The Exchange: After The Firm

“To this day they’ve never been exposed, so no one knows how many traffickers they ambushed. And, frankly, no one cares. Looking back, it appears as though they lost some of their enthusiasm when Tad shot three of their buddies. Happened about twenty miles north of Memphis at a rural drop-off point. There were some suspicions, some of the lawyers were putting the pieces together, but no one really wanted to dig too deep. These were nasty, violent men of the law who made their own rules. Those who knew about it were only too happy to help with the cover-up.”

“And you knew?”

“Let’s say I suspected, but we don’t have the manpower to investigate something this unbelievable. My wagon is fully loaded with deadlines elsewhere. Tad, though, always knew it was an ambush, and he was making some pretty wild accusations when he fired us. I think he was onto something. Again, the poor kid was so mentally unbalanced it was hard take him seriously.”

“What are the chances it was not a suicide?”

Amos grunted and wiped his nose with the back of a sleeve. “I would bet good money, and I don’t have much, that Tad didn’t die by his own hand. I’ll speculate and say that the authorities wanted to keep him quiet until they could kill him properly in July. And we’ll never know because the investigation, if you could call it that, will be a whitewash. There’s no way to find the truth, Mitch. Another one’s gone and nobody cares.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes again.

“I’m sorry.” Mitch was somewhat surprised that a lawyer who had lost twenty clients to executions would be so emotional. Wouldn’t you get callous and jaded after a few? He had no plans to find out. His time in this little corner of the pro bono world had just come to an end.

“And I’m sorry too, Mitch. Sorry you made the trip down.”

“No problem. It was worth it to meet you and see your office.”

Amos waved at the overhead door attached to the ceiling. “Whatta you think? Who else practices law in an old Pontiac place. Betcha don’t have one of these in New York.”

“Probably not.”

“Give it a try. We have an opening, guy quit last week.”

Mitch smiled and suppressed a laugh. No offense, but the salary would be less than his property taxes in Manhattan. “Thanks, but I’ve tried Memphis.”

“I remember. The Bendini story was a big one around here for a while. An entire firm blows up and everybody goes to prison. Who could forget it? But your name was hardly mentioned.”

“I got lucky and got out.”

“And you’re not coming back.”

“And I’m not coming back.”

Chapter 4

In his rental car, Mitch called his secretary and asked her to change his travel plans. He’d missed the morning nonstop to LaGuardia. Connecting flights would take hours and send him crisscrossing most of the country. There was a direct from Nashville at 5:20 and she got him a ticket. Getting to the airport would dovetail nicely with an idea he’d been kicking around.

The traffic thinned and Memphis was behind him before an unexpected wave of exhilaration hit hard. He had just dodged an awful experience, and the rogue DEA subplot was enough to give a lawyer ulcers, at best. He had taken one for the team, notched a huge favor with Willie Backstrom, and was fleeing Memphis again, this time without threats and other baggage.

With plenty of time, he stayed on the two-lane highways and enjoyed a peaceful drive. He ignored some calls from New York, checked in with Abby, and loafed at fifty miles an hour. The town of Sumrall was two hours east of Memphis, one hour west of Nashville. It was the county seat and had a population of 18,000, a big number for that part of the rural South. Mitch followed the signs and soon found himself on Main Street, which was one side of the town square. A well-preserved nineteenth-century courthouse sat in the center of the square with statues, gazebos, monuments, and benches scattered about, all protected by the shade of massive oak trees.

Mitch parked in front of a dress shop and walked around the square. As always, there was no shortage of lawyers and small firms. Again he wondered why his old friend would choose such a life.

They met at Harvard in the late fall of Mitch’s third year, when the most prestigious law firms made their annual trek to the school. The recruiting game was the payoff, not for hard work because that was the drill at every law school, but for being smart and lucky enough to get accepted to Harvard. For a poor kid like Mitch, the recruiting was especially thrilling because he could smell money for the first time in his life.

Lamar had been sent with the team because he was only seven years older than Mitch, and a more youthful image was always important. He and his wife, Kay, had embraced the McDeeres as soon as they arrived in Memphis.