Con Law (16 page)

Her innocent expression.

‘What?’

‘John Lennon? The Beatles?’

‘Wait, don’t tell me. He’s dead.’

‘He is, shot by an insane fan in nineteen eighty.’

‘I wasn’t born until nineteen eighty-nine.’

‘Still, you haven’t heard of Rock Hudson, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Donald Judd, Andy Warhol, or John Lennon?’

‘If it’s not on Twitter, I don’t need to know it. And, Professor, I can name a dozen people everyone my age knows
but you’ve never heard of.’

‘True enough, Ms. Honeywell. But what about the events of the day? What’s happening in China, North Korea, the Middle East … or the east and west coasts of America?’

‘I especially don’t want to know that stuff.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s all bad stuff. Last time I watched the news on TV, I had to get a prescription for an antidepressant. A mass murder at an elementary school … politicians pushing the country over a fiscal cliff … suburban stay-at-home moms reading porn, which really creeped me out, by the way. Who wants to know that stuff? My generation turned off the TV, Professor.’

‘Willful ignorance.’

‘Willful ignorance’ is a legal term, also known as ‘conscious indifference,’ for intentionally not knowing some fact, typically CEOs intentionally avoiding knowledge that their companies’ subcontractors produce their apparel in Asian sweatshops or that nicotine is addictive, thus allowing the CEOs to testify under oath, ‘I didn’t know,’ when in fact the correct response was, ‘I didn’t want to know.’

‘Exactly,’ his intern said. ‘We live our lives that way. It’s safer.’

Book gestured at her hand sanitizer. ‘You sanitize your hands and yourself from all the bad things in life.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘You’re not experiencing the world you live in.’

‘It’s your world. Not ours. Your generation screwed it up. Not us.’

‘You could change the world. Make it a better place.’

She appeared bemused. ‘Please, Professor.’

‘You’re a law student.’

‘I’m in law school because I possess the two attributes required to gain admission to the finest law schools in the country: A, I’m book smart, which allowed
me to score high on the LSAT’—the Law School Admissions Test—‘and B, my daddy can pay the tuition. Anyone with those two attributes can get into any law school today. You don’t have to know what’s happening in the world … or care.’

She was right. And a typical law student. A few students like Ms. Garza and perhaps Mr. Stanton seemed engaged in the world outside the law school, but only a few. Most were singularly focused on grades: those in the top ten percent of their class would have jobs upon graduation; those who were not would not. So they had no desire or time to keep up with current events. They did not watch the news or read newspapers. They read casebooks. Torts. Contracts. Property. Civil Procedure. Criminal Procedure. Con Law. For three years, the study of law constituted life.

‘Well, John Lennon was a musician, singer, and songwriter, one of the best ever.’

‘If you say so.’

They had first tried the outdoor patio with Christmas lights strung overhead and gravel underfoot and Willie Nelson on the jukebox, but the tables were taken by artists on iPads and hippies past their prime and a young woman who looked out of place in a glittery red cocktail dress; her black cowboy boots said she was making a fashion statement. A pit bull wearing a red bandanna lounged beneath her long crossed legs; a metal sculpture of a sombrero-clad mariachi stood behind her. The dance floor and adjacent game room with pool tables, shuffleboard, and foosball were crowded with young women in short-shorts and young men in jeans and boots and T-shirts. Of course, Book also wore jeans, boots, and a T-shirt. But he was a skinny law professor; they were thick-bodied roughnecks who worked the fracking rigs. Some wore red jumpsuits with
Barnett Oil and Gas
stenciled across the back. Their waitress was an artist; waiting tables was her night job.
Book had ordered the tuna melt on sourdough, a cold pickle, and iced tea. Nadine went for chips and queso, frito pie with cheese and onions, chili cheese fries, a chocolate soda, and a moon pie. Book circled Becky Oakes’s face in the funeral photo then consulted his pocket notebook.

‘What did we learn today, Ms. Honeywell?’

‘Are we going to have a pop quiz every night, Professor?’

‘We are indeed.’

She exhaled dramatically.

‘A, Tom Dunn is a creep.’

‘Agreed. What else?’

‘B, either he’s a liar or Nathan Jones was a liar.’

‘Nathan said he showed his proof to Dunn, but Dunn denied it.’

‘My money’s on Dunn. He’s the liar.’

‘Agreed.’

‘We talked to the sheriff, Nathan’s senior partner, and his secretary, but we uncovered no proof of contamination or evidence of murder. All we have is coincidence.’

‘Nathan’s wife seemed convinced that he was murdered.’

‘She’s emotional about his death. Which is to be expected. But we can’t be. What did you always say in class? “We’re lawyers. We must keep our heads while everyone around us is losing theirs.”’

‘You took my class?’

‘Last year.’

‘At least you listened.’

‘Can I eat my moon pie now?’

From across the room, Jimmy John Dale watched the professor and the girl named Nadine eating dinner. You don’t generally see white girls eating moon pies like that. He sat at a table with five other roughnecks who also worked for Billy Bob Barnett; they had just gotten off their shift and still wore their red jumpsuits. While he was watching Nadine,
they were watching another woman across the room.

‘I’d love to jump her bones,’ Mitch said.

‘I’d love to beat the shit out of her,’ Sonny said. ‘She’s trying to shut down fracking, take our jobs.’

‘Still, Carla’s got a great body.’

Mitch was always practical like that. Jimmy John rubbed his temples. The headache was coming back.

‘Can we go home now?’

‘No.’

The band took a break. Book was watching his intern devour the moon pie when a young woman walked up and sat down at their table across from Book and next to Nadine and scooted in close. Nadine frowned at her then moved her chair over a bit. Book read her shirt:
Fracking is for Gas Holes
—

‘Funny,’ he said.

—and she read his Tommy Bahama shirt:
I Plead the Fifth
with a bottle of rum.

‘Yours, too.’

She seemed familiar. He had seen her before. He looked at the funeral photo in front of him. She was the young woman standing off to the side during the burial of Nathan Jones.

‘Professor Bookman, I’m Carla Kent. I need to talk to you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Nathan came to me.’

‘Where?’

‘My teepee at El Cosmico.’

‘You have your own teepee?’

‘Long-term stay.’

‘What did he come to you about?’

‘Fracking.’

‘Why you?’

‘Everyone in town knows me. I’m trying to shut down fracking.’

‘You’re an environmentalist?’

‘From Santa Fe. Professor, Nathan
was scared. Now he’s dead. Because he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know.’

‘What?’

‘Billy Bob’s fracking is contaminating the Igneous Aquifer, the sole water source for this whole area—Marfa, Fort Davis, Alpine. Nathan said he had proof. They killed him to prevent that proof from becoming public.’

‘It was an accident,’ Nadine said.

‘It was murder.’

‘Billy Bob Barnett is a murderer?’ Book asked.

‘He is.’ She seemed deadly serious. ‘Professor, help me put that bastard in prison where he belongs.’

‘Do you have any evidence of murder?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see Nathan’s proof of contamination?’

‘No.’

‘Ms. Kent, I’m not here to shut down fracking. I’m just trying to find out how my student died.’

‘And I’m trying to tell you how he died—he was murdered!’

Her emotions resided close to the surface. She took a deep breath to gather herself.

‘Professor, I cared about Nathan.’

‘You were at his funeral.’

‘And Nathan cared about this land. And the people who live on it. The water they drink. He didn’t know what to do, but he said he knew someone who would help us—he said
us
—a professor at UT. I thought he meant a petroleum engineering professor. Not a law professor.’

‘I have other skills.’

‘The paper said you came here for Nathan.’

‘I might’ve come for the art.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘The art?’

‘The letter.’

‘Ms. Kent …’

‘You showed it to everyone else in town.’

‘That’s true,’ Nadine said.

Book gave his intern a sharp
look then handed the letter to Carla. She read it.

‘See, he said his client is contaminating the aquifer. He meant Billy Bob. And now he’s dead.’ She checked the postmark on the envelope. ‘Died the same day he mailed the letter. That seem odd to you?’

‘Oh, God,’ Nadine said. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t believe in coincidences?’

‘Not that much of a coincidence. Professor, Nathan said he hadn’t put all the pieces together yet, said he’d come back to me when he did. Maybe he did. Maybe he put the pieces together. Maybe Billy Bob killed him. Professor, work with me. Please.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms. Kent. I work alone.’

‘Then why’d you bring me?’ Nadine said.

‘I mean, alone with an intern. This is Nadine Honeywell.’

‘If you didn’t come to Marfa to find the truth,’ Carla said, ‘then why’d you come?’

‘To fish.’

‘
Fish? Where?
There’s no water between here and the Rio Grande, and if you eat fish from that cesspool you’ll die.’

Carla now gave him a sharp look; she stood.

‘Don’t toy with me, Professor.’

She marched over to the bar. Book watched after her. She was an attractive woman, lean with a low body mass index, no older than thirty, with dark hair and eyes. She wore tight jeans, boots, and the T-shirt. She looked tough.

‘Don’t worry,’ Nadine said. ‘You won’t be romancing a lesbian.’

‘I don’t plan on romancing her, but how do you know she’s not a lesbian?’

‘Because I attract lesbians. I
don’t know why. But she wasn’t attracted to me. She was to you. She’ll be back.’

Nadine sipped her soda.

‘Why’d you play coy with her?’

‘Because I don’t know her.’

Nadine nodded at the bar.

‘Everyone else does.’

The locals at the bar regarded Carla as if she had a communicable disease; she was apparently well known but not welcome. She stood alone.

‘Come on,’ Sonny said. ‘Let’s have some fun with Carla.’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ Jimmy John said.

‘Why not?’

‘Looks like she’s friends with the professor.’

‘What professor?’

‘Don’t you read the newspaper?’

‘Hell, no.’

Jimmy John pointed with his forehead in the professor’s direction.

‘Him?’ Sonny said. ‘That skinny-ass guy she was talking to, he’s a professor?’

‘Yep.’

‘That long hair, he looks like one of them queer artists. We’re supposed to be scared of him?’

Sonny grabbed his Lone Star longneck and headed over to Carla at the bar. Mitch and the others followed. Jimmy John popped two Advil and chased them with a beer.

‘We’ll get started on the Welch brief tonight,’ Book said to his intern. But his eyes were on the bar where several roughnecks wearing red
Barnett Oil and Gas
jumpsuits and holding longnecks walked up and bookended Carla. They said something to her, and she said something to them. It was obviously not polite conversation. She got in one man’s face and said what appeared to be the F-word
and not ‘fracking.’ She turned to leave, but the roughnecks grabbed her arms. She struggled against their holds. Her eyes went to Book. She no longer looked tough.

He groaned then pushed himself up and walked over to Carla and the roughnecks. They were bigger, stronger, younger, and drunker.

‘How about a dance, Ms. Kent?’

‘I’d love to.’

She again tried to pull away, but the roughnecks maintained their hold.

‘The lady wants to dance,’ Book said.

The biggest roughneck held up one finger and said, ‘A, she ain’t no lady.’

A second finger.

‘Two, there ain’t no music playing.’

A third finger.

‘And D, this ain’t—’

‘No, no, no,’ Book said. ‘You either say “three” or “C,” not “D.” D would be four fingers.’

‘Oh.’

The roughneck held up four fingers.

‘And C, this ain’t none of your goddamned business, Pocahontas.’

Book sighed. The Indian thing again. A few more roughnecks holding longnecks joined the party. They had Book pinned to the bar.

‘Oh, shit.’

Those big brutes would beat up the professor for sure. He really was crazy. Nadine searched the crowded room and spotted a familiar face. She stuffed the rest of the moon pie into her mouth then jumped up and hurried over to the young man sitting alone at a table. His eyes turned up to her; she pointed at the professor.

‘He needs help! Do something!’

Her words sounded garbled through
the moon pie. She swallowed and tried again.

‘He needs help! Do something!’

The Border Patrol agent named Wesley Crum offered only a lame shrug.

‘No jurisdiction. He’s an Injun, not a Mexican. Call someone at the Bureau of Indian Affairs.’

He thought that was funny.

Book pointed a finger as he counted the men in the red jumpsuits.

‘One, two, three, four … Are you with them? … Five. You know, this really isn’t a fair fight.’

‘So?’

‘So there are only five of you.’

‘He’s a funny Injun,’ the big roughneck to his right said.

Five men, five moves, five seconds max. Right to left down the line. They would go down like dominoes. Book needed the big roughneck to his right to start the action, so he said, ‘And you’re an asshole.’

The roughneck reached for Book with his non-beer-holding hand and took a step closer. That was a mistake. Book drove his left knee into the man’s groin … he went down to his knees … then a right-hand throat strike to the second man … he gagged and fell backwards … now a left-hand back fist to the third man’s temple … he stumbled back and grabbed his head … then a reverse punch to the fourth man’s face … he collapsed to the floor … and finally a—but the fifth man stepped back out of range.