Justice by InSilva
Disclaimer: not mine now, not mine ever. Man, that's a sad thought. :)
Chapter Eighteen: Together
Barbara Campbell had had a restless few nights ever since the man in the sharp suit with the smile had showed up at her office and suggested politely that she might like to consider how much effort she was going to put in to defending her latest client.
"The evidence leads to an inevitable conclusion," he'd said. "The prosecution know what they're doing. So will the jury. So, interestingly enough, does the defendant in spite of his not guilty plea. Why not do yourself a favour? Don't try too hard."
And that was it. No threat, no bribery. Just a straightforward appeal to expediency. He hadn't even raised his voice or banged a fist on a desk. He had been civil as anything and she had been hard pressed to work out quite why she was as scared of him as she was.
Gino hadn't helped. He'd been tight-lipped and awkward and she'd thrown her hands up and opted for the easy life and tried not to think about her conscience.
It wasn't even as if the man with the frightening smile had been wrong. The evidence did seem convincing. The prosecution had been efficient. And the jury for the most part looked as if they were lapping it all up. It wasn't like she had to lie or anything. It still didn't make her feel right inside. As for the evidence that wasn't...well...no one could have been sorry to leave that court early on a Friday, could they?
She was presently up, dressed and eating a late brunch at her flat in one of the nicer parts of the city. Florence, her Persian cat, was wandering across the paper that was laid out on the table and Barbara kept shooing her off the paragraphs she wanted to read. The doorbell buzzed and Florence jumped off the table as Barbara stood up, crossed the room and opened the door on safety chain to an avuncular smile.
"Can I help you?"
The old man with the bow-tie and the tweed suit continued to smile. "Ms Campbell? I am Clarendon Harper and this is my colleague, Stephen Trent. We work for the Bar Association of California. May we come in for a moment, ma'am?"
Florence rubbed against her leg as she looked at the two strangers. One of them not so unfamiliar…
"I saw you in court…" she said slowly and Stephen Trent nodded. She gave a little half-gasp. "Is this about the case?"
"It is, ma'am," Clarendon nodded gravely. "If we might discuss it inside?"
She looked at the open eyes she felt she could instinctively trust and again at Stephen and his hint of a gentle smile. There was an exchange of confidences being offered and something in her wanted to make sure her side of the sheet balanced.
"Sure," she found herself saying and undid the chain.
It was lunchtime and Rusty had moved on to the restaurant and the new desserts that the chef was proposing. It seemed a natural perk that the owner should sample them.
"This," Patrice, his maître d', explained, "is strawberry, mascarpone and chocolate tart with-"
Rusty held up a hand. "Just let me taste them."
The tart was good. Rich, but good. If you were serving it at a formal dinner it would need a lighter balance to the start of the menu. As an à la carte choice, it was excellent.
"And this one…"
This one was a banoffee pie variation. Smooth and creamy filling, crumbly melt in the mouth base. Rusty nodded his head in approval.
"And finally…"
Apple crumble. With cinnamon and sultanas. Rusty's mouth twitched into a sad little half-smile and back again and then he picked up his spoon. It tasted welcoming and warming and everything it should be.
"May I please speak to Thierry?" he asked and waited till the chef arrived tableside. He motioned him to the seat opposite.
"They are all a triumph, Thierry. All of them. My only suggestion and it is only a suggestion is to try the crumble mixture with some oatmeal. Try it. If you like it, fine, if you don't like it, fine…" he broke off. "What is it?"
"I was goin' to use oatmeal," Thierry said apologetically, in accented English, "but the…cost…"
"Use it," Rusty said firmly. "We'll reconcile the margin."
Barbara felt she was in some sort of dream. Sundays did not normally include a retired judge and pleasant Southern gentleman, Clarendon Harper, now working in an advisory capacity for the Bar Association of California and Stephen Trent who simply worked for them, ensconced in her lounge sipping coffee; Florence had taken up residence on Stephen's knee much to Stephen's wary surprise.
Clarendon had gently explained that there had been some suspicions raised about the case and pressure that had been brought to bear on witnesses and possibly even others who were involved.
"We are anxious that justice be upheld for Gino, ma'am," he said with a smile.
"So am I," she agreed fervently and the guilt washed over her, lending her cheeks a pinkish tinge.
"To that end, it has come to our attention that a witness for the prosecution may need to be recalled for further cross-examination."
"Truly? Who?" She thought quickly and answered before Clarendon could. "It's Anna-Mae, isn't it?"
Stephen smiled at her, one hand absent-mindedly stroking the cat's ears. "It is. There may in fact be new evidence for the defence."
For a long moment, the only sound was Florence's orgasmic purring.
"First thing Monday," she gabbled. "I'll have her back on the stand."
"Excellent," Clarendon smiled warmly and stood up.
Stephen dislodged Florence with difficulty and followed suit.
"Good," he said. "Because in court, nothing's more important than a fair hearing."
And Barbara felt the chastisement and the encouragement all at the same time.
The thing about his hotel accounts was their labyrinthine nature. They looked like they should be straightforward. Revenue minus cost equalled profit. Except that there were things like amortization and depreciation and pre-payments and accruals to cope with. Not to mention contingency funds and capital projects and assets. And somehow the profit was always a negative figure.
Rusty tried. Really he did. It wasn't as if he were a stupid man. It wasn't as if he weren't good with figures (though nowhere near Reuben when it came to mental arithmetic). But just when he thought he'd got his head around the balance sheet, his earnest finance controller, Edward, would introduce another variable that had to be taken into account that skewed Rusty's view entirely. Today, it was inventory costs.
"Typically," Edward was explaining, "holding inventory means adding another twenty percent in costs."
"Twenty percent." Rusty was with him so far.
Edward nodded. "Obsolescence, shrinkage, pilferage, deterioration, security," he rattled off. "Not to mention opportunity cost in the capital that's tied up in the goods."
"OK…" Rusty thought he could see all that. Then he decided he couldn't. "Give me an example."
Edward thought for a moment. "Imagine a warehouse full of computer equipment. Whatever you hold in there runs the danger of becoming out of date or damaged or stolen or rotting. Plus you have to guard it. Plus it's going to mean the money that's tied up there can't be spent elsewhere."
He looked at Rusty in the hope that he'd been clear. Rusty was slowly nodding to himself. The warehouse was vivid. Packed to the rafters with valuables.
"Two questions," he said to Edward who nodded encouragingly. "How many guards are there and how many exits?"
Edward's mouth opened and closed a couple of times and then Rusty's phone rang. He excused himself and stepped outside of Edward's office walking away down the corridor.
"Barbara is back on side," Danny said. "We're through and heading back."
"You heard from Turk?"
"Mmm."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Turk's taking in a movie. With Anna-Mae."
"Mmm."
"Exactly. What do you fancy eating tonight?"
There was something in Danny's tone which Rusty picked up. He thought about it for a moment and then realised what it was.
"Last supper?"
"I guess. It could be." And Danny wasn't playing. "You could be out of here tomorrow."
Rusty said nothing for a moment. Then, "You think Saul could stomach Chinese?"
"Chinese, Saul?"
There was a martyred groan and they both grinned.
The Chinese was everything Rusty liked. Of course. And afterwards, there was his favourite flavour of ice-cream to follow.
Rusty picked up a spoon.
You spoiling me?
Aren't you going to tell me you're worth it?
Know what? I so am.
Danny laughed.
Saul looked from one to the other and disappeared into the bedroom muttering about antacids.
"How are you holding up?" Danny asked, watching Rusty at work with the spoon and the tub.
"Pretty much there. Legs are aching a bit," he admitted, licking the spoon, "but given the lack of use that's not surprising."
He looked over at Danny and sighed. He put the spoon down.
"Will you stop looking at me as if it's the end? It's not going to be four years. It's not going to be prison," he said. He hesitated and then added, "It's not even going to be Tess."
"I know. I know all three." It's not going to make it any easier.
And all Rusty could say was, "I know." And I'm sorry.
Turk pitched up much later as the three of them sat playing cards and the smudged lipstick on the side of his face spoke of an interesting time away.
"Anna-Mae get home OK?" Danny wondered innocently.
"Yeah…" Turk's smile was wide. "She did."
"You want anything?" Rusty asked equally innocently, indicating the very little left. "Or you satisfied?"
Saul made a little choking noise that he changed into a cough.
"I'm good," Turk said distractedly looking at Danny's hand.
Saul's cough became a coughing fit; Danny and Rusty just smiled at each other.
"Anna-Mae's going to be just fine," Turk said, moving round to look at Saul's cards. "I said I'd be there for her anyway so all she needs to do is look my way-"
"No." Rusty dropped his hand on the table. "Absolutely not."
He glared at Turk. "You are not going anywhere near the courtroom tomorrow." He caught sight of Saul's face. "That means you too, Clarendon. It's not happening."
Rusty turned to Danny.
"No," Danny agreed. "I know. I'm not sitting in court."
Damn right.
He stared searchingly at Danny who held his gaze mildly and then he sat back, convinced.
They lay in bed later listening to the other two sleeping.
"Turk's in a better mood."
"You think it's down to your little talk?"
"Yeah." Rusty nodded vehemently. "It's probably that."
There was a pause and then Danny said, "Vincente."
"I'm ready."
There was another pause and then Danny swore softly.
"Promised I'd phone Tess." He slipped out of bed and pulled his clothes on. "I'll take a quick stroll."
"Say hi from me."
Danny looked over at him stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"She does-"
"She does."
"She just doesn't-"
"She so doesn't." Rusty rolled on to his side and looked up at Danny. "It's OK. It's always OK."
His eyes were full of amusement and understanding and a million things that Danny was going to miss like crazy.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."
On his way out of the suite, Danny felt the uncommon need for something sweet. He rooted around as quietly as he could in the kitchen and found a surprising packet of cookies. Rusty must have had a packed day to have missed these. He hesitated for a moment. But just a moment.
Standing at the top of one of the fire exit staircases, Danny munched on an Oreo and got the answerphone as he knew he would.
"Love you, Tess. Call you tomorrow." He hung up quickly. Now, he could look Rusty in the eye and tell him he'd done what he said.
Rapidly, he punched in another number and prepared himself for a lengthy conversation. He glanced down at the cookies. They would probably last him.