Reckless Disregard (8 page)

The bigger surprise at school is his popularity. Well, not popularity, really, because he knows deep down that they still think of him as a video-game geek from the OC. But he commands respect. After all, he’s the only person they know who’s beaten Level One of
Abduction!
In the last few days, others claim to have done it. And now suddenly, Felicity’s letters from her nightstand are all over the web, and everyone wants to know what they mean.

Brighton starts toward his room but hesitates. Instead, he goes to the HF Queen’s bedroom and raises his fist to knock, but his hand freezes when he hears rhythmic snuffling, a sorrowful sound, and he realizes that the HF Queen can cry.

Most people complain about the traffic in Los Angeles, but not me. Maybe it’s because I was so lonely as a child—perhaps other kid actors had friends, but I didn’t. When my mother shuttled me from one audition to another, our old Ford Fairlane inevitably getting stuck in traffic, I’d look at the other cars and imagine that the burly man behind the wheel of the Plymouth Barracuda was the father I’d never known or that the giggling girl in the back seat of the BMW was my sister. While my mother would mouth profanities at the traffic gods, I’d silently pray that the red light wouldn’t change to green, that the traffic would gridlock so we couldn’t move a foot, that we would sit forever amidst the cars and the strangers and the sweet vehicular chaos that kept me out of the casting agent’s office. I still find solace on the city streets, in the senseless sprawl, in the low-rise grit and glamour of Los Angeles. So it doesn’t bother me that I arrive at work a little after ten in the morning.

As an employee of JADS, I’m supposed to be mediating lawsuits, not propagating them, and so I foolishly hope that despite the extensive news coverage of the previous day’s court hearing, my JADS bosses won’t notice that I’m defending Poniard in Bishop’s lawsuit. Any possibility of that is dashed when I arrive at work to find Poniard’s cosplayers, in full costume, milling around on the sidewalk in front of the JADS main entrance. When they see me approaching, they start applauding and shouting my name. I don’t want to be anybody’s hero, even on this small scale. I learned as a child that fame is a molecular bonding of other people’s fantasies, absorbed into your own body like an intravenous drug that trades short-lived ecstasy for a life of constant peril.

I should ignore them, should push my way inside and have the receptionist call security, but when Banquo beckons me over, I stop. He raises his hand, and the others surround me in a ceremonial semicircle. The Felicity impersonator steps forward. She’s wearing the same outfit that Felicity wears in the video game—the tight black dress, even the black jacket, though a late-September heat wave has set in—and like Felicity’s, her red hair is still in dreadlocks. She curtsies and hands me a wilted gardenia that I’m sure she picked from the bush outside the JADS back entrance. Then she moves close, stands on her toes, and kisses me full on the mouth, thrusting her tongue between my lips. I jerk my head back in disgust, but not before I taste stale Cheetos and marijuana. I almost gag.

“Don’t!” I say, backing away, but she skitters forward, pushing her chest against mine. She stands on tiptoes to kiss me again, but I reach out to push her away.

Banquo’s Shakespearean voice resonates over the rush-hour traffic on Gateway Avenue. “Leave him alone, Courtney!”

She doesn’t move an inch. Her green eyes shimmer with sexual challenge. “My name’s
Felicity
,” she says with a pout, and then runs back into the crowd, giggling.

“Apologies, Mr. Stern, Esquire,” Banquo says. “She gets . . . overly enthusiastic.”

“Why are you here?” I ask.

He bows. “Your servants, sir, in service of your person and the truth, are here to guard your flank as you do battle against the darkling demon, William the Conqueror.”

“Very kind, but I’ve got it covered.”

“Don’t patronize me, sir. We’ll remain here until the boss William the Conqueror has been vanquished.”

“What do you mean you’ll remain here?”

“Just what I said. We will remain here until you win.”

I study his expression for any sign that he’s joking. “Look, if you’re intending to camp out in the parking lot, there’s no way that—”

The main door swings open, and Brenda Sica walks out. “Mr. Stern, come inside. It’s urgent.”

I go inside and follow her down the corridor.

“You shouldn’t be talking to those people,” she says.

“They’re harmless.”

“How do you know? What if they work for Bishop or Frantz?”

Though she might be a conspiracy theorist, she also might be right. The Felicity impersonator—Courtney—almost made a scene in court the other day that could’ve severely hurt our side. Maybe her behavior just now was a cover. While I don’t think even Lou Frantz would stoop to such tactics, William Bishop would. A couple of years ago the managing editor of one of his Parapet Media newspapers was charged with illegally hacking into private computers looking for dirt on celebrities and politicians. Of course, Bishop let his editor take the fall. But if he could hack the computer of a member of Congress, he’s certainly capable of dressing up some unemployed actors in costumes and having them disrupt my place of business.

Just before we reach my office door, Brenda grabs my sleeve and stops me. “There’s a weird old guy in there. Real sweaty. I think he’s crazy. He says he works for you, that he . . . should I call security?”

“Give me a minute.” I hurry into my office. A stocky man in his mid-sixties is sitting in one of my client chairs. He’s wearing a suit and a white cotton dress shirt that’s tight around the collar and barrel chest. Though it’s cool inside, his forehead and nose glisten with a thin layer of sweat, causing his rimless glasses to slip slightly down the bridge. His breathing is audible, as if he just climbed seven flights of stairs. He’s nibbling on a blueberry scone. He’s made my desk his table and a paper napkin his tablecloth. Some of the pastry has missed his mouth and is stuck to his face. Not unusual—perhaps his only downside is that he’s a sloppy eater. It’s all I can do not to reach over and wipe his face for him. But I wouldn’t. Philip Paulsen is a proud man.

He cranes his neck toward me. “Hello, Parker.” The voice is soft, almost breathless.

“Hey, Philip. I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Joyce didn’t want me to,” he says. “But I’ve been going stir-crazy these past few years. Besides, I’ve never had a fondness for William Bishop. His television networks claim to be objective and churn out propaganda. His hypocrisy bothers me more than his politics. Consider me hired.”

“Great. Welcome aboard.”

He wipes his hands with the napkin, stands up and formally shakes my hand, and sits down again.

For ten years, Paulsen worked at my former law firm as the top paralegal. To his wife Joyce’s displeasure, I’ve talked him out of retirement. He’s intelligent, adept at using technology, a stickler for detail, and that unusual soul who revels in the mind-numbing job of organizing documents and researching arcana. He’s an analytical thinker and someone who can keep his cool during the pressure of a trial. And no one is more tight-lipped. But Philip is different from most paralegals. While most are in their twenties and thirties, Paulsen is sixty-four. And before he earned his paralegal credential he was a Catholic priest, an expert in canon law. When one rather inebriated associate at a Macklin & Cherry cocktail party asked Paulsen why he’d left the priesthood, he replied, “Joyce and I fell in love and wanted to get married, and no, she wasn’t a nun.”

I call Brenda into my office and introduce Paulsen as our new paralegal. She nods without enthusiasm.

“I guess I’ll see if Judge Croninger has something for me,” she says.

“Nonsense,” Philip says. “There’s plenty of work on this case.”

She gives a rare smile. Philip always makes others feel comfortable.

“So what do you make of the letters?” he says.

I look at Brenda, who shrugs.

He reaches under the chair, picks up his attaché case, retrieves some computer printouts, and hands them to me. The first document is copy of a handwritten letter.

Dear Scotty,

As always, you worry too much. Bad vibrations. It’s just make-believe, remember? And Big Bad Billy Bishop has our Backs (how’s that for alliteration?) Anyway, my darling, he’s my insurance policy. Stop worrying. Free ticket out of purgatory. So relax while I enjoy for once.

Love ya,

Felicity

“And you got this from where?” I ask.

“From the
Abduction!
game, of course.”

“I don’t understand.”

He furrows his brow. “You mean your client didn’t . . . ? I just assumed . . . I only brought them with me because I wanted to impress you with my skills as a gamer.”

“You play video games?” Brenda says. “I mean you’re . . .”

“You’re right, Brenda,” he says. “I’m old.”

Her face flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No one knows technology better than Philip,” I say.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Read the others, Parker.”

The second letter is typewritten.

May 12, 1987

Hey, hey Paula,

You’re treading over old ground and on a poisonous snake. I do not trust Wm. the Conqueror as far as I can throw his budding corporate conglomerate. He’s not who he was in the old days. This isn’t some phase. He’s one of them, which means he’s dangerous. And you are worried or you’d be calling instead of writing. Afraid that the phones are bugged, that they have video cameras in your room? If that’s true, be a good girl and keep your panties on.

Better yet, come home to us.

Love,

Scotty

And a last one, undated:

Dear Scotty,

Surprise! You’re going to take that trip to Paris you’ve always dreamed about. The tickets have been reserved in your name. The flight leaves in three days. Au revoir, my sweet.

Love always,

Felicity.

“You said you got this from
Abduction!
?” I say.

“I beat the first level by opening a drawer in Felicity’s bedroom, and out these papers flew. Mostly junk—rants about Bishop, historical facts about Felicity’s career—but these three are important. They’re screen captures.”

“You can’t seriously believe they’re real.”

“I can’t say one way or another. You should ask your client. But if they are real, it proves that Paula Felicity McGrath and William Bishop knew each other and were involved in something.”

Trying to control my anger, I ask them to leave and shut my door. I immediately ping Poniard. It takes five minutes to get a response.

Poniard:

>Good result yesterday, counselor—though I would’ve expected to hear from you directly instead of learning about it online

PStern

>I had more pressing things to do. Like reading my book and having a cup of fine Ethiopian blend.

It takes a long time to get a response. Has my snide remark angered him? I hope so. But finally:

Poniard:

>Rule of professional conduct 3-500: “A lawyer shall keep a client reasonably informed about significant developments relating to the employment or representation”

PStern

>You’re the last person who should lecture me about ethics. But I want to know something. Are those letters from the video game genuine?

Poniard:

>Ha! So you beat level 1. Not many have

PStern

>Are those letters genuine?

Poniard:

>Yep

PStern

>Why didn’t you give them to me before?

Poniard:

>Not as much fun that way

PStern

>That’s no answer.

Poniard:

>OK, then I did it my way so I could get Wm. the Conqueror to deny they are real and catch him in a lie. He doesn’t know I have the originals. FYI, I set a classic “skill-based trap.” Which means that the player has to have skill to avoid it, and Bishop doesn’t have skill

PStern

>No skill? Bishop isn’t nicknamed “The Conqueror” for nothing.

Poniard:

>He has no skill this time. My trap takes advantage of the fact that Bishop doesn’t understand the mechanics of what’s happening. But for a trap to work, you need a trigger. The game was a trigger, and the trap was sprung!! If I’d just given you the docs you would’ve produced them in the lawsuit and he would have thought up some excuse and we would not have trapped him in his lie. His press release is online

I switch programs and search for “William Bishop
Abduction!
” Poniard is right—as soon as people started beating Level One of the game, Felicity’s letters spread virally over the web. Bishop formally denied the letter’s authenticity in a press release issued early this morning.

PStern

>How did you get these docs?

Poniard:

>Cannot share that even with you. Someone could get hurt. So do not ask again

PStern

>Send me the originals immediately!