Cocaine was not a necessity. He could take it or leave it and he would just have to leave it. Once his current supply ran out, there would be no more.
Packard felt better now that his problem was solved. He put away the ledgers and picked up a case he needed to read in order to prepare a pretrial motion that was due in two days. It was imperative that he win the motion. If his client went to trial he was doomed. This motion had to be an A number one, slam-bang winner.
Packard started to read the case, but it was hard to concentrate. He was still thinking about his money problems and still worried about that other problem. His supplier. The one who had been arrested two days ago, just before Packard was going to pick up a little something to augment his dwindling supply.
Of course, he was going to stop, so there was no problem. But what if, just for the sake of argument, he needed some coke and couldn't get any.
It made him jittery just thinking about it and he needed to keep calm and focused so he could write the motion.
Packard thought about the zip-lock bag in his bottom drawer.
If he took a hit, he could whiz through the research on the motion and get it written. And there would be that much less cocaine to worry about. After all, he was quitting, and getting rid of his stash was an important first step.
Packard was working on his final rationalization for doing a line when his receptionist buzzed him on the intercom. "Mr. Packard, a Mr. Deems is here to see you."
Packard suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the men's room.
"Mr. Packard?" the receptionist repeated.
"Uh, yes, Shannon. I'll be right there."
Bob Packard had never felt comfortable in Charlie Deems's presence, even when the two men were separated by the bulletproof glass through which they had been forced to communicate while the former drug dealer was on death row. The facts underlying Deems's conviction were enough to unsettle anyone. A man named Harold Shoe was trying to cut into Deems's territory. Two boys found Shoe's mutilated body in a Dumpster.
According to the medical examiner, Shoe had died slowly over a long period of time. Packard had looked at the autopsy photos when he was reviewing the trial evidence and had not been able to eat for the rest of the day.
Larry Hollins, twenty-eight, married, a union man who worked the swing shift, just happened to be driving by the Dumpster when Deems was depositing his bloody package. Hollins thought he'd seen a body, then convinced himself he was imagining things, until he read about the discovery of Shoe's corpse.
Hollins could not make a positive ID from Deems's mug shot, but he was pretty sure he could identify the man he saw if he was in a lineup.
Someone leaked Hollins's identity to the press and Deems disappeared for a few days. On one of those days, Hollins decided to drive his nine-year-old daughter to school so he could talk to her teacher. A pipe bomb attached to the underside of the car killed both of them.
Packard looked longingly toward the bottom drawer, but decided it was better to face Deems with all his wits about him.
Besides, Charlie would be in a good mood. Packard had just won his appeal for him. He was probably in the office to show his appreciation.
When Packard walked into the reception area, Deems was reading a copy of Newsweek.
"Charlie!" Packard said heartily, extending a hand. "It's great to see you."
Charlie Deems looked up from the magazine. He was a man of average height, but thick through the chest and shoulders. A handsome man with dark, curly hair who reminded Packard a little of Warren Beatty. Deems's most engaging feature was his toothy grin, which was a bit goofy and put you at ease. Unless, that is, you had read the psychological profile in Deems's presentence report.
"You're looking good, Bob," Deems said enthusiastically when they were seated in Packard's office.
"Thanks, Charlie. You're looking pretty good yourself."
"I should. There's plenty of time to work out in the joint. You can't imagine how many sit-ups and push-ups you can do when you're locked down for twenty-three hours a day."
Deems was wearing a short-sleeve maroon shirt. He flexed his left biceps and winked.
"Looking' good," Packard agreed. "So, what's up?"
"Nothing much. I just wanted to drop by to thank you for winning my case."
Packard shrugged modestly. "That's what you paid me for."
"Well, you did great. I bet that cunt Griffen is pissed," Deems said with a laugh. "You seen her since the decision came down?"
"Once, over at the courthouse, but I didn't bring up the case.
No sense gloating."
"Ah, Bob, you're too big hearted. Me, I'd love to have seen her face, because I know this case was personal for her. I mean, she wanted me dead. Now she ain't got nothin'."
"Oh, I don't think it was personal, Charlie."
"You don't?" Deems asked with a look of boyish curiosity.
"No. I just think she was doing her job. Fortunately, I did mine better."
"Yeah, well, you might be right, but I don't think so. I mulled this thing over while I was on the row. I had lots of time to think about her there. I'm convinced that bitch had it in for me, Bob."
Deems had an odd look on his face that worried Packard.
"You should let it rest, Charlie. The cops are going to be on your butt, night and day. You don't want to do anything even slightly suspicious."
"Oh, right. I agree with that," Deems said reasonably. "Water under the bridge. No, Bob, I just want to get on with my life.
Which brings me to the other reason for my visit."
"What's that?" Packard asked uneasily.
"I wanted to ask you for a little favor."
"What favor?"
"Well, it seems to me that you won my appeal pretty easily. I mean, they're not even gonna retry me, so the judge must have really fucked up, right?"
"Well, he did make a mistake," Packard answered cautiously, "but it wasn't that easy to win the case."
Deems shook his head. "That's not the way I see it. And that's not just my opinion. There's a lot of guys in the joint that know their law. I asked 'em about the appeal. They all knew you'd win.
Said it was a cake-walk. So, seeing how easy it was, I was thinking that I'd like a little refund on my fee."
"That's not how it works, Charlie," Packard said, trying to convince himself that this would be like any business discussion between two civilized and rational men. "The fee is nonrefundable and its not dependent on results. Remember we discussed that?"
"I remember," Deems answered with a shake of his head.
"But you know, Bob, I'm thinking PR here. Your reputation is what brings in the clients. Am I right? And happy clients talk you up.
That's free advertising. I'd be real happy if you refunded half the fee."
Packard blanched. "That's fifteen thousand dollars, Charlie. I can't do that."
"Sure you can. And if I remember right, that was only the cash half.
The kilo of cocaine I gave you was probably worth a lot more than fifteen after you resold it. Am I right? But I don't want any blow back. And I don't care what your profit was. You did a great job for me. I'd just really appreciate the cash back."
A thin line of sweat formed on Packard's upper lip. He forced a smile.
"I know you've been inside and can use some dough, so why don't I loan you a grand? Will that help?"
"Sure, but fifteen grand would help even more," Deems said.
This time there was no smile.
"Not possible, Charlie," Packard said stubbornly. "A deal's a deal. You were convicted of murder and now you're a free man.
I'd say I earned my fee."
"Oh, you did. No question. And I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. If you give me back the money, I want it to be of your own free will. A good deed you can be proud of."