The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (13 page)

Chester Swindell sat behind his mahogany desk, scrawling notes on a yellow legal pad. One of his better
Honduran cigars smoldered in a nearby ashtray, and his office door was conspicuously closed. Swindell had cleared his desk of all “debris” immediately after his 7:30 a.m. phone call with Beverly West. He had decided to spend several hours this morning focused on pressing matters that demanded his undivided attention.

“Debris” was his administrative aide, Nancy’s, term for the seemingly endless piles of case folders bulging with pleadings, stacks of correspondence, law review articles, case summaries, client-provided background materials, newspapers, trade magazines, and partially spent legal pads that steadily accumulated on Swindell’s desk. They grew, and spread around him as he worked, like snow drifts.

Swindell had carefully stacked these items in yard-high piles on two leather-bound, black, wooden library chairs positioned discretely, against a far wall. In their place, he had arranged a small stack of casefile folders, several fresh legal pads, and a plastic cup that Nancy had filled with a dozen newly sharpened pencils.

Swindell preferred to work in longhand and in pencil whenever he did “thinkin’ work.” He would log each activity into his case management program, which he accessed and tracked through a wireless keyboard and flat-screen monitor kept atop a small computer stand at his left.

When he finished an assignment, Swindell would tear off the relevant pages, staple them together, and then place them in a folder labeled with the client’s name and case number. Later, Nancy would transcribe and save a copy of each folder on the office network’s hard drive and place a printed version in the appropriate permanent file.

Swindell’s first order of business that morning had been to write out a counter-offer settlement plan for Martin. Even though Martin ultimately had accepted Swindell’s ‘wait-and-see’ attitude regarding a potential settlement, he wanted to show his client that he was actively “on the job,” looking out for his best interests. He felt compelled to do so after their last conversation.

Martin’s comments still burned in Swindell’s ears. “They want me to settle with my wife, expunge the public record, if possible, and put the whole thing behind me as soon as possible,” Martin had said about the pending domestic violence hearing.

Far more painful, however, had been what his client had said next. “They think going to court, at this point, would be
insane
and that I should only consider it as a last resort. All of which begs the question: Why didn’t I hear any of this from you?”

Swindell bristled as he recalled those biting words. He could feel the heat and color rushing back to his cheeks just thinking about it. He had spent a half hour outlining a set of demands, opening gambits, and fallback positions for Martin to consider, and he looked forward to presenting them to his client at the earliest opportunity.

On reflection, Swindell realized that the other side’s initial settlement offer had been exceptionally stingy in nature—a typical Beverly West trial balloon, designed to test his and his client’s expectations and resolve.
I should have dismissed it immediately, without ever passing it on to Martin
.

Fortunately, his client had rejected it out of hand.
Bev sure underestimated him! Perhaps her arrogance is finally startin’ to take a toll.

Swindell knew West could not afford to be rejected outright twice. That, he had concluded, was why she had yet to mention anything to him about revising or revisiting the initial settlement offer. West, he realized, also could have been playing “chicken” with him. Like Swindell, she knew that the first attorney to bring up the subject of a “settlement” would be in the weaker bargaining position.

At 10:15 a.m., the light on Swindell’s private line began blinking, and he picked it up, only to discover Martin Silkwood on the other end.

“Mahr-tin, how are you?”

“Fine, Mr. Swindell. I got your message about a chance to speak with my son tonight.”

“And?”

“I’m in, of course!”

“Great.”

Swindell spent several minutes reviewing the background details that Beverly West had shared with him, along with the ground rules the two attorneys had hammered out regarding what Martin should and should not say to his son.

“Are you comfortable workin’ within these guidelines, Mahr-tin?”

“Sure. It all seems reasonable enough. What time will Justin and I be talking?”

“Your wife’s goin’ to call you at about a quarter-to-seven,” Swindell said, “and she would like you to limit the call to no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Why?” Martin asked, suddenly annoyed by Katie’s new power and her willingness to use it.

“I don’t know, Mahr-tin. Maybe because she can.”

“Well—”

“Look, I get that you don’t like it, but it’s fifteen minutes you wouldn’t otherwise have. In fact, if the judge ever got wind of it—”

“OK, OK.” Martin said. “You’re right. It’s not worth fighting about.”

“Correct. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Swindell continued, “I want you to know, Mahr-tin, that I took very seriously what you said yesterday, about settlin’ this case as soon as possible.”

“Oh...really?”

“Yes. So, this mornin’, I roughed out a counter offer we could present, along with a strategy to use in any negotiations. I’m prepared to go over it with you right now, if you like.”

Martin glanced at the tracking device’s injection site just below his right elbow. The area still appeared slightly pink.

“No, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Swindell.” He paused for a moment, recalling their earlier conversation. “Besides, didn’t we decide to let Katie and her attorney make the first move? I thought that was where we left things?”

“Well—yes—” Swindell stammered, “but, at the time, you seemed quite concerned about potential negative fallout from a trial. So, I thought, at the very least, I should prepare a contingency plan just in case they don’t come back with anythin’.”

“Do you think that’s a possibility?” Martin asked.

Swindell thought his client sounded surprisingly indifferent. “Anythin’s possible, Mahr-tin. And, as you know, time is runnin’ out. The trial is scheduled to begin at nine o’clock, Monday mornin’. That’s less than one business day away.”

“That’s certainly true,” Martin conceded. “I appreciate that you took the initiative on this, too, but, I think I’m going to pass.”

Swindell was stunned. “Mahr-tin, has somethin’ happened since we last spoke, somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me about?”

“No.”

“I ask because, quite frankly, I felt like I had to ‘talk you off the ledge’ yesterday and now—”

“Now, what?” Martin asked.

“Now, it’s almost as if that entire conversation never took place. I don’t sense any concern or urgency at all, on your part.”

Martin’s end of the line went silent.

“Mahr-tin? Mahr-tin, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. For a moment there, I thought I lost you.”

“No, I was just thinking about what you said.”

“And?”

“I guess...after sleeping on it, I realized that my partners were being extremely selfish and alarmist. Their comments scared the hell out of me, too. I admit it. But now that I’ve had time to think it over, I find myself in agreement with your original position. We should wait and let them make the first move!”

Swindell moved the phone receiver away from his ear, frowned and looked at it sideways. He wanted to scream at his client.

“Are you sure, Mahr-tin?” he asked, trying to keep his frustration in check. “Don’t you think we should at least discuss what I’ve put together? Where’s the harm in that? Besides, the situation has changed materially. Both sides are now workin’ together to address Justin’s behavioral issues. That may give us a new openin’ to try and settle.”

“Doesn’t that give them the same opening, Mr. Swindell?”

“Of course, but—”

“You do still think Katie wants, very much, to avoid the costs of a trial?”

“Yes, I do, because I don’t think she ever imagined the case goin’ this far.”

“Good. Then, we’re in agreement. Let them sweat it out...right up to the start of the hearing, Monday, if necessary. Who knows? Maybe Katie will get so desperate that she’ll offer to restore everything she took.”

Swindell frowned. “Well, Mahr-tin, I don’t know about that—”

Martin breathed deeply and sighed. “Do what you can to get them back to the table, then, Mr. Swindell. But, if I were you, I’d concentrate most of my efforts and energy on preparing for, and winning, this case.”

The familiar red, white and green awning of Bethesda’s “Campie Flegrei de Napoli” restaurant fluttered, hesitantly, against the rain-soaked clear plastic enclosure that made sidewalk seating still possible, even on a day as dreary as this one. Roger Hannah slipped the rim of his bucket hat forward to avoid the runoff spilling from above and pushed the restaurant’s heavy wooden front door open.

He found his grandnephew, Dale, waiting attentively for him on the inside. The young man’s face lit up under his blond buzz cut the moment he saw Hannah. He was tall (six-foot-three) and lean, with the broad shoulders of a competitive swimmer. He was still in his rain-soaked, navy blue hooded slicker, meaning, despite his compulsive need to arrive first to every meeting, the high school senior had only beaten his great uncle by a matter of minutes...or less. Hannah took pride in that.

“Unc!” Dale said, stepping forward and giving the older man a bear hug, “It’s great to see you, sir!”

“Same here, Dale!” Hannah ruffled the younger man’s hair. Then, he stepped back and beamed. “I’ll be damned, if you haven’t grown another inch or two since Easter!”

Dale flashed his big white teeth and laughed. “Good livin’ I guess, Unc!”

“Good living...and good genes! I’m glad you could join me, son.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir!”

“Please knock off all the ‘sirs.’ You’re just making me feel old.”

“Bu
t—
”

“No, I mean it.”

“OK, Unc. OK. But I’m just practicing for SEAL School.”

Hannah gave his nephew a non-committal smile and nodded. “Still …”

“All right.”

They passed through the restaurant’s inner door and were immediately greeted by its signature smells of charcoal grilled shrimp, lobster and steak mixed in with the heavy, sultry Mediterranean aromas of garlic, parmesan and baked brea
d—
sensory accents unique to this
barbeque
d’Italia
.

A tan, petite, twenty-something hostess dressed in a tight-fitting black top stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Natalie,” she said, smiling at them both, but lingering a bit on Dale. She had warm brown eyes, shoulder-length straight black hair, sultry lips and ample cleavage. “Table for two?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hannah said, “but something a bit out of the way. We’d like to talk, in private.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at this hour,” she said as she led them through the sparsely seated dining area to a table in the rear of the restaurant. “The main lunch hour traffic ended about a half-hour ago. We are really more of a dinner spot.”

The two men had barely seated themselves when a young, slim, dark-haired waiter appeared at tableside. “Gentlemen,” he said, flashing a smile that revealed a partially broken lower front tooth, “My name is Antonio, and I will be your server. Would you like to hear our specials?”

Dale gestured toward his uncle.

“No, Antonio” Hannah said, shaking his head and smiling. “We’re here for the
Steak and Lobster Tail a´ la Carrozza.
”

Antonio smiled, through his dark stubble. He touched his finger tips to his lips, kissed them and then flayed them apart in a show of delight. “
Excellenté, Señor.”

“Grazie.”

“And to drink?” Antonio continued, raising one eyebrow.

“Can I buy you a beer?” Hannah asked his grandnephew, with a wink. “They have Heineken on tap.”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Hannah added a scotch−on−the−rocks to the order, and Antonio disappeared in the direction of the bar.

“How are your folks?” Hannah asked.

Dale, who was busy chewing on a slice of hot, buttered Italian bread, smiled. “They’re grit, sir!” he said, chewing and swallowing feverishly. “They buth send th’ regards.”

“How’s your dad getting around?”

Dale swallowed the last piece. “Great, too. They just fitted him with new, titanium legs. He’s training for the Marine Corps Marathon!”

“Tell him I said ‘some people will do anything to get a leg up on the competition!’”

“I’ll be sure to do that, sir!”

Hannah frowned.

“Sorry. I mean, ‘I’ll be sure to do that, Unc!’”

“That’s better. So, tell me about the SEALS. Is your dad pushing you into it?”

Dale put down his next slice of buttered bread. The animation left his face as he slowly continued to chew and then swallowed hard. “What are you getting at, Unc?”

Hannah cleared his throat. “Are you saying it’s all coming from you, then?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Listen, Dale, I’ve known you all your life. I’ve watched you grow into a fine young man, an accomplished and disciplined athlete and a born leader. You’re like a son to me, so it’s—.”

“It’s what, Unc?”

“Look, military service is a fine calling. It was the path I took, as you know, and the path Hannah men have taken for generations.”

“A proud heritage,” Dale said, the smile returning.

“Yes,” Hannah said, smiling back, despite his best intentions. “But it’s not your
only
option. You have choices. You should...have choices, no?”

“Yeah, of course I do Unc: Army, Navy, Marines! Like you, I choose the Navy...and SEALS officers’ training school. Can you believe it? In time, I may qualify for underwater demolition!”

“Army, Navy, Marines? You sound like a recruiting poster, not a young man with his whole life ahead of him… and a world of choices to consider.”

Dale looked down and started shaking his head from side to side. Then, slowly he looked back up across the table, at his uncle. “I don’t get it, sir,” he said, with a pained, furrowed brow. “I thought no one would be more excited about this than you. I mean, I’m following in
your
footsteps, Unc. I’m going down
your
path. Dad wanted the Marines for me, and I—”

“No, your dad wanted you in the Marines for
him
, not for you. He went to Iraq with a chip on his shoulder. He had something to prove, but that IED took him out before he could make a name for himself. He had only been ‘in country’ a few days. He wanted to undo—”

“Hey,” Dale said, slamming his napkin down on the table. “He got a purple heart for that, Unc. He’s a hero!”

“Yeah. He’s a hero all right—a legless hero.”

Dale was glaring at his great uncle now. “He’s got legs, sir, those new Titanium alloy—.”

“Do you know why your dad lost his legs over there, son?”

“Sure. Like you said, the IED.”

“No. The IED took him out because your dad’s platoon’s personnel carrier lacked proper armor plating. Our leaders put him in harm’s way, in a war that started on a date of their choosing, and then they failed to protect him properly.

“Listen, I love your dad. What happened to him over there was a tragedy, but he’s only a ‘hero’ because of our military leaders’ total lack of regard for the safety of our own troops!”

Dale squinted at his great uncle. “You sound like a damn, bleeding-heart liberal, sir, not like career military.”

“You’re right. You’re right,” Hannah said, as Antonio returned with the drinks. “But realize you’re hearing the voice of informed experience and hindsight, not misguided sentiment. Remember, I’ve spent my career neck deep in secrets. I know what really went on then...and what’s going on now.”

He took a slug from his glass of scotch. “I mean no disrespect to your father, Dale, but what would you call someone who, out of the best of intentions, puts himself in harm’s way for people who don’t care enough about his safety to protect him properly?”

Dale lifted his beer and took a long, deep swig. Then, he returned the glass to the table. “I’d call him a patriot, sir.”

“You wouldn’t call him a fool or a dupe?” Hannah asked.

“No sir, even if he was betrayed by lesser men, who were supposed to have his back. He acted honorably.”

“Knowing what happened to him, would you still consider serving the organization that, as you just said, ‘betrayed’ him?”

Dale reached for the half-empty beer glass. He tilted the glass slightly and twirled it with his fingers. Then, he suddenly raised it to his lips, gulped down the rest and returned it to the table. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve had this dream of being a Navy SEAL for some time now. I don’t doubt what you’re saying, but—.”

Hannah let a slight sigh escape his lips. He smiled and raised his hands. “OK, OK,” he said, as Antonio returned with a large bowl of Caesar salad and two smaller serving dishes. “Let’s enjoy our meal, son, and then we can continue this discussion.”

Antonio made fresh Caesar dressing tableside, tossed and divvied up the greens, ground the pepper, put out freshly baked garlic bread, refreshed their water and then slipped away.

Ten minutes later, he returned with a huge serving tray that contained a new round of drinks and the main course. “You’re gonna love dees,” he said as he set the serving tray down beside them and quickly bussed the table, scooping up the stray bread crumbs with a crumb scoop.

He deftly moved around them with carefully choreo-graphed poise as he placed a large, covered dish in front of each of them and then gently set down a bowl of liquefied garlic butter beside each plate. He returned moments later with half-lemons tied in cheese cloth and the silver nut crackers and diggers they would need to crack open the lobsters and recover the succulent white meat. He laid these extra eating utensils down with an artistry that made reaching out for them almost irresistible.

As a final touch, he returned with stainless steel buckets “for da shells” and finally added a side dish of long, charcoal-brazed zucchini slices. He brought forth two plastic bibs and tied them behind each man’s neck. Then, he suddenly stood at attention.

“And now,” he said, simultaneously placing a thumb in the holes atop each of their steel plate covers. He smiled at them and withdrew his arms with a flourish. Steam billowed up revealing the two-pound grilled lobster tails, bursting with grilled lobster meat, and rare, thinly sliced grilled sirloin, separated by a small island of grilled asparagus tips hollandaise. “Mangia!” he cooed. Then, he bowed and stepped backward into the shadows.

Dale studied the plate and then looked up at his great Uncle.              “Wow, Unc. This is some spread. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Of course you do,” Hannah said. “You’re eighteen and about to step out and make your mark on the world. You are a great kid...and...you are my brother’s grandson.”

“Is that what this is all about: Gary?”

“Hey, he was your grandad. Show some respect.”

“He’s nothing in my household. Dad never even mentions him. And when his name does come up, which isn’t often, Dad just refers to him as ‘the disgrace.’”

Hannah could feel his cheeks flushing red. He reached for his scotch. “Your grandfather got a bum rap in this family, from everyone, me included.”

“From what I heard, he had it coming. Mom told me he was a first-class coward, a draft dodger who refused to fight and fled to Canada to avoid serving. He took Grandma with him, when she was pregnant with Dad and, as a result, Dad wasn’t even born an American. Later on, when Carter offered amnesty, he renounced his U.S. citizenship. He just spat in America’s face.

“I think he became a drug addict, too. Didn’t he die pretty young from a heroin overdose?”

Hannah was busily cutting a slice of steak, trying to hide the tremors in his hand.

“Your grandfather did something courageous, young man,” he said sternly, realizing, as he said it, that he was starting to lecture Dale. That was not the way to gain influence with him.

“OK, that didn’t sound right. I apologize for my tone. But I want to share something with you that it took me decades to acquire: the insight that comes with age and maturity, with experience!”

Dale was chewing on his steak. He crinkled his brow with that familiar, teenaged, ‘you’ve got to be kidding me, right?’ expression that Hannah had seen far too often decades before when he had tried to talk “sense” to his own teenaged kids.
Why,
he wondered,
was the hallmark trait of young people a total disregard, and disrespect, for wisdom gained from experience?

“I know you think I’m full of crap, Dale, but you’re an astute young man. Please give me the benefit of the doubt, if only for a minute, that I actually might know what I’m talking about.”

Dale was now prying his first clump of succulent white flesh from the open tail of the lobster. He dipped it in the liquefied butter and, as he raised it to his lips, gave Hannah a perfunctory shrug.

Hannah smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Listen, you should hear what I’m going to tell you, because it’s probably news to you, and it’s about an important part of your family history...and, I think, a potential source of pride.”

Dale looked at him as if he was speaking in tongues, and took another sip of beer.

“Thirty years ago, I would have agreed with everything you just said about your grandfather. In my mind, he had totally betrayed the family and me, personally. One minute, he had been my big brother and childhood hero. The next, he was a cowardly, selfish traitor!