Follow the Money Page 3

  “But later, the sister and everyone else told the police that Matt was home?”

  “Right, but that was after the fact. Look, when Becky talked to the sister no one knew yet what happened at my house. It wasn’t in the papers yet, it wasn’t on TV, nothing. There was no way she knew about it, so she was just being honest. After they realized we suspected Matt, she changed her tune.”

  Steele’s expression had fallen off toward desperation. It was the face of a man who’d been telling the same story for years, all too aware that no one was listening. He said it with a conviction that made me think it was the obvious truth, that it couldn’t be any other way. Matt’s sister was lying.

  We talked a while longer. Reilly tried repeatedly to bring the conversation to a close, but Steele wanted none of it. Eventually, Reilly stood as he spoke, forcing a conclusion. When Steele and I shook hands, he held on tight and seemed reluctant to let go at all.

  3

  Liz cupped her wine glass with both hands and leaned forward on her elbows, peering at me over the glass. “So what are you working on?”

  “You ever heard of attorney-client privilege?”

  “Oh, come on, they’d never let you touch anything that’s worth keeping a secret.” I knew she was right. She leaned back in her dark blue suit and adjusted her oval shaped glasses. She’d chosen the frames because she thought they made her look older, like a woman who should be taken seriously. She watched me and waited, knowing my disdain for large law firms wouldn’t permit me to keep a secret for long. But I turned the table on her.

  I said, “Then tell me what you’re working on.”

  “I’m trying to protect a citizen’s group of mostly single mothers who’ve been taken advantage of by abusive lending institutions and credit companies.” Liz was basically me before I sold my soul, and she loved to remind me about it. She was helping people. I was selling my life, an hour at a time, to the highest bidder. When we’d met during our first semester of law school, we started dating and then vowed to each other that we wouldn’t sell out, that we were there to do good, not get rich. But then the economy melted down and you had to take work where you could find it. I just happened to find it at K&C making three grand a week. Who can turn down that kind of money? Liz went on.

  “You wouldn’t believe what these companies will do. There’s this one woman whose credit report shows three bankruptcies, and she’s never filed for bankruptcy. She can’t even get anyone to rent her an apartment and she’s got three small children.” She took another sip of her wine. “Fucking credit reporting company is probably a client of yours.”

  She smiled, and I sat back and shrugged. What could I say? Finally, she asked, “So what’s it like over on the dark side? Is everyone evil and sinister?”

  “What does that mean?” I knew exactly what it meant. It was the K&C myth, the aura that surrounded the place.

  “Well, they don’t call it the Death Star for nothing, do they? I picture all the partners dressed like Darth Vader, with that heavy breathing.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much like that. All the communications over the P.A. end with James Earl Jones saying ‘I am your father.’” I did my best impression of the booming voice and Liz laughed. “But basically, it’s like anywhere else in that it’s not what you think it’ll be. You know? People are silly.” I tried my best to sound unimpressed.

  “I guess,” she said, warily. “Like the director at Legal Aid is completely gay. I mean, flamboyant, big hand gestures, real excited. It’s funny because it’s just not what you expect. I mean, he’s totally the stereotype, but you never expect to actually see the stereotype. So, yeah, not what I expected.”

  I watched her face. At twenty-four she still had the exuberance of a teenager and it bothered her. She was afraid of not being taken seriously. In her suit and glasses, carrying her leather briefcase, she looked more like a girl dressing up as a young professional than the real thing. But I would never tell her that.

  Despite her father leaving when she was eight and her mother’s struggle to run an ailing video store in San Diego, Liz had remained upbeat about the world and her own potential. She’d also put herself through school, and I suppose that was the first thing that attracted me to her. Unlike me, Liz never expressed resentment toward the students from privileged backgrounds. She seemed to genuinely believe that she could share in the same kind of good fortune, but I knew part of her feared that disaster lurked around each corner — some cruel fate she was helpless to avoid — the lot of the working poor.

  “But really,” she asked, “what’s it like over there? Does the emperor really shoot electricity from his hands?” She smiled as if she was joking, but the tone in her voice was genuine. It was a tone I’d gotten used to. Law students regarded K&C with awe because it was almost impossible to get a job there. Lawyers often talked down about it, saying K&C lawyers had to bill too many hours and had no life. But the maligning always rested on a foundation of envy. By noon the day after I’d gotten the job offer, everyone in my class knew about it. People treated me differently after that. Some were jealous, some impressed, but none were without opinion. And I had to admit that I liked having a reputation that preceded me.

  I was beginning to understand what all of the fuss was about. I had just come from the K&C summer kickoff party in Santa Monica and had gotten my first real glimpse into the world that spawned the reputation. A hotel rooftop affair overlooking the beach where I had tasted my first Dom Perignon and mingled with people completely untouched by the economic meltdown happening everywhere else in America. Fittingly, the theme was the golden age of Hollywood, with waitresses dressed like flappers and waiters like Valentino. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see F. Scott Fitzgerald emerge from a coat closet, tucking in his shirt with a girl trailing behind.

  There was a giant ice sculpture of Lady Justice holding her scales, each two feet across and piled high with Russian caviar and blini. There was a twelve piece jazz band on one end of the wide outdoor terrace, and tables of men on the opposite end hand-rolling cigars. And everywhere there was food and wine and whiskey, and anything else you might want. From within that little bubble of K&C lawyers and the law students who’d won the lottery of all lotteries to be there, you could easily form the opinion that nothing else that happened in the world mattered at all. These people could not be harmed in any way, regardless of how bad life was for everyone else.

  I leaned against the railing, looking out at the sun lowering itself into the Pacific, wondering how the hell I had tricked these people into letting me in. All of the other summers seemed perfectly at ease, like it was their birthright to be there. And for many of them it probably was. Either here or at the few other places in the world like it in New York or London.

  I studied the Yale contingent from the corner of my eye as they clustered together like high school students on a field trip. Laughing and carrying on, like this was the most natural place in the world to be. Of course they were here. Where else could they possibly end up?

  One in particular held my attention. She was a curly blonde that I’d heard some other summers whispering about. Her name was Morgan Stapleton and someone’s roommate had dated her at Yale and described her in lurid sexual terms. I could tell just by watching her that she was the worst of the lot. She didn’t care what anyone thought. She wore a light yellow sun dress, not the obligatory black cocktail dresses most of the other women wore. She laughed louder and drank more and talked to the male partners like she’d once sucked all of their cocks and there was nothing they could do now except smile and be polite to her.

  I realized I’d gotten lost in my thoughts. Liz was staring at me. “So?” She shrugged, eyebrows raised. “What’s it like?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s just a law firm, y’know?” I felt bad that I didn’t have something more interesting to say. Liz smiled at me like I was crazy. I smiled back. “What? What am I supposed to say? It’s offices, people, work. Just like anywhere els
e.”

  “C’mon. It’s not just like everywhere else and you know it.”

  I drank my wine. “I really don’t think it’s different from anywhere else. I mean, it’s high profile stuff, but that doesn’t mean it’s any different, just more people watching, that’s all.”

  “So, what are you doing?”

  “It’s a pro bono thing.”

  Her smile widened. “They don’t want the real lawyers wasting their time on it.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s part of it, but it’s an interesting case. It’s a habeas petition for a guy who killed his wife.”

  “He confessed?”

  “What?” Realizing what I’d said, I corrected myself. “He was convicted of killing his wife.” I thought of Reilly’s careful wording. “Anyway, he maintains it was someone else and we’re going for an ineffective assistance of counsel claim.”

  “What’d the lawyer do?”

  “Well, I don’t know really. It’s hard to say if he did anything wrong at all. You ever hear of Garrett Andersen?”

  Her face squinted with thought. “No.”

  “Well, apparently he’s some hot shit trial lawyer. He’s the one that represented . . . our client and, I don’t know, it’s probably impossible to prove he made a mistake.”

  “Even the best lawyers make mistakes.”

  “Yeah, sure, but I think it would have to be some pretty major mistakes in this case. The evidence doesn’t look good.”

  “You think your guy did it?”

  “I don’t know. We met with him yesterday and he seemed convincing, but a lot of things don’t add up. I dunno, I just think it’s going to be a tough case to make. I mean, this Andersen guy graduated at the top of his class at Berkeley in ‘78, clerked for Justice Marshall, and is thought of as one of the top criminal defense lawyers in the state. How can you make an ineffective assistance of counsel claim against a guy like that?”

  “Hey, y’know Randy Scheffer, the Legal Aid director I was telling you about? He was class of ’78 at Berkeley. They probably know each other.”

  “You oughta ask him.” Our food came and the conversation drifted loosely from topic to topic. My concentration drifted with it. I imagined myself standing at the bar across the room and looking back across the restaurant. I’d see two young people dressed in suits, talking their way through their second bottle of wine. He having a filet mignon, she the lobster tail. We wouldn’t seem out of place or abnormal in any way. Just two people in a trendy Westwood restaurant, surrounded by dim light and the sounds of laughter, glassware, and knives on plates.

  As I looked across the room at the bar, a man caught my eye. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He wore a dark, discreet suit, and appeared to be by himself. I watched him for a second as he wiped his moustache after sipping his martini and ran his hand over his bald head. He didn’t seem to be doing much of anything besides enjoying a drink and watching the reflection of the restaurant in the mirror behind the bar. I tried to place him somewhere, but nothing came to me. Finally, I looked back at Liz and tried to remember what we were talking about.

  “The funny thing,” I said, when I regained my focus, “is how much money there is. I mean, it’s everywhere. They’ve got real Picassos, Jackson Pollacks and Andy Warhols hanging on the walls. I mean, it’s . . . I don’t know, ridiculous.” I felt like I couldn’t really do it justice: the sculpture, the lighting, the marble floors. “It’s just weird. I’m worried about how I’m gonna pay the valet guy because I’ve only got forty-six dollars in cash to my name and there’s a painting on the wall right outside my office that’s probably worth a million bucks. Just hanging there, decorating the office.”

  “You should see the art in our offices,” she grinned. “It’s all drawings done by kids at the orphanage we’re providing free adoption services for.”

  “Oh, give me a fucking break.” I smiled back and sipped my wine. I was struggling to articulate what was bothering me. “I guess it’s really the people. They’re all these rich kids. They’re all the same. Same schools, everything. It’s like some little club that I clearly don’t belong to. I just feel uncomfortable sometimes.”

  “People can’t help that they were born with a head start.”

  “I know, but most of them don’t seem to realize they had a head start. I guess that’s what kills me. Y’know, when I’m talking to some of these other summers the old, so-where-do-you-go-to-school question invariably comes up. I tell them UCLA and they seem surprised. I actually had one guy from Yale say to me, ‘Oh, that’s a good school.’” I took a drink, letting the words hang in the air, and slapped my hand on the table. “You believe that shit? UCLA is one of the best law schools in the country and I’m walking around like a second-class citizen. Like it’s so impressive that you got into Harvard when you went to private school your whole life, and daddy paid for college and the prep course for the LSAT. I mean, when you have absolutely nothing else to worry about in your life, you damn well better get into Harvard.”

  I caught myself slipping into a rant, my voice pinched and loud. Liz gave me a serious look, and then she started laughing.

  “I can see you feel strongly about that.” She shook her head and squinted at me, exasperated. “Get over it already. Your inferiority complex is boring. You’re at the same firm doing the same work they are. It’s not about who goes to what school or who had a head start in life. No one gives a shit about that, except you, apparently.”

  “I know, you’re right.” And she was. I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “I don’t understand where your lack of self-confidence comes from. I mean, you’re like third in our class. You might finish first by the time it’s all over. You’re a smart guy.” She sighed. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re just being passive aggressive.”

  “I’m probably just jealous. Two days ago three of us spent over a hundred bucks on lunch. Lunch! This associate I’m working with, he’s like a fourth year. He’s twenty-nine years old, single, and drives a 911 convertible. Ninety grand and you know he’s not having trouble making the payments. I guess I’m just amazed that I could be living like that in a few years.”

  Liz laughed with a quick snort, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “What about saving the world? I’ve never seen any civil rights workers driving German sports cars.”

  “Yeah.” My voice drifted off as I thought about it. “Still,” I mumbled, “it was a really nice car.”

  ***

  Later that night I stood in the parking lot beside my building, staring up at the starless sky. The light pollution from the city kept the stars permanently obscured, but it was really the night air I was after. I’d had too much to drink and a clammy sweat was coming over me.

  I began walking toward my building, and then I stopped suddenly. Staring up with my head cocked to the side, I realized I’d forgotten to turn a light off in my apartment. It was unlike me. I stood still for a moment, studying the illuminated window. And then a shadow appeared behind the blinds, and a jolt of panic went through me. Someone was in there, looking out at me.

  I looked around the parking lot, as if to make sure I was in the right place. Was this my building? It was. When I looked back, the light was out. Or had I been looking at the light next door? How many drinks had I had?

  I went inside and took the elevator up. My stomach full of nerves. But when I got there my apartment was locked and the lights were off. Everything was exactly as I had left it. What the hell was wrong with me? I sat alone on my couch, convinced I’d been staring at the neighbor’s window.

  My place was a dive, but it was cheap and near campus. Twelve hundred dollars a month and I could hear the guy above me flush the toilet. There were voices out in the parking lot, but I couldn’t make out the words. Someone dropping someone else off, some see you laters were exchanged, a car door slammed, and a motor sped away. My head felt heavy and I let it roll back on the corner of the couch. I shut off the light. I
could feel the room shift when I closed my eyes. Too much wine.

  Images of the Steele case seemed to rise up from the darkness. I imagined what that first policeman must have seen when he pulled up the driveway. Steele’s silhouette in the doorway, red and blue light spilling across his wet, bloody clothes. The officer runs toward him, Steele is frantic, he’s stammering. Someone has killed his wife. The officer runs up the stairs, bounding over the bloody footprints on the white carpet. The officer knows which room it is almost by instinct. Standing in the doorway, the rush is over. Her form is limp and white against the tile, already running cool to the touch. The bathroom fan is droning and the fluorescent lights lend a palpable buzz to the air. The officer stands there, unable to move his eyes from the shiny red pool that surrounds her. Steele comes lumbering up from behind, delirious and mumbling. The officer reaches for the radio; no need for an ambulance, no need for backup.

  I could hear the traffic going by on the street. I closed my eyes and slipped my shoes off almost without moving. Scenes from the restaurant faded in and out, jumbled with scenes from the Santa Monica rooftop. Liz stared at me from across the table, but the image kept being supplanted by Morgan Stapleton’s legs, poking out from beneath her yellow sundress, and the clear droplets running down the side of Lady Justice’s icy face as she strained to hold those scales aloft.

  4

  Rebecca Steele lived in New York City and hadn’t seen her father in years. I’d gotten the number from Steele and I sat at my desk and stared at it. I started dialing and then set the receiver down. I had no idea what I was going to ask her. I made a list of questions, trying to make sure I covered everything. Three thousand a week and I didn’t know how to make a phone call. Somebody was definitely getting screwed.