Tuesday’s Child

Chapter 9

THE REASON FOR THE SEVEN FORTY-FIVE EARLY-MORNING MEETING of attorneys was the media. The powers that be in the state of Georgia were patiently waiting for their star, Ryan Spenser, to make his appearance. Coffee had already been poured, sweet rolls depleted from the silver tray in the middle of the conference table.

The men and two women looked at one another. One of the men, a white-haired older gentleman who could have passed for Santa, spoke. “We did tell him eight o’clock so that we could talk. He is not late. So far I haven’t heard a word from anyone at this table.”

They all started to talk at once, the voice of one of the women a shade more shrill than the others. The gist of the comments was that they didn’t have $20 million in their coffers to hand over to Sophie Lee, courtesy of the Aulani, Brighton, Brighton, and Darrow law firm.

“Furthermore, if what the media said last night about the firm’s hiring all those extra attorneys to go after Spenser’s old cases is correct, we’re looking at megamillion-dollar payouts down the road. Everyone Spenser ever prosecuted will head to their neighborhood lawyer to file suits. They’ll win, too. The public doesn’t like to hear that innocent people were sent to prison. The trust will be gone. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the state of Georgia will go after us even if it’s for jaywalking,” the guy with the white hair and beard sputtered.

The woman with the shrill voice chirped up. “You’re all convicting Ryan before you know if he’s guilty or not. He goes with the facts he has, the proof, when he goes to court. You’re all ready to do the very thing you’re accusing him of doing. Stop being so disgusting.”

A slick-looking young guy with a tint to his styled locks smirked, and said, “And you came to this conclusion because of… pillow talk. Everyone knows about your affair with Ryan Spenser, so maybe you need to cool your jets here and let more impartial minds prevail.”

The stunning blonde turned crimson as she started to sputter and mutter. “I had dinner with the man, that was it.”

“Not according to Spenser’s next-door neighbor, who, by the way, hates Spenser’s guts,” the slick, good-looking young guy said.

“Enough!” the Santa figure shouted just as the door to the elegant conference room opened, and Ryan Spenser stepped in. He did not look like a man going to meet his executioner. Everyone at the table, especially the stunning blonde, recognized his cockiness, his arrogance, and saw no trace of a defeated attitude. And all were well aware of Spenser’s political ambitions and the powerful people he and his daddy knew.

No one offered to pour Spenser coffee, so he served it himself with a steady hand. He took a long sip before he spoke. “I resent this meeting. This whole circus is ludicrous, but as you all know, with the media, it has to run its course.”

“It will grow legs, Spenser,” a man in a subdued charcoal gray suit said ominously. “If you think this is going to go away anytime soon, think again. So don’t try blowing smoke in our direction.”

A short distinguished man, the lead attorney for the state in matters of this kind, leaned forward. His bright blue eyes were icy when he shoved the morning edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution toward Spenser. “Take a look at this, Spenser! A good look!”

Ryan Spenser looked down to see a huge picture of Sophie Lee, in color, above the fold. His stomach knotted up. “It’s Sophie Lee,” was all he said.

The same short man said, “You’re damn right it’s Sophie Lee. She’s everyone’s daughter, sister, cousin, the girl next door. She’s wholesome. She’s a goddamn nurse who put herself through nursing school working two jobs so she could take care of sick people. She’s apple pie and ice cream. And let’s not forget she’s an orphan!

“You sent an orphan to prison for life for a crime she did not commit. It’s a damn miracle that that orphan, that girl next door, is now out of prison. You took away her youth, her hopes, her dreams. The media are going to play that up for all it’s worth. Imagine the anguish she’s been through for ten long years! Just try to imagine it because the people in this state have already imagined it, and they have weighed in, and they want blood. Yours! ”

Spenser felt the knot in his stomach move up to his chest. This was not supposed to be happening. On the way over he had rehearsed his speech, which, unfortunately, was now no longer in his memory bank. All he could say was, “I went to court with facts, with only what I could prove at the time. Are you all forgetting that a jury of that woman’s peers found her guilty?”

The Santa figure spoke. “That jury is being interviewed by the press today, every last one of them. By next week, they’ll all have contracts to write books. I heard on the car radio on the way here this morning that a publisher in New York said he’d pay ten million dollars to Sophie Lee to write a book. The only problem is, the publisher can’t find Sophie Lee to make the offer. It appears she’s gone to ground somewhere. Probably to plot your demise, and this state’s as well. In case you aren’t getting the picture here, Spenser, this state is going to go bankrupt. Goddamn it, Spenser, say something.”

“What do you want me to say? I said I prosecuted Sophie Lee to the best of my ability. I went where the proof and facts led me. I find it appalling that you and the media are blaming me. All I did was present the case; the jury is who you should be going after, not me. I can assure you that my other cases are bulletproof. But to be sure and to leave no stone unturned, I am going to put together a team of investigators to go over everything with a microscope. What else do you want me to say?”

The short man snorted. “Twenty years of cases, ten before Lee and ten after, and you sit here and tell me all of them are bulletproof. Aulani, Brighton, Brighton, and Darrow are on this like fleas on a dog. You better start praying, Spenser. All it’s going to take is one irregularity. Another thing. From where I’m standing, it looks to me like you can kiss your political aspirations good-bye. No one is going to vote for someone like you, a prosecutor who sent that poor innocent girl to prison for life.”

Ryan Spenser felt sick to his stomach. Everything he’d heard in this room only spelled doom and gloom. If they were right, he might end up being a Walmart greeter before this was all over.

Since arrogance was Spenser’s middle name, he calmly finished his coffee, stood up, and said, “I have an office to run and things to do. If you like, I can give you a report daily, biweekly, or weekly on my progress. I want to assure you that I am on top of this.”

The room was silent. It remained silent until the door closed behind Ryan Spenser.

And then all hell broke loose. The contingent of state functionaries banged their fists on the shiny conference table so hard, the coffee urn toppled over, spilling coffee all over the folders and pads lined up like soldiers, at which point the blame game began in earnest. Name-calling followed. Only the cocky young man remained silent, taking it all in.

The Santa figure, the designated chairman for the meeting, whistled so shrilly the room went silent. “Enough already. We are going to appoint our own task force and go in behind those schmucks from the Aulani firm to make sure we’re on top of this. In the meantime, someone go to that firm and try to talk sense into those people. Flat out tell them we don’t have twenty million to dish out to that young woman. Explain what’s going to happen when they open that Pandora’s box of old cases.”

The stunning blonde eyed the Santa. She squared her shoulders and asked what they were going to do to Ryan Spenser.

“Nail his ass to the wall,” the blonde’s female counterpart called over her shoulder as she exited into the hallway.

“And you think he won’t retaliate? As you pointed out earlier, remember who his daddy is and remember all those important people he dines with, plays golf with, and vacations with. Chew on that, gentlemen,” the stunning blonde with the shrill voice said. She said gentlemen because there were only four men left in the room. “And before any of you can get up the guts to ask me, no, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Son of a bitch!” the tall, distinguished man swore. “Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. There’s no way out of this; we’re going to have to pay up. The media will hound us, and this is never going to go away.”

The Santa figured rubbed at his chin. “Maybe if we could locate Sophie Lee, we could cut a deal with her.”

The other three men snorted at once. “Are you out of your mind? You couldn’t go near that young woman even if she were standing outside this door. She lawyered up. You can only deal with her attorneys,” the lead attorney for the state shot back.

“I have a meeting with the attorney general this morning about this mess, so I have to leave now. I’ll copy all of you on the results. In the meantime, no interviews, and someone, for God’s sake, find that young woman. I don’t care what it takes.”

The three remaining men watched the lead attorney walk out of the room, their eyes full of misery, except for the slick young guy, who started to laugh. “This is exactly what I love about politics: you never know what’s going to go down. It’s the challenge, gentlemen, the chase, the adrenaline rush. Well, good luck,” he said, waving airily as he left.

“Who the hell hired that guy, and who is he?” the Santa asked the only remaining person in the room.

The two men looked at one another.

“I never saw him before.”

“I thought he came with you.”

“I think he said he was with… crap, I can’t remember.”

The stunning blonde’s counterpart walked back into the room, accompanied by the lead attorney. “He’s with the Aulani law firm, gentlemen,” she said. “He just walked in here and took a seat, and no one questioned him. Out in the hall, I just asked him who he was since this was a closed meeting. He was laughing his head off when he handed me his business card.” The woman tossed the card on the table as the lead attorney took his seat again. “That, gentlemen, is what you are up against. And may the best man win.”

The men looked down at the pristine white card with the engraved name on it like it was a coiled rattlesnake. Three heads craned to read the name.

“Jonas Emanuel Darrow.”

“Nah, he can’t be…”

“Clarence Darrow’s great-grandson? Why the hell can’t he be his grandson?” the Santa shot back.

“Google the bastard,” the lead attorney for the state said.

“I thought you had a meeting with the attorney general.”

“I do, but I want to know if this guy is who he says he is, so I can report it. Will you just do what I tell you?

Ten minutes later, after the report on Mr. Darrow came back, the lead attorney said, “Yep, the son of a bitch is who he says he is. I take that to mean we’re screwed blue.”

No one said a word as they packed up their briefcases. “Well, I was right about one thing. This case has already grown a leg. Wait ten minutes, and six more will sprout,” the man in the charcoal gray suit said.