Gray Mountain: A Novel(110)

The cat burglar was moving again, now slowly getting to his feet and reaching for the stack of wood. He tossed two logs on the fire, stoked it, and whispered, “Are you awake?”

“I think so,” she said.

“This place is freezing.” He was on his knees, lifting covers and reburying himself next to her. “Let’s sleep some more,” he said, groping, going for the body heat. She grunted something in reply, as if she’d been in a coma. The fire was popping and crackling, the chill was suddenly gone, and Samantha managed to finally drift away.





35


The forecast for Monday was a high of fifty-five degrees and lots of sunshine. The last of the snow was melting quickly as Samantha walked to work. January 12, but it almost felt like spring. She unlocked the office and went about her early morning routine. The first e-mail was from Izabelle:

Hey Sam: Andy says he’s made contact and you’re almost on board. He made me promise not to discuss the job and the specifics; afraid we’ll compare notes and try to squeeze him for a better package I guess. Can’t say that I’ve really missed him that much. You? I certainly haven’t missed the firm and the city and not sure I’m going back. I told Andy I’d take the job but having second thoughts. I certainly can’t drop everything and be there in a month. You? Nor have I missed the thrill of reading and revising contracts ten hours a day. I need the money and all, but I’m surviving okay and I really enjoy the work. As I’ve told you, we advocate for kids who have been prosecuted as adults and are stuck in adult prisons. Don’t get me started. The work is fascinating as well as depressing, but each day I feel like I’m making a small difference. We walked a kid out of prison last week. His parents were waiting by the gate, and everyone was in tears, including me. FYI—one of the other new associates at Spane & Grubman is that turd Sylvio from tax. Remember him? The worst halitosis in the entire firm. Knock you down from the other side of the conference table. And he insists on talking nose to nose. Spits too. Gross! FYI—according to unnamed sources, one of the blue ribbon clients at Spane & Grubman will be Chuck Randover, that great indictment-dodger who thinks just because he’s paying you $900 an hour he has the right to rub your ass. You know him too well.

But you didn’t hear this from me. FYI—Serious second thoughts. You? Izzie



Samantha chuckled as she read the e-mail, and wasted no time firing one right back:

Iz, I don’t know what Andy is smoking, or telling, but I haven’t said yes. And if he’s playing this fast and loose with the facts it sort of makes me question everything else he says. No, I cannot pack up and leave here in a month, not with a clear conscience. I’m thinking of asking for a start date a few months down the road, say around September 1.

Randover was the only client who ever made me cry. He ridiculed me once in a meeting. I held things together until I could get to the restroom. And that chump Andy sat right there and watched it happen, no thought of protecting his people. No way. He wasn’t about to cross a client. I was wrong, but it was such a simple and harmless mistake.

Any idea what the package will be?



Izabelle replied:

I swore I wouldn’t divulge it. But it’s impressive. Later.




The first surprise of the day came in the mail. Top Market Solutions sent a check for $11,300, made payable to Pamela Booker, with the required releases attached. Samantha made a copy of the check and planned to frame it. Her first lawsuit and her first victory. She proudly showed it to Mattie, who suggested that she drive it over to the lamp factory and surprise her client. An hour later, she entered the town of Brushy and found the near-vacant industrial park on the edge of town. She said hello to Mr. Simmons and again thanked him for rehiring Pamela.

On break, Pamela signed the release and cried over the check. She had never seen so much money and seemed thoroughly overwhelmed. They were sitting in Samantha’s car, in the parking lot, among a sad collection of ancient pickup trucks and dirty little imports. “I’m not sure what to do with this,” she said.

As a multitalented legal aid lawyer, Samantha had a bit of financial advice. “Well, first, don’t tell anyone. Period. Open your mouth and you’ll have all sorts of new friends. How much is your credit card debt?”

“Couple thousand.”

“Pay it off, then cut up your cards. No debt for at least a year. Use cash and write checks, but no credit cards.”

“Are you serious?”

“You need a car, so I’d put two thousand down on one and finance the rest over two years. Pay off your other bills, and put five thousand in a savings account, then forget about it.”

“How much of this do you get?”

“Zero. We don’t take fees, except in rare cases. It’s all yours, Pamela, and you deserve every dime of it. Now hurry and stick it in the bank before those crooks bounce it.”

With her lips twitching and tears dripping off her cheeks, she reached over and hugged her lawyer. “Thank you, Samantha. Thank you, thank you.”

Driving away, she looked in her rearview mirror. Pamela was standing, watching, waving. Samantha wasn’t crying, but she had a tightness in her throat.


The second surprise of the day came during the Monday brown-bag lunch. Just as Barb was telling a story about a man who’d fainted in church yesterday, Mattie’s cell phone vibrated on the table beside her salad. Caller unknown. She said hello, and a strangely familiar, but unidentified, voice said, “The FBI will be there in thirty minutes with a search warrant. Back up your files immediately.”