The Simple Truth

“So maybe that was the case here.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t set up like a normal case file. There was no return address on the envelope, and the typewritten page had no signature at the bottom. The handwritten page made me think it was an in forma pauperis petition, but there was no motion or affidavit of indigency that I could see.”

“Did you see any name on the papers, anything that could identify who was involved?”

“I did. That’s why I knew Michael had taken a filing.”

“How?”

“I managed to glance at the first sentence of the typewritten page. The person identified as the party filing the appeal was named there. As soon as I left Michael’s office I checked the Court’s filing database. There was no one by that name listed.”

“What was the name?”

“The last name was Harms.”

“First name?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“No.”

Fiske eased back in his seat. “The thing is, if Mike took the appeal, he had to be sure that no one would call up about the disappearance of the file. Like the attorney who filed it, if an attorney did.”

“Well, the envelope had a return receipt requested label. The sending party would’ve gotten notice that it was delivered to the Court.”

“Okay. And why one handwritten page and one typewritten page?”

“Two different people. Maybe the person didn’t want to be recognized, but still wanted to help Harms.”

“From all the appeals the Court gets, Mike takes this one. Why?”

She glanced at him nervously. “Oh God, if it turns out that this had anything to do with Michael’s death. I never thought …” She suddenly looked as though she would burst into tears.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about this. For now. You took a risk for Mike. I appreciate that.” There was a lengthy silence until Fiske said, “It’s getting late.”

As they drove along, Fiske finally said, “We’ve been able to ascertain that Mike put eight hundred or so miles on his car in the last couple of days. Any idea where he might have gone?”

“No. I don’t think he liked driving. He rode his bike to work.”

“How was he perceived by the other clerks?”

“Highly respected. He was incredibly motivated. I guess all Supreme Court clerks are, but Michael seemed incapable of turning it off. I consider myself a hard worker too, but I think a balance in life is good.”

“Mike was always that way,” Fiske said a little wearily. “He started at perfection and moved up from there.”

“Must run in the family. Michael told me that, growing up, you worked two and three jobs almost all the time.”

“I like to have spending money.”

The money had not remained long in Fiske’s pocket. It had gone to his father, who had never earned more than fifteen lousy grand a year in over forty years of working his ass off. Now it went to his mother and her massive health bills.

“You also went to college while working as a cop.”

Fiske impatiently tapped his fingers against the car window. “Good old Virginia Commonwealth University, the Stanford of the next century.”

“And you read for the law.” Fiske looked at her angrily. “Please don’t get upset, John. I’m just curious.”

Fiske sighed. “I apprenticed to a Richmond criminal defense attorney. Learned a lot. Got my certificate and passed the bar.” He added dryly, “It’s the only way to become a lawyer if you’re too dumb to score high enough on the LSATs.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“Thanks, but how would you know?”

“We watched you do a trial.”

He turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”

“Over the summer, Michael and I came down to Richmond and watched you do a trial in circuit court.” She was not going to mention her second trip to watch him in court. “Why didn’t you let me know you were there?”

Sara shrugged. “Michael thought you’d be upset.”

“Why would I be upset at seeing my brother?”

“Why are you asking me? He was your brother.” When Fiske said nothing, Sara continued, “I was really impressed. I think you might have motivated me to become a criminal defense lawyer someday. At least for a while, try it out, see what it’s really like.”

“Oh, you think you’d like to do that?”

“Why not? The law can still be a noble calling. Defending the rights of others. The poor. I’d love to hear about some of your cases.”

“Would you really?”

“Absolutely,” she said enthusiastically.

He settled down, pretended to think hard. “Let’s see, there was Ronald James. That was his real name, but he preferred to be called Backdoor Daddy. That referred to his sexual position of choice with the six women he brutally raped. I plea-bargained that one, even though all six women identified him from a police lineup. I had some leverage, though. Four of the women couldn’t face Backdoor in court. That’s what terror will do for you. Or to you. The fifth victim had a few nasties in her past that maybe we could’ve used to attack her credibility. The last woman wanted nothing less than to crucify him. But one good witness isn’t the same as a half dozen. Bottom line: The prosecutor got cold feet and Backdoor got twenty years with a shot at parole.

“Then there was Jenny, a nice kid who put a cleaver into her grandmother’s skull because, as she tearfully explained to me, the old, dumb bitch wouldn’t let her go to the mall with her friends. Jenny’s mother, the daughter of the woman little Jenny butchered, is paying my legal bill in installments of two bucks a month.”

“I think I get the point,” Sara said tersely.

“Now, I don’t want to disillusion you. The guy I just got off for burglary paid my bill in full, probably with the cash he got from fencing the property he stole. I’ve learned not to ask. So my rent’s paid for the month, and I haven’t had to pull a gun on one of my clients in a long time. And tomorrow’s always a new day.” Fiske leaned back. “Go get ’em, Ms. Evans.”

“You really enjoy shocking people, don’t you?”

“You asked.”

“So why the hell do you do it, then?”

“Someone has to.”

“That wasn’t exactly the answer I was expecting, but let’s just drop it,” she said harshly. “Thanks for bursting my balloon, though, I really appreciate it.”

“If I burst your little balloon, you should thank me,” he said angrily. Then he added more calmly, “Look, Sara, I’m no white knight. Most of my clients are guilty. I know that, they know that, everybody knows that. Ninety percent of my cases are plea-bargained for that very reason. If somebody actually came to me proclaiming their innocence, I’d probably die of a heart attack. I’m not a defender of anybody, I’m a negotiator of sentencing. My job is to make sure that the prison time is fair relative to what everybody else gets. On the rare occasion I do go to trial, the trick there is to blow enough smoke around that a jury just loses the energy to figure it all out and gives up. Like they really want to sit around debating the fate of somebody they don’t even know, and could give a shit about.”

“Gee, whatever happened to the truth?”

“Sometimes the truth is a lawyer’s biggest enemy. You can’t spin it. Nine times out of ten, with the truth I lose. Now, I’m not paid to lose, but I try to be fair. So we all do our little shuffle during the day, the tuna nets go out at night and catch a batch of fresh meat, and we all come back and do the dance again. And on and on it goes.”

“Your version of real life?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, you’re never going to see it. You’ll be teaching at Harvard, or working at some gold-plated New York law firm. If I’m ever up there, I’ll be sure to wave to you from the Dumpster.”

“Can you please stop?” Sara exclaimed.

They drove on in silence until something occurred to Fiske.

“If you had already seen me at the trial, why did you make a show of not knowing who I was back at the Court when Perkins introduced us?”

Sara took a short breath. “I don’t know. I guess because in front of Perkins, I couldn’t think of a clever way to tell you how I had already seen you.”

“Why did it have to be clever?”

“You know what they say about first impressions.” She shook her head at the thought now. Christ!

As Fiske watched her, the last of his hostility faded. “Don’t let my cynical ass dampen your enthusiasm, Sara.” He added quietly, “Nobody has that right. I’m sorry.”

Sara looked over at him. “I think you care more than you let on.” She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to tell him or not. “You know a little boy named Enis, don’t you?” Fiske stared over at her. “I saw you talking to him.”

It finally hit Fiske. “The bar. I knew I had seen you before. What were you doing, following me?”

“Yes.”

Her frankness caught Fiske off guard. “Why?” he asked quietly.

She spoke slowly. “That’s a little difficult to explain. I don’t think I’m up to it right now. I wasn’t spying on you. I could see how difficult it was for you, talking to Enis and his family.”

“Best thing that ever happened to them. Next time the old man might have killed them.”

“Still, to lose your father like that…”

“He wasn’t Enis’s father.”

“I’m sorry, I thought he was.”

“Oh, Enis is his son. But that doesn’t make somebody your father. Fathers don’t do what that guy did to his family.”

“What’ll happen to them?”

Fiske shrugged. “I give Lucas two more years before they find him in some alley with a dozen holes in him. The really sad thing is, he knows it too.”

“Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“And Enis?”

“I don’t know about Enis. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

They remained silent until they pulled up in front of the Homicide building.

“I’m parked right in front.”

Sara looked at him in surprise. “Pretty lucky. In the two years I’ve lived in this city, I don’t think I’ve ever found an empty parking space on the street.”

Fiske stared at one spot. “I could’ve sworn I parked right here.”

Sara looked out the window. “You mean right next to that tow-away zone sign?”

Fiske jumped out of the car just as the rain picked up, and looked at the sign and then at the space where his car used to be. He climbed back in her car, leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Water droplets clung to his face and hair. “I really can’t believe this day.”

“They have a number you can call to get your car back.” Sara picked up the cell phone and punched in the numbers as she read them off the street sign. The phone rang ten times, but no one answered. She hung up. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to get your car back tonight.”

“I can’t go to sleep until my dad knows.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll drive you.”

Fiske looked outside at the pouring rain. “You sure?”

She put the car in gear. “Let’s go find your dad.”

“Can we make one stop first?”

“Sure, just tell me where.”

“My brother’s apartment.”

“John, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“We can’t get in.”

“I’ve got a key,” said Fiske. She looked puzzled. “I helped move him in when he started working at the Court.”

“Won’t the police have it taped off or anything?”

“Chandler said he was going to go over it tomorrow.” He looked at her. “Don’t worry, you’re staying in the car. If anything happens, just take off.”

“And if maybe the person who killed Michael is there?”

“You got a tire iron in the trunk?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s my lucky day.”

Sara took a shallow breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Me too, Fiske thought.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


When they reached Michael Fiske’s apartment, Sara pulled into a parking space around the corner. “Pop the trunk,” Fiske said, before getting out.

She could hear him rummaging through the compartment for a moment. She was startled for an instant when he appeared at her window. She quickly rolled it down.

“Keep the car doors locked, the engine running and your eyes open, okay?” he said.

She nodded, noting the tire iron in one hand and a flashlight in his other.

“If you get nervous or anything, just leave. I’m a big boy. I’ll get to Richmond okay.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I’ll be right here.”

As she watched him head around the corner, a thought occurred to her. She waited a minute or so to allow him time to get into the building, then she pulled around the corner, back onto Michael’s street and parked across from the row house. She picked up her cell phone and held it ready. If she spotted anything remotely suspicious, she was going to call the apartment and warn Fiske. A good emergency plan, but one she hoped she wouldn’t have to use.

* * *

Fiske closed the door behind him, clicked on the flashlight and looked around. He saw no obvious signs that anyone had searched the place.

He entered the small kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a waist-high bar. He looked for and found a couple of plastic baggies in one of the kitchen drawers and covered his hands with them, so as not to leave any prints. There was a small door leading to the pantry, but Fiske didn’t bother with it. His brother wasn’t the type to have neatly arranged rows of canned corn and peas. It was no doubt empty.

He went through the living room, checked the small coat closet, but there was nothing in any of the coat pockets. Next he headed to the single bedroom at the rear of the apartment. The floors were worn tongue-in-groove and the creaks followed him with each step. He pushed open the door and looked in. Bed was unmade, clothes here and there. He checked the pockets — nothing. There was a small desk in the corner. He searched it carefully but came up empty. Hidden behind the desk he saw a power cord plugged into the wall and frowned as he held up the other end. He looked next to the desk but didn’t see what he had expected to see there: the laptop computer the cord should have been attached to. And his brother’s briefcase; Fiske had actually bought it for Mike upon his graduation from law school. He made a mental note to ask Sara about both the briefcase and the laptop.

Finished with the bedroom, he moved back down the hallway and toward the kitchen. He stopped for a moment, listening intently. As he did so, he tightly gripped the tire iron.

With a sudden lunge he jerked open the pantry door, the tire iron raised, the light shining directly into the small space.

The man burst out and hit Fiske right in the stomach with his shoulder. Fiske grunted, the flashlight flew away, but he held his ground and managed to clip the man across the neck with the tire iron. He heard a pained cry; but the man recovered more quickly than Fiske had anticipated, lifted him off the floor and threw him over the bar. Fiske landed hard and felt his shoulder go numb. Even so, he managed to twist sideways and kick the legs out from under the guy as he hurtled past, going for the door. He swung with the