The Big Law (1998) Read online

  "Okay," said Tom, warning Ida and Molly with his eyes that it was all right. It wasn't of course. It was like a movie. On screen, they walked from the silent, stunned newsroom.

  Angland rolled his shoulders when he walked, top heavy, like a siege engine. At six foot one and two hundred pounds, he was made for contact: a hitter, a shooter, a man catcher. Tom was a soft five foot ten. Like a male movie star, he was shorter than he saw himself on the screen of his mind.

  They went through the lobby, through the fire door, into the stairwell. Angland turned, grabbed. A seam in the armpit of Tom's shirt ripped as Angland mashed cloth in his fists.

  Tom wanted to protest. There were rules. The main rule was that the reporter was not supposed to get involved. He wasn't supposed to get hurt. That happened to other people.

  Angland bounced Tom off the tile wall, hard. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them in his pocket. He had long, blond eyelashes. Booze robbed him of his bird-of-prey edge, gave a puffy bovine quality to his brawny face. Tom could imagine him snorting, sleeping in hay.

  Pale yellow eyes. Insane fires trapped inside ice. Pores and whiskers like a cratered forest. His lips curled back in a contemptuous grin that showed predatory canines.

  "Stay…away…from…my…wife," he repeated.

  "NO!" Ida's voice caromed off the stairwell tiles. She stood in the doorway. Her wide eyes fixed, determined. Angland shrugged, drooped a shoulder in a deceptively fast, short movement and punched Tom in the stomach. Then Angland sauntered down the stairs as Tom sagged, gasping against the wall. Ida rushed to him. "Tom?"

  "I'm all right," he wheezed.

  "Is that?"

  "Angland. The cop. He's out of his gourd. Don't worry," said Tom.

  "Are you kidding? I'm calling security."

  "No. Let me handle it."

  Ida touched his cheek. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "I'm fine. Do me a favor."

  "Okay."

  "Go in. Get my briefcase and jacket from my desk. I don't want to go back in there right now."

  She spun on her heel and left the stairwell. She returned in less than a minute with the briefcase and the coat and the picture Angland had dropped. "What's going on? Is this woman his wife?" she asked,

  "Not now."

  "Why are you supposed to stay away from her?"

  He snatched the picture and started down the stairs, one arm clamped to his aching stomach. She matched him, step for step.

  "Where was this taken? When? Who took it?"

  Tom couldn't tell. Was she jealous? Was it the newsie smelling blood? Two flights down, three, and the questions kept coming.

  "Is this personal or is it a story?"

  Tom paused. For the first time in his life the words

  bounced funny and he wondered—why were they separate issues? He put a hand on her shoulder, "Look, Ida, I don't know what I've got, as soon as I do, I'll call. Stay near the phone. If I have what I think I have, I'll need your help." He continued down the stairs.

  Without missing a beat or a stair, she said, "What do you think you have?"

  "Ida, please."

  She switched gears, tried for levity, "You said that last night. Hey, Danny boy, tell me."

  He ran ahead, through a door, into the lobby, past the guard desk and out the front entrance onto Cedar Street. "C'mon, you can trust me," Ida persisted, pacing him. Then, "You have to trust me, I look out for you."

  He spun. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Easy," she tried to calm him. "It Just helps to have an extra set of eyes go over—"

  "You think I can't handle it myself?" Getting angry.

  Patiently, she said, "Tom, I think you're going through a rough time in your life and you just…"

  The gray Subaru station wagon pulled out of traffic and almost hopped the curb. Caren dropped the passenger side electric window. At first he didn't recognize her; a scarf was tied over her hair and she was wearing sun-glasses. The attempt at disguise dramatized his excitement. Ida tugged at his coat sleeve. "Is that…"

  Caren pushed open the passenger door. Tom jumped in. "Are you all right?" she asked. One second Ida was framed in the open window, the next, the tires squealed and Ida disappeared.

  The upholstery smelled showroom fresh. The floor carpeting was immaculate. She had folded the backseat down to make space to accommodate a big suitcase. She'd rented a car. Disguised her appearance. Packed a bag.

  "Keith came by the office with a picture," he said tersely.

  "Did he hurt you?"

  "Tried to play tough with me…" He rubbed his sore stomach, then stopped in midsentence, caught in a slowmotion plunging sensation. Caren's right cheek was beat up beneath a layer of cosmetic base. She got rubber leaving the curb, ran a red light turning left on Fourth Street and then, another one turning left onto Minnesota. Tom grimaced, opened his briefcase, removed Garrison's picture and looked at the two photos side by side.

  He held them up. "Two pictures?" she said.

  Tom held one up. "They were following you yesterday. An FBI agent gave me this one, this morning." That made her dip one corner of her glasses with a finger.

  "FBI agent?" she repeated. "You called the FBI?"

  Tom shook his head. "They visited me. They've been watching Keith and you." He held the pictures up side by side. "You notice anything?"

  She shook her head, now concentrating on weaving through traffic. She went for a full count on run red lights and accelerated down the ramp onto Interstate 35E.

  Tom explained. "I'm in the foreground in this one. You're in the front in the other."

  "So?"

  "Two cameras. On either side. Somebody, besides the FBI, was taking pictures of us."

  Caren stared straight ahead. "What'd you think? This was about Keith stealing a piggy bank? People are dead." She stepped on the gas, and Tom braced his hand on the dashboard. Be nice if there was a mute button on the world, he thought, so he could tap down his rising vertigo.

  15

  Deadline pressure was one thing. Dead people was another.

  And raw fear was something else. Until this morning it had lurked on the streets between the safe buildings of his life.

  "Is someone following you right now?" he asked, looking around.

  "Not anymore. I did the old serpentine car switch in the Hertz parking garage. Keith showed me how—the prick. He learned it at the FBI Academy."

  "Did he do that to your face?" Tom asked.

  "Yes he did."

  Tom's thing was talking and writing. He drew the line at physical violence. He thought of Lorn Garrison. Big hands and shoulders—as big as Angland's. Lorn had a gun. Hell. Lorn was federal. He had the marines. He turned and looked back at the skyline of St. Paul dropping below the horizon. "We're going in the wrong direction. We should go to the FBI," he stated.

  "There's somebody I have to see first," Caren said doggedly.

  "Who?"

  "My ex-husband."

  "Why?" Tom's voice strangled. Ex-husband? The situation took a sickening pulp fiction plunge.

  "Because he can protect us and I need his advice."

  "About what?" Tom yelled.

  "What do you think? About what I should do," she yelled back.

  "No you don't." Tom dug out his wallet. He held up Garrison's card. "I can call the guy who was at my place this morning. Right now, on my cell phone. He's ten minutes away, day or night, he told me."

  "But then I wouldn't get to see Phil."

  Tom stared at her, confused.

  "Look," she explained. "Once the feds see what I've got they're going to stick me in protective custody. Before that happens I want to talk to Phil, I want to make sure what I have. And he'll know the best way to negotiate."

  "Negotiate?" There was something wrong here. Some imbalance.

  "Yes," said Caren brightly. "Because I might be looking at Witness Protection."

  "That's forever." Tom's head snapped to the left, alert.

&
nbsp; "So is turning over a federal informant to the bad guys. Where do you think that goddamn tongue came from." She pounded the steering wheel with both fists so hard her sunglasses fell off. "And…he hit me."

  "Jesus." He reached to steady the wheel. Her swollen cheek pulsed. Her eyes were…fury. "I think I'd better drive," he said.

  Caren ignored him, set her jaw and stuck her glasses back on. "You don't rat out brother cops for money, that's basic…" her voice trailed off.

  Tom mumbled, "I don't get it, you know this how?"

  "It's on tape. I filmed it," said Caren.

  "Filmed what?" Tom's voice broke. A tape. The media's Holy Grail. Tom actually put his hand on his chest over his banging heart. My God. A tape. I'm going to be on Larry King Live.

  "What Keith did. Why the feds are after him." She jammed her hand into her purse and withdrew a compact plastic cassette. "Right here. If it's all right with Phil, you can give it to the FBI."

  On tape. Independent confirmation. No hearsay. To hell with spousal immunity. "What's on tape?"

  "Keith ratting out an FBI informant, taking money from some guys who run rackets in Chicago. They're opening up a dope business here and Keith gave him the keys to the state. Check it out," said Caren grimly. She slung her head back, indicating the cargo area to the rear. "That suitcase is full of money they gave him, packets of hundreds. It was in our basement."

  "Stop the car!" shouted Tom, transfixed.

  She pulled over onto the shoulder, worried he might be sick. He was out before the wheels stopped rolling, walked to the rear, and oblivious to the traffic rushing by, tried to open the hatchback. Locked. Impatiently he waited for Caren to come around and unlock the rear hatch. He lifted it and climbed in with the suitcase and seized the handles in both hands. Heavy. His heart fluttered. It could be fifty pounds. His fingers flew over the clasps and clicked them open.

  Caren hugged herself. A semitrailer rocketed past. Blasted her two inches sideways.

  Tom opened the bag and—Aw God, Sweet Jesus, look at that—row after row of currency. A solid wall of hundreds, two feet square, in crisp packets. Pounds and pounds of hundred-dollar bills.

  He was just a gentle tug of a man. He'd spent his life quietly pulling on loose threads and hoping one of them would lead to a big fish. Until this moment. What a mighty urge came over him—to reach out and grab. Thank you, God. Here was Moby Dick. He leaned over, pressing his hands down on the dollars, feeling the dense little ridges comb his fingers. He slammed the case shut and they got back in the car. The classic questions pranced before his eyes. Who-what-where-when-why-how.

  Only then did he realize that he had taken one of the bills. He turned it in his fingers. Ben Franklin's subtle smile gazed enigmatically up at him. Questioning.

  "So, who's your ex-husband?" he asked, more calmly.

  "He's"—she paused—"married to Nina Pryce."

  Tom sat up. He never forgot a name he'd read in a headline. "She's the one…the army, some stink from Desert Storm?"

  "That's right, the one with the Joan of Arc complex. The first woman ever to pee standing up." Etched acid diction.

  "So, ah, what's he do?"

  "He has this chair at his kitchen table. When you're in trouble you go sit there and explain it to Phil."

  "I see," said Tom dubiously.

  "No you don't."

  "Where's he live?"

  "Right now he's up on the North Shore. Past Grand Marais."

  Tom tried to gauge her. An ex-husband suddenly waiting in the wings had an uncertain edgy feel. On the other hand, Grand Marais was the end of the world, and that gave him time to think about the best way to orchestrate…

  The story, he reminded himself. All that money and he'd actually touched it. Right back there.

  "Are you…involved with your ex-husband?" he asked.

  She actually blushed. Horrible to see under the swollen bruises. "Phil. God no. I haven't seen him in years."

  "Does he know we're coming?"

  Caren nodded. "I called him and told him I was in trouble." Her lower lip began to tremble. "I told him Keith hit me."

  Every time she mentioned being hit she trembled with anger. She shouldn't be driving. He should get her off the road. The safe thing would be to call Lorn Garrison right now. Jesus Christ—he had a tape.

  "Once we get up north you'll give me the tape?"

  "Right. I want you to crucify the sonofabitch."

  Really should wait. But he couldn't resist it. He flipped open his cell phone and punched Ida's number. He recalled this vintage newsroom poster, a guy in a 1940s hat—like Lorn Garrison's hat—with a press card stuck in the band, talking on an old-fashioned pedestal phone—Hiya doll, gimme rewrite.

  "Ida Rain."

  "Ida, it's Tom," he tried to sound brisk, but he could hear his voice puff up importantly. He twirled the hundred-dollar bill in his fingers as he spoke.

  "Jesus, you all right?" She didn't hide the concern in her voice. Then she yelled, "It's Tom, it's Tom."

  Tom imagined the whole newsroom alerted at the mention of his name. Converging on the phone. Everybody talking about him.

  New voice. "Hey, Tom, how're you doing, man?" said Bruce Weitling, the city editor. More words in the greeting than he'd spoken to Tom in the last year.

  "I'm on to something really big here, Bruce…"

  "We're starting to appreciate that. The guy who gave you a hard time this morning. He's Angland, right? Mixed up in some kind of FBI investigation? We called the feds already and they were very cool, like, what ever gave you that idea?"

  "No. No. No calls. I want to work out some ground rules. First, it's exclusive and copyrighted…"

  "Tom, c'mon back to the office and we'll talk. We need you to work the phones and brief Wanger and Kurson."

  "Hey, screw that. This is my story." Tom was incensed. Cheryl Kurson was just a kid. A girl.

  "Sure it is and your name will be on it. We just want to field a full court press, if it's big."

  "No," said Tom calmly. Mine. Dammit. Mine.

  "What do you mean, 'no'?" Bruce's voice was ruffled, indignant.

  Tom punched off the phone. Caren was watching him, so he shrugged confidently. "They can wait. Let's go."

  Caren nodded. "It's a six-hour drive to get north of Grand Marais."

  "Good," said Tom. He could use the time to think. Distracted, he started to slip the bill into his pocket, but she was still watching. Quickly, he tucked it out of sight, in the glove compartment.

  16

  Broker eyed the clock, pictured Caren on the road and envied Kit her world of friendly talking puppets and animals. She was watching them now, stamping from bare foot to foot as credits rolled on the television screen. Sesame Street ended with a furry monster tribute to the number nine. Kit poised, defying gravity, pitched slightly forward.

  The theme music for Barney and His Friends came on.

  "Oh-oh," she announced with a judgmental furrowing of her eyebrows and forehead. She weighed twenty-one pounds, and a third of that was baby fat. He wasn't kidding Nina, their kid was a diminutive Churchill, sculpted in pink dough, crowned with copper locks.

  What if Nina's lean, mean tomboy gene skipped a generation?

  "That's right, a big oh-oh," Broker said as he handed over her reward, an Arrowroot cookie strictly forbidden by Major Mom before afternoon.

  Their secret.

  Since Kit, there were rules in the house. No smoking and no profanity. So he spelled out the curse: "Ef-You-See-Kay Barney and the yuppie puke he rode in on." He knit his own thick eyebrows and improvised on his favorite line from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. "We don't need no stinking purple glob of fat."

  He disliked Barney with a savvy passion he reserved for all the forces he intended to arm his daughter against. He'd seen fat, jolly, beady-eyed slugs like Barney operate around kids before. And he thought that the corpulent reptile was a fitting mascot for America at the end of the twentieth century. Like half the c
ountry, the lizard was an overweight blimp; and he mouthed the kissy-ass victim-speak that was smothering the culture like a tree cancer.

  Broker pointed the clicker and punched Washington Journal up on C-SPAN. Brian Lamb appeared, sturdy as the smiling Quaker on the oatmeal package on the kitchen counter. Broker put Kit's high chair next to the kitchen table and ladled oatmeal into two bowls. Daddybear bowl and Babybear bowl. He blew on hers to cool it, then placed it on a Winnie-the-Pooh place mat on the high chair tray. Hoisted her into the chair.