Indefensible (43 page)

“Was he?”

“He was. He pimped his stepson into kiddie porn.”

Kendall made a helpless gesture.
I can't talk about it,
he seemed to be saying.

The warmth of the coffee felt good against my head. I said, “I think he also acquired a ten-year-old girl named Brittany Tesoro, took pictures of her, then sold her or murdered her. Have you heard about any of this?”

Kendall held both hands in front of his face as if shielding himself from the wretchedness.

“Oh God,” I moaned. A bolt of pain passed through my head. It seemed to appear and disappear with purpose, like a snake crossing a path, emerging from and disappearing into the grass on either side.

“You okay, Nick?”

“Sorry,” I said. “It's quite intense.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

I waved him away and sat motionless until it was completely gone.

Kendall sat impassively, staring into his own cup.

“Killed her,” I whispered. “A little girl.”

“But do you have evidence?”

“What the hell do I need evidence for? Scud's dead. I can call him a perverted, child-murdering wart on the asshole of humanity, and if that offends your loyalty to your dead client, then go ahead and cry into your coffee, because I don't give a good goddamn.”

Kendall swallowed and was about to say something but apparently decided not to. My head felt better for the moment. I got up and walked over to his wall of fame and looked at the plaques. Most of his charitable and service work was with organizations focused on children; I recalled that he wouldn't represent defendants in crimes against children.

I said, “What would you do, Kendall, if you knew someone who'd done shit like that? Who snatched a kid like that? And let's say you're the only one in the world who knows it.”

I turned to look at him. He was staring at the floor and he looked ashen.

“What would you do?” I said again.

“Go away, Nick,” he said in a barely audible voice.

“Can't,” I said. “I'm not fit to drive.”

I went back to the comfy chair and put my feet on the hassock and held the warm cup against my head. Then the pain came back. I closed my eyes and tried to massage it away with my fingertips. I said, “You want to know what's always confused me about defense lawyers? It's how you can defend scumbags like Scud Illman. I mean, you said it yourself last time I was here. You said you don't defend
criminals, you defend principles. And it's unfortunate that some pretty unsavory characters are the vehicles of those principles. Right, Kendall?”

He didn't answer.

“You're an ethical person, and you're expected to keep the secrets of monsters.”

He straightened up in his chair. He had faltered for a moment. I saw it—his pale features, the quiet terror in his eyes—but he'd conquered it. His eyes were back to icy and fierce, his hands on the arms of his chair. He was the commando, ready to grapple with my threat, but able to sit still and let it come to him.

“I mean, what's a man like you supposed to do? Every client you've represented, every cause you've served, every stand you've taken . . .” I waved my hand at the plaques on the wall. “Everything you stand for is about adherence to a code. Am I right?”

I could see him deliberating how to respond. He was becoming a coiled spring of explosive energy, just waiting for the go.

“Military code, personal code, the legal code. Remember the oath we swore to all those years ago? ‘I will maintain the confidences and hold inviolate my clients' secrets.' You said it yourself that night you invited me to address your law school class. You said you'd sooner die than turn traitor on a client. Remember?”

“What do you want, Nick?”

“So what do you do as a defense attorney if you know the most heinous secrets? The kind of shit that wakes you up at night in a cold sweat. The shit that separates humans from beasts . . .”

He stood up and opened his office door, trying to get me to leave.

I met his eyes and pointed at the wall of fame. “I'm talking about the shit you've gone to war to fight against, and here it is in your own backyard, and you're expected to actually
defend
these perps. And nobody knows but you. Nobody. Maybe it doesn't even have anything to do with what the guy is charged with.”

I stood and met him face-to-face. I said, “So some client comes in and sits here, all cozy in this chair, and he's smart enough to know that whatever he tells you can't be breathed to anyone, and he's
fucked up enough that he wants to boast about it to someone, and he's cruel enough not to care what the knowing of it does to a guy like you. What can you do, Kendall? You can't tell anyone, because that violates your oath as a lawyer. You can't let the bastard go down on a flimsy murder charge, because that violates your oath, too. But you can't do nothing, because that violates everything you're about, doesn't it?”

Kendall moved toward me, and I worried that I'd overplayed my hand. Even at my best, I was no match for him. In my current state, I might as well be shackled in place. But after glowering at me a second, he turned and collapsed back in the chair. He watched me and waited. I held him steady in my one good eye.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

“Never mind,” I said. “I'm just enjoying conversing with you about the difficulties of legal defense. Actually, I've come to tell you some sad news: Did you know that Maxy is dead?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maxy.”

“Maxy disappeared years ago.”

“Yes. And he's been dead for six years. Confirmed. Trust me on this one. Maxy is long gone. Which is what every thinking person assumed, but since there was no actual record of his death, he makes a great and mysterious suspect, don't you think? Other than the few federal cops who set him up in witness protection, nobody knew what happened to him. I'm betting even his lawyer never knew what happened to him or that there was proof he'd died: natural causes, by the way. So just for kicks, I looked up Maxy's old criminal file at the Bureau. And do you know who his lawyer was? Can you guess?”

Finally, I saw real, focused concern in Kendall's eyes.

“You,” I said. “You were his lawyer. Then he up and disappeared, and you, along with every crook in the city, figured he got whacked. So now, if a perp was somehow able to focus suspicion on this ghost named Maxy, the crime would go unsolved, right?”

He didn't answer.

“But dead guys don't leave fingerprints, do they, Kendall?”

He moved so quickly that by the time I had my hands instinctively protecting my face, my collar was bunched in his fists and my face was inches from his. He held me there a second.

“Down, boy,” I said in a strangled voice, my shirt choking me.

He released me. I thought of going for the door, but the situation felt brittle. I worried that if I flinched, he'd pounce. I sat down slowly, trying to look calm and controlled. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke, each waiting to see what the other would do.

“What do you want, Nick?”

“I want you to open your safe.”

This took him by surprise. He studied me, calculating.

“Or wait,” I said. “Give me a copy of your standard representation agreement first.”

He didn't move. I put my hands out to either side in a submissive gesture. “Do it, Kendall,” I said gently.

He stepped to the computer, pushed a few keys, and the printer spat out a blank client contract. I picked it up and bent over his desk with it. Every place it gave Kendall's name, I crossed it out and wrote in my name. Wherever there was a space for the client's name, I wrote in Kendall Vance. Where it discussed his fee, I changed the hourly rate to one dollar. I signed it on the line titled “Attorney,” and I handed it back to him. “You can sign as client if you want. Doesn't matter, I'm bound either way.”

He didn't take it, so I tossed it on his desk. Kendall turned to face me and ran both hands over the shiny knob of his head, and though his eyes still had that downturn, his mouth, the line of his lips as he waited, lengthened the meagerest, dreamlike fraction of a millimeter. Not a smile—certainly not a smile—but the settling of something; a grain of sand that had tumbled ocean depths to settle in a perfectly sized hollow of the ocean floor. He was peaceful. He could be the condemned prisoner eyeing his executioner, or he could be the king standing on a parapet to oversee his lands.

I said, “I'm your lawyer now. I will hold inviolate my client's secrets.”

I
could have gotten a warrant to open the safe. I could have advised Kendall of his rights. I could have arrested him and tried him and jailed him. It was not my job to make laws.
If you want to make laws, go into politics.
My job was to enforce laws. Years ago, I gave up judging for myself; life is too complicated, better to pick a side and hold tight. But then came Mrs. Illman's shoes. With Mrs. Illman's shoes, I relaxed my grip.

“Now open your safe,” I ordered.

“About the paper cups,” Kendall said, looking like he was standing at attention. “I was trained as special forces; we never knew where and how the enemy was going to hit us. So when I started my practice . . . I deal with some merciless bastards in this business . . .”

“Like the ones who tried to kill you.”

He was silent a long time, then he said in a softer voice, “Will your eye be okay?”

“Focusing-wise, it'll be fine, but they're not sure whether it will move okay.”

“The headaches?”

“Temporary, they think.”

Silence.

“You were talking about fingerprints, Kendall.”

“Yes. Guarding against a surprise attack. Plus, my dad was framed on extortion charges. So I'm a suspicious bastard. The paper cups are something I started doing when I opened my practice.”

“Do you print everyone?”

“Everyone. Nothing personal.”

“You must have hundreds.”

“Two hundred eighty-seven.”

“Have you ever used one before?”

“What do you want, Nick?”

“I already told you.”

With that, Kendall spun the dial on his wall safe, then swung it open and stepped to the side.

•  •  •

Perps are always trying to get lawyers to hide evidence. I imagined Scud asking Kendall to hold on to his gun:
This bad boy's a little too hot for me, counselor, how 'bout I keep it here till things cool down?

The gun that killed Seth Coen. Had Scud already bragged to Kendall about his photography business? Maybe he bared his soul about snuffing life from the blameless young Brittany Tesoro? Had he trumpeted to the ethically pure and duty-bound Kendall Vance his utter lack of remorse—or never mind remorse, had he chuckled about how he was just getting started?
I got big plans, counselor.
I imagine Scud, with his perpetually amused eyes and malevolent smirk, telling Kendall Vance,
Big plans. Stick with me, counselor. Keep me out of jail, and I'll keep you in the gravy.

What else could Kendall do—a man of his moral rigidity? He couldn't violate his oath to protect his client's secrets. But with the knowledge of whatever happened to Brittany Tesoro—and perhaps to other children like her—he couldn't ignore the moral imperative of ending Scud's activities.

The conflict must have caused a psychological battle for Kendall's soul, threatening everything he believed in. As a commando and a trial attorney, Kendall responded to the threat by attacking. He lured Scud Illman out to Rainbow Bend picnic area. Barehanded, he crushed Scud's throat, then shot him twice. The gunshots were so we'd link the killing to Seth's murder, assume it was all gangland, and let it go. But just to be sure, Kendall brought along a paper cup from his collection, a decade-old cup that had the prints of the mythic Maxy. No doubt Kendall figured that bit of misdirection would send the investigation spinning far off in the wrong direction.

I reached into the opened safe and picked up the small black
handgun. “I'll be needing this,” I said. It had a textured grip and fit comfortably in my hand. I released the clip into my palm and put it in one pocket, then I dropped the gun in the other. I'd known Kendall had kept the gun—he wouldn't destroy or dispose of such critical evidence, even if it was against himself. It would violate his code of ethics.

In the seconds before I left Kendall's office, I considered and rejected many parting comments, but in the end, there was nothing to say. The lawyer had killed his client.

The pain came back. I pressed both palms against my eyes and moaned.

F
lora will always suspect that, because I was angry about Kenny's inappropriate attention toward Lizzy, I didn't work as hard for him as I could have. She's half right. I didn't work as hard as I could have, but it wasn't about Lizzy—though maybe my suspicions started there. It was the problem over Lizzy that made me stop seeing Kenny as a harmless, overgrown kid. The knowing of difficult things comes in stages: Would you casually pry boulders from the stone foundation where you live? Of course not. If they have to go, you shore up; you reinforce. Call it denial if you want, but I'll call it self-preservation; I'd had the roof and walls of life tumble down on me once already. I wasn't taking chances. With regard to Kenny, my knowledge came in stages, and the first stage was in the counselor's office at Turner Middle School. Maybe he wasn't just a rambunctious kid but, rather, a rationalizer, a self-dealer, a damaged soul whose seeping psychic wound, like those of so many criminals I've jailed, would someday put at risk whatever healthy life it comes in contact with. So yes, the problem with Lizzy changed my thinking enough that everything fell into place when I saw the Bernier Construction truck in Flora's yard. He'd made too many big-ticket purchases for his income. When I searched his apartment that day, I didn't know what it would be, but I had a pretty good idea I'd find something.