No Legal Grounds (3 page)
Authors: James Scott Bell
Tags: #Christian Books & Bibles, #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery & Suspense, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Legal, #Suspense, #Religion & Spirituality, #Fiction, #Mystery, #Religious & Inspirational Fiction, #Contemporary, #Christianity, #Christian Fiction
Cohen sat behind his desk, his chair slightly elevated so he could look down on whomever he faced.
“Why don’t you come work for me?” Cohen smiled, gestured toward the grand view outside the window. “I can offer you all this.”
Sam resisted the urge to say
Away from me, Satan!
and merely nodded. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m happy where I am.”
“In a two-man boutique? You could do so much better. And by the way, I wouldn’t make this offer to your partner.”
Sam said nothing, preferring to let Cohen get over his blather so they could get down to business. Still, a small part of him wondered what Cohen meant.
“I mean,” Cohen said, “you’re the quiet, smart one. Not a hothead. Hotheads get a lot of publicity, but they end up burning themselves. And their clients. I’m not joking about the offer.”
“No thanks, Larry.”
“Idealist, are you? Clinging to the myth of the underdog versus the big, bad insurance company?”
“Maybe we should get to the offer.”
Cohen nodded. “Sure. I’m offering not to go to trial and leave your client with a big fat nothing.”
A negotiating ploy, Cohen playing off his well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful insurance defense lawyers the country had ever seen. Sam knew he had to take that detail into consideration.
Sam waited for the offer.
“Nine hundred,” Cohen said.
The nerve endings inside Sam’s chest started vibrating. “That’s way too low,” he said.
“It’s what it is.” Not giving an inch.
“I’ll give you time to reconsider.”
Cohen leaned forward, hovering over his desk. “You don’t quite get it, do you? I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years, you think I’m bluffing? It’s all about information, Sam, you know that. I know about you and your partner. I know you have bigger fish to fry, that a trial would distract you from that. And I know this case inside and out, and I know how to win trials. You really want to take that risk?”
In his mind’s eye, Sam saw Sarah Harper, blind, shaking her head in court, wondering why the jury had returned with a verdict against her claim.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to discuss it with your client and get back to me,” Cohen said. “After that, no more offers. We go to court.”
He hated bullies, and Cohen was the classic bully of the litigator type. He had the deep pockets behind him and could throw his weight around all he wanted. Didn’t matter what justice demanded.
Sam tuned the radio to smooth jazz and took a couple of deep breaths. Rationally, he knew he had only two options.
He could convince the Harpers that the insurance company’s offer was the best they were likely to get. They wouldn’t be pleased, but Lew would be. He could put this one behind him and get on to bigger and better things.
Bigger? Better? And what was Sarah Harper? Canned ham?
But Larry Cohen truly was formidable. To go through all the time and effort of a trial and come out empty would be worse than settling for what amounted to chump change from a huge insurance company.
Was he afraid to go up against Cohen? Maybe a little. But he could overcome that, he was certain. Once the trial juices started flowing, he’d be all right.
What to do?
Take it to the Harpers. Just lay it out for them and see what they say. Maybe they’d jump at it.
He checked his email on his BlackBerry. A few scattered messages, a little spam. And another from Nicky Oberlin.
Hey hey, good buddy, haven’t heard from you! I’m bummed. Maybe a little hurt! I really want to get together. Not just about old times, but maybe I can offer to help you out. On that case you’re handling. See, I’ve got resources! And it’d be great to help out an old friend.
So come on! Mail me back or call me and let’s meet and I’ll tell you all about it and let’s go from there. Grab a coffee or something. Whattaya say?
Offer to help? What was that all about? And how did Nicky know about any case? Was he referring to Sarah Harper, or something else?
Or just blowing smoke?
Sam thought about shooting back an email, asking for an explanation. But maybe a quick coffee was just the thing. He’d meet with the guy, get it over with, never have to see him again.
And if Nicky did turn out to be a “resource,” that would be a bonus.
Sam emailed him, saying he’d be at the Starbucks at Topanga and Ventura on Tuesday morning at eight. What he didn’t write he hoped Nicky would read between the lines: Take it or leave it.
Sam called Linda on the way home. “Hey, let’s have dinner together tonight, the four of us, sitting around the table.”
“Um . . .”
“I want to be with the whole family tonight. It’s really important to me.”
“Sam, Heather’s going out.”
He squeezed the steering wheel, cocked his head so he could speak directly into the mic hanging from his ear. “Tell her no.”
“She’s not five anymore.”
“Don’t tell me that.”
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“I just wanted to have dinner, all of us. Forget it. I’ll see you in a few.”
He clicked off, deciding that silence was the best defense against his mood. It did not improve any when the traffic across the valley became an automotive glacier.
But his thoughts kept coming back to his daughter and the trouble they’d been having lately.
Lately? He should have seen it coming years ago. The little signs of rebellion that he had never really dealt with. Some of it was before his conversion to Christian ity, which should have brought more clarity.
But teenage girls continued to befuddle him. Growing up with two older brothers, he had little experience with the day-to-day life of females. They were a different breed, maybe even species.
He recalled the time he’d commented on Heather’s dress when she was fourteen. She and her mother had taken pains with it, as it was Heather’s first school dance. It was red, and when asked what he thought, Sam smiled and said, “It’s very red.”
He thought it was a nice little comment, but Heather burst into tears.
Different species.
But he had been determined in the last year to understand, console, counsel his daughter, even though she resisted it. The experiment in parental responsibility had not gone well.
Once, he found a picture in her room that she’d clipped from some teen magazine. A half-dressed boy with tattoos, ripped abs, and a come-hither look. He asked Heather if “this idiot” was her idea of what a man should be like.
Not a good language choice. And for the first time in her life, Heather screamed at him in absolute, undiluted anger.
Sam didn’t take it well. He screamed back at her, louder, until she melted in tears.
Befuddlement, and guilt. He was afraid he had broken the delicate inner structure of his daughter.
If that turned out to be true, God would certainly forgive him. But would he ever be able to forgive himself?
His head was pounding when he walked through the door. Max poked his head out of the den to greet him. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey.”
“I’m playing chess.”
“Who with?”
“Chessmaster.”
“How you doing?”
“Pretty tough right now, but Buzz is helping me.”
Buzz was the dog Max had picked out at the Van Nuys shelter two years ago, a mix of beagle and unknown. It was a family joke that Buzz had super intelligence but was too humble to communicate it to anyone.
“Great,” Sam said. “When you’re done, have Buzz balance the checkbook.”
“Right on.”
Linda greeted Sam with a kiss, lips pursed with a certain amount of wifely concern.
“Is Heather still here?” he said.
“She’s in her room.”
Sam started for the stairs.
“Sam, wait.”
“What?”
“Maybe you’d better let it go this time.”
“Let what go?”
“Whatever you were planning to say to her.”
“I just want to see my daughter for a second, is that so bad?” “Take a breath. Come into the living — ”
“Don’t talk to me like a child, Linda.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean — ”
“I’m going upstairs.”
Sam came through the door, feeling half-victorious. At least she had allowed him to enter her room. Heather turned back to her mirror and her makeup. He wished she didn’t use so much. She was naturally pretty. Why hide it under garish muck? Her soft, nutmeg-colored hair complemented her clear tawny eyes. A waiflike nose gave her an appearance which, when she was five, was the very definition of cute. Now it was just part of a dark ensemble.
“Wanted to say hi to my daughter,” Sam said.
“Hi.”
“You going out?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sam nodded, waiting for more, which didn’t come. “Where you going?”
“Just out. Friends.”
“Just hangin’?”
“Right. Hangin’.” Her voice was slightly mocking. “Anything
Sam wanted to hug her and have her hug him back like she did when she was little, when she thought Daddy was the greatest man in the world. He wanted to go back in time and undo half the hours he’d spent churning out legal work and not being with her.
He almost stroked her hair but decided it would only annoy her.
“When did we stop talking, pumpkin?”
After a short pause, Heather said, “We talk.”
“No, I mean really talking. I miss that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Heather started putting on earrings, big silver hoops.
“You know, I would love to spend more time with you.”
“Don’t feel the ol’ parental guilt, okay? Don’t worry. I’m not going to go out and become an ax murderer.”
“Oh? I was really worried about that.”
Heather, looking at him in the mirror, didn’t return his smile.
“Really, though, let’s go out to dinner sometime, huh?” Sam said.
“Come on, Dad, you’re worrying too much.”
“This isn’t about worry, honey. Honest. I just want to spend some time with you. I do feel bad about it.”
Heather went to her dresser and got some other form of makeup. She went back to the mirror, not looking at Sam. He thought she might be embarrassed, like he was, but he was going to push on. He had to. He could feel his daughter slipping away into adulthood, too quickly to cast a backward look at her father.
Sam said, “I know I work an awful lot and haven’t been around as much as I would have liked, especially in the last few years. I know that. And I’m really sorry.”
“Come on, Dad.”
“Remember when we did softball?”
“Of course.”
“That was one of my all-time favorite years. That season you were ten, and you played on the boys’ team. You were the only girl.”
“Yeah, and I played right field. That’s where they always put the kids who can’t play.”
“But you worked at it. You and I worked at it together, at home. We practiced, and you got better, and that last game you got four hits.”
Heather was lining her eyelids with dark purple. “I’ve got to kind of get ready here.”
She had dropped a familiar, unspoken sign between them again:
We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone.
“Hey, humor your old man, will you? Are we on for dinner? I promise I won’t embarrass you, like the time I did that cheerleading stunt in front of your friends.”
Heather didn’t change expression. “If you want.”
“Next Friday night?”
“Um, can’t do it then.”
“Why not?”
“Rehearsing.”
Her band. Right. Wonderful.
“What about next Thursday then?”
She paused. “Fine.”
It was begrudging, but a small victory, and now it was time to retreat. “Thanks, cupcake. The Trask family sticks together, right?”
She said nothing.
Retreat now!
“Love you,” Sam said, and quietly left the room.
Sam did not recognize him, but it was clear he recognized Sam.
“Nicky?”
He stood and shook Sam’s hand. “You look great, man.”
“It’s all an illusion.”
Nicky was short, a little thick around the waist, and had an advanced case of male pattern baldness. His features were orbical — round eyes, round nose, round cheekbones. He wore a white golf shirt that stretched over his belly before tucking away in his tan slacks.
“No, I mean it,” Nicky said, giving Sam’s form an admiring glance. “You have to work out.”
“When I can.”
“Gotta do the same.” Nicky patted his stomach. “The all-beer diet is a fraud.”
“I figured that one out a long time ago.”
“Only martinis and scotch for you, I bet.”
“Nah.” Sam didn’t elaborate, not knowing if he would come off as holier-than-thou.
“You don’t do the booze thing?”
“Not anymore.”
“Not like freshman year, huh?”
Sam tried to laugh it off but said nothing. A safe harbor of silence seemed best at this point. The more distance he put between himself and those days at UC, the better.
Nicky already had coffee, so Sam ordered a grande latte and brought it to the table Nicky had staked out. He felt the smallest bit of unease at Nicky’s smiling face. It was almost too much. He
just wanted to have a ten-minute conversation and then get to the office.
“Remember that time,” Nicky said as Sam sat down, “Rick Reimer and Jeff Green had that Risk tournament with the vodka rule?”
Sam did remember, now that he mentioned it. Risk was a game of world domination played with dice and cards. Players tried to take over countries using a combination of troop moves and luck.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “if you took over a country you had to take a shot of vodka.”
“Only certain countries. Afghanistan, Argentina, and Australia. The big A’s, we called ’em.”
“We were clever then.”
“You remember that tournament? It went on for a week, right before finals.”
“Was it before finals? The timeframe is a little hazy for me.”
“You kicked butt in that tournament, as I recall. You were blasted most of the time too.”
“I was a real role model, wasn’t I?”
Nicky’s hands moved around his coffee cup in a nervous, jackedup way. “I always thought you would be the guy I’d want as my right-hand man if I was interested in world domination. You ever see that cartoon show
Pinky and the Brain
?”
Sam recalled it. It had been a favorite show of his daughter’s when she was eight or nine. He nodded.
Nicky laughed. “The dumb mouse, Pinky, asked at the end of the show what he and the Brain were going to do, and Brain says, ‘What we always do — try to take over the world.’ I really loved that.”
Sam tried to imagine an adult man loving
Pinky and the Brain
.
“So what do you do, Nicky?”
“Besides think about old times? A little of this, a little of that. The construction thing. You know that new building they did in Warner Center? ”
“Yeah, just completed.”
“I worked on that.”
“Very impressive.”
“Ah, I’m just a cog in the machine, not a big wheel like you.” “Wife? Kids?”
“Nah.” He shrugged. “I guess some guys aren’t cut out for marriage, you know?” He bobbed his eyebrows. “I do okay, if you know what I mean.”
That saddened Sam. Here was a guy, almost fifty, who was still talking about
doing okay
with women. But Sam kept up an expression of conviviality.
“What about you, man?” Nicky said. “Bet you snagged a great lady and turned out some perfect kids.”
“I’ve been blessed, yes.”
Great choice of words! You
’
re blessed and he
’
s not. Rub it in, why don
’
t you?
But Nicky didn’t seem to care. He kept a sunny smile. “Blessed, huh? Would that be by God?”
“Sure.”
“You a church guy now, Sam?”
“Kind of surprising, isn’t it?”
“A real kick in the biscuits.”
Sam tried not to wince at the phrase. It seemed, well, childish.
Arrested development
flashed through his mind.
“Never would have predicted church for you, if you know what I mean.” Nicky bobbed his eyebrows again. That was getting annoying fast. “Back in the dorms, you were quite the ladies’ man.”
Sam cleared his throat. “I was pretty stupid back then.”
“Stupid? No way. You had it goin’ on.”
“No.”
“Still do, I’ll wager.”
“That’s all changed.”
“Nah, not you, Sam.”
“Yeah, me. I didn’t have it goin’ on a few years ago.”
“What happened? Nothing bad, I hope.”
“I’ll spare you the details.”
“Why? I’d like to hear.”
Sam shifted in his chair. Talking about his faith was something he was supposed to do, wasn’t it? So why was he hesitating?