Gray Mountain: A Novel(120)

“Oh no, Jeff treated me to Taco Bell. I’m stuffed.”

Her martini was perfect. Jeff and Vic had Dickel on the rocks. London explained that the documents would be flown right then to Cincinnati, where they would be copied on Sunday. On Monday, the originals would be flown to Charleston and handed over to a U.S. marshal. The judge had agreed to lock them up until he could review them. Krull Mining had not been informed of this agreement and had no idea what was about to happen. The FBI had backed off completely, for the moment anyway.

“Do we have friends in Washington to thank for this, Samantha?” London asked.

She smiled and said, “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

He took a sip, rattled his cubes, and said, “What are your plans now?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, it would be nice to have another lawyer on the ground in the Krull case. You’re obviously familiar with it. Donovan trusted you, and his firm is still in the hunt for some serious money. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Krull will surrender when they learn we have the documents. A settlement is not unlikely, albeit a confidential one. If they play hardball, then we crank it up and push for a trial. Frankly, that’s what we want—a spectacle, a grand exposé, a two-month-long production in which all of the bad stuff gets hashed out in open court. Then, a spectacular verdict.”

Shades of Donovan. Shades of Marshall Kofer.

He was on a roll: “There’s plenty of work for all of us, including you, Samantha. You could join my firm in Louisville. You could hang out your shingle in Brady. You could take Donovan’s office. A lot of options. My point is, we need you.”

“Thanks, Mr. London,” she said properly, then knocked back another gulp. She was on the spot and didn’t like it.

Vic sensed this and changed the subject by quizzing him about the jet. A Gulfstream V, the latest marvel. Virtually unlimited range and so on, cruises at forty thousand, far above the airlines. Very quiet way up there. As the conversation lost steam, London glanced at his watch and asked, “Could I drop you guys off somewhere?”

Ah, the perks of a private jet. Drop-offs here, pickups there. Anything’s possible.

They declined and said they had places to go. He thanked them profusely for delivering the documents and walked them back to the terminal.





40


Mattie arrived earlier on Monday, and they huddled in her office with the door closed. Samantha reported that the documents had been delivered, somewhat safely, and that if all went as planned they would be handed over to an officer of the court later in the day. She left out the more colorful aspects of the adventure—the shoot-out that left someone with a bum leg, the dead bear, the miraculous presence of Vic Canzarro, and the quick cocktail on Jarrett London’s handsome jet. Some things were better left unsaid.

At any rate, the documents were now in safer hands, where they could be fought over by other lawyers. Somebody else would make sense of them. Samantha speculated that the FBI was now on the sidelines. There was even a hint that the investigation might turn 180 degrees and begin probing into the actions of Krull Mining. Nothing definite as of yet, just a word or two out of Washington.

After the death of Buddy Ryzer and the drama of the documents, life might possibly return to normal within the confines of the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic. The two lawyers certainly hoped so. Samantha was due in court at ten o’clock, in a case that had nothing to do with coal, documents, or federal authorities, and she was looking forward to an uneventful day. Jeff, though, was lurking around the courthouse, as if he knew her schedule. “Can we talk?” he said as they walked up the stairs to the main courtroom.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you for a while,” she said.

“Sorry, no chance. How long will you be in court?”

“An hour.”

“I’ll meet you in Donovan’s office. It’s important.”


Dawn, the secretary and receptionist, was gone, terminated. The firm was out of business, its offices shuttered and gathering dust. Jeff unlocked the front door, opened it for Samantha, then closed it and relocked it. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, to the war room where the walls were still lined with enlarged photos and courtroom exhibits from the Tate trial. Files and books and papers were scattered about, lingering evidence of the FBI raid. It seemed odd to her that no one had bothered to clean up the mess, to tidy up the room. Half the lights were out. The long table was covered in dust. Donovan had been dead for almost two months, and as Samantha looked around the room at his work, at the remains of his big cases, she was hit with a wave of sadness and nostalgia. She had known him so briefly, but for a second she longed to see his cocky smile.

They sat in folding chairs and drank coffee from paper cups. Jeff swept a hand over the room and said, “What am I supposed to do with this building? My brother left it to me in his will and no one wants it. We can’t find a lawyer to take over his practice, and so far no one wants to buy it.”

“It’s early,” she said. “It’s a beautiful building and someone will buy it.”

“Sure. Half the beautiful buildings on Main Street are empty. This town is dying.”

“Is this the important matter you wanted to discuss?”

“No. I’m leaving for a few months, Samantha. I have a friend who runs a hunting lodge in Montana, and I’m going for a long visit. I need to get away. I’m tired of being followed, tired of worrying about who’s back there, tired of thinking about my brother. I need a break.”