Page 42 of Lies He Told Me

“I’ve also heard of rule 11,” I said. “Committing a fraud on the court.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Close that door. Close it.” Howard got to his feet as I shut his office door.

“You’re waiting for me to draft the motion to dismiss,” I said. “We have to file a suggestion of death to get the criminal charges against Silas dropped. We have to tell the court in writing that he’s dead. But he’s not.”

“We can say in writing that the government hasinformedus he’s dead. We knowthatpart’s true.” He seemed proud of himself for that very lawyerly distinction.

But inside, I felt something snap. I knew it then, as sure as I ever knew anything. Howard knew what Silas had done. He knew in advance what Silas was planning. That’s why he didn’t want to be around for any meetings with Silas, why he sent me instead, using his other trial as an excuse. He wanted to create as much distance from Silas as possible, so he could plead ignorance when it happened. And I was just a young associate who could be manipulated, bossed around if I became a problem.

“This firm doesn’t sell out its clients,” he said. “We get that reputation, we’re as good as dead in the legal community.”

“There’s a difference,” I countered, “between selling out a client and being part of the client’s fraud.”

Howard’s face turned a shade of purple. He darted a finger in my direction. “I don’t want to hear that word again from you. Get that motion to dismiss on file today. I don’t even need to see it.”

“I can’t sign it,” I said.

“Of course you can. It’s the most routine of routine motions. It will be granted without any —”

“No,” I said. “I mean Iwon’tsign it. I’m not going to say he’s dead. Because I no longer believe he is.”

It felt like the ground was shaking beneath me. Howard let out a small chuckle, though he was far from amused. He mentioned something about my future at the firm, my future as a lawyer, but all that was now moot. I knew I could never work for Howard Shimkus again, and thus I was done at Millard Halloway. I’d flamed out at one of the top-tier Chicago law firms within a couple of years.

I could’ve made a big deal of this, I guess. I could have run to the ARDC, our attorney disciplinary commission, or gone to the FBI with my speculation. But it felt, suddenly, as if I were an alien on the planet they call the practice of law. I had to leave. I had to go somewhere else entirely — wipe the stink off myself and reboot.

I went home to HG. I needed a break, and my mother was quite ill. Three months became six, six became nine, and then she was in hospice care, waiting out the last months of her life from a hospital bed in her home. I mostly cared for her, caught up on light reading, and went for long runs along the Cotton River.

A little more than a year later, during one of those long runs along the river, I met another jogger.

His name was David Bowers.

FORTY

CAMILLE TOSSES HERSELF OVER on the bed, unable to sleep. The afternoon sun beams through the blinds in stripes. She looks at the clock. Almost 3:00 p.m. She needs to get up anyway.

She’s beyond exhausted and nauseated but on edge, too. It wasn’t hard to tell what happened last night, watching David and Marcie through her telescope while they stood outside their home. They went from squaring off and accusatory to embracing, lovey-dovey, walking arm in arm back into the house. David somehow deceived Marcie into thinking everything was okay.

What on earth is he waiting for? He’s making it more difficult for everyone involved by not breaking the news to Marcie sooner rather than later.

She hears a knock at her door. She pops up in bed, instantly alert. Who the hell would be knocking on her door?

She moves to the door slowly, staying off to the side. “Who is it?”

“Police, ma’am,” comes the reply.

She checks through the peephole. Sure enough. A man on the younger side, handsome and well built, wearing the police coat with furry collar. A local.

She opens the door but leaves the chain on.

“Camille Striker? I’m Sergeant Kyle Janowski, Hemingway Grove PD,” he says. “Mind if I come in a second?”

“I do mind, actually.”

That seems to surprise the sergeant, who blinks hard. “You won’t let me come in?”

“Do you have a warrant, Officer?”

He’s not an officer. He called himself a sergeant. But she’s in a pissy mood.

---