Rogue Lawyer, Page 20

  cargo van is quite easy to spot. The dented Subaru wagon Ken has selected for me, however, will never attract attention. I spend a few minutes with him, swap some insults, and hit the road.

  I weave through a run-down part of town, circling back here and there, with one eye on the mirror. I eventually find a bypass that takes me to the interstate, and when I’m sure there’s no one following me, I head south. Fifty-two miles from the city limits, I pass Dr. Woo’s sign on the other side of the road. As Swanger said, it’s a large billboard at the edge of a cornfield. Next to the words “Vasectomy Reversals” is the large goofy face of Dr. Woo as he looks down upon the northbound traffic. I turn around at the next exit, drive four miles back to the sign, and park near it. Traffic roars by, the drafts from the big trucks almost lifting my little Subaru. Next to the shoulder there is a ditch covered with weeds and clogged with litter, and beyond the ditch there is a chain-link fence choked with vines. Beyond the fence is a gravel frontage road that borders the cornfield. The farmer who owns the place has carved out a narrow rectangle to lease to the sign company, and in the center of it there are four large metal poles that anchor the billboard. Around them are weeds, more litter, a few stray stalks of corn. Above them, Dr. Woo grins at the traffic as he hawks his skills.

  He’s the last guy I would trust with my testicles.

  Though I have no experience, I suppose one could use darkness as cover, ease along the frontage road, dig a nice grave, drag a body over to it, refill the hole, scatter dirt and litter around, and cover it all up. Let a few months go by as the seasons change and the dirt settles.

  And why would you pick a spot so close to an interstate highway with twenty thousand cars a day? I have no idea, but I remind myself that I’m trying to understand the mind of a very sick person. Hiding in the open works all the time, I guess. And I’m sure that at 3:00 a.m. this place is fairly deserted.

  I stare at the weeds under the sign and think about the Kemp family. And I curse the day I met Arch Swanger.

  13.

  Two days later, I’m waiting in a hallway in the Old Courthouse when I get a text from Detective Reardon. He says we need to talk, and soon. It’s urgent. An hour later, Partner drops me off at Central and I hustle back to Reardon’s cramped and suffocating office. No hellos, no handshake, no greeting of any kind, but then I don’t expect any.

  He grunts, “You got a minute?”

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “Have a seat.” There is only one place to sit—a leather bench covered with dust and files. I look at it and say, “That’s okay. I’ll just stand.”

  “Whatever. Do you know where Swanger is?”

  “No, I have no idea. Thought you guys were bird-dogging him.”

  “We were, but he got away. No sign for over a week, nothing. Vanished.” He falls into his wooden swivel chair and eventually gets both feet onto his desk. “Are you still his lawyer?”

  “No. When he hired me he paid with a rubber check. Our contract is void.”

  A smirk, a fake smile. “Well, he thinks otherwise. This came in just after midnight, right here on my office phone.” He reaches over and hits two buttons on his vintage answering machine. After the beep, Arch’s voice begins: “This message is for Detective Landy Reardon. This is Arch Swanger calling. I’m on the road and I’m not coming back. You guys have hounded me for months and I’m tired of it. My poor mother is out of her mind because of your constant surveillance and abusive tactics. Please leave her alone. She’s completely innocent and so am I. You know damned well I didn’t kill that girl, had nothing to do with it. I’d like to explain this to someone who’s willing to listen, but if I come back you’ll just bust my ass and throw me in jail. I got some good information, Reardon, and I’d like to talk to someone. I know where she is right now. How about that?”

  There is a long pause. I look at Reardon and he says, “Hang on.”

  Arch coughs a couple of times, and when he resumes his voice is shaky, as though he’s getting emotional: “Only three people know where she’s buried, Reardon. Only three. Me, the guy who killed her, and my lawyer, Sebastian Rudd. I told Rudd because as a lawyer he can’t tell anyone. Isn’t that screwed up, Reardon? Why should a lawyer be able to keep such deadly secrets? I like Rudd, don’t get me wrong. Hell, I hired him. And if by some lucky break you’re able to find me, then I’ll bring in Rudd to walk me.” Another pause, then, “Gotta go, Reardon. Later.”

  I step over to the leather bench and sit on some files. Reardon turns off the answering machine and leans forward on his elbows. “It came in from a prepaid cell phone and we couldn’t track it. We have no idea where he is.”

  I take a deep breath as I try to unscramble my thoughts. There is no strategic or commonsense reason for Swanger to tell the police that I know where the body is buried. Period! And the fact that he was so eager to tell me, and then blab it to the cops, makes me doubt him even more. He’s a con, perhaps a serial killer, a psychopath who enjoys playing games and revels in the lying. But whatever he is, and whatever his motives, he has thrown me off a cliff and I’m free-falling.

  The door suddenly opens and in walks Roy Kemp, assistant chief of police and father of the missing girl. He closes the door behind him and takes a step toward me. He’s a tough guy, an ex-Marine with a square jaw and a grayish crew cut. His eyes are weary and red, evidence of the toll the last year has taken. His eyes also convey a hatred that makes my skin crawl. My collar is instantly wet.

  Reardon gets to his feet, cracks his knuckles as if he’s about to use his fists, and gives me a look that could kill, and probably will.

  It’s fatal to show weakness to a cop, or a prosecutor or judge, even a jury, but right now it is impossible to conjure up the slightest trace of confidence, let alone my usual cockiness.

  Kemp gets right to the point with “Where is she, Rudd?”

  I slowly get to my feet, raise both hands, and say, “I gotta think about this, okay? I’m caught off guard here. You guys had time to plan this ambush. Give me some time, okay?”

  Kemp says, “I don’t give a damn about your confidentiality and ethics and all that crap, Rudd. You have no idea what we’re going through. It’s been eleven months and eighteen days of sheer hell. My wife can’t get out of bed. My whole family is falling apart. We’re desperate, Rudd.”

  For all of his fearsomeness, Roy Kemp is a man in grievous pain, a father who’s sleepwalking through his worst nightmare. He needs a body, a funeral, a permanent grave where he and his wife can kneel on the grass and properly mourn. The horror and uncertainty must be overwhelming.

  He’s blocking my narrow path to the door, and I’m wondering if he’ll actually get physical.

  I say, “Look, Chief, you’re assuming that everything Arch Swanger says is the truth, and that could be a bad assumption.”

  “Do you know where my daughter is?”

  “I know what Arch Swanger said, but I do not know if he’s telling the truth. Frankly, I doubt it.”

  “Then tell us anyway. We’ll go look.”

  “It’s not that simple. I can’t repeat what he said to me in confidence, you know that.”

  Kemp closes his eyes. I glance down and notice both his fists are clenched. Slowly, he relaxes them. I look at Reardon, who’s glaring at me. I look back at Kemp, whose red eyes are open slightly. He’s nodding, as if he’s saying, “Okay, Rudd, we’ll play it your way. But we’ll get you.”

  Frankly, I’m on their side. I would love to spill my guts, help get the girl properly laid to rest, help track down Swanger, and watch with satisfaction as a jury nails him for murder. Sadly, though, that is not an option. I take a small step toward the door and say, “I’d like to leave now.”

  Kemp doesn’t move, and somehow I manage to brush by him without provoking a fight. As I grab the doorknob I can almost feel a knife in my back, but I survive and make it to the hallway. I’ve never left Central in a bigger hurry.

  14.

  It’s the
third Friday of the month, time to see Judith for our mandatory two-drink meeting. Neither of us wants it, but neither is willing to surrender and quit. To do so would be to confess a weakness, something we both simply cannot do, not to each other anyway. We tell ourselves that we need to keep the lines of communication open because we share a son. That poor child.

  This is our first drink since she dragged me into court in her futile effort to terminate all visitation rights. So, with that little brawl still hanging in the air, there will be an even thicker layer of tension. Frankly, I was hoping she would cancel. I could easily be provoked into a tongue-lashing.

  I get to the bar early and find a booth. She arrives on time as always, but with a pleasant look on her face. Judith is not a pleasant person and doesn’t smile much. Most lawyers battle stress, but most lawyers don’t work in a firm with nine other women, all known to be ball-squeezing litigators looking for a fight. Her office is a pressure cooker, and I suspect her home life is not that much fun. The older Starcher gets, the more he talks about all the yelling between Judith and Ava. I, of course, pump the kid for all the dirt I can get.

  “How was your week?” I ask, the standard opening.

  “The same. Looks like you’re on a roll. Another picture in the paper.”

  The waiter takes our orders, always the same: chardonnay for her, whiskey sour for me. Whatever pleasant thought she brought into the bar has now vanished.

  “A bit premature,” I say. “I don’t represent the guy anymore. He couldn’t handle the fee.”

  “Gee, think of all the publicity you’ll miss.”

  “I’ll find some more.”

  “I have no doubt about that.”

  “I’m not in the mood to swap insults. I get Starcher tomorrow for my thirty-six hours. Any problems with that?”

  “What are your plans?”

  “So I have to submit my plans to you for approval? When did the court order this?”

  “Just curious, that’s all. You need a drink.”

  We stare at the table for a few minutes, waiting for the alcohol. When it arrives, we grab the glasses. After the third gulp, I say, “My mother is in town. We’ll take Starcher to the mall for the usual ritual whereby the noncustodial parent kills a few hours drinking coffee while the kid rides the carousel and bangs around the playground. Then we’ll have bad pizza and bad ice cream in the food court and watch the clowns turn flips and pass out balloons. After that we’ll drive down to the river and take a walk by the boats in the harbor. What else would you like to know?”

  “You plan to keep him tomorrow night?”

  “I get thirty-six hours, once a month. That’s 9:00 a.m. tomorrow until 9:00 p.m. Sunday. Do the math. It’s not that complicated.”

  The waiter pops in to ask how we’re doing. I order another round, even though our glasses are not yet half-empty. Over the past year, I have almost managed to look forward to these brief meetings with Judith. We’re both lawyers and occasionally we’ve found common ground. I once loved her, though I’m not so sure she felt the same. We share a child. I have entertained the fantasy that we could possibly develop a friendship, one that I need because I have so few friends. Right now, though, I can’t stand the sight of her.

  We drink in silence, two brooding ex-lovers who would really like to strangle one another. She breaks the tension with “What kind of person is Arch Swanger?”

  We talk about him for a few minutes, then about the abduction and the nightmare the Kemp family is enduring. A lawyer she knows once handled a DUI for Jiliana’s last boyfriend, which is supposed to somehow be enlightening.

  The drinks are finished in thirty minutes, a record, and we part ways without even the obligatory peck on the cheek.

  15.

  It’s a challenge each month to plan an activity that keeps Starcher entertained. He’s already told me he’s tired of the mall, the zoo, the fire station, miniature golf, and the children’s theater. What he really wants to do is watch more cage fighting, but that’s not going to happen. So, I buy him a boat.

  We meet my mother at a place called the Landing, a contrived boathouse in the middle of City Park. She and I drink coffee while Starcher slurps his hot cocoa. My mother is worried about his upbringing. The kid has no table manners and never utters the words “sir,” “ma’am,” “please,” and “thank you.” I’ve pushed him on this and gotten nowhere.

  The boat is a remote-controlled model racer with an engine that whines like a muffled chain saw. The pond is a large man-made circle of water with a gushing fountain in the center. It’s a magnet for model boats of all varieties, and for all ages. Starcher and I fiddle with the remote controls for half an hour before everything makes sense. When he’s comfortable, I turn him loose and take a seat next to my mother on a bench under a tree.

  It’s a beautiful day, with crisp light air and a brilliant blue sky. The park is crawling with people—families strolling about eating ice cream, new moms with massive strollers, young lovers rolling in the leaves. And no shortage of divorced fathers exercising their rights of visitation.

  My mother and I chat about nothing of any importance as we watch her only grandson in the distance. She lives two hours away and does not get our local news. She’s heard nothing of the Swanger affair and I’m not about to bring it up. She has a lot of opinions and does not approve my career. Her first husband, my father, was a lawyer who made a nice living in real estate. He died when I was ten. Her second husband made a fortune in rubber bullets and died at the age of sixty-two. She’s been afraid to gamble on a third one.

  I fetch us more coffee in paper cups and we resume our conversation. Starcher waves me over, and when I get there he hands me the controls and says he needs to go pee. The restroom is not far away, just on the other side of the pond in a building that houses the concession stands and park offices. I ask him if he needs help and he shoots me a dirty look. He is, after all, now eight years old and gaining confidence. I watch him as he walks to the building and enters the men’s restroom. I stop the boat and wait.

  There is a sudden commotion behind me, loud angry voices, then two gunshots crack through the air. People start screaming. About fifty yards away, a black teenager sprints across the park, leaps over a bench, darts between some saplings and into the woods, running as if his life is in danger. Evidently it is. Not far behind him is another young black male, angrier and with the gun. He fires it again, and people hit the ground. All around me, folks who were enjoying the day are now ducking, crawling, clutching children, and scurrying for their lives. It’s a scene from television, something we’ve all witnessed before, and it takes a few seconds to realize that this is not fiction. That’s a real gun!

  I think about Starcher, but he’s on the other side of the pond in the restroom, a good distance from the gunfire. As I duck and look wildly around, a man scampering away bumps into me, grunts “Sorry,” and keeps moving.

  When both the prey and the hunter are lost in the woods, I wait, afraid to move. Then, two more gunshots in the distance. If the second guy found the first guy, at least we didn’t have to watch it. We pause, wait, then start to move again. My heart is racing as I stand and gawk at the thick trees along with everyone else. When it appears as though the danger has passed, I take a deep breath. People stare at each other, relieved but still stunned. Did we really just see what we just saw? Two policemen on bicycles fly around the corner and disappear into the woods. In the distance a siren can be heard.

  I look at my mother, who’s on the phone as if she missed it all. I look at the men’s restroom; Starcher is still inside. I start walking that way, pausing to place the remote control on the bench beside my mother. Several men and boys have come and gone from the restroom.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  “Life in the big city,” I say as I walk away.

  Starcher is not in the restroom. I hurry outside and begin looking around. I grab my mother, tell her he’s disappeared, and tell her to check out the l
adies’ restroom. For several long minutes the two of us scour the area, our fear mounting with each second. He’s not the kind of kid who would wander off. No, Starcher would take a pee and head straight back to the pond to continue his boat racing. My heart is pounding and I’m sweating.

  The two bicycle cops emerge from the woods, without a suspect, and head our way. I stop them, tell them my son is missing, and they immediately get on the radio. In my panic, I stop others and ask them to help.

  Two more bicycle cops arrive. The area around the Landing is now a panic zone; everyone knows a kid is missing. The police are trying to lock down the entire park, to keep anyone from leaving, but there are a dozen points of entry and exit. Patrol cars arrive. The urgent wail of sirens only adds to the alarm. I see a man in a red sweater. I think I saw him enter the men’s restroom. He says yes, he was there, and he saw a kid at the urinal. Everything seemed fine. No, he did not see the kid leave. I jog up and down the sidewalks that weave through the park, asking everyone along the way if they’ve seen an eight-year-old boy who seemed lost. He was wearing jeans and a brown sweatshirt. No one has seen him.

  As the seconds tick by, I try to calm myself. He has just wandered off. He has not been abducted. It doesn’t work; I am in full panic.

  This is the awful story you read about but think it can never happen to you.

  16.

  After half an hour my mother is ready to collapse. A medic sits