Page 135 of The Right to Remain

Jack accepted those words as final. He walked his client out to the lobby.

“Take care of yourself,” said Jack as he turned the lock and opened the door.

“Thank you,” said Elliott, and he stepped into the glow of the porch light.

Jack nodded a silent “you’re welcome,” watched Elliott climb down the stairs to the driveway, and closed the door.

A late night at the office was nothing unusual, and whenever Jack was alone after dark the place seemed to come alive with the sounds of a century-old residence. Creaky floorboards. The occasional pop of attic joists in a gust of wind or the patter of falling acorns on roof tiles. The hiss of waterpipes in walls without soundproofing. The only discordant sound was the groan of the noisy dehumidifier that Bonnie had left running behind her desk. Jack walked over and pulled the plug.

A harsh knocking on the door startled him, but it was at the rear entrance, not the front. Jack switched on the kitchen light and saw CJ outside in darkness, peering through the glass panel. He had an exasperated and impatient way about him, as if he’d been knocking for a while and Jack had been unable to hear it over the noisy dehumidifier. Jack went to the door and opened it.

“About damn time you answer your door!” said CJ, entering without an invitation. “We have a serious problem.”

Chapter 51

Jack watched CJ carefully. He was beyond impatient, beyond anxious.

CJ was pacing back and forth from the kitchen sink to the refrigerator with his hands buried deep in his pockets. He had more than a five o’clock shadow, not the styled facial hair that made some men look fashionable but an uneven salt-and-pepper straggle that made him look on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’d spent only a couple of nights in jail for his contempt of court, but jail could be hell on earth for a filthy-rich loud-mouth jerk who proclaims himself the savior of the oppressed. Jack had seen more than his share of strung-out clients, and CJ had all the markings of a potentially dangerous level of impairment.

“CJ, I need you to sit down.”

His pacing continued. “Your client is a fucking thief!”

“Are you talking about Elliott?” Jack asked in a calm voice, even though he knew the answer.

“Yes! Him and his mother! They’re blackmailing me!”

Serena was a born blackmailer, but the accusation against Elliott struck Jack as paranoia.

“CJ, if Serena is blackmailing you for something, call the police. I don’t know anything about it.”

He stopped and shouted, “I can’t call the police!”

His eyes were like embers. It didn’t appear that he had a gun in his pocket, but Jack was calculating how long it would take the police to arrive if he could get to his cell phone in his office and dial 911.

“Seriously, CJ. Please sit.”

“I don’t want to sit!

“Whatdoyou want?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, as if trying to bring clarity to his own thoughts. Then his eyes opened, and he spoke in a voice that sounded surprisingly rational. “I want you to make sure that if I pay, the secret stays a secret.”

Jack was immediately reminded of his conversation with Elliott’s cellmate—the witness to Elliott’s beating who had overheard Serena’s parting comment:Now we got CJ by the hairy balls. At the time, Jack had assumed it had something to do with CJ’s involvement in Owen’s death. The fact that he’d chosen jail time for contempt of court over answering Jack’s questions had seemed like confirmation of that suspicion.

Clearly, something else was at play.

“What secret?” asked Jack.

CJ was silent, but the door from the lobby suddenly swung open.

“Tell him, CJ,” said Elliott.

No one moved because Elliott was holding a gun, and it was aimed squarely at CJ’s chest.

“Elliott,” Jack said in a calm voice, “put the gun away.”

“Stay where you are!” he said.