Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,7
the dumbest theory Edna has ever heard, and she nods in appreciation of Willie’s wisdom. “If I don’t drink coffee,” she breathlessly reveals, “I’m asleep by eight o’clock.”
“I’m the same way,” Laurie chimes in.
“Then you must have had a gallon of it last night,” I say, becoming more and more pathetic by the moment. “Come on, people, this is ridiculous. You think the whole country is going to drink coffee to stay awake?”
“Of course not, but anybody who wants to sleep can drink that decaf stuff,” says Willie. “That’s part of the futures thing, right?”
Freddie nods. “Sure.”
Willie smiles triumphantly. “So we got everybody covered.”
The discussion goes on for a while longer, but everyone jumps on Willie’s bandwagon, leaving me alone with my price-earnings ratio. Kevin comes over and patronizingly tries to cushion the blow. “I think your reasoning is sound, Andy, but Willie’s on a hot streak, and I believe in riding hot streaks.”
“I hope you and your fat black tongue make a fortune,” I say, hitting a new low. I stand up. “Well, it’s really been fun, but I’ve got to go see a client.”
“We’ve got a client?” Edna asks, surprise evident in her voice.
“We’ve got a client?” Kevin asks simultaneously, shock evident in his.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re a law office. That’s what we do. We represent clients.”
The truth is, that’s not what we’ve been doing lately. I’ve been a little burned-out since my last major trial, when I defended Laurie against a murder charge. It was intense because of how much was personally at stake. Since then I’ve pretty much found a reason to turn down prospective clients, many of them because I thought they were guilty, but some because the cases just didn’t seem challenging or interesting enough.
People who don’t know any better are always comparing me to my father, viewing us both as hardworking, high-powered attorneys. Even putting aside the glaring difference that he was the district attorney and I am on the defense side, there is still little comparison. I can’t recall him ever missing a day of work; he often likened it to working on an assembly line where the products coming through were accused criminals. I pick and choose my cases and show up when I please.
You might say I couldn’t carry my father’s briefcase, but you’d be wrong. The truth is, I’m too lazy to carry it. And I offer as proof the shock on the part of my staff on hearing we have a client.
“Who is it?” Edna asks.
“Vince Sanders,” I say.
Laurie’s voice comes through the speaker. “Well, at least it’s not a paying client.”
• • • • •
ON THE WAY TO MEET with Daniel Cummings, I reflect on why I’ve been in a foul mood lately. I’m not big on self-reflection, so I try to get this session over while sitting at one traffic light.
I quickly come up with four possibilities. One, I need to get back to some real work. Two, I’m thirty-seven years old and beginning a midlife crisis, whatever that is. Three, I miss Laurie terribly. And four, Laurie doesn’t seem to miss me nearly as much. I don’t know which of those is true, but the one I’m rooting against is number four.
The meeting with Cummings is unlikely to bring me back to the ranks of the smiling humans. I have a vague consulting role, in an area of the law that I am neither expert at nor interested in. I’m sorry that I took it on at all, though Vince really didn’t give me much of a choice.
Cummings keeps me waiting outside his office for fifteen minutes while he talks on the phone. This is not a good way to start a lawyer-client relationship, but the way I’m feeling it’s an excellent way to end one.
He finally comes out to get me, a hint of an insincere, apologetic smile on his face. He holds out his hand. “Daniel Cummings.” His tone and manner are such that he might have said “Prince Charles.”
I shake it. “Andy Carpenter” is my clever response. We’ve met once before, but if he doesn’t remember it, then I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of revealing that I do.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say, starting this relationship off on a mature note.
“Come in.”
He leads me into his office, points to a chair, and offers me something to drink. I choose a Diet Pepsi, and he has a mineral water. He’s about six one, with