“To sit down, when she puts on her shoes.” Jake sensed that Ryan was trying to pick a fight, but he didn’t take the bait. He went back to his dresser, opened a middle drawer, and pulled out a plain blue T-shirt. He slipped it on, standing there. He was getting dressed for staying home, not going to any lawyer’s office.
“I don’t know why you need chairs and a table in the bedroom. Like, what exactly is the purpose of this?” Ryan gestured to the sitting area that Pam had created in front of the fireplace, a decorative upgrade that didn’t work. She’d covered its surround with Delft tile and bought a soft chair and a reclining couch in a yellow-and-blue flowered pattern, for either side. She’d finished it off with an antique pine table, its surface only large enough to hold another small crystal lamp and a stack of hardback books.
“I think your mom wanted it to be a reading area.”
“Does she ever use it for that?”
“No.” Jake finger-combed his wet hair into place, eyeing himself briefly in the dresser mirror. He had to bend at the knees to see his face, which didn’t look good. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression showed the strain. He could still smell traces of smoke on his skin and hair. “You must be hungry. Why don’t we get some dinner?”
“Dad, I really want to go see this lawyer.”
“I said no.”
“I want to, I have to. Kathleen was in my class, Dad. I want to know if there’s anything we can do, and what my options are—”
“No, it’s too risky.” Jake palmed his wallet on the dresser and tucked it into his back pocket.
“Dad, please.”
“Tell you what.” Jake sighed. He knew how Ryan felt but he couldn’t let this happen. “Let’s go downstairs and talk about it over dinner. We’ll feel better when we’ve had something to eat.”
“We don’t have time.” Ryan stood up. “I already wrote him back. He’s expecting us to meet him at his office at seven o’clock.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jake turned in disbelief, and Ryan drew himself up to his full height.
“I’m going, whether you go with me or not.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need to see a lawyer,” Ryan answered, almost preternaturally calm. “I did something horrible, something criminal. I need a criminal lawyer, so I can decide what to do.”
“We already decided what to do.” Jake started to lose his temper, more out of fright for Ryan than anger. “We already did what we did. There’s no decisions left. There’s no going back.”
“Maybe there is.”
“There isn’t!” Jake grabbed Ryan’s arm, more roughly than he needed to, but he had to shake some sense into the kid. “I’m trying to keep you out of prison. I’m trying to save your life, your future.”
“I know, you’re trying to protect me.” Ryan’s eyes filmed, but he didn’t cry. “But I want to know my rights.”
“You don’t have any!”
“Yes, I do. I’m going to see the lawyer, whether you come with me or not.”
“How are you going to get there?” Jake stopped just short of saying, You gonna drive?
Ryan blinked, hearing the words that Jake didn’t say, and for a split second, father and son eyed each other, wounded and hurting in front of the pretend fireplace.
“I’m sorry.” Jake grabbed Ryan, just as his son pulled away.
“No, no, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.”
“Ryan, come here!”
“No!” Ryan jumped aside and batted Jake’s hands away, but Jake went after him, grabbed him, and struggled mightily to muscle him closer, into an embrace. The days were over when he was stronger than Ryan, and Jake didn’t know if he could still take him. He flashed suddenly on Ryan as a little boy and remembered that they used to race each other in the driveway, then down the sidewalk, and his heart broke to think of those sunny days, now consigned to Before.
“All right, down, all right, you win,” Jake heard himself say, shaking his head. “We’ll see the lawyer. We’ll get your questions answered and we’ll see what he says. But we won’t let him make any decisions for us, and we’ll do it my way.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jake sat at the head of the polished conference-room table with Ryan to his right, waiting for the buzzer that would signal the arrival of Morris Hubbard. Jake had decided it would be safer to have Hubbard meet them at his office, because if they were spotted at Hubbard’s office, it would be obvious that they were consulting a criminal lawyer. Here, they were unlikely to be seen by anyone, and even if they were, it would look as if Hubbard were consulting Jake, and there was nothing suspicious about that. Jake met plenty of clients after hours, and, presumably, even a sleazeball DUI lawyer needed financial planning.
Ryan looked over. “Dad, you look worried.”
“I’m not,” Jake answered, modulating his tone. “How are you? You okay?”
“No.” Ryan sipped water from his white styrofoam cup. “I talked to Janine Mae. I told her I was too sick to go out, but she was too upset anyway.”
“Oh no.” Jake felt a deep stab of pain, thinking about Kathleen. Her death would traumatize everyone she loved, her friends at school and her parents at home. Suddenly the buzzer sounded, and Jake came out of his reverie. He rose, stiffly. “I’ll get it, and remember, let me do the talking.”
“You said I can ask questions.”
“Yes, but we’re not hiring anybody tonight.” Jake went to the door of the conference room, then stopped. “This is a consultation and discussion only, agreed?”
“Right,” Ryan answered, and Jake left the room, strode down the hall, and crossed the reception area to the front door, which he opened.
“Come in,” he said, ushering Hubbard quickly inside. “I’m Jake Buckman.”
“Mo Hubbard.” Hubbard extended a hand, and Jake shook it. Hubbard looked to be in his early thirties, on the short side, with a bulky build in a black fleece pullover and baggy jeans. His gold wire-rimmed glasses, a head of frizzy brown hair, and a thick beard and mustache made him seem like a throwback hippie.
“This way,” Jake said, gesturing, and they strode down the hall.
“Nice offices,” Hubbard said pleasantly.
“Thanks.” Jake opened the door to the conference room, and at the end of the long mahogany table his own beloved son rose, standing to meet his lawyer, like an adult.
“Hi Morris, I’m Ryan Buckman. I’m the one who wrote you the emails.”
“Oh, you used an alias. Very clever.” Hubbard smiled as he entered the room and shook Ryan’s hand. “Call me Mo.”
Jake gestured Hubbard to a chair opposite Ryan. “Please, sit, Mo. You want some water or anything? Coffee?”
“No thanks.” Hubbard unbuttoned the top few buttons of his fleece to reveal an old-school blue work shirt, then sat down heavily. “How can I help you?”
“Well,” Jake said, sitting down at the head of the table, “before I explain the situation—”
“Excuse me, I thought it was your son who contacted me,” Hubbard interrupted, turning to Ryan. “Who am I here for, you or your father?”
“Both of us,” Jake answered quickly. “My son Ryan is a minor, sixteen years old, and I can explain why we wanted to meet with you.”
“Fair enough.” Hubbard folded his pudgy hands in front of him on the table. He made no move to take notes or reach for one of the fresh pads and pens from the center of the table.
“First,” Jake began, “am I correct in assuming that anything we tell you in this consultation is privileged and confidential?”
Hubbard nodded. “Yes.”
“Does that mean, if you were to hear information from us that might be incriminating in some way, you couldn’t go to the authorities and tell them what you heard. Is that right?”