Max Coyle lumbered down the hallway, dipping his shoulder and knocking Mason to his knees as he passed, not saying a word. When Mason got up, Paula had slipped out of the studio through another door. He made it to the street without being steamrolled again, certain that Max wouldn't be doing any testimonials on his behalf.
Mickey was waiting for him when he got to the office, shooting Nerf Balls at the basketball goal above the door. Mason caught the ball as he crossed the threshold.
"Goaltending," Mickey said.
"My goal," Mason answered. "I can tend it whenever I want. Are we still in business?"
"You bet. I've figured out the great thing about the practice of law. When times are good, people can afford to fight. When times are bad, people can't afford not to fight. And criminals don't pay any attention to the economy. You'll never go out of business."
"I love this country," Mason said. "How's the not-forprofit world compare?"
"I don't know why they call it not-for-profit," Mickey answered. "As far as I can tell, everyone is making a killing."
"What did you find out about Sanctuary?"
"Nothing new. Centurion and Terry Nix are living large, but they're smart enough to do it up front. It's all in the reports. Emily's Fund is another story."
"Tell me the story," Mason said, opening his dry-erase board, hoping the crisscrossed lines would lead him to an answer instead of another dead end.
"Emily's Fund reported making donations to about a dozen other charities. All of them had to file the same annual report listing their contributions. The only one that matches up is Sanctuary. The others reported getting about half of what Emily's Fund says it gave them."
"What's the total difference between the two amounts?"
"More than two million bucks over the last couple of years," Mickey said. "Emily's Fund has a fiscal year that ends June 30, and that's when it makes a lot of its contributions. Almost a million of the discrepancy was from contributions made on June 30."
"Wouldn't somebody notice the discrepancy?" Mason asked.
"Doubtful," Mickey answered. "From what I found out, these charities rarely get audited by anybody, especially if the charity's directors are the same people playing with the dough. Plus, anyone looking at the report for one charity probably wouldn't cross-check it against the reports of another charity, especially if the first charity's books balanced."
"Gina Davenport and David Evans were the only directors of Emily's Fund, right?" Mason asked.
"Kind of convenient," Mickey answered.
"Did Gina Davenport sign the reports?"
"In front of a notary," Mickey said, "swearing they were accurate."
Mason picked up Gina's book, her picture staring back at him from the cover. "So that's the way you did the things you did, Dr. Gina," Mason said. "Did that get you killed?"
Chapter 29
Late that afternoon, Mason returned to the Cable Depot, this time to talk to David Evans about Gina Davenport's recipe for cooking the books of Emily's Fund. Earl Luke Fisher was sprawled out on his park bench across from the building entrance, his head propped on an oil-stained canvas bag, the rest of his worldly possessions crammed into a grocery cart lashed to the back of the bench with a candy-striped bungee cord. The autumnal sun, low-angled and gentle, painted him gold to match the leaves pooled beneath the bench. He called out as Mason parked his car.
"Hey, Mason!"
Mason gave him a waist-high salute as he made for the front door.
"Come here, Mason!" Earl Luke shouted, sitting up on his bench. "What's the matter? You too good for Earl Luke? Do I gotta make a damn appointment?"
Earl Luke stood, eclipsing the sun at his back, his shadow rippling on the pavement, aiming at Mason, who looked at his watch and shrugged. It was close to dinner, and he guessed Earl Luke's meal plan was a little short.
"How you doing, Earl Luke?" Mason asked, crossing the street.
"I'm fit to spit," Earl Luke answered, closing one eye and slapping his hand over his heart, as if to prove the point.
"Something on your mind?" Mason asked.
"Always got something on my mind," Earl Luke said. "It ain't free, though."
Mason had put money into worse lost causes than Earl Luke, and didn't mind doing it again. He liked Earl Luke's approach, turning panhandling into retail at the street level. He said, "You've got to ask for the sale to make the sale."
"I'm asking, I'm asking," Earl Luke said, rubbing his hands on a denim shirt that could have been a palette for a dirt painter. "That prosecutor fella come see me again and give me a subpoena for court this Friday. Give me a check for forty bucks too."
"That's a witness fee," Mason explained. "The subpoena isn't valid without the check."
"Well, forty bucks is nothing to sneeze at, 'cept I can't cash no check seein's as how I ain't exactly got a local bank account, if you get my meaning."
"You'll have to take that up with the prosecutor," Mason said. "Maybe they'll give you cash."
"The hell with that and the hell with them!" Earl Luke said. "I'm taking up a collection to head south for the winter. Thought you might like to get me started. If I can get a stake, I'd leave today, let that prosecutor cash his own damn check. Might do your client some good if I was to be a long way from that courtroom come Friday."
Mason stepped back, not interested in Earl Luke's offer to become a tampered witness regardless of the price. "Can't help you," Mason told him. "You're under subpoena to appear in court. You better show up or the prosecutor will send the sheriff to make sure you do. Besides," Mason lied, "I'm not worried about your testimony."
"It's a goddamn conspiracy, is what it is!" Earl Luke said. "You damn lawyers are all in it together," he added, snatching up his canvas bag, spilling its contents on the ground, scrambling to shove the coarse stuffing of his vagrant life back in the bag.
Mason counted a screwdriver, a short length of thin rope, a flattened roll of duct tape, a rusty bottle opener, a butane lighter, a yellowed copy of People magazine, and a wadded sweatshirt among Earl Luke's inventory. Something hard tumbled out of the folds of the sweatshirt, skidding across the pavement, Earl Luke diving to recover it, Mason catching a glimpse.
"Is that a cell phone?" Mason asked. The flash of a pink faceplate had caught his eye.
"What if it is?" Earl Luke asked, crouched on the ground, hiding the phone under the sweatshirt. "I got business to tend to. Man's entitled to a telephone."
"Must be tough paying your phone bill without having a bank account," Mason said, "and I bet it's even harder to get a mailing address for a park bench."
Earl Luke spat, scooting backward to his grocery cart, dumping the bag in with the rest of his things, clutching the sweatshirt.
"Where did you get the phone, Earl Luke?"
"I didn't steal it and you can't prove I did. I found it and it's mine. Possession is the law, Mr. Lawyer!"
"I don't care if you did," Mason told him. "Like you said, a man's got to take care of business, right?"
Earl Luke cocked his head, squinting at Mason, knowing Mason was playing him, not sure for what and why. "I got my business and it's my own business, so you just stay out of it."
"You get any good tips from the psychic hotline, Earl Luke?" Mason asked.
Earl Luke stopped fumbling with the bungee cord harnessing the grocery cart to the park bench. "How'd you know 'bout somethin' like that?"