From under the table I pull out a box that’s covered in birthday wrapping and place it on the table. “This is for you, bud. Happy birthday. Go ahead and open it.” He grabs it as I head toward the counter.
When I return with the floats, he’s staring at a small backgammon board on the table. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me to play checkers, then backgammon, then chess. I was fascinated with board games of all varieties. As a kid, I received board games for birthdays and Christmas. By the time I was ten, I had stacks of them in my room, a vast collection that I took meticulous care of. I seldom lost at any of the games. My favorite became backgammon, and I would pester my grandfather, my mother, my friends, anyone, really, to play. When I was twelve, I came in third place in a city tournament for kids. When I was eighteen, I was competing well in adult tournaments. In college, I played for money until the other students stopped gambling with me.
I’m hoping some of this might rub off on my son. It’s becoming apparent that he will almost certainly look like me, walk like me, and talk like me. He’s very bright, though I must admit he gets a lot of that from his mother. Judith and Ava are keeping him away from video games. After the Renfro trial, I am thrilled by this.
“What’s this?” he asks, taking his McGlacier and looking at the board.
“It’s called backgammon, a board game that’s been around for centuries. I’m going to teach you how to play.”
“Looks hard,” he says as he takes a spoonful.
“It’s not. I started playing it when I was eight years old. You’ll catch on.”
“All right,” he says, ready for the challenge. I arrange the checkers and start with the basics.
Partner parks our van in a crowded lot and walks into the mall. He’ll enter a two-story restaurant that anchors one wing of the mall, and he’ll find a window seat in a small bar area on the upper level. From there, he’ll watch the van to see who else is watching the van.
At 4:00 p.m., Arch Swanger knocks on the sliding door. I open it. Welcome to my office. He takes a seat in a comfortable recliner and looks around. He smiles at the leather, the television, the stereo, the sofa, the refrigerator. “Pretty cool,” he says. “Is this really your office?”
“It is.”
“I figured a big shot like you would have a fancy office in one of those tall buildings downtown.”
“I had one once, but it got firebombed. Now I prefer a moving target.”
He stares at me for a second as if he’s not sure I’m serious. The goofy blue glasses have been replaced by black readers that actually succeed in making him appear somewhat more intelligent. He’s wearing a black felt driving cap that looks authentic. It’s a nice look, an effective disguise. From ten feet away you wouldn’t know it was the same guy. He says, “Really, your office was firebombed?”
“It was, about five years ago. Don’t ask who because I don’t know. It was either a drug dealer or some undercover cops. Personally, I think it was the narcs because the police showed little enthusiasm when it came to investigating the fire.”
“You see, that’s what I like about you, Mr. Rudd. Can I call you Sebastian?”
“I prefer Mr. Rudd, until I’m hired. After that, you can call me Sebastian.”
“Okay, Mr. Rudd, I like it that the cops don’t like you and you don’t like them.”
“I know a lot of the guys on the force and we get along fine,” I say, fudging just a little. I like Nate Spurio and a couple of others. “Let’s talk business. I’ve had a chat with the detective, our pal Landy Reardon, and they don’t have much in the way of evidence. They’re pretty sure you’re the guy; they just can’t prove it yet.”
This would be the perfect time for him to deny his guilt. Something simple and thoroughly unoriginal like “They got the wrong guy” would be appropriate. Instead, he says, “I’ve had lawyers before, several of them, most appointed by the court, and I never felt like I could trust them, you know? But I feel like I can trust you, Mr. Rudd.”
“Back to the deal, Arch. For a fee of $10,000 I’ll represent you through the indictment stage. Once you’re indicted, and facing a trial, my representation will end. At that point we’ll sit down to discuss our future together.”
“I don’t have $10,000 and I think that’s too much just to get to the indictment. I know how the system works.”
He’s not completely wrong about this. Ten grand for the initial skirmishes is a bit steep, but I always start on the high side. “I’m not going to negotiate, Arch. I’m a busy lawyer with a lot of clients.”
From his shirt pocket he pulls out a folded check. “Here’s five thousand, from my mother’s account. It’s the best we can do.”
I unfold the check. Local bank. Five grand. Signed by Louise Powell. He says, “Powell was her third husband, dead. My parents divorced when I was a kid. Haven’t seen my dear old dad in a long time.”
