Chapter 8: Filed Under ‘Lies’

Late afternoon performed a decrescendo, strong light withdrawing down to its subtler tones.  Paul drove, holding his left arm awkwardly in his lap to relieve the strain on his shoulder.  Remo had waved a prescription bottle under his nose, but Paul waved it away.  “Those make me itchy.”

They finally arrived at the two story building that currently housed the law offices of MacQuincy, et al.  The skinny structure seemed to be squeezed on both sides by its direct neighbors, a barber shop and an empty storefront.  Remo advised Paul to drive by slowly then park around the corner.

“Now, here’s the keys.”  He handed Paul a large ring crammed to capacity with jangling brass.

“What?”

He peeled two of them back at an angle.  “This one is to my office, this one is to the cabinet.  Pull every folder with a pink tab.”

“You want me to go in there?”

“It’s perfectly safe.  A few of the boys should still be in there.”

“Remo, I’m not so sure if—”

The man pulled out a small bottle of breath spray, stuck out his tongue, and misted it.  “Look, they’re all under the belief that I’m in Baton Rouge for the weekend beating the bushes for info.  But they have been advised that you’re coming.  Just go in there, get the files, and lock back up.  Effortless.”

Paul sighed.  “But my shoulder…”

“I offered you the appropriate remedies, but you just said no.  Come on, do me the favor.”

Paul wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and got out of the car.  Remo slouched down in his seat and watched him turn the corner in the side mirror.  Across the white tiled stoop in front of Remo’s door some vandal had spray painted the words, “We Know White Lies.”  Paul rolled his eyes and pushed the ancient door open.

Inside the bare wood floors scratched and treaded into ruin strained to hold up four large gunmetal gray desks.  The desks bore carefully arranged blotters, rotary phones, and pencil holders, and all their accompanying chairs were neatly tucked in.  On the wall to the left hung a large oil portrait of Remo in which he wore a double-breasted suit and stood with his head bowed forward pondering a maize-colored legal tome, his free hand held up under the prominent chin he had once had twenty years ago.  Paul passed it by seeking out the source of voices he could hear from farther back in the building.  He opened the door at the back of the room and entered a small conference that seemed to be built around a large oak table whose borders ended a mere two feet from the encompassing walls.  Paul edged sideways all the way around the room to get to the next door.

Here, in a makeshift club room, he found the boys, four young men wearing identical tan trousers and white shirts with the sleeves rolled and ties slung so loose they looked about to slip their knots and fall free.  A tall oscillating fan blew from a corner and spread the woven scent of scotch and cologne.  They each sat in a leather high-backed chair pulled to the center of the room around a short ottoman upon which they were busy stacking playing cards and dollar bills according to rules unfamiliar to Paul.  Preoccupied with their game, their slang, and highballs, they didn’t notice him until he was right up behind their clutch.

“What’s the word, fellas?”

They all uttered some vulgar form of surprise.  Two of them stood straight up and backed away, clinging to their cards.  The one who had found him in the Mayfair Lounge recognized him and swept his hand outward.  “It’s all right guys.  This is Mr. Hinckley.  Josh, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, Josh,” Paul said.

The boys assumed their comfortable postures again and shook his hand.

“A little Friday afternoon bull session, huh?” Paul asked, trying to establish a knowing camaraderie.

“Friday, Tuesday, whenever.”

“There’s not that much to do around here.”

“Holy shit, it’s past five.”

“Finish this hand, finish this hand.”

“You can grab a glass and ice over there if you want, Mr. Hinckley, but we’re about to head,” Josh said.

“Actually, I just came by to get some of Remo’s fi—.”

“Have you talked to him?  He say anything about our paychecks?”

Paul tried to look thoughtful.  “No-o.”

“Dammit.  Always late.”

“Whoo!  There she is.  Pick it up, Avery, pick her up.”

“Fuck that.”

“Lead, come on.  Last round.  Yep, yep.”

They all concentrated for one last flurry of cards in silence.  Paul coughed.  A moment later they all erupted, three with exasperation, one in victory, picking up the bills he’d won, and then they collected their coats, pushed back the chairs, and headed towards the door chattering with shared insults.

“Somebody call United.  We’re going downtown.”

“Bye, Mr. Hinckley.”

“Don’t stay past dark!”

Paul watched one of them dive under the conference table in the room behind and crawl under; the other three either slid across its surface or strode atop it.  He could hear the front door clack shut and all their noise was gone.  Paul crossed his arms and tried to make sense of the rush.  He shook his head.  Youth seemed to be such a limited concept, but it had somehow become a subject beyond his understanding, a forgotten scheme of logic lost like algebra after years without its exercise.  He turned towards the last door marked Private, utilized the key, and stepped through.

Remo’s office seemed anachronistic in the context of the outer rooms, and it was clear he reserved a higher priority for his own needs.  Here a large L-shaped desk and modern office chair occupied a clean and newly painted room.  A closed laptop lay on the desktop connected to a bank of printers, scanners, and audio recording equipment all humming and green-light ready.  The room was somehow fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of the building.  Paul opened the sliding doors of a closet that contained a six-foot fireproof safe flanked by two filing cabinets.  He unlocked the top drawer of each cabinet with a long key, then pulled open all the drawers.  Each one was crammed to capacity with manila folders and accordion-sided document pouches, all labeled with black marker in Remo’s strong slanted hand, but apparently in some kind of order unrelated to the alphabet or any form of numerology.  The tabs contained headings like, “Albatross”, “1995”, “Carondelet”, or “Acquisitions: M-Z,” incomprehensible to anyone but their compiler.  Inserted seemingly at random amongst these were blank tabs colored in with pink highlighter.  Paul pursed his lips and decided to make a stack that would reflect their position in the drawers—front to back, top to bottom—in case there was some methodic importance to their arrangement.  He pulled a milk crate down from the storage shelf above and started to withdraw the folders.

Halfway through, his fingers paused before pressing back a tab marked, “Lies.”  He pulled the thick folder out, knelt, and opened it.  Newspaper clippings affixed with rubber cement to black cardstock lay inside with dates ranging back to the eighties.

LOCAL ATTORNEY SQUARES OFF WITH BAR ADVISORY BOARD

 

MACQUINCY DEFENDS “KINGPISSER” COMMENT

 

PARISH PRESIDENT: “OUR CASE WAS MISREPRESENTED”

MacQuincy Cites ‘Differing Levels of Moral Fortitude’

 

N.O. LAWYER SUBPEONAED IN FEDERAL INQUIRY

 

MACQUINCY HELD IN CONTEMPT AFTER COURTROOM ANTICS

 

MISTRIAL DECLARED IN MONTEBLEAU CASE

Defense Attorney Calls Jury ‘Nest of Vipers’

 

ANOTHER PHYRRIC VICTORY FOR MACQUINCY

            Paul skimmed the stories, the journalistic versions of his own balled memories.  He could only wonder what use the collection had for Remo, whether fuel for fury or smug proofs of his sphere of influence.  Paul replaced it and completed his task.

Outside he set the crate down and had just locked the front door when he heard determined footsteps coming down the sidewalk.  A voice called out, “Hey!  You with MacQuincy?”

Paul lifted the crate and held it to his chest protectively.  A short black man in his shirtsleeves with clip suspenders holding up his baggy wool trousers was waving a fist at him.  He approached slowly on a bad left hip, but his forceful countenance held Paul where he stood.

“MacQuincy.  You with him?”

“Not in a professional sense, if that’s what you mean.”

“Get him out here then.”

“He’s not here.”

“You tell him then.  You tell him I wants to withdraw.  I want out.”

“Look, I don’t really have anything to do with his practice.  I’m sure if you call during normal business hours—”

“Them phones ain’t hooked up!  I tried callin’ from that payphone right there”—he pointed across the street—“and watched ‘em through the windows.  Nobody picked ‘em up.  And it ring and ring.”

“Look, I really don’t know.  I’m just here as a favor.”

“Well, now you gonna do me a favor.  You got keys.  You take me inside and we’re gonna take my name offa whatever list and we’re gonna get me a check for three hundred dollars and we’re gonna consider my stake in this bullshit dissolved.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.  I’m actually very late for dinner.”

Paul’s face tried to convey a limited ability to do anything but sympathize with the old man for a moment before turning away.  He made it two steps before the old man reached up and attempted to jerk him back around.  His hand clamped right below Paul’s wounded shoulder, reawakening the wrenching pain stored there.  Paul dropped the crate, and a few folders popped out onto the ground.  He bent to collect them, but the old man put his foot down on a stray pile and poked at Paul again.

“Now, you listen here!”

Remo suddenly appeared around the corner at the end of the block.

“Hey, Paul, what’s the hold up?”

“Remo!  Help!”

The old man started pointing.  “There he is, there he is!  Mr. MacQuincy.  I can had my money back now?”

Remo jogged towards them.  “Get off, get off, get off!  Step back!”

Paul pulled at the folder under the stranger’s foot, but it wouldn’t give.

“You want this file, you better listen here.”

Remo didn’t slow down when he reached them, but instead dipped his shoulder and knocked into the old man who fell sideways with a wheeze onto Paul’s back then slid to the ground.  Paul snatched the last folder and stuffed it into the crate and backed away.  Remo reached down, pulled the man up by his elbow, and set him right again.  He leaned into the man’s face and glowered.

“The information contained in these files is of the utmost importance to our case—your case and mine.  So I’m sorry to be rude, but they absolutely can’t be tampered with.”

“Do you even know my name?  Do you even recognize me?”

Remo huffed.  His eyes ticked back and forth over the man’s face.

“There are so many of you.”

“What that supposed to mean?”

“Who need my help.”

“I don’t need you kind of help.  I need my three hundred back.”

“If you don’t get an announcement letter from my office within a month, then you can come back, and I’ll have a reimbursement for you.  Thirty days and we’ll have commenced the trial, I assure you.  And then we’re on the road.”

“To what exactly?  More talkin’?”

“Come on, Paul.  We can’t draw this attention.”

“I thought you was decent!  Three years this has been.  I thought you was decent!”

“Run, Paul, come on!”

The two white men scuttled away with the last of the rebuke aimed at their backs.  Paul threw the crate into the backseat, started up the car, and pulled away.  In the rearview mirror he saw the old man turn the corner still signaling and yelling.

“Forget about all that,” Remo said.  “It foreshadows nothing.”