“Sure.” Grady sat back in his chair.
“So.” What would Grady and I usually talk about?
“Got any trials coming up?” Grady asked. “I have to make sure I’m there to mop up the flop sweat.”
“Fuck you,” I said, feeling the relief of using curse words knowing we were about to talk about something that normally embarrassed the hell out of me.
Like siblings, we knew the other’s weaknesses. Grady’s was billing. And like the brother figure he was, Grady saw it as his job to ridicule me about mine—acute nervousness I occasionally experienced at the start of a trial that resulted in extreme perspiration.
The first time it happened was during my very first trial for Pickett Enterprises under the most mortifying of conditions—as if the devil had taken a coal straight from the furnace of hell and plopped it onto my body. The results were worse than Whitney Houston at the Super Bowl. Panicked, I asked the judge for a recess, locked myself in a bathroom stall and, using a nail file and my teeth, I cut the shoulder pads free from my suit. I put the suit back on and kept the shoulder pads tucked under my arms for the rest of the morning. My hand gestures were probably a bit mechanical, but it did the trick.
The upside of my little dilemma was that it had happened only a few times, only under severe stress, and it seemed to last just a few hours.
“Okay, new topic,” I said. “Dating anybody?”
Grady was a catch—dark-brown hair (most of it still there), a charming, wide grin and a great intellect that never made anyone else feel small.
“Ellen,” he answered.
“Ellen is back?”
“Ellen is definitely back.”
“Great.” I liked Ellen. “Does she want a ring?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to give it to her this time?”
“I might.”
Grady had told me over and over, I don’t want to be with the same person all the time. Plus, Ellen and I aren’t like you and Sam. We’re not in love like that.
“So this thing with Sam.” Grady trailed off.
“I don’t know anything.” The image of his blue suit seared my mind. “New topic.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“I don’t know what else to talk about right now,” Grady said.
I made an exasperated sound.
“Well, it’s true. I feel like an ass talking about my dating life when you just lost the client you loved and your fiancé.”
“I did not lose my fiancé.”
“So where is he?”
“I’ve simply misplaced him. New topic, please.”
Just then, the door flew open and Q sprinted into my office. “Iz,” Q whispered. “The police are here.”
13
Two men stepped into my office. Somberly, they introduced themselves as Detectives Damon Vaughn and Frank Schneider. They both wore pants and fall jackets that looked slightly bulky. When Detective Schneider unzipped his jacket, I realized they were both wearing bulletproof vests and guns in holsters at their waists.
The sight of those guns crystallized the intensity of the situation. This was serious. Deadly serious.
Grady left. I knew I should call Maggie—she was a criminal defense lawyer after all—but the problem was that Maggie would tell me not to talk to them. I had heard her tell people many times, Don’t speak to the cops. Never talk to them unless they arrest you. Maggie had seen many interrogations go awry; she’d seen suspects confess to crimes they didn’t commit. As a result, she viewed Chicago cops with the same wariness usually reserved for perfume-counter salesladies. Just say no thanks, Maggie would say, and walk away fast.
But I wasn’t a suspect here. I couldn’t see any way that I’d be considered a part in anything that had happened. More importantly, the detectives might know something about Forester. And Sam. If I just said “no, thanks,” I wouldn’t be able to find out what they knew.
“Have a seat, please,” I said.
The detectives sank into their chairs. Schneider was a big guy, whose bulk draped over the chair. Detective Vaughn was lean, a runner, I guessed.
With hands the size of Frisbees, Detective Schneider held a form with white lettering while Vaughn sat motionless and watched me move behind my desk to take a seat. I was used to men looking at me, and yet his gaze wasn’t as simple as being sized up by a guy hungry for a post-bar make-out. He was scrutinizing me.
Detective Schneider raised his eyes to me. He glanced at my hair and smiled. “My girlfriend in college was a redhead. Mindy Draper.”
“Mmm,” I said in a noncommittal way. For some reason, many people think all redheads are connected, maybe by a secret society that provided photos and contact information.
Detective Schneider dropped the chat. “We just have a couple of questions.” His voice was low and soft, but there was a rumble to it that was almost menacing. “We’re looking into the death of Forester Pickett.”
“Good. Great.” I felt a window of relief open in the room. Forester had asked me to look into the matter if something happened to him, and now I could be assured that someone was doing that.
“You were Forester Pickett’s attorney,” Schneider said.
“That’s right.”
“What kind of business was Mr. Pickett in?” I had the feeling he knew the answer already, but I explained that Forester was the Midwest’s largest media mogul. He owned radio stations, newspapers, magazines, publishing companies and television studios. As his attorney, I did his contractual work, and I defended the company if it was sued.
“Was he involved in any takeovers?” Schneider asked. “Any corporate messiness?”
“No,” I answered.
He asked a few more similar questions, all vague. I knew he was fishing, which was what he was supposed to do, but I grew impatient.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got to tell you that Forester had been receiving threats.”
“What kind of threats?” Detective Vaughn said, speaking up for the first time.
“He received anonymous letters saying he was too old for his job and that he should step down.”
The detectives exchanged a glance, then looked back at me, and it was as if the air shifted into something brittle, crackling.
“Do you have copies?” Vaughn asked.
“No. I never saw them.”
As I had that day Forester was in my office, I felt my youth then. As his attorney, I should have insisted that I get copies of the letters. I should have had them analyzed. But Forester said he didn’t want to take action at that time, and no one told Forester Pickett what to do.
“How many letters were there?” Schneider asked in his rumbling voice.
I tried to think of the one conversation we’d had about it. “I don’t know.”
“What did they say other than he was too old?”
Why hadn’t I asked to see the letters? “I don’t know. There was also a homeless