Pausing on the porch among the litter of unopened mail and newspapers, McCann took a deep breath of cold air. It tasted faintly of pinecone dust and wood smoke. He fought against the dark specter of being absolutely alone. Because it was late in the year, only locals were out. McCanndrove to Rocky's, a local favorite they all raved about like it was Delmonico's, but he found more or less passable. It was both a bar and a restaurant, one big room. He wanted a beer and a burger, something they couldn't mess up. Ninety days of jail food had screwed up his system.
The place was humming with raucous conversation as he entered,and it took a moment to get the bartender's eye. When he did, the man simply looked at him with tight-lipped trepidation as if he were a ghost, a demon, or Senator Teddy Kennedy.
Then the din started to fade, and it continued to diminish untilit was almost silent inside. McCann felt nearly every set of eyes in the restaurant on him. He heard whispers:
"Oh my God, look who's here."
"It's Clay McCann."
"What's he think he's doing here?"
A few of the men's faces hardened into deadeye stares, as if challenging him to start something. A young mother covered the eyes of her child, as if she thought simply seeing him would scar the little tyke for life.
Even though he'd expected this reception, it still came as a sour jolt. Sure, he was used to indirect derision and whispered asides because he was a lawyer. Lawyers made enemies. But this was full-scale, almost overpowering. His only solace was the knowledge that it would be short-term and that he had a.38 in his pocket.
He looked back at them, not without fear. Eight percent, he thought. Look for the eight percent. Take comfort in the eight percent.
Early in his career, before he messed up, McCann had been a criminal defense attorney in Minot, North Dakota, after he'd fled Chicago to avoid that ethics charge. He'd been lucky enough to land a deep-pockets client almost immediately-a North Dakota banker accused of hiring thugs to kill his wife. The case was considered a slam-dunk conviction by the prosecution,and it looked hopeless to McCann. Because splitting the fee was better than losing the case outright, McCann brought in Marcus Hand, the flamboyant Wyoming trial lawyer who was famous for four things: long white hair, buckskin clothing, delaysthat sweetened the payout for the lawyers, and his ability to persuade a jury. McCann watched Hand perform in the courtroomand the Wyoming lawyer nearly convinced McCann himselfthat his client didn't do it. Eventually, the jury deadlocked at 10-2, and couldn't reach a unanimous verdict. In the retrial a year later, Hand managed to create almost the same result, with an 11-1 hung jury. Although the embarrassed prosecutors let it be known that they would bring the case to trial a third time, it never happened. The doctor walked away into bankruptcy and into the arms of his pretty, new twenty-five-year-old wife.
Over victory drinks, Hand explained the Eight Percent Rule to McCann. "It's really very simple," he said, using the same melodic voice he used to pet and stroke the jury. "I have to convinceone juror out of twelve to vote with us. One of twelve is eight percent, give or take. Not that I need to convince him our client is innocent, understand. I just need to establish an intimatepartnership with that one fellow or lady in a crowd who is contrary. The man or woman who has an ax to grind. My theory,and you saw it happen twice, is that in any group of people forced to be together, at least eight percent of them will go against the majority if for no other reason than to shove it up their ass-if they have an authority figure they can trust to be on their side. I am that leader in the courtroom. I talk only to my soul mate, Mr. Eight Percent. That man-or woman, in the case today-will follow me into hell, just so we can put one over on the rest. Remember, Clay, we aren't running for election. We don't care if ninety-two percent of the voters want the other guy. Who cares about them if we have our pal, Mr. Eight Percent?We just want our evil partner, Mr. Eight Percent, who hates the guts of the majority and always will, to show his true colors. He just wants to be bad, unique-an individual!-and I'm there to show him the way."
McCann remembered that conversation as he tried to boldly return the stares. Sure enough, when he studied the dinner and bar crowd, he detected two or three people who looked back not with horror, disgust, or revulsion, but with guarded neutrality. All were former clients.
Gavin Toomey, a local miscreant best known for poaching violations and his palpable hatred for the federal government, sat alone at the opposite end of the bar. Toomey actually noddeda discreet greeting.
Butch Toomer, the former sheriff who was recalled by angry voters for accepting bribes, looked at him coolly and raised his beer bottle in greeting. Toomer would be pleased McCann was back because McCann owed him.
And Sheila D'Amato, the dark-eyed former vixen who had shown up on the arm of a reputed mafioso en route to the park only to be dumped on the street after an argument, met his eyes while wetting her lips with the point of her tongue.
She was with him, for sure. Good enough for now.
McCann said with a tone of triumph, "West Yellowstone's most infamous resident has returned."
Someone in the back mumbled, "Let's see how long he lasts."
A few men snorted in assent.
McCann visualized the room standing en masse and charginghim. He inconspicuously lowered his right hand and brushed the dead weight of the.38 in his jacket pocket with his fingertips.
Les Davis, owner of the Conoco station, said, "I don't think you're welcome here."
"So get the hell out," another man rasped.
McCann found his voice, said, "We don't want this to get out of hand."
Davis mumbled something inaudible.
"We can be friends or we can be enemies," McCann said. "I'd prefer to be friends. That way none of us winds up in court."
He turned to the bartender. "I'd like a cheeseburger, medium rare, and a Yellowstone Pale Ale." His voice didn't quaver and he was thankful.
The barman attempted to stare McCann down, but he couldn't hold it. Sheepishly, he glanced over the bar at the still-silentcrowd. They were all watching him to see what he'd do.
McCann said softly, "Are you refusing me service? I'd hate to bring a discrimination suit against this place since everyone loves it so much."
"Give him some fucking food," Butch Toomer growled from his corner table. "The man's got to eat."
The barman looked down, said, "I just work here."
"Then place my order."
"I don't think that's such a good idea."
McCann nodded his appreciation to Toomer, who raised his beer in silent partnership. Sheila was practically devouring him with her dark, mascara'd raccoon eyes. She smiled wickedly at him, her eyes moist. And not just her eyes, he hoped.
"Tell you what," he said to the barman, "I'll order it to go. You can have someone bring the order to my office. That way your patrons can reel their eyes back in."
"Good idea," the man said, visibly relieved.
As he opened the door, McCann shot a glance over his shoulder at Les Davis and his crowd of burghers and fought the impulse to say, "Losers." On the way to his office two blocks away on Madison, McCannbought two six-packs of local Moose Drool beer from the dingy convenience store and carried them to his office. He fished the gun from his pocket and placed it on his desk, then sat in his chair and waited for his dinner to arrive. His nerves were still tingling.
The Journal reporter had made fun of his office location too, that his practice was on Madison Avenue, but not that Madison Avenue. This Madison Avenue, in West Yellowstone, Montana, saw more wandering elk on the sidewalks than it did men in three-piece suits.