"You said 'her boss,' " I asked, suddenly apprehensive. "Who's in charge of the prosecution?"
"Major Golden."
It occurred to me that he had been waiting for this moment. The JAG Corps annually presents an unofficial award, a silly twist on the Navy's Top Gun, called the Hangman Award. It has rested on Eddie Golden's office bookshelf two years running, and in an obnoxiously prominent place, telling you volumes about Mr. Golden. I played a role in that award, having faced him three times, the first two of which I was carried out of court on a stretcher. I nearly got the better of him the third time, before it was declared a mistrial, which, technically, was a draw. The idea of Eddie scoring a hat trick on me was sickening.
I mumbled, "I'll send you a name when I think of one."
He nodded as I made my retreat, thinking to myself that I'd ended up with a case I didn't want, representing a client I couldn't stand, opposing an attorney I dreaded. In short, I had kicked myself in the nuts.
I drove off in a fetid mood and raced down the George Washington Parkway to the McLean exit, described in Realtors' brochures as a "leafy, upscale suburb" located right across the river from our nation's glorious capital. Between "leafy" and "upscale" the message is this: McLean is where two or three million bucks in the bank can land you.
I raced past the entrance to the CIA headquarters, took a right on Georgetown Pike, shot past Langley High School and two more of those leafy side streets, then turned into one of what those Realtors' brochures enticingly call an "elegant, highly prestigious address with old world charm." Translation--bump up the bank balance another ten mil.
The street was lined with graceful old mansions that are distinctly different from the new McMansions sprouting up elsewhere, intimating that the residents of this block pay their property taxes with old money. Old money's supposed to be better than new money, but when you have no money, like me, the distinction's a bit blurry.
I pulled into the big circular driveway and parked my 1996 Chevrolet right next to a spanking-new $180,000 Porsche 911 GT2--a glorious thing in shimmering black, a boy-toy of the highest order. I admired it for a long, simmering instant before my car door flew out of my hand and oops--a big scratch and ugly dent magically appeared.
I walked to the front door and rang the bell. The man who answered had a curious smile that flipped into a vulgar frown as his eyes fell on my face. "Drummond?"
"In the flesh, Homer, and it's a real pleasure to see you, too," I replied, with a big phony smile.
He did not smile back. The man was Homer Steele, Mary's father, a guy born with a lemon stuck so far up his ass that the stem poked out his ear. I thought I heard him laugh once at a cocktail party, but when I went to investigate, he was choking on a piece of lobster. I rooted for the lobster, incidentally.
"What doyou want?" he demanded in a less than polite way.
"Mary. She's expecting me."
The door slammed and I waited patiently for three full minutes, overhearing a jarring argument inside. Was this fun, or what?
Finally the door opened, and there stood Mary Steele Morrison in her full staggering glory.
So let me explain about Mary.
Remember Grace Kelly . . . that alabaster skin, those scorching blue eyes, that silky white-blond hair? Remember how she walked into a room and men actually gasped? That's Mary without the slightest exaggeration. One of those Hollywood doubles agencies saw her picture in some society rag and even offered her work as a stand-in.
Two months into my sophomore year at Georgetown, she approached me in the middle of the campus quad and brazenly begged me for a date. A crowd began gathering. People were watching. I did what any gentleman would do, and then the girl started calling me all the time, making a damned nuisance out of herself, and out of pity I dated her for the next three years.
That's how I remember it.
Oddly enough, she recalls it somewhat differently.
Her father wasn't too keen on her career choice, which we'll get into later. She'd stop home on weekends, and there was always some new jerk in a Ralph Lauren sweater, perched casually by the fireplace, sipping sherry, eyeing her like a used sofa her father wanted to pawn off.