"I don't think we'll ever know," Royce McKnight added. "The police down there are not that sophisticated. We've chosen to protect the families, and as far as we're concerned, it was an accident. Frankly, we're not sure how to handle it."
"Don't breathe a word of this to anyone," Locke instructed. "Stay away from Tarrance, and if he contacts you again, let us know immediately. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't even tell your wife," Avery said.
Mitch nodded.
The grandfather's warmth returned to Oliver Lambert's face. He smiled and twirled his reading glasses. "Mitch, we know this is frightening, but we've grown accustomed to it.
Let us handle it, and trust us. We are not afraid of Mr. Tarrance, the FBI, the IRS or anybody else because we've done nothing wrong. Anthony Bendini built this firm by hard work, talent and uncompromising ethics. It has been drilled into all of us. Some of our clients have not been saints, but no lawyer can dictate morals to his client. We don't want you worrying about this. Stay away from this guy-he is very, very dangerous. If you feed him, he'll get bolder and become a nuisance."
Locke pointed a crooked finger at Mitch. "Further contact with Tarrance will jeopardize your future with this firm."
"I understand," Mitch said.
"He understands," Avery said defensively. Locke glared at Tolar.
"That's all we have, Mitch," Mr. Lambert said. "Be cautious."
Mitch and Lamar hit the door and found the nearest stairway.
"Get DeVasher," Locke said to Lambert, who was on the phone. Within two minutes the two senior partners had been cleared and were sitting before DeVasher's cluttered desk.
"Did you listen?" Locke asked.
"Of course I listened to it, Nat. We heard every word the boy said. You handled it real well. I think he's scared and will run from Tarrance."
"What about Lazarov?"
"I gotta tell him. He's the boss. We can't pretend it didn't happen."
"What will they do?"
"Nothing serious. We'll watch the boy around the clock and check all his phone calls. And wait. He's not gonna move. It's up to Tarrance. He'll find him again, and the next time we'll be there. Try to keep him in the building as much as possible. When he leaves, let us know, if you can. I don't think it's that bad, really."
"Why would they pick McDeere?" asked Locke.
"New strategy, I guess. Kozinski and Hodge went to them, remember. Maybe they talked more than we thought. I don't know. Maybe they figure McDeere is the most vulnerable because he's fresh out of school and full of rookie idealism. And ethics-like our ethical friend Ollie here. That was good, Ollie, real good."
"Shut up, DeVasher."
DeVasher quit smiling and bit his bottom lip. He let it pass. He looked at Locke. "You know what the next step is, don't you? If Tarrance keeps pushing, that idiot Lazarov will call me one day and tell me to remove him. Silence him. Put him in a barrel and drop him in the Gulf. And when that happens, all of you honorable esquires will take your early retirement and leave the country."
"Lazarov wouldn't order a hit on an agent."
"Oh, it would be a foolish move, but then Lazarov is a fool. He's very anxious about the situation down here. He calls a lot and asks all sorts of questions. I give him all sorts of answers. Sometimes he listens, sometimes he cusses. Sometimes he says he's gotta talk to the board. But if he tells me to take out Tarrance, then we'll take out Tarrance."
"This makes me sick at my stomach," Lambert said.
"You wanna get sick, Ollie. You let one of your little Gucci-loafered counselors get chummy with Tarrance and start talking, you'll get a helluva lot worse than sick. Now, I suggest you boys keep McDeere so busy he won't have time to think about Tarrance."
"My God, DeVasher, he works twenty hours a day. He started like fire and he hasn't slowed down."
"Just watch him close. Tell Lamar Quin to get real tight with him so if he's got something on his mind, maybe he'll unload."
"Good idea," said Locke. He looked at Ollie. "Let's have a long talk with Quin. He's closest to McDeere, and maybe he can get closer."
"Look, boys," DeVasher said, "McDeere is scared right now. He won't make a move. If Tarrance contacts him again, he'll do what he did today. He'll run straight to Lamar Quin. He showed us who he confides in."
"Did he tell his wife last night?" asked Locke.
"We're checking the tapes now. It'll take about an hour. We've got so damned many bugs in this city it takes six computers to find anything."
Mitch stared through the window in Lamar's office and selected his words carefully. He said little. Suppose Tarrance was correct. Suppose everything was being recorded.
"Do you feel better?" Lamar asked.
"Yeah, I guess. It makes sense."
"It's happened before, just like Locke said."
"Who? Who was approached before?"
"I don't remember. Seems like it was three or four years ago."
"But you don't remember who it was?"
"No. Why is that important?"
"I'd just like to know. I don't understand why they would pick me, the new man, the one lawyer out of forty who knows the least about this firm and its clients. Why would they pick me?"
"I don't know, Mitch. Look, why don't you do as Locke suggested? Try to forget about it and run from this guy Tarrance. You don't have to talk to him unless he's got a warrant. Tell him to get lost if he shows up again. He's dangerous."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Mitch forced a smile and headed for the door. "We're still on for dinner tomorrow night?"
"Sure. Kay wants to grill steaks and eat by the pool. Make it late, say around seven-thirty."
"See you then."
12
THE guard called his name, frisked him and led him to a large room where a row of small booths was occupied with visitors talking and whispering through thick metal screens.
"Number fourteen," the guard said, and pointed. Mitch walked to his booth and sat down. A minute later Ray appeared and sat between his dividers on the other side of the screen. Were it not for a scar on Ray's forehead and a few wrinkles around the eyes, they could pass for twins. Both were six-two, weighed about one-eighty, with light brown hair, small blue eyes, high cheekbones and large chins. They had always been told there was Indian blood in the family, but the dark skin had been lost through years in the coal mines.
Mitch had not been to Brushy Mountain in three years. Three years and three months. They'd exchanged letters twice a month, every month, for eight years now.
"How's your French?" Mitch finally asked. Ray's Army test scores had revealed an amazing aptitude for languages. He had served two years as a Vietnamese interpreter. He had mastered German in six months while stationed there. Spanish had taken four years, but he was forced to learn it from a dictionary in the prison library. French was his latest project.
"I'm fluent, I guess," Ray answered. "It's kinda hard to tell in here. I don't get much practice. Evidently they don't teach French in the projects, so most of these brothers here are unilingual. It's undoubtedly the most beautiful language."
"Is it easy?"
"Not as easy as German. Of course, it was easier to learn German since I was living there and everybody spoke it. Did you know that fifty percent of our language conies from German through Old English?"
"No, I didn't know that."
"It's true. English and German are first cousins."
"What's next?"
"Probably Italian. It's a Romance language like French and Spanish and Portuguese. Maybe Russian. Maybe Greek. I've been reading about the Greek isles. I plan to go there soon."
Mitch smiled. He was at least seven years away from parole.
"You think I'm kidding, don't you?" Ray asked. "I'm checking out of here, Mitchell, and it won't be long."