WHEN THE SHOW ended, Casey chatted with Nancy Grace for a minute about her twins and hand-knitted blankets sent by fans before pulling the earbud free and unclipping the microphone. She thanked the studio hands and passed on the baby wipes the makeup artist offered her in the green room.
“I’ve got a dinner to go to,” she said to the makeup artist, checking herself in the mirror as she scooped up her briefcase. “It’s a little thick, but I’ll look like hell if I lose it all.”
As the security guard opened the door for her, he nodded toward her old blue Mercedes waiting by the curb and said, “Someone got your hubcaps.”
“Three years ago,” she said, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “They went about two weeks after the hood ornament.”
While the restaurant puzzled Casey, she was thankful that Graham had at least chosen a place out near her condo. She got off the highway just two exits from where she lived and pulled up to the silver and neon spectacle of a Johnny Rockets hamburger joint. Inside, Graham sat in a booth with his back to the door, hunched over a milk shake. When he saw her, he jumped up and, with a flourish, offered her a seat opposite him, flashing a smile of strong white teeth that glowed amid the black razor stubble of his face and his dark brown eyes.
Despite the Dallas heat, he wore the same trademark flannel shirt, Levi’s jeans, and Timberland boots she’d seen him wearing as he leaned against a pickup truck on the cover of the May issue of Fortune magazine. Graham stood not much taller than Casey, but he carried himself upright with a wiry athletic frame that belied the white hair salting his unruly black mop. His florid cheeks spoke of outdoor activity, and he was mildly handsome without being pretty.
“I caught the end of the show,” he said, handing her a menu as she sat down. “You looked great, and that Nancy obviously likes you. Thanks for meeting me on late notice. I like the fries here and I recommend the Original with cheese.”
Casey opened the menu, noticing the ridged and bluntly cut nails on Graham’s fingers, nails that reminded her of her own father’s, a man who made a living with his hands. “An interesting choice for dinner.”
“Everything I’ve made comes from knowing how most people think,” Graham said. “And if you want to know how people think, you have to know how they live, what they eat, what they drive, how they dress, and why. That’s why I’m on an oil and gas kick lately, because I know people aren’t going to stop driving their trucks to the grocery store for a case of beer, not until we squeeze every last drop out of this planet, no matter how much it costs.”
“And Johnny Rockets is the food gas-guzzlers prefer most?” Casey asked.
Graham grinned. “See? That’s why you’re the lawyer I want. You take it all, condense it down into something simple yet powerful, and bam, just like an uppercut.”
“I didn’t mean to come out swinging,” she said.
“You’re fine.”
The waitress appeared in a paper hat and slapped a stack of complimentary nickels down on the table for the jukebox.
“Just a salad for me with some grilled chicken,” Casey said. “And water with lemon.”
Graham ordered a couple burgers with fries and waited for the waitress to leave before he said, “I guess that’s how you stay in such great shape. What else do you do? Run?”
“I used to do thirty miles a week,” she said. “I’m working my way back right now. Do you run?”
“Run, bike, swim,” he said. “I train for the Ironman.”
“The real one?” Casey asked. “Out in Hawaii?”
“I never won one,” he said. “But as long as I stay in the top ten percent, I feel pretty good about it.”
“That’s amazing,” she said. “How do you find the time with all you do?”
Graham shrugged. “I try not to sleep too much. I have a lot of energy.”
“I read that,” she said. “All you do, and now this Freedom Project?”
“You have to give back,” he said. “My ex-wife taught me that.”
“How so?”
“She never did.”
“I had one of those,” she said, watching the waitress set a plate of fries down in front of him and squirt a smiley face of ketchup onto a separate small plate.
“I heard,” he said.
“What else have you heard?”
“I know you’re passionate,” he said, holding up a French fry.
“I am.”
“Passionate enough to take on a couple cases for the Freedom Project?” he asked, smearing the smile off the plate’s face. “Some people say about half our cases are lost causes.”
“The ones that aren’t deserve attention,” she said. “It’s not too far from what I do, giving people a chance in a legal system that’s rigged for the rich, but why me? A million dollars a year for my clinic is a lot of money.”
“Part of it is to give back,” he said. “I’m making the Project a top priority in my philanthropic portfolio. Part of it is good business, too. I’ll be honest. There’s a deal behind everything I do. I think we need someone with your profile. People like a celebrity. My million-dollar annuity for your clinic will pay for itself with the publicity you’ll bring to the Freedom Project. Publicity means donations. It’s simple. A lot of people know who Casey Jordan is.”
“I guess that’s a good thing,” Casey said, inclining her head as the waitress set down their food.
“It’s all true?” he asked, biting into his cheeseburger. “You know?”
“Oh, shit,” Casey said. “You’re not going to ask me about-”
“I rented it on Netflix,” he said. “Funny, you don’t look like Susan Lucci.”
“I didn’t make a nickel off that.”
“She was good.”
“With all the gloss that a Lifetime movie of the week can offer.”
“Can you say the line? You know, the line?”
“Screw you,” Casey said.
Graham smiled.
“There’s just one other thing,” Casey said, picking up her fork. “You didn’t say where I’ll have to go. The last big case I heard the Project won was in Philadelphia. I love the cause and the funding, but I can’t be too far away from my work here. That would defeat the whole purpose.”
Graham wiped his mouth on a napkin and asked, “How far is too far?”
“How far would you want me?”
“What about Abilene?”
“I could do that,” Casey said, taking a bite.
“Good, then you won’t mind Auburn.”
“Auburn, as in Alabama? Way too far,” Casey said, setting down her fork.
“Auburn, New York,” Graham said, filling his mouth with more cheeseburger.
“I guess you didn’t hear me. I said close.”
“Abilene is, what, three hours away?” he asked, smiling through his food.
“Yes.”
“So is Auburn, New York.”
Casey scrunched up her face.
“You can use my Citation X as much as you need it,” Graham said, swallowing and leaning toward her. “The fastest nonmilitary jet in the world. You’ll be there in less than three hours. Easier than Abilene. And I know you’re going to want to help this person. Dwayne Hubbard is his name. Twenty years he’s been in jail, and the Project is convinced he’s completely innocent.”
“What do you think?” Casey asked.
“I don’t waste time,” Graham said. “Besides, I like him. He looks like that kid from that old sitcom. You know, with the squeaky voice and high pants.” Graham snapped his fingers. “Say, maybe he could play Dwayne in the movie!”