The Firm

Mitch followed Avery around the corner and down the hall. A stranger in a black suit opened the door for them, then closed it. Lambert, Nathan Locke and Royce McKnight stood near the small conference table. Again, a tape recorder sat on the table. Mitch sat across from it. Black Eyes sat at the head of the table and glared at Mitch.

He spoke with a menacing frown. There were no smiles in the room. "Mitch, has Tarrance or anyone else from the FBI contacted you since the first meeting last August?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

Mitch slapped the table. "Dammit! I said no! Why don’t you put me under oath?"

Locke was startled. They were all startled. A heavy, tense silence followed for thirty seconds. Mitch glared at Black Eyes, who retreated ever so slightly with a casual movement of his head.

Lambert, ever the diplomat, the mediator, intervened. "Look, Mitch, we know this is frightening."

"Damn right it is. I don’t like it at all. I’m minding my own business, working my ass off ninety hours a week, trying to be nothing but a good lawyer and member of this firm, and for some unknown reason I keep getting these little visits from the FBI. Now, sir, I would like some answers."

Locke pressed the red button on the recorder. "We’ll talk about that in a minute. First, you tell us everything that happened."

"It’s very simple, Mr. Locke. I walked to the Federal Building at ten for an appearance before Judge Kofer on the Malcolm Delaney case. I was there about an hour, and I finished my business. I left the Federal Building, and I was walking in the direction of our office – in a hurry, I might add. It’s about twenty degrees out there. A block or two north of Union, this guy Tarrance came out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and pushed me into a small store. I started to knock the hell out of him, but, after all, he is an FBI agent. And I didn’t want to make a scene. Inside, he tells me he wants to talk for a minute. I pulled away from him, and ran to the door. He followed me, tried to grab me, and I shoved him away. Then I ran here, went straight to Avery’s office, and here we are. That’s all that was said. Play by play, everything."

"What did he want to talk about?"

"I didn’t give him a chance, Mr. Locke. I have no plans to talk to any FBI agent unless he has a subpoena."

"Are you sure it’s the same agent?"

"I think so. I didn’t recognize him at first. I haven’t seen him since last August. Once inside the store, he pulled his badge and gave me his name again. At that point, I ran."

Locke pressed another button and sat back in the chair. Lambert sat behind him and smiled ever so warmly. "Listen, Mitch, we explained this last time. These guys are getting bolder and bolder. Just last month they approached Jack Aldrich while he was eating lunch in a little grill on Second Street. We’re not sure what they’re up to, but Tarrance is out of his mind. It’s nothing but harassment."

Mitch watched his lips but heard little. As Lambert spoke, he thought of Kozinski and Hodge and their pretty widows and children at the funerals.

Black Eyes cleared his throat. "It’s a serious matter, Mitch. But we have nothing to hide. They could better spend their time investigating our clients if they suspect wrongdoing. We’re lawyers. We may represent people who flirt with the law, but we have done nothing wrong. This is very baffling to us."

Mitch smiled and opened his hands. "What do you want me to do?" he asked sincerely.

"There’s nothing you can do, Mitch," said Lambert. "Just stay away from this guy, and run if you see him. If he so much as looks at you, report it immediately."

"That’s what he did," Avery said defensively.

Mitch looked as pitiful as possible.

"You can go, Mitch," Lambert said. "And keep us posted."

He left the office by himself.

* * *

DeVasher paced behind his desk and ignored the partners. "He’s lying, I tell you. He’s lying. The sonofabitch is lying. I know he’s lying."

"What did your man see?" asked Locke.

"My man saw something different. Slightly different. But very different. He says McDeere and Tarrance walked sort of nonchalantly into the shoe store. No physical intimidation by Tarrance. None at all. Tarrance walks up, they talk, and both sort of duck into the store. My man says they disappear into the back of the store, and they’re back there for three, maybe four minutes. Then another one of our guys walks by the store, looks in and sees nothing. Evidently, they saw our man, because within seconds they come flying out of the store with McDeere shoving and yelling. Something ain’t right, I tell you."

"Did Tarrance grab his arm and force him into the store?" Nathan Locke asked slowly, precisely.

"Hell no. And that’s the problem. McDeere went voluntarily, and when he said the guy grabbed his arm, he’s lying. My man says he thinks they would’ve stayed in there for a while if they hadn’t seen us."

"But you’re not sure of that," Nathan Locke said.

"I wasn’t sure, dammit. They didn’t invite me into the store."

DeVasher kept pacing while the lawyers stared at the floor. He unwrapped a Roi-Tan and crammed it into his fat mouth.

Finally, Oliver Lambert spoke. "Look, DeVasher, it’s very possible McDeere is telling the truth and your man got the wrong signals. It’s very possible. I think McDeere is entitled to the benefit of the doubt."

DeVasher grunted and ignored this.

"Do you know of any contact since last August?" asked Royce McKnight.

"We don’t know of any, but that doesn’t mean they ain’t talked, does it now? We didn’t know about those other two until it was almost too late. It’s impossible to watch every move they make. Impossible."

He walked back and forth by his credenza, obviously deep in thought. "I gotta talk to him," he finally said.

"Who?"

"McDeere. It’s time he and I had a little talk."

"About what?" Lambert asked nervously.

"You let me handle it, okay? Just stay out of my way."

"I think it’s a bit premature," Locke said.

"And I don’t give a damn what you think. If you clowns were in charge of security, you’d all be in prison."

Mitch sat in his office with the door closed and stared at the walls. A migraine was forming at the base of his skull, and he felt sick. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said softly.

Avery peeked inside, then walked to the desk. "How about lunch?"

"No, thanks. I’m not hungry."

The partner slid his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled warmly. "Look, Mitch, I know you’re worried. Let’s take a break. I’ve got to run downtown for a meeting. Why don’t you meet me at the Manhattan Club at one. We’ll have a long lunch and talk things over. I’ve reserved the limo for you. It’ll be waiting outside at a quarter till."

Mitch managed a weak smile, as if he was touched by this. "Sure, Avery. Why not?"

"Good. I’ll see you at one."

At a quarter till, Mitch opened the front door and walked to the limo. The driver opened the door, and Mitch fell in. Company was waiting.

A thick, bald-headed man with a huge, bulging, hanging neck sat smugly in the corner of the rear seat. He stuck out a hand. "Name’s DeVasher, Mitch. Nice to meet you."

"Am I in the right limo?" Mitch asked.

"Sure. Sure. Relax." The driver pulled away from the curb.

"What can I do for you?" Mitch asked.

"You can listen for a while. We need to have a little talk." The driver turned on Riverside Drive and headed for the Hernando De Soto Bridge.