The Lawyer

By Emory Cosgrove

A young woman is brutally murdered in an act of mistaken identity. A comely lawyer with a troubled past fears that she was the intended victim, and seeks help from the only person she trusts—retired police detective Jack Trainer.

Trainer comes out of retirement to protect her and track down her wannabe killer—a ruthless scuzzball with ruthless, double-crossing friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emory Cosgrove
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005390327

Book preview

The Players

Kiss-kiss, you’re alive

Chapter 1

Phoenix, Arizona, 2016

Pamela

Monday, June 27

I met Jack Trainer on Monday evening, June 27, in the bar at Dalessandro’s on North Central Avenue. The previous Friday, the ABA had notified me that I’d passed my Arizona Bar Exam, and Monday morning, my boss, Bill Nealson, removed the word ‘Junior’ from my job title. That put me on the partnership track at Nealson & Associates. At the time, I thought that was a good thing. I was at Dalessandro’s that night because Bill, his wife, Martina, and some colleagues persuaded me to join them there to celebrate my great achievement.

Around 8:00, a man entered the bar alone. My boss recognized him and gestured him to our table. Bill introduced him to the group with a flourish, as though the man was Elvis Presley, come back from the dead: For those of you who don’t know him, this is Jack Trainer, the best ex-cop in town. Have a seat, Jack. Please join us.

The only empty chair at our table was next to mine, so Jack sat down next to me. He was interesting-looking, but not movie-star handsome by any stretch, and obviously not skilled in the art of group chitchat.

Jack

I met Pamela Babbage on a warm Monday evening in June. It was in the bar at Dalessandro’s on North Central Avenue. She was seated at a table with Bill Nealson, his wife Martina, Bert Sollner, and three people whose names I couldn’t remember. Nealson spotted me when I walked in and motioned for me to join them. Pam stood out from the crowd for a couple of reasons: She was at least twenty years younger than the others, and a thousand times better looking. A radiant strawberry blonde with a 99.44%-pure complexion, clear blue eyes, and the most perfectly-shaped mouth I’d ever seen. The only vacant chair at the table was next to hers, so that’s where I sat. After half an hour or so, we eased our way into a one-on-one conversation.

Your name’s ‘Jack,’ she said. That’s a no-frills name. It’s got some punch to it.

‘Pamela’ is also a nice name, I responded. "It was invented by a sixteenth-century English poet. I believe it means completely sweet, or something like that."

"I don’t consider myself sweet, but I do try to be nice…. I overheard Martina say that your wife died a year or so ago. How long were you married?"

Twenty-three years.

That’s sad, and a long-lasting marriage by contemporary standards. Was she your high-school sweetheart?

"No. my high-school sweetheart was my first wife."

"How long were you married to her?"

About twenty-three minutes.

She tossed her head back and laughed without inhibition. For most women, that’s a very unattractive gesture. But with her, it was delightful. Her laugh had the sound of soft, happy music. As her hair fell away from her face, I noticed she had a small hummingbird tattoo behind her right ear. I don’t normally like tattoos on women. But this one was beautiful. In my book, everything about Pamela was just fine.

Pamela

I enjoyed Jack’s low-keyed sense of humor, and as it turned out, I was surprised by what pleasant company he was. He was both polite and articulate, and there was obviously more to him than what floated on the surface. His face had a hidden sadness to it, as did his general demeanor. I sensed that he was a person who had never been happy in his life, but had gathered the strength never to let that make him bitter, angry, or melancholy. A rare and difficult achievement. There was a combination of warmth, world-weariness, and steadiness about him that I found attractive. I also sensed that he enjoyed being with me—just talking with me. He wasn’t thinking of his next move or trying to make time. He just enjoyed my company, as I enjoyed his.

Bill introduced you as an ex-cop, I said. How long were you a cop?

I did my twenty years and got out.

Why did you get out?

I wanted peace of mind. To stay on an even keel as a police detective, you need to compartmentalize your thoughts and emotions. Every day, you see unimaginable cruelty and suffering, and you need to deal with the murderers, rapists, child-abusers, and con artists who’re responsible for it. You’re supposed to deal with them ‘professionally,’ without being consumed by contempt and without taking your frustration home with you every night. I wasn’t very good at that. After sixteen years of losing sleep over images and feelings I couldn’t get out of my head, I realized that I needed to find another line of work.

"‘Sixteen years’? You said that you ‘did your twenty and got out.’ Where did the other four years come from?"

Oh that…. When the 9/11 attack occurred in New York and DC, I was a patrolman in Phoenix PD, but I was also a lance corporal in the Marine Corps Reserve. Two weeks after the attack, my unit was activated and attached to the 1st Battalion, 23rd Marines, out of Houston, Texas. We were sent to Afghanistan, then Iraq. Off and on, I ended up spending a total of four years in those two places. Phoenix PD counted those years toward my retirement.

What did you do in Afghanistan and Iraq?

Shot people, dodged bullets, and according to President Bush, I made the world a better place.

What was it like—fighting in a war, I mean?

"It wasn’t like anything. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Junior, served as an infantryman in the Civil War. He described the experience of war as ‘incommunicable,’ which means he was trying to describe the indescribable by saying that there’s no way to describe it. Logically, that’s nonsense. But Holmes had a point. At the other end of the scale, our regimental commander described our situation in the simplest of terms while we were lined up on the tarmac at Randolph Air Base, waiting to board our C-130s for our first trip to Afghanistan. He said: ‘You’re gonna be goin’ up against guys who’ll gang rape a sixteen-year-old girl, then stone her to death for being promiscuous—all because she said hello to a strange man in the marketplace one morning. They also want nothing more than to kill you and put your sisters, wives, and girlfriends in burqas. In case you don’t know what ‘burqa’ means, it’s the Arabic word for beekeeper’s suit. Take it from me: It’s okay to shoot guys like that.’"

Your commander had a rather Draconian concept of due process.

"Hmmm, in civilian life, he was a high-octane attorney and superior-court judge. He’s currently a justice of the Texas Supreme Court."

The fact that Jack had been sent to Afghanistan shortly after the 9/11 attack told me that he was probably twelve or thirteen years older than I—that didn’t bother me. And the fact that he could both quote and critique Oliver Wendell Holmes, Junior, told me that he read books—that didn’t bother me either. I asked him what he did after he left Phoenix PD. His answer surprised me a little.

I started a private investigation business. That’s how I know Bill Nealson. He sometimes hires me to track down wayward spouses, runaway teenagers, and no-show trial witnesses. He also throws a little bodyguard work my way now and then…. What about you?... How do you know Bill and Martina?

I told him I was an attorney in Bill’s law firm. A newbie, I said. "I finished law school in California seven months ago and joined the firm as a junior associate. Bill had placed an ad for a junior attorney on lawjobs.com, and I applied. Martina hired me after the second interview, and I moved to Phoenix. I’ve been a member of the firm for over six months now. I’m surprised I’ve never seen you in the office."

I typically use the servants’ entrance. And you might’ve seen me without knowing it. I’m also a master of disguise…. How do you like lawyering?

It’s interesting work, and about to become more so. I recently passed the Bar Exam, and Martina’s removed the word ‘Junior’ from my job title and put me on the partnership track.

You passed the Bar Exam, on your first try, fresh out of law school? He sounded both surprised and impressed.

Yeah. I just got the results last Friday. In theory, that’s the purpose of this little gathering: to celebrate what they’re calling my ‘great accomplishment.’

Congratulations. He gave me a friendly smile and raised his glass in my direction as a kind of informal toast.

Jack

Pam mentioned that she’d attended law school in California, so I asked her about her California connection—anything to keep the conversation alive. You mentioned that you moved here from California. Do you have family there?

An older brother and a younger sister. They still live in San Bernardino County, in Colton—which is where I’m from, in case you’re wondering.

"I was wondering, a little. I was born in Riverside and grew up in Temecula."

So we’re almost neighbors, she said. Funny, isn’t it? When you’re in Colton, Colton and Temecula seem like they’re at opposite ends of the universe; but when you’re in Arizona, Colton and Temecula seem like this. She held up her right hand with the index and middle fingers crossed.

Her hand was elegant, with long, tapered fingers. I glanced at her left hand. Those fingers were as perfect as the ones on the right, and there were no rings on any of them. Yeah, it does seem that way, I said as I deftly raised my glass in her direction a second time. And you’re a philosopher, too.

She asked me about my California connection. Since you’re from Riverside County, and you’ve obviously gone to college, did you by any chance attend the University of California at Riverside?

I told her yes, I had.

That’s another thing we have in common, she said. When did you graduate?

In 1989.

That was a while back. Long before my time. What did you major in?

I wasn’t pursuing a clear-cut career goal in those days, so I took the classes that interested me the most. Almost by accident, I ended up with a double-major in philosophy and history. How about you?

I graduated in 2012. I was a late bloomer. Pre-law, obviously… But philosophy and history. Those are popular undergrad majors for lawyers, but unusual for cops.

I took those classes because they interested me, not to prepare myself for cophood. But as it turned out, I think they served me well. I’ve never regretted the curricular choices I made in college.

"Why did you become a cop, anyway?"

My dad was a cop in Temecula. He was a great guy.

What was your mom like?

She was nice, I guess. She died when I was twelve.

Just as our conversation was making the transition from friendly to personal, Bill, Martina, and the others stood up to leave. Because the party was in her honor, Pam stood up also. Several of Dalessandro’s male patrons turned their heads for a last look. Pam was a natural attention-getter. Movie-star gorgeous, with a perfect figure and a five-gigawatt smile.

She turned to me and said: Nice meeting you, Jack. I’m glad you dropped by.

"It was nice meeting you," I replied. I’m glad I dropped by, too.

Another laugh. Just as musical as before, but shorter this time. Maybe we’ll meet again, she said We can continue our conversation.

"Maybe. You never know."

Pamela

I’m usually hesitant about liking people I’ve just met; and after enduring an abusive father, a string of good-for-nothing boyfriends, and an abusive husband, the last thing I wanted was to get involved with a man—let alone an ex-cop. But I liked Jack Trainer instinctively, and I wanted to see him again. As our party broke up, I said Maybe we’ll meet again as a subtle hint for him to call me. But it was too subtle, I guess. He took my maybe as a neutral statement about an event that might—or might not—occur in the future. His response was polite, but what we lawyers call nonresponsive.

Chapter 2

Jack

Wednesday, June 29

Pam was right about meeting again. The following Wednesday, we ran into each other in the Cj’s supermarket on 44th Street near Camelback Road. We were cruising the wine aisle in the same lane, but in opposite directions. She recognized me and spoke first.

Hey, mister. If I were a traffic cop, I’d cite you for wrong-way driving. But you have an honest face, so I’ll let you off with a warning this time…. I told you we’d meet again.

"You said ‘maybe we’ll meet again’; I said ‘you never know.’… But now we know, and here we are."

Yeah, here we are…. Are you a regular here? I’ve never seen you in this store before. Do you use the servants’ entrance here also?

No, I’m not a regular here, but I’m allowed to use the front door like everyone else. I usually shop at the Safeway on 32nd Street. I’m here because I felt like picking up a nice bottle of wine for this evening, and this store has a better selection.

What were you looking for?

What if I said ‘I was looking for you’?

She chuckled and the pretty music came back. "If you said that, I’d call you a liar…. Let me rephrase my question. What type of wine were you looking for?"

A red. Something a little different, something dry but light on the tannins.

After tapping her chin with her forefinger two or three times, she reached to the top shelf and removed a bottle of Tablas Creek Esprit de Tablas. This is one of my favorites. A Rhône-style blend out of Paso Robles, California. It’s excellent.

I took the bottle from her hand and read the back label. "What is Counoise?"

It’s a red grape, native to the Rhône Valley in France, but now grown in California as well. Some vintners make a varietal wine from it, but this vintner uses it for primarily for blending. It adds a little zingy taste to the wine, without the tannins.

On your recommendation, I’ll take two of these, if you don’t mind.

She removed a second bottle from the shelf and placed it carefully in my shopping cart. Will that be all, sir?... Would you like some company to share these with?

A little puzzled, I asked: Are you asking me for a date?

"No, I’m not asking you for a date. Maybe I will someday—but asking someone for a date is something you plan in advance. My question was completely spontaneous. So what’s your answer? Do you want to share your wine with me or not?"

A spontaneous question deserves a spontaneous answer: Of course, absolutely.

Good. You can help me cook, too. I have a little more shopping to do. Wait for me at the checkout. You can follow me home. I live only a few miles from here.

* * *

Her house was a small refurb on a recently-gentrified block of East Dexter Avenue between 45th and 46th in the Arcadia District. She was quite the little homemaker. The tiny living room looked like the showroom of a high-end interior design studio. The furniture was sparce and elegant, the walls stark white. On the wall facing the entryway was a giclée reproduction of an oil painting, illuminated by a small wide-angle spotlight attached to the ceiling. On the bottom arm of the frame was an engraved brass plate that identified the painting as The Strawberry Girl, Joshua Reynolds, 1773. The subject of the painting was a prepubescent girl with brown hair, deep-set brown eyes, round cheeks, and dainty rose petal lips. The girl wore a simple white peasant dress and held a satchel by both hands, clutched against her chest. The name of the painting suggested that the satchel contained strawberries. Maybe she was taking them to market, to sell for a few pennies. She stood alone against a dark and hostile rural background that featured a craggy hillside and a somber, cloudy sky. She was the saddest-looking child I’d ever seen, even after sixteen years of police work and four years in the war-torn Mideast. The rest of the wall was bare, as were the other three walls. Pam Babbage knew how to make a statement, but I couldn’t quite decipher it.

Pam led me into the kitchen, which was so sleek and clean that the average person would be afraid to boil water in it. I see you brought our wine with you, she said as she handed me a corkscrew. You can take the first sip and tell me whether you like it…. It’s beginning to cool off outside. Let’s take the wine out back. I’ve created a little patio there. You can tell me whether you like that, too. She removed two Burgundian wine glasses from the cupboard above the sink, held them up, and clicked them together. They made a pleasant ringing sound that reverberated for several seconds. "Follow me."

Like the living room, the kitchen, and Pam herself, the patio was just the right size, simple, and seemingly perfect. A 20' x 16' expanse of rectangular pavers surrounded by carefully manicured shrubs and accented by Edison-style string lights attached to an overhead ramada. Near the far left-hand corner, a 3' x 3' wrought iron table added a cozy touch with a wicker Chianti-bottle candlestick in its center. I told her I liked her patio and asked her whether she’d laid the pavers herself. She said she had.

All three hundred and twenty square feet of them—three hundred and fifty-something if you count the ‘soldiers’ around the edges. I also built the ramada. Or to be honest, I should say that I handed my brother the tools as he built it. He’s a carpenter, and a cabinet maker by trade. He has his own shop in Colton.

Are you and your brother close?

"Very. My brother is a saint…. D’you want to eat dinner out here? Without waiting for a response, she stood up. Give me a minute while I pop our food in the oven. I cheated and bought pre-fab chicken cordon bleu, rice pilaf, and Caesar salad at Cj’s deli counter. You won’t have to help me cook after all. Just sit still."

* * *

After dinner, we had a lengthy conversation that drifted effortlessly from topic to topic. Time passed quickly. Pam was easy to talk to, and to listen to. She mentioned that she’d been married and after her divorce she’d returned to school and become a lawyer; but mostly, she talked about other things: movies, books, and current events. She also asked a lot of questions about me and about police work. At one point, she recalled what I’d said Monday night about compartmentalizing one’s feelings toward heinous criminals. She pointed out that lawyers are supposed to compartmentalize too. I don’t know whether I can do that, she said. I truly despise rapists, child abusers, and violent criminals in general. I hope I don’t turn out to be a failure as a lawyer.

You can be a good lawyer without defending violent criminals.

In the abstract, yes. But at Nealson & Associates, that might be difficult.

I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Pam. If Nealson & Associates doesn’t work out, there’re plenty of other law firms out there who’ll be eager to snap you up.

After