Guilt

Sam stirred her coffee. Stopped. Her eyes restlessly scanned the street in front of them. 'Damn,' she said finally. This always happens.'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'It's all right. I just get so tired of it, when it seems you finally get to where you might connect with somebody…'

'Then they leave. I know.' Christina was holding her coffee mug in both hands, trying to keep them warm. 'So you didn't convert Wes Farrell away from defense work?'

Sam made a face. 'I was dumb. I just got mad at him. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, whatever I did. Copes would just go out and hire another one. Fucking lawyers… oops, sorry.'

Christina waved it off. 'That's okay. I'm not a lawyer yet, and I'm not going to be that kind of one anyway.'

'It's funny, because he seemed like a nice guy otherwise. A great guy, really.'

'Who?'

'Who are we talking about? Wes Farrell.'

Christina looked over her coffee. 'You liked him, didn't you?'

'I don't know. I might have. Maybe I would have. I don't know.'

'Call him up. Say hi. He's got to be in the book. Tell him he's making a mistake with Levon Copes but that you were too hard on him. You'd like to buy him a drink.'

Sam shook her head. 'I don't think so. I don't know if I want to buy him a drink.' Sighing. 'It's not that simple.'

'But wouldn't it be nice?'

The conference room at McCabe & Roth was meant to intimidate. The dark cherry table was twenty-four feet long and the shine on its surface encouraged neither relaxation nor work. It was a table at which to sit. And listen. And be impressed. The subliminal message from such perfection was that to leave so much as a fingerprint upon it was to vandalize a work of art, so briefcases stayed on the floor, notes were taken on laps.

Coffee cups? Paperclips? Drinks? Food? Forget it.

At one end of the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows worked their power-view magic, while the walls were covered with heavily textured, light green cloth wallpaper. Original oils in heavy frames glowered. Sconced lighting kicked in when the black-out drapes were drawn.

After his debacle with Trang earlier in the day, Dooher was primed to win one. He'd had a bad day all around, in fact, with the Archbishop giving vent to his frustration that even his top offer of $600,000 had not been immediately accepted. Dooher still found himself smarting from the carefully phrased reproof. 'It's really not like you, Mark, to let a beginner get the upper hand like that in your negotiations.'

There had been nothing he could say. And now close of business had come and gone and he hadn't heard back from Trang, so the Archbishop's offer was no longer on the table. And Dooher knew it was all going to get much worse.

But for now, this moment, he was going to enjoy himself. He sat at the head of the conference table, and checked his watch – 5:40. The other eight partners should begin arriving any minute.

He found himself smiling, thinking of David and Bathsheba, and of Bathsheba's poor first husband, whom David sent off to war, promoting him so that he would be at the front of the troops, leading the charge against the Philistines, a hero.

Alas, never to return.

'Joe, you may have heard rumors to the effect that the firm has been considering expanding into new market areas. Well, we're all gathered here now to put an end to those rumors. They're absolutely… true.'

A polite ripple of masculine chuckle.

Joe Avery smiled nervously from his end of the conference table. Several of the other men looked his way, nodding and smiling. Dooher continued, 'We've reached the decision that the first satellite office should be in Los Angeles. As you know, we do a lot of business down there – many of the cases you've been working on, as a matter of fact. We've all been impressed with the hours and effort you've put in over the years here, and we'd like to reward you now by asking you to put in some more.'

Another round of club laughter.

'But seriously, and before we get down to the nitty-gritty of what we're expecting down in LA, all of us wanted to take a minute and say congratulations. And, I should add – I'm afraid I've hinted at this to you before' – here Dooher included most of the partners around the table in a conspiratorial wink – 'we kind of rushed your partnership through committee a little earlier than you might have expected.

'We'd like you to take the helm down in Los Angeles, Joe, open the office, get us up and running and put us on the map down there.' Again, an inclusive gesture around the room. 'Gentlemen. I've seen the future of McCabe & Roth and its name is Joe Avery. Congratulations, Joe.'

Heartfelt applause. Joe Avery stood, beaming and basking in his colleagues' approval. And Dooher knew that even if it meant losing Christina, the fool wouldn't let this job get away.

CHAPTER TEN

On the next Thursday night, Dooher suddenly stopped his reading in the library on the lower floor of the turret. His eyes raked the shelves quickly, all of his senses alert with an overwhelming prescience. Something was going to happen – he could feel it!

The telephone rang. He knew who it was and he trusted these things implicitly. Besides, the timing was about right – four days since Avery had been promoted. He picked it up on the first ring, resisting the urge to answer with her name.

Instead, he was as he always was. 'Mark Dooher here,' he said. The library doubled as his private office, with a personal phone that he answered in business tones.

A longish pause, then: 'Mark, hi.' Another breath. 'It's Christina Carrera. I'm sorry to bother you at home.'

'Christina!' Heartfelt surprise and enthusiasm. 'It's no bother. I wouldn't have given you my home number if I was going to get mad at you for using it.' Dooher carried the portable phone across the room and quietly pushed the door closed. It was a little after 9:00 p.m. and Sheila was watching television in the kitchen, doing the dinner dishes. The closed door was a signal that he was working – she wouldn't disturb him. 'To what do I owe this pleasure? What can I do for you?'

'I don't know, maybe nothing. I feel very awkward about calling you… but then again I've been awkward about everything lately.'

As he listened, Dooher re-crossed the room, went to his bar and poured a couple of fingers of bourbon, neat, into a brandy snifter. He was nodding, fully engaged.

'… but I didn't know who else I could talk to. I think I need some advice.'

'Advice is my business and my rates are reasonable – well, not completely reasonable. No one would respect me if they were.'

He could almost see the relief in her face, her smile. Their banter – Mark's light touch – put her at ease. He was her friend and she was glad he was here for her. He heard it in her voice. 'Okay,' she said, 'I'll pay.'

'Good. Lunch on you.' Then, more seriously: 'What's the problem, Christina? The job again?'

This time, the silence continued for several seconds. He waited. 'Really it's not so much the job. It's more personal.'

'You're not in legal trouble, are you?'

'No! Nothing like that.'

'But personal?'

'Joe,' shejsaid simply. 'I just don't know what to do.'

He sipped his drink, still standing by the wet bar. 'We can talk, Christina, but if it's Joe, maybe this would be better discussed with him.'

'That's what I'm trying to avoid. I don't want to always be so negative with him. Not when he's so happy with everything.'

'It's the transfer, I presume?'

A bitter laugh. 'I almost want to blame you.'

'For promoting Joe?'

'I know. It's stupid.'

'No, not that. But this move has been in the works a long time. Certainly before I ever met you.' This was not strictly true. The decision to open an LA office had been considered months before, but Dooher's decisions to go ahead with it and then to appoint Avery was finalized over the last six weeks or so. In administrative matters, Dooher rode roughshod over his nominal partners – he ran his firm his way. It was making money and if the partners didn't like his decisions, one of them could try to do what he did – but without him. He and his business would go elsewhere.