carried it out. The sheriff slammed shut the cell door, locking it with a resounding clang.

On his way out of the basement, Scrbacek took one last glance into the cell. Caleb Breest sat on his cot, massive torso leaning forward, heavy black shoes flat on the floor, elbows resting on knees, huge hands clasped together, silent and still.

In the elevator, rising from the depths, Dyer said to Scrbacek, “He seemed cheery for a guy who was acquitted of capital murder.”

“He’s still in jail.”

“Thank God for minor miracles. Is there anyplace else you need to go?”

“Home is fine. I’m exhausted.”

“Are you sure?” said Dyer.

Scrbacek squinted at her. “You like playing chauffeur?”

“Only if you’ve got someplace you need to go.”

Scrbacek thought for a moment. “I can’t think of any.”

“You sure?” said Dyer. “You sure you’ve got no place you still need to go tonight? Because if you’ve got someplace you really need to go tonight, I will take you there. Yes, I will. No problem. All you have to do is ask.”

“No,” said Scrbacek. “Home is fine.”

“You sure?”

Scrbacek squinted at her again. “My guess, Special Agent Dyer, is that you have someplace in mind.”

“Well,” said Dyer, nodding as the elevator doors opened at street level, “now that you mention it, maybe I do.”

6

T
HE
C
ONSTITUTION

After a forty-minute drive along parkways, across bridges, through the centers of beach towns strung along the shore like bright beads on a string, Dyer stopped her unmarked brown sedan on a wide residential street. The street was lined with newly constructed, multistory houses that hovered like well-lit dollar signs over the last remnant of a more modest era. The one-story soon-to-be teardown in front of which they now parked was dim and gray, the flat windowless front of the garage as welcoming as a bolted door.

Scrbacek sat in the car and stared for a long moment at Ethan Brummel’s boyhood home until Dyer gently said, “Go on.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Oh, no,” said Dyer. “No, no, no. I’ll stay right out here in case you need me.”

“I appreciate the support.”

“Right out here,” said Dyer, settling back into the seat of her car, “in case you need me.”

Scrbacek waited a moment more, then climbed out of the car and made his way around the garage to the door on the house’s side.

There was no answer to his first knock, no answer to his second. The lights were dim inside, and he secretly hoped no one was home, but he tried once more and this time, in response, the door opened slowly.

She was tall but bent, sturdily built but shaking as if from some deep cold that had invaded her bones. She looked at him out of glassy eyes set deep within their sockets and said not a word.

“Mrs. Brummel, I’m J.D. Scrbacek.”

“I know who you are,” she said, her brogue Dublin-sharp.

“I came to offer my condolences, Mrs. Brummel. Your son was a good man and would have made a fine lawyer.”

“I know who you are,” she said.

“May I come in?”

She looked at him out of those glassy eyes and then backed away, opening the door in the process. Scrbacek stepped warily inside.

The lights were low in the Brummel house. Scrbacek had entered a kitchen area. To the left was a hallway, to the right a living room and then a dark glass-enclosed porch, through which he could see a sandy path, illuminated by security lights, which led to a broad inlet. Even in the dimness, Scrbacek could spot the pictures of Ethan Brummel on the walls. A school photo, a large portrait, a blown-up snapshot of Ethan on his sailboat like a young Kennedy.

“I’m sure you’ve naught to say to me,” said Mrs. Brummel. “I’ll take you to my husband.”

She walked out of the kitchen, through the living room area, into the glassed-in porch. Scrbacek followed. Mrs. Brummel switched on a floor lamp, and suddenly Scrbacek could see a man sitting stiffly in an extended lounge chair, sitting in stockinged feet, eyes open but unfocused, the clear plastic tube from an oxygen tank wrapping around his neck and under his nose.

“This is Mr. Scrbacek,” said Mrs. Brummel loudly. “He was the lawyer Ethan was working for. He has come to offer his condolences.”

The man turned his head and focused on Scrbacek. “You’re the lawyer?” His voice was a mere rasp.

“That’s right, Mr. Brummel.”

“Ethan works for you?”

“As an intern, yes.”

“Is he a good worker? A hard worker?”

“Yes, Mr. Brummel. He was exemplary. A fine young man.”

“That’s how I raised him. I raised him to work.”

“You raised him well.”

“He made dean’s list. Twice. He says he wants to be a lawyer. He wants to help people.”

“He was a fine young man.”

“It sounds to me like a stupid plan, becoming a lawyer to help people.”

“We try our best.”

“Does Ethan help people when he works for you?”

“I think so.”

“I hope you more than think so, young man.”

“Yes, he helped people when he worked for me.”

“I’m glad he works for you, then. Take care of my boy. He’s a good boy. I’ll trust you to take care of him.”

“My husband is tired, Mr. Scrbacek,” said Mrs. Brummel. “I think we ought leave him be for now.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Brummel, and again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Brummel turned off the lamp and led Scrbacek back to the kitchen. She opened the door and held it as she bowed her head. “You’ll be on your way,” she said.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brummel. So very, very sorry.”

“So you’ve said. Do they know any more about how it happened?”

“They’re not sure. Did Ethan tell you anything, give you any reason to make you think he was scared?”

“No, nothing.”

“No threats? No concerns he might have had about anything?”

“None.”

“They think the bomb was meant not for Ethan but for our client, Mr. Breest.”

“Oh my God,” she said, her chin rising as her hand jumped to her mouth. “Oh my dear God. They killed Ethan instead of that Caleb Breest?”

“That’s what the authorities now believe.”

“That monster murdered that man, Malloy, with the four daughters he had, and now my son is dead.”

“Mr. Breest was acquitted by the jury, and your son was a great help in gaining that verdict.”

“Oh Jaysis, no,” she said, bending now at the waist, as if suddenly overcome with cramps. “Don’t be making it any worse than it is.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brummel. So sorry.”

“You’ve said that already.” With much difficulty, she struggled to straighten enough to look into Scrbacek’s eyes. “But my son, he came to you searching for a future, and you brought him to that monster.”

“Mr. Breest is my client.”

“Your client? Has your client ever done anything other than destroy whatever it was he touched? Wouldn’t the world now be a better place if your Caleb Breest was on death row waiting the hangman and my son was still alive? Couldn’t we all then rejoice? Isn’t that the end you should have been working for, Mr. Scrbacek?”

“Mrs. Brummel, the Constitution provides—”

She threw up a hand and slapped his face. It wasn’t hard, the blow, but it shocked him with its naked intimacy.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare,” she said. “He came to you searching for a future, and you dragged him down to the level of that monster, to the level of filth, to your level. Wasn’t it inevitable that at the end of it, your Caleb Breest would be as free as a gull, and my boy, my sweet innocent boy, would be the one burned so badly they won’t even let me see his face a final time, won’t let me wash his flesh with my tears? And, you, you shifty bastard, you try to quote to me the Constitution?”

“Mrs. Brummel—”

“Get out of my house.”

“Mrs. Brummel, I—”

“Get the hell out of my house. Out. Out. Get out.”

It was a quiet ride back through the center of the beach towns, across the bridges, along the parkways into the city. Scrbacek wasn’t talking, and Dyer, after her few conversational gambits fell flat as a drunkard over a stoop, was tactful enough to maintain her quiet. Dyer offered a cigarette, and Scrbacek accepted, and they smoked in silence as they headed north.

Without asking for directions, Dyer found her way to the side street just a block off the boardwalk where sat J.D. Scrbacek’s building. The bottom floor was a storefront office with his name painted on the plate-glass window in gold. The second and third floors were a duplex apartment with exposed brick, thick beams of old-growth wood, and a wide sleeping loft with a bed, a huge flat-screen, and a skylight that leaked during heavy rains but through which at night, after sex, you could see the glister of stars.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Scrbacek.

“I’m sure it wasn’t so bad as you may think,” said Dyer. “It’s a hard thing when a child dies. It can’t but seem that everything you say is wrong.”

“It was worse than you could imagine.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“I tried to quote the Constitution to Mrs. Brummel.”

“Oh.” Dyer turned to stare out the windshield without saying anything more.

Scrbacek got out of the car and then leaned back through the open doorway. “But even so,” he said, “I appreciate you taking me. Sometimes I forget the things I should be doing, forget what’s important.”

“I saw the way you were with the kid in court,” said Dyer. “You never bossed him. You listened to what he said. Some people are better at the eulogies than at being with the living.”

“I suppose.”

“In the Bureau they say you aren’t worth the shit we wipe off our shoes, but from here on I’ll stand up for you.”

“Thanks, Stephanie, I think. You going to be at the hearing tomorrow?”

“I’m testifying against your scum client.”

“So I get to cross-examine you. Won’t that be fun.” Scrbacek glanced up at the bright neon glow of the casinos and then turned to face the darkness in the west. “This thing Surwin was talking about, the Furies, what the hell is that all about?”

“Some Crapstown gang,” said Dyer. “One of a half dozen or so, though this one seems to rule the rest. We can’t get a handle on them, but they’re bad eggs for sure, pure killers. So scary we hear even your client is worried.”

“Nasty enough to blow up cars?”

“Nasty enough to blow up towns. Be careful, Tenderfoot. There’s still danger out there. Stay home tonight.”

“I will.”

“I’m serious now. To keep your street safe, we cleared away the reporters who were camped out here looking for a quote, but we can’t do anything if you don’t stay put.”

“Don’t worry, Stephanie. I’m too exhausted to do anything other than sleep, even if I wanted to.”

As Scrbacek was opening the front door of his building, Dyer called out through the car window. “Is Scrbacek really a Dutch name?”

Scrbacek shook his head. “Flemish.”

“Flemish?” said Dyer. “I never would have guessed.”

Inside his office the answering machine was blinking like an idiot, soundless but full of fury. He dropped his briefcase and played the first few messages, all from reporters asking about the Breest trial and the bomb. Scrbacek loved talking to the press, was an unabashed publicity hound, glad to howl to even the lowliest members of the fourth estate, but tonight he simply wasn’t in the mood. Tomorrow. He’d give them all the choicest of quotes tomorrow.

But tonight the office was dark as a hole and felt like work, and so instead of hanging around, he climbed the spiral stairwell to his apartment. He turned on the light and took off his raincoat, threw his shirt into the hamper, carefully hung his suit pants and jacket on a hanger, placed his tie upon the tie carousel in his closet. He took a drink of water, brushed his teeth, flossed, gargled, climbed into his loft, and turned off the light.

Then he sneaked down the loft stairs, peered out the window, and watched as Dyer sat in her car for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, before driving off.

In the darkness of his apartment, lit only by the city light drifting through his windows, he put on a pair of jeans, his boots, a white shirt, his raincoat. He grabbed his wallet and keys, his last pack of cigs, his lighter, and his phone, which he placed into his raincoat pocket. Then
he slipped down the spiral stairs and out the back door leading to the alley where they picked up the trash. On the horizon, rising above the tops of the low buildings, he could see already the bright glow, the
herald of a night where there was more than the agony of a lost child, where there was glitter and laughter and risk and the possibility, no matter how dim, of real possibility.

He took a quick look around to be sure there was no one from the State Bureau of Investigation watching over him for his own damn good, and then, with a spring in his step, headed off toward the dazzling neon lights of Casinoland.