“No, it’s about a mile from here. I can walk. Tell him I’m on my way now.”
I take a few basic identity-disguising steps along the way. I wear my sunglasses. I change into the lounging-around-the-hotel-room-wear I’d grabbed from my suite – leggings and an oversized off-the-shoulder tee. I also buy a floppy hat from a street kiosk and sweep my red hair under it. Good enough. It’s not as if my photo is flashing across the screens in Times Square. Not yet, at least.
I make a wrong turn heading to the lawyer’s office and end up at the rear of the building. I don’t see a door, so I’m circling around when I’m passing the parking garage and…
There’s a police cruiser just inside the garage entrance. I slow and then take three steps backward.
Once again, I tell myself the police aren’t here for me, but once again, I decide to behave as if they are. I lose nothing by being cautious.
I head around the other way. As I do, I take a closer look at the building. It’s in a decent part of town, but it’s no executive office tower. Mom’s friend seems to have exaggerated when she called Daniel Thompson “one of the biggest lawyers in the city.” Right now, though, I’m a beggar who can’t be choosy.
I find a side door and slip inside. The lawyer’s office is on the tenth floor. Mom said to text Thompson when I arrived, so he could come down and meet me. I decide to skip that step. If there are police officers in the building – for any reason – I want a lowkey entrance. The stairs it is, then.
I’m passing the ninth floor when I hear my name. Of course, my gut reaction is, “Paranoid much?” but I still step toward the door and ease it open.
“You’re milking this for all it’s worth, aren’t you, Thompson,” a woman’s voice says.
“Of course I am,” a man replies, “for my client’s sake.”
The woman snorts. “Foryoursake, you mean. You love seeing your face on TV.”
“I am drawing necessary attention to my client’s case. She’s been wrongly accused of murder.”
“Yeah, according to hermother. I could skin cats on national TV, and my mom would claim it was all a misunderstanding.”
“Lucy Callahan is innocent, and I will prove it.”
“Save it for the cameras. Just remember, you owe us one, Thompson.”
“I oweyou? I’m delivering the most wanted fugitive of the–”
“–morning?”
He continues. “You’re getting the arrest, on camera no less. All I ask in return is that you stay here until I text you. I don’t want to spook her. She’ll notify me when she arrives, and I’ll speak to her in my office. Once she’s calm, I’ll text you. You come to the door, and I’ll persuade Ms. Callahan that it’s for the best.”
“And you’ll claim you haveno ideahow we found her at your office?”
“Presumably, you tracked her phone.”
“Yeah, it’s not that easy. But whatever. Just hold up your end of the deal, or I’ll report you to the bar association. Pretty sure this is a hanging offense with them.”
Thompson tut-tuts her threat away. I withdraw and do what I should have done already. I search on Thompson’s name.
The first thing that appears is an ad for his services, showing a man in his late thirties, blond with bright green eyes and perfect teeth. Then another ad. And another. Below that are articles on cases he’s represented. He is a legitimate lawyer, one who seems to do well, but he’s also the sort who advertises his services on the side of buses, his handsome face plastered larger-than-life.
Mom said her friend recommended him as one of the biggest lawyers in town. Probably because her friend saw his billboard advertisements or heard his radio jingle. He’ll happily take my case and my money and probably do a decent job of representing me, but he’ll wring every ounce of publicity from the job, and I’ll be the one who paysthatprice.
I send Thompson a quick text.
Me:It’s L. Callahan. I’m stuck in a taxi on Broadway. The driver says I’m twenty minutes from you, but it might be faster to get out and walk. So sorry! Be there soon!
I actually hear his phone chime with the incoming text. A moment later, he replies.
Thompson:No problem. Take care, and text when you’re close. I’ll come down to meet you.
The officer had grumbled about the bar association, but I’m not sure this is actually a violation. I suspect Thompson treads that wire with care.
Hey, no, I didn’t breach confidentiality. She wasn’t my client when I notified the police.
