"And it's professional," he said, raising his eyes to meet David's.
For the second time this evening, the honorable, yet sometimes horrible, code of ethics to which honest lawyers adhered had come into the conversation. They could skirt around the code: David could ask general questions about a client (Tartan) or about what that client was involved in (the acquisition of Knight), and Keith might even answer them, although he certainly hadn't tonight. But to exchange real information about a particular case, a particular client, a particular act involving jurisprudence? To actually divulge that a lawyer had been involved in something shady or sinister or straight-on illegal was another matter entirely. They both knew it was taboo.
David took a deep breath. "Is there something I can do?" He hesitated, then asked, "Do you need to talk to someone at the Justice Department or the FBI? You know I can arrange it."
But Keith just shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do. All I know is that I want to set things right."
The conversation had run aground. Keith was up against the wall, but still at a point that he couldn't or wouldn't talk about it. Keith smiled wanly, then looked away. "Man, I'm beat. Let's get the hell out of here." He flagged down the waitress, got the check, and paid it, saying, "Don't worry about it. I can expense it out." When he stood, his body swayed slightly. Then he made an unsteady line for the door.
They emerged into the cool night air. Tomorrow would be the Fourth of July. In Los Angeles that could just as easily mean dense fog or a heat wave. This year it looked to be foggy. Standing in the cool white dampness, David and Keith chatted a few more minutes. He wondered if Keith, who'd consumed far more alcohol than David, should drive. "I left my car with the valet," David said. "You want a lift?" Keith shook his head. "I'll just walk back to the office. I have a couple of faxes I need to send."
The offices of Phillips, MacKenzie were in one of the skyscrapers on Bunker Hill. All Keith had to do was cross Grand, walk past the library, cross Fifth, then climb the "Spanish Steps" up to Hope. The distance wasn't far, but downtown wasn't all that safe at night after the day workers had gone home to the suburbs.
"I can drive you up there if you want." "No, I'll walk. It'll do me good. Clear my head." They shook hands. "Lunch next week?" David asked. "Sure, I'll give you a call."
Grand was a one-way street downtown. Keith looked right, saw nothing, then stepped off the curb. Up the street David saw headlights through the mist. Keith was halfway across the road, oblivious to the car. For a moment David thought the car was going to hit Keith, but then the driver decelerated.
To David it seemed then that everything slowed down so that he could see every detail as, maybe even before, it happened. A hand with a gun in it reached out the rear left window and swung toward David. He heard the gunfire and saw the flashes of light from the muzzle. Instinctively he fell to the ground. He heard screams behind him-probably other customers who'd left the restaurant just behind David and Keith and were on their way to the valet. David heard the bullets ricochet off the wall and felt pieces of stone and stucco rain down on him. From his position on the sidewalk, he saw Keith look back and left over his shoulder. If he'd looked right, he would have seen the car and hustled out of the way. Instead the car hit him. Keith's body flew up into the air, moving fast, arms and legs flailing, then slammed into the back wall of the library with a sickening thud. The car sped away, skidding as it turned the corner.
There was a period of silence, then David heard behind him the clatter of high heels on the sidewalk, the sound of men shouting, and someone begin to whimper in pain. All the while he didn't take his eyes off the motionless form of Keith across the street. Shakily David got to his feet, staggered across the asphalt, and knelt next to his friend. The bones in Keith's left arm were jagged sticks of white protruding from flesh. His legs were at unnatural angles, not moving. Blood gushed from a deep gash in one of his legs, probably where the chrome of the bumper had cut into flesh. David felt Keith's neck for a pulse. Somehow he was still alive.
"Help! Somebody help us!" David screamed.
David had never taken a CPR class, but he had an idea of how it worked. But should he tilt Keith's head back to give mouth-to-mouth? Maybe Keith had a broken neck-this seemed likely given that his limbs weren't moving. Should David massage Keith's chest? Maybe the internal injuries were too great; maybe David would cause more damage. At least he could do something about the blood. He put his hand over the gash and pressed hard to stanch the flow. Just then Keith opened his eyes. He moaned. When he tried to speak, blood bubbled out of his mouth and his eyes widened in terror.
"It's all right," David said. "I'm here. You're going to be okay."
Looking at the blood that oozed out over his hands and the blood that had now spread out like a halo around Keith's head, David knew that what he'd said was a lie. His friend was dying and he was terrified.
In the distance David heard a siren. "You hear that? It's an ambulance. Hang on. The paramedics will be here soon."
Keith tried to speak, but again all that came out was a ragged gurgle and a froth of foaming blood. Then Keith's body went into convulsions. Blood spattered the wall, the sidewalk, David. Then Keith took a last anguished gasp for air and went still.
Kneeling next to the body, blood on his hands and clothes, David did what he usually did in an emergency. He retreated into linear thought. When the police arrived, he'd help them with their report. He'd seen the Jeep: black, newer model, but he hadn't caught the license plate. He'd say that he'd been the target, that the locals would be smart to call the FBI right away, that an APB should be put out on those remaining Rising Phoenix members whom David had so grievously misjudged. Instead of scattering as he'd thought, they'd formed a deadly plan. Only they'd erred, killing Keith and injuring another passerby whose misfortune it had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He'd tell the police that the driver obviously hadn't seen Keith since he didn't attempt to swerve out of the way. Then David would get his car from valet parking and go home. By the time he got there, a team from the FBI would probably have already checked the rooms and once again set up residence. In the coming weeks David could look forward to the company of agents, no privacy and no freedom. But before all that he'd have to call the offices of Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout. He might even be the first one to tell Miles Stout about Keith's death. He'd fill in the particulars, offer to help with funeral arrangements, knowing perfectly well that Miles would want to control those details as he controlled so many things. Even the mundane thought that he'd have to make sure that his dark blue suit was back from the dry cleaner in time for the funeral flickered across David's brain.
But this time he identified something else, something different, amidst all these practical thoughts. Not anguish. Not despair. Not disgust at the rusty smell of the blood or the other bodily odors that now came drifting up from the corpse. Not worry over whether all that blood was clean. Not fear that he'd been the intended victim. It was an overwhelming sense of guilt. His complacency had led to Keith's death.