“These guys are following me, Joel. That’s why we’re not meeting in my office. We need to keep our communications under the radar.”

Lightner looked concerned. I ignored his look, but Joel isn’t one to hold back. “I can help you out however you need, Jason, but look. It’s bad enough you’re representing an old friend. But your brother, too? It can skew your priorities, is all I’m saying. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, and whenever you feel the urge, you could have a dozen law firms vying for your services. After Almundo? You’re a star. I’d hate to see you throw it all away.”

I waved Joel off, but we both knew he was making sense. I obviously wanted information on the people involved with Pete’s case without making a formal, official request. I wanted maximum flexibility in how I dealt with these customers. I wasn’t planning on letting legal boundaries limit my actions. I needed Joel Lightner’s covert assistance, but I couldn’t let him get too close to what I was doing.

“You own a gun, Jason?”

I laughed. “You think I need one?”

He didn’t answer. Maybe that was part of the reason he asked, a concern for my ability to defend myself if things got hairy. But I suspected there was another reason, too, and it was that other reason that prompted his frown. It was a serious question that deserved, but would not receive, a serious answer.

The answer was yes, I did own a gun. And no, I’d never used it. But yes, I knew how. I’d taken some training along with some other ACAs when I was a prosecutor.

And yes, I’d be willing to use it, but I didn’t mention that to Lightner.

25

I TURNED TO MY COMPUTER and finished drafting a motion I would file in Sammy’s case. It was a motion for expedited DNA testing of the four bodies found behind Hardigan Elementary School. In the alternative to expedited testing, I would ask for a continuance of the trial until DNA testing could be completed. That continuance, any veteran attorney like Smith would know, could last up to six months, maybe even a year. This ran directly against Smith’s adamant desire that the trial proceed as scheduled.

Then I ran through the list of Griffin Perlini’s known victims, in particular the two for whom Perlini went to prison. I made a couple of calls to set up meetings. This, too, ran counter to Smith’s instructions.

I wasn’t wasting any time testing the limits of my leverage.

I noticed that Shauna was in, which wasn’t unusual for a late Sunday afternoon. As a one-person shop, she had to handle the business end of things, too, and she often came in on the weekend to handle payroll, revenue projections, and other nonlegal tasks. I walked down the hall to her office and poked my head in. She was on the phone, so I waited, as Shauna spoke authoritatively to a client, assuring them that she was giving it hard to the “idiots” on the other side of the litigation. Clients like it when you call the other side disparaging names. It shows an attorney’s investment in the case.

When she got off the phone, I closed the door behind me.

“I need your help, Shauna,” I said.

I SPENT the evening at home with Pete. We ordered in pizza and drank cheap beer. Pete was wearing one of my sweatshirts, too large for him, and a haggard expression. His sleepy, bloodshot eyes kept drifting off, maybe thinking back to the arrest, or thinking forward to many years in the pen.

I was kicking around what to tell him. He’d told me he thought he’d been set up, and now I had information that he was probably right. What good would it do to tell him what I knew? On the other hand, he had a right to know.

We ate mostly in silence, Pete enjoying the comfort of my house, contrasted with the jail cell. He was placing his faith in me. He was making the assumption that I’d come to his rescue, the big brother with the Midas touch, not realizing that I was probably the reason for his problems in the first place.

I’d never been comfortable in that position—the hero, the celebrity. I’d always felt like an imposter. People give you a status based on a physical accomplishment, something you do in a game. Plenty of women flocked to the athletes in high school, and even more so at State. I was no priest. I freely accepted the accoutrements. But I never mistook it for reality. The truth was, it was a lonely existence, questioning the motives of everyone around you—the coaches, the boosters, the women—not trusting anyone with your feelings. State used me and I used State, getting a college degree and heading to law school.

Talia was not one for idol worship. Nor did she know the first thing about football. We’d met in the last year of college, and she couldn’t have cared less about sports. That, I assumed, was one of the many things that drew me to her. She’d listen with interest to the accounts of my accomplishments, but it seemed more of an information-gathering process, just another piece of a puzzle that was Jason Kolarich.

I never knew, precisely, what that puzzle looked like with all the pieces in place. The only thing I knew for sure was that, whatever it used to look like, it would never be the same. I would never fully recover from the loss of Talia and Emily. The raw, gaping wounds would close but they’d always be sensitive to the touch.

I watched Pete, boyish in his messy hair and oversized sweatshirt, drink one beer too many. I watched his expression occasionally deteriorate as he pondered what lay before him. I watched him, and I knew that I would stop at nothing now.

I wasn’t a football player at heart, and I sure as hell wasn’t a team player. I was a competitor. I wanted to win and I enjoyed the thrill of the battle.

But now it was personal. Smith and his friends had invaded what was left of my family. I would make sure he’d regret that decision.

MONDAY MORNING—twenty-one days until trial—I was in the office by nine. Marie buzzed me just as I was opening some files to review. “Arrelius Jackson from Reynard Penitentiary?”

I didn’t know the name. An inmate, obviously, doing state time.

“Take a message,” I said.

A moment later, Marie buzzed again. “He says it’s urgent. He says Mr. Smith referred him?”

I felt my blood go cold. “I’ll take it.” I punched the lit button. “Jason Kolarich.”

“Yeah, I need to talk to you.” There was heavy background noise. An inmate using a pay phone.

“So talk.”

“Nah. Face to face, man.”

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy for this, man. You know where Reynard is?”

“I know where it is,” I said. “I sent a lot of people there.”

I thought he laughed. “You better come, man, you know what’s smart.”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, as if it could give me some answers. I had a pretty good idea what this was about.

Smith, it seemed, wasn’t taking no for an answer.

My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the face and it was Joel Lightner. I took a moment to decelerate from my conversation with Mr. Arrelius Jackson and answered.

“I’ve got something on John Dixon. Ready?”

“When you are,” I said.

“Black kid, age twenty-eight. Seven pops, all drug-related. Three of them dismissed, three pleaded down, some community service, one stint inside. He was affiliated for a time, a Warlord, but as you know, the War-lords don’t have much going on anymore. Anyway, he’s a Lone Ranger now, he lives down south in Marion Park and works as a courier for an investment banking firm.”

“A courier.”

“Yeah, ain’t that rich? He probably has half his clientele right in that damn firm. Anyway, 4554 West Elvira is the addy. He’s single but has a kid that lives with the mother. The firm he works at is McHenry Stern, downtown. The Hartz Building.”