Keep Quiet(27)

“Ryan, come here!”

“No!” Ryan jumped aside and batted Jake’s hands away, but Jake went after him, grabbed him, and struggled mightily to muscle him closer, into an embrace. The days were over when he was stronger than Ryan, and Jake didn’t know if he could still take him. He flashed suddenly on Ryan as a little boy and remembered that they used to race each other in the driveway, then down the sidewalk, and his heart broke to think of those sunny days, now consigned to Before.

“All right, down, all right, you win,” Jake heard himself say, shaking his head. “We’ll see the lawyer. We’ll get your questions answered and we’ll see what he says. But we won’t let him make any decisions for us, and we’ll do it my way.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see.”





Chapter Thirteen


Jake sat at the head of the polished conference-room table with Ryan to his right, waiting for the buzzer that would signal the arrival of Morris Hubbard. Jake had decided it would be safer to have Hubbard meet them at his office, because if they were spotted at Hubbard’s office, it would be obvious that they were consulting a criminal lawyer. Here, they were unlikely to be seen by anyone, and even if they were, it would look as if Hubbard were consulting Jake, and there was nothing suspicious about that. Jake met plenty of clients after hours, and, presumably, even a sleazeball DUI lawyer needed financial planning.

Ryan looked over. “Dad, you look worried.”

“I’m not,” Jake answered, modulating his tone. “How are you? You okay?”

“No.” Ryan sipped water from his white styrofoam cup. “I talked to Janine Mae. I told her I was too sick to go out, but she was too upset anyway.”

“Oh no.” Jake felt a deep stab of pain, thinking about Kathleen. Her death would traumatize everyone she loved, her friends at school and her parents at home. Suddenly the buzzer sounded, and Jake came out of his reverie. He rose, stiffly. “I’ll get it, and remember, let me do the talking.”

“You said I can ask questions.”

“Yes, but we’re not hiring anybody tonight.” Jake went to the door of the conference room, then stopped. “This is a consultation and discussion only, agreed?”

“Right,” Ryan answered, and Jake left the room, strode down the hall, and crossed the reception area to the front door, which he opened.

“Come in,” he said, ushering Hubbard quickly inside. “I’m Jake Buckman.”

“Mo Hubbard.” Hubbard extended a hand, and Jake shook it. Hubbard looked to be in his early thirties, on the short side, with a bulky build in a black fleece pullover and baggy jeans. His gold wire-rimmed glasses, a head of frizzy brown hair, and a thick beard and mustache made him seem like a throwback hippie.

“This way,” Jake said, gesturing, and they strode down the hall.

“Nice offices,” Hubbard said pleasantly.

“Thanks.” Jake opened the door to the conference room, and at the end of the long mahogany table his own beloved son rose, standing to meet his lawyer, like an adult.

“Hi Morris, I’m Ryan Buckman. I’m the one who wrote you the emails.”

“Oh, you used an alias. Very clever.” Hubbard smiled as he entered the room and shook Ryan’s hand. “Call me Mo.”

Jake gestured Hubbard to a chair opposite Ryan. “Please, sit, Mo. You want some water or anything? Coffee?”

“No thanks.” Hubbard unbuttoned the top few buttons of his fleece to reveal an old-school blue work shirt, then sat down heavily. “How can I help you?”

“Well,” Jake said, sitting down at the head of the table, “before I explain the situation—”

“Excuse me, I thought it was your son who contacted me,” Hubbard interrupted, turning to Ryan. “Who am I here for, you or your father?”

“Both of us,” Jake answered quickly. “My son Ryan is a minor, sixteen years old, and I can explain why we wanted to meet with you.”

“Fair enough.” Hubbard folded his pudgy hands in front of him on the table. He made no move to take notes or reach for one of the fresh pads and pens from the center of the table.

“First,” Jake began, “am I correct in assuming that anything we tell you in this consultation is privileged and confidential?”

Hubbard nodded. “Yes.”

“Does that mean, if you were to hear information from us that might be incriminating in some way, you couldn’t go to the authorities and tell them what you heard. Is that right?”

“Correct. Not only am I not obligated to do so, I am obligated not to do so. Let me explain something.” Hubbard cocked his curly head, seeming to address Ryan, mainly. “The way I think about this is simple. My job is to help you. There are rules about how far I can go in helping you. For example, I can’t ethically assist you in covering up wrongdoing, and I wouldn’t. But the way the American system works is that the prosecution has to prove that somebody did something wrong. That person, called the defendant, doesn’t ever have to help them do that. You get to remain silent, just like they say on TV. That right is guaranteed to you by the Constitution. Understand?”

“Yes,” Ryan answered, his tone quiet.

“I represent people accused of crimes. My job is to represent my clients fully and zealously, to the best of my ability. I don’t involve myself with their guilt or innocence. I don’t even ask my clients if they’re guilty. You understand?”