The waitress walked over with the check and handed it to him with a smile. Teddy left a tip nicer than he could afford, grabbed his briefcase and stepped over to the cash register. Andrews could scream at the cameras all he wanted, but it would never work. William S. Nash had a national reputation for being one of the finest attorneys to ever step into a courtroom. He’d retired a half decade ago and begun teaching at Penn Law. The law school couldn’t believe their good fortune, and Teddy knew that they would do everything they could to back him up.
Teddy glanced at the clock on the wall, buttoning his overcoat and bolting out of the diner. As he approached the doors to the market, a blast of ice-cold air hit him in the face and he stepped outside. Bracing himself in the wind, he started up Filbert Street at a pace just short of a run. The district attorney’s problems seemed less important than his own right now and he was angry. Barnett had given him a throwaway case, yet Teddy had come through. The judge was about to make his decision. This was the moment. Teddy’s first decision in his first solo case. What could Barnett be thinking?
It occurred to Teddy that Barnett didn’t really want to see him at all. Brooke Jones had made the whole thing up out of spite. By the time he reached the office, found out it was a joke and made it back to court, he would be ten minutes late. He knew Jones was capable of this sort of thing. That for some reason he didn’t understand, she resented him. But as he passed the Criminal Justice Center, he caught a glimpse of Jones on the sidewalk outside City Hall. She was rushing toward the building entrance with her briefcase and lugging research files in a canvas tote bag that Teddy recognized as his own. Teddy had the motion papers in his briefcase. But the judge had already made his decision, so there was no real reason to bring any files at all. Unless you were Brooke Jones.
He crossed the street, zigzagging his way past City Hall to Market Street and picking up his pace again. Barnett amp; Stokes occupied the sixteenth and seventeenth floors at One Liberty Place, the tallest building in the city. Construction for One Liberty Place had been controversial because of the building’s height and what it might do to Philadelphia’s historic skyline. But when the developer had completed the job, no one said a word. One Liberty Place was a work of modern art that seemed to draw out the historic buildings so you could see them again. The skyline never looked better.
Teddy rushed through the building lobby, nodding at the guards and ignoring the Christmas carols over the PA system as he found his way to the elevators and made the quick ride up to the seventeenth floor. Racing past the receptionist, he pushed open the glass doors and legged it down the long hallway to Barnett’s corner office at the very end. Barnett’s legal assistant, Jackie, was on the phone and looked worried. As Teddy approached her desk, she lowered her eyes and waved him through.
“Where the hell have you been?” Barnett said as he entered.
Barnett was standing before his desk, loading his briefcase with files, various prescriptions from his doctor, even a backup battery for his cell phone. He appeared upset, more worried than his assistant, maybe even sick.
“I was due in court,” Teddy said. “What’s happened?”
“Where’s my fucking address book?”
Teddy moved closer and looked at the man’s desk. He noticed a copy of the newspaper opened to the society page. Barnett and his wife, Sally, had hosted a charity scavenger hunt benefitting Children’s Hospital last weekend, and the story, along with their photographs, had made the paper. Beneath the newspaper, Teddy could see a copy of Philadelphia Magazine’sPower 100 issue. Barnett had risen from thirteenth to eleventh this year and no doubt would eventually make the top ten. He was in his mid-fifties and still grinding. The man had plenty of time to reach his goal.
“I’m supposed to be in court,” Teddy said. “Brooke called. Now tell me why.”
“It couldn’t be helped. I should’ve called you myself, Teddy. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” Before Teddy could respond, Barnett gave him a nervous look and added, “I need a big favor.”
Barnett found his address book underneath the magazine and threw it into his briefcase. As he yanked open a desk drawer and fished out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, Teddy noticed that Barnett’s hands were trembling.
“Someone’s been murdered,” he said. “I need your help.”
Teddy lowered his briefcase to the floor and leaned against the arm of the couch. It was a big office, luxuriously furnished, with a million-dollar view. For some reason, it appeared unusually small and insignificant just now.
“A girl,” Barnett went on. “Darlene Lewis. She was only eighteen-years-old. Shit, Teddy, she was still in high school. I’m in a jam, and I need your help.”
“Do they know who did it?” Teddy asked.
“Her mailman. A guy named Oscar Holmes. They’ve got the murder weapon. It sounds like they caught him in the act.”
Barnett shuddered. Teddy had never seen him act this way before and looked him over carefully. At six-feet-one Barnett was the same height as Teddy but bulkier by about fifty pounds. In spite of the extra weight, Barnett appeared in good shape and carried himself well. The man’s grooming was meticulous, his clothing handmade by a tailor Barnett visited once a year in Milan. His hair was a wiry mix of brown and gray, his eyes sky-blue and sparkling, even in the grim light of a conference room. But what struck Teddy most about the man was his face, usually overflowing with confidence and a measure of charm he could turn on and off at will. Jim Barnett was a master at litigation, his skills as a negotiator well known. Until now, Teddy thought. It looked as if the man had lost his self-control.
“What’s the favor?” Teddy asked.
Barnett forced the bottle of Tylenol open and gave him a look. “We’re representing Holmes,” he said.
A moment passed. Then Barnett shook two caplets out and swallowed them with whatever was in his coffee mug.
“We don’t do criminal law,” Teddy said, trying to suppress his concern. “No one here has experience.”
“We’ll get help if we need it.”
“Who is this guy? Why are we getting involved?”
“I’ll explain later,” Barnett said. “The girl lived in Chestnut Hill. She came from a good family. A nice, old-money family. The cops are still at the house, processing the crime scene under what they’re calling unusual circumstances. I couldn’t send Brooke because I don’t know what that means. That’s where you come in. I want you to go there and find out what they’re up to. I need to know what it means.”
Teddy wanted to say no, but didn’t. He had a revulsion for criminal law and had done everything he could to avoid it in school. His interest in law centered entirely on real estate. He wanted to work with architects and developers and build a career on something he could feel and touch with his hands. When he’d received a job offer from Barnett amp; Stokes, he jumped on it. The firm’s real estate department was the rival of every other firm in the city, accounting for almost a quarter of their business.
“Where are you going?” he asked Barnett.
“The roundhouse. Holmes is already there. The cops are probably trying to beat him into making a statement right now. I’ve gotta get there before he does.”
Teddy thought it over. The roundhouse was a nickname for police headquarters at Eighth and Race Streets. It seemed strange hearing Barnett use the nickname with such ease.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Teddy said. “If it’s another favor for someone, why not put them in touch with a criminal attorney who handles this sort of thing every day? This isn’t a personal injury case for the president of an oil company. This isn’t about money.”