After they finished some initial paperwork, the interview proceeded in the usual fashion, starting with facts, ending up with emotional content, but something about the client made Patrick O'Shay uncomfortable, and it took a lot to shake him after all his years in the business. “You say you have good coverage?” O'Shay asked.
“Thirty years I've been their slave.” Jeff Colby worked for Dunkirk Enterprises, a construction company that specialized in huge real estate developments. “Typical profit-driven corporation,” he said, voice full of loathing. “Nobody gives a damn how the job gets done, long as it's done. I take the blame if anything upsets their damn schedule.”
“You feel you aren't treated well?”
“Nothing to do with feeling,” he said, angry. He looked around the rumpled, file-filled space, possibly wishing for something slicker. O'Shay's office didn't intimidate; its comfortable shabbiness welcomed workers from the farms ringing Salinas and the central valley. “They treat me worse than dirt.”
O'Shay sat back in his chair. A big man with deep-set, piercing blue eyes women loved and men found scary or trustworthy, depending upon their personalities, he was larger than life, inches over six feet and well over the recommended healthy weight for a man his size, although much of it was sheer muscle. “Tell me about your injury.”
And the litany began. Colby had worked there first the summer after high school. He had hammered flooring, Sheetrocked, dug dirt, painted exteriors, framed foundations, poured cement-he had done it all. He had built sprawling, spanking-new suburban houses for so long he had accumulated a million indignities, all of which he unloaded on O'Shay-along with resentment that ran so deep in him that his skin burned red as he talked.
“Since I was seventeen, I worked,” he said. “I started at the bottom. I did what you might call shit work, what nobody else wanted to do, and always slapped a smile on my face while I was at it.
“My wife and me live in a cottage built in 1923 and looking even older than that. That's what we can afford. Every day, I was putting in new sinks, flagstone pathways, fountains, all for other people.” He almost spat with outrage. “We don't even have a dishwasher.”
“We need to pinpoint when the pain began,” said O'Shay.
But Colby had been saving up for this moment, and he wasn't squandering it by going straight to the point. “Time went on, they put me in charge of a crew. Didn't pay much more, but it was better telling other guys what to do, drinking coffee, not coming home too sweaty to touch my kids. Then one day they go, ‘Sorry. The guys are complaining.' Well, yeah. I worked ' em hard. Nobody got away with nothing. Hell, I knew all the tricks to avoid working too hard. Bastards claimed I lacked people skills.” His laugh was ragged, angry. “They demoted me. I'm strong, always have been. But I'm forty-seven now and haven't done heavy labor for years. Those jobs are for younger guys and they know it. I think they forced me into that position thinking they could get rid of me once and for all. That I'd quit.”
Something in Colby's eyes disturbed O'Shay. He looked in them and saw ponds full of scum, rough debris, hidden dangers.
Wide shoulders stretched the dress shirt Colby wore. “So last summer, August, I think, I was loading furniture from a truck for a model home. Even here in the valley, it can get hot. I bet it was ninety in the shade. Imports from Thailand, I think. Mostly, these designers pick lightweight stuff for these homes, keep them looking light and airy for buyers by using a lot of bamboo and cane but there was this armoire, a mahogany piece as heavy as a piano. Me and another guy were angling it through a narrow doorway and I heard this cracking sound like something rotten gave. My back hurt like a son of a bitch right away.”
O'Shay had watched for signs of injury when the man entered his office. Colby had sat down easily, not lowering himself with the exquisite care of a man with a herniated disk or other nerve problem. His eyes looked clear and unbothered, not shadowed by pain, and nothing he did favored his back. “This man, your coworker, would he be willing to tell us about that day?”
“He's gone. Illegal, probably. Didn't speak much English. He split at Christmas for El Salvador or somewhere.”
“Ah.”
“I can't stand fully upright anymore,” Colby said, “because I hurt so bad. I can't lift anything heavy. I can't do my job anymore. I can't even make love to my wife, although I'm not sure I want you to tell the court about that.”
O'Shay made a note. “I want to know anything relevant,” he said. “What makes you remark on that?”
“Well, you know. Positions. I can't do all the acrobatics I used to.” He snickered and crossed his leg with a graceful hoisting of muscled thigh.
O'Shay nodded.
“I heard you've been in business forever. Heard you go to bat for the little guy,” Colby said.
“Twenty years in business. We have a lot of farmworker clients.” And, oh, those people really suffered.
“I guess they get hurt sometimes, too.”
“Sure,” O'Shay said, scribbling notes, noting down the dozen vague problems Colby now went on to describe as unbearable.
“You say you don't get along with other employees.”
“Buncha critics and complainers,” Colby said. “When I do something right, there's people lining up to take credit.” He had a mean line for a mouth.
“You've seen a doctor?”
“Several.” Colby slapped a bundle of medical records down on O'Shay's desk. “I got one will swear I oughtta be dead.”
According to their usual arrangement, Rosa knocked after twenty minutes had elapsed, and without waiting for a reply, entered the room. “Emilio Lopez on line one,” she said urgently.
“Ah, thanks.” O'Shay turned to Colby. “I have to take this. Let's talk again tomorrow morning. I need a list of all the physicians you've consulted and all the treatments you've had. Rosa, get the usual permissions signed by Mr. Colby before he goes so we can access his records, okay?”
“That guy,” Rosa said after getting the forms signed and seeing the man out. She handed O'Shay a file that needed attention. “Another gray morning.”
She talked that way, poetically. What she meant was, Colby was a loser.
“Should I dump these papers now or is he one of the unstable ones who needs to be let down easy?”
“Keep the papers. We're taking the case.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Nudging a loose pile of folders on his desk into order, Rosa said, “You're kidding, right? That guy could bench-press four hundred pounds without breaking a sweat!”
O'Shay shrugged.
Rosa put a hand on her hip. “He couldn't even keep a limp going all the way out the door. He was practically dancing the cha-cha out there, and you know why? Because he's lined up the best worker's comp attorney in Salinas. And why are you considered the best? In all these years, you've never taken a client who was blatantly faking. Everybody knows that and respects you for it. So what's going on?”
O'Shay didn't answer.
“Is this to do with your retirement? Are you worrying about that? Does his case mean big money?”
“Not likely, although that would be my wish.”
His secretary stared at him, head at an angle, like a bird focusing on crumbs through a single sharp eye, hoping to see him better. “Then, don't do this,” she said. “You don't take guys like him, a sleazebag. A phony. A greedhead.”
“ Rosa,” he said, “open a new file.”
She flounced out, leaving her perfume and disgust behind in equal measure.
In spite of the optimistic sounds the lawyer had made, Jeff Colby had seen the doubt in O'Shay's eyes. The man didn't believe him. Fair enough, Colby thought. He didn't believe O'Shay as far as he could toss him. So, he worked on Plan B. He could not, would not, go back to that soul-sucking job. He knew a lawsuit was a long shot, so plan for the short shot.
O'Shay spoke with Colby's doctor, the one who agreed to swear about Colby's on-the-job injury. He knew the man's reputation locally. Rampantly pro-worker and antiestablishment, the doctor nevertheless had a smooth professional manner, an excellent education, a thriving practice, and knew the right noises to make. What better could O'Shay hope for? Colby's doctor asked straight out exactly what O'Shay needed said to win his case. O'Shay gave him the details he wanted parroted back, anticipating the report to come, which would be shamelessly hyperbolized.
The doctor had friends also willing to swear for a price.
Further sinking below the mud line, O'Shay asked his old law school roommate out for lunch and plied him with flavored martinis, picking his brain.
“How you win a case that's unwinnable,” Chuck said, sipping the cranberry-flavored concoction that was sure to send him heaving into the toilet bowl later, “is to invoke the everyman. Does your client qualify?”
“I guess. He has a wife and kids. He's worked all his life without getting fired even once.”
His buddy shook his head. “No, no, no. Question is, does he look the part? Can he play an injury or not? And is he worthy?”
“What?”
“He has to get up there on the stand in a starched white shirt, slightly frayed, like he's making such an effort to look good but it's so hard. He has to speak English well, so we know he's not an idiot or some illegal just trying to finagle money out of the system. He should have bags under his eyes. Ditto for the wife and kids, if you can get them in there with you. He needs to show pain, and he needs to make that judge believe he hurts. He needs to look like a strong man knocked flat by the nefarious actions of his employer. He needs to look reduced from a major player to a husk. But you know all this already. You say he's white?”
“Yeah. Born in Oakland.”
“Excellent. No offense to all those boys you usually represent, but nobody kicks in big bucks to the Mexicans.”
Chuck read O'Shay's face, and shook his head. “O'Shay, O'Shay. Forget the liberal politics. Get real.” He ordered another drink, this time vodka with orange juice, and nibbled on stale nuts. “Bottom line, you got a good thing going with this guy. I looked it up before I came today. His company takes care of their own. He's a movie star compared to your usual clientele, and he's got the backing of a major studio. Line up your experts. Practice with him until he's got the role nailed.”
“You never asked me about his injury.”
His pal, flirting with a girl at the end of the bar, waved at the bartender. “Isn't that kinda like asking a murderer if he done it? That's not the way of our people, O'Shay.”
O'Shay paid for the drinks.
When he inclined toward optimism, which wasn't often, Jeff Colby indulged in fantasies about the family farm he would buy, maybe in the Caribbean, proving once and for all he was no loser. He would coddle his wife with cheap servants, get his kids into a school where they didn't know what gangbanging was, where they would learn to sail after school. Twirling the wheel of his Chevy Nova at a stoplight on Main, right before making a left, he indulged in a fantasy where he came to work and announced his swift exit. All the assholes he hated would be envious. He would prove he was somebody and not just the pathetic, powerless nobody they had made him into.
Back at the rental house on Blanco, he kissed Sandra, then took out his gun, loaded it, and went into the backyard, where the light was fading. He propped cans on the fence, glad as always that their small yard rose up steeply and was bordered by farmland, and shot, and shot, and shot, misses plunking into the dirt behind his targets.
He did well, annihilating dozens of beer cans. Back in the house, he emptied a few more, trying to blot out the image of his boss, Keith Landers, the smirk on his face when he told Jeff the news, and how Jeff had felt that night, having to tell Sandra. The look on her face.
He downed another one.
Landers generally got to work early, starting at the office behind the model home, flirting with the receptionist, hanging there as long as he could. The office was well-situated for visitors, close to the parking lot, and had plenty of windows.
The next week, O'Shay consulted with a retired judge, someone who had looked favorably upon many of his cases, someone fair. O'Shay laid out Jeff Colby's situation.
The judge, holding court at Dudley 's on Main Street, nodded to a steady stream of hellos. His plate held three fried eggs, a pile of bacon, two pancakes, overdone, cheesy potatoes, plus toast. He called his order “heart attack heaven” and, stabbing a fork into an oozing egg, explained that his mother and father, both of them, lived well into their nineties and he planned to do the same. Slim, still walking five miles daily even though he was well into his eighties, he had O'Shay convinced that the usual rules did not apply to him.
“Okay, the way it happened was, this guy was faking an injury,” the judge said, shaking out salt and pepper, eyeballing the shakers when they didn't seem to be applying themselves liberally enough. “The usual back thing. An invisible problem only God really could judge. I suspected he was a fake. I believed his attorney knew it. However, they found this amazing doctor, really, more a magician. This guy could make gold out of dog hair, I'm telling you.” He bit into a strip of bacon, sighing with pleasure. “Aw, I hate doing business when I eat. If I didn't remember your mother, O'Shay…”
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“So, anyhow, a judge's duty is to weigh the evidence as presented. We're not really allowed leeway on that, you know? Instincts be damned. I have to say, like most people, I ignored that edict and did my own thing, but in this case, I had no choice.”
“Why?”
“Overwhelming physical evidence, boy, and a doctor who could make you cry like a baby. Plus another doctor, less sterling, but confident, groomed. X-rays. Hospital admissions. Even the insurance guy couldn't get past the avalanche of evidence. You have to know, most cases are not so well-developed. Lawyers have lives, right? No time to track down several experts when one might do.”
“Track down a dozen, check,” O'Shay said, spooning brown sugar onto his oatmeal. He noted the name of the magical doctor and his friend.
The judge slathered strawberry jelly onto his side order of sourdough toast. “Not just any experts and evidence, O'Shay. Unassailable experts, with knowledge that will blow their Italian loafers off.”
Back at the office, Rosa gave O'Shay the cold shoulder. After ten years, she felt he ought to listen to her. She knew him better than he knew himself, she believed, and she always let him know when she thought he was wrong about something, in her own way.
Do this, do that, he told her, and in return for his calm orders, she made his normally smooth life rough. The work she usually did on his files suddenly fell to him. Clients popped in unannounced all day until he reprimanded her sharply. She crossed her arms, grimly satisfied to have rattled him. He worked long into the night to get caught up.
The next morning, O'Shay arrived at the office slightly late. Rosa looked coolly upon his bleary eyes and awful mood. “Mrs. Olson called,” she said. Mrs. Olson was his most challenging client besides Colby, and that was saying a lot. He handled hundreds a year. This woman made him crazy. Usually Rosa shielded him from clients like her. Not today.
“She has a new chiropractor you need to talk to. I told her you'd call right away, and get back to her, too. She's hysterical, could really use some hand-holding. Oh, and her husband called after. Yelling about something. I took a message.” She handed him a pink slip of paper. “Really mad. I told him you'd call and explain everything.”
He wanted to do something to stop the onslaught, kind of like his daughter had when she was a teenager and found something awesomely offensive, “No!” she would cry, fingers forming a cross, as if fending off vampires. Instead, he said, “Fine. Close the door behind you.”
He did what had to be done. He befriended the prickly new chiropractor, talked down Mrs. Olson, empathized with Mr. Olson, whose wife made sure he shared every single pain she felt, and rolled through another six files.
Sandra Colby called. “I wanted to thank you for taking Jeff's case,” she said.
“You're welcome.”
“Because-he's not himself lately, you know? I don't think you're seeing him at his best. He's got such heart. He's an amazing, involved father, and really a sensitive husband. He cares too much is the problem. He puts on such a macho face, but that's because after all these years they've beat him down. I hardly recognize him sometimes.” By the time she got off the phone with him she was crying.
“You make me tired,” Rosa said, frowning, at lunchtime.
“I make me tired, too.”
“What's going on, O'Shay?” she asked, her frustration evident in the way she persisted with him.
“I'm really hungry.” He asked if she would arrange for a sandwich from the deli for him. She slammed the door on her way out.
Late in the afternoon, he tackled Jerome Castile, the insurance attorney representing Colby's company. “He's injured, with a ninety percent disability rating according to three doctors,” O'Shay said into the phone.
“Come on, his injuries are almost all in his head, and you know we don't have to pay out psych cases anymore. Our doc says a maximum of twenty percent disability rating. Ten thousand.”
“Trust me on this, Jerome. Lifetime medical, plus a ninety percent award.”
Castile laughed. “You know, I expected better from you. There's nothing special about this case. Ten and a year's medical.”
O'Shay gathered the X-rays, the hospital admissions papers, the medical records. He called a private detective. Finally, he called Colby.
“How's it hanging?” Colby asked.
“I need you to see a few people.” O'Shay had made appointments Colby needed to keep, and went over the injuries Colby needed to be very clear about.
“Got it, man,” Colby said. “I show up, shirt tucked in, fucked up like you wouldn't believe.”
“Right,” O'Shay said.
At home, Diana came after him. “You've always come on as such an idealist,” she said. “I felt kind of mean-spirited next to you, wanting things. A little angry you never made the kind of money I thought you should, being an attorney.”
He tried to hug her but she pulled away. “See, I consoled myself that I'd married a good guy. Now I hear you've taken on this client, and I hear he's been trying to wrestle money out of his employer for years. He's a fraud.”
“You heard? Where?”
“My sister.”
His wife's sister was also a local attorney. So the news had spread. He sighed. “He's a special case, honey.”
“Yeah, he's special. He's putting all your years of hard work in the dumper.” She gave up after a while, though, and O'Shay, so tired, read the newspaper in front of a cold fireplace. He crept off to bed after she had fallen asleep.
The next morning he ate bacon, eggs, and toast and got to the office before his wife got up and Rosa came in. He spoke with a few people, then called Colby. “I've got the experts,” he said, “but you know, these doctors aren't willing to wreck their standing in the community for your sake. They will say the right things, but they have to convince a judge who understands every nuance, do you understand me?”
“You mean they'll talk careful and he'll hear that they're holding back.”
“Right. Now, right now I can get you some money if we settle. That's the only sure thing right now. You probably should consider a deal.”
“How much?”
“Maybe…” O'Shay tried to name a figure he could get “… up to fifteen thousand.”
Colby snorted. “Half the price of a car and not even a luxury one at that,” he said. “No, I don't think that's going to get me out of the hole I'm in. I'm not sure you appreciate exactly how serious my case is. And I'm beginning to question how committed you really are to my cause, O'Shay.”
“Oh, I know it's serious, Mr. Colby. And I'm doing my best for you. I need you to believe that.”
“Then don't hand me a bag of peanuts and expect thanks. I got lifelong disability. I got to go for the big money, O'Shay. Take it to trial.”
“Jeff,” O'Shay said. “I'm obligated to tell you if we go to trial there's a definite possibility we'll lose and you'll get nothing.” A little of the old O'Shay poked through the Colby-induced fog of deceit and evil, and felt obliged to tell the truth.
Jeff Colby took a marker pen into the kitchen and marked the date of his trial on his calendar. The case was set for ten. Lander's office opened at nine. He needed to get cracking, but there was plenty of time to do the necessary shopping in advance.
“I can borrow from Daddy,” Diana said, “if it's money you're worrying about.”
O'Shay lay on a teak lounge in the backyard, admiring the fine job they had done with the plantings around the edge of their large lawn. A high fence plus fast-growing conifers made the yard very private. Sunshine spilled across the grass. He closed his eyes and smelled the blossoming lemon tree tucked at the back. “There's something ironic about invoking your dad in this case you think has so much to do with integrity. If I only understood irony better.”
“Don't get cute, Patrick. Just don't sell yourself cheap.”
He breathed the sunshine deeply. “I'll make sure we're well compensated.”
“Don't joke about this!” she said, swatting him. “This isn't funny!”
Easing his bare feet onto the patio, he left her behind and walked across the lawn. He picked up the lemons that had fallen to the ground, and the ones that were ripe, holding as many as he could in his two hands. Back in the kitchen, he squeezed them, added sugar, and brought a glass out to her, along with a nice lunch which he laid out on the patio table.
While they ate, he brought up the topic of some thoughts he had about what they might do next summer for vacation. He thought he needed a decent break this year. He might even take three weeks this August. What did she think about that?
She didn't stay silent for long. Diana loved planning trips.
The next morning, O'Shay met with Jerome Castile in person at the insurance company's offices. They had nice rugs, he noticed, and original art on the wall. He admired the fresh green ferns. He and Rosa had long ago settled for artificial. “Here's the thing,” he said, sinking into the soft leather cushion. “I have statistics illustrating a long pattern of patronage and unfair promotion practices at Dunkirk Enterprises.”
Jerome definitely looked startled.
O'Shay flipped through papers that looked official. “Here the owner, Mr. Landers, hired his son, then his cousin, then his brother-in-law. Then his daughter. Not to mention his wife.”
“It's a family business.”
“Thereby bypassing my client and other worthy long-term employees.”
“He gave the guy a chance at a better job, but he couldn't cut it. Nobody should be forced to keep an employee on when he can't do a decent job. Instead of firing him, they kept him on.”
“Doing work he is no longer physically able to do.”
The attorney took his time, flipped through his own irrelevant papers, and said, “Our clients have done nothing to be ashamed of, but more important, they've done nothing illegal.”
“Oh,” O'Shay said, “talk to them. They're locals, a major employer, and so far, they have such a fine reputation. A short conversation with the Californian will blow all that. Because it's the tip of the iceberg, isn't it? There's lots to write about.” He knew exactly how much more, since his own detective had done a fine job.
“You'd trash a major local employer who pays decent wages and provides good benefits for Jeff Colby, who's a notorious and classic disgruntled employee?”
“Yes.” Play the game with a hardball, always.
“I had heard such good things about you.”
“By the way, I have evidence that this cavalier disregard for fairness is a pattern with you people.”
“Don't tell me you're gonna try to add in a bad faith allegation.”
“Absolutely.”
“So how'd it go with the insurance guy?” Colby asked.
O'Shay, alienated from his staff, unable to talk to his wife, found talking with Colby a strange relief. “Not so well,” he said honestly. Almost immediately, he regretted his candor.
“More bad news?” Colby asked, his voice full of teeth.
“You never know until you are there in court.”
“But no big settlement.”
“No.”
“Huh.” Colby rubbed his chin and looked down, as if deciding something.
“Court at ten tomorrow. Be there on time?”
“Sure,” Colby agreed.
The next morning, O'Shay dressed carefully. He wore a silk navy suit paired with an Hermès tie. He wanted to look subdued but successful. He had three doctors he ordinarily would never use who would testify about Colby's dire injuries. He had a rolling cart in the trunk of his car full of medical reports, job descriptions, legal pleadings, and law books. He had things on Dunkirk Enterprises Jerome Castile knew he would spill to the press, if necessary. He had the requisite chutzpah.
Diana handed him his laptop at the door, refusing to kiss him. “Don't sell out,” she whispered, and he heard it, too, as he opened the garage door and left.
At the courthouse, early, O'Shay met with Castile one last time. He went to work on the insurance defense attorney, trying to reach an agreement that would set the Colby family up for life. They haggled; they fought; they got tough; they compromised; nobody gave enough. He tried again and lost. Bottom line was, the guy said he just didn't believe O'Shay would do what he was threatening to do. “You have a reputation to protect,” Castile said smugly, “in spite of this recent, definite lapse in judgment.”
“We're due in court,” O'Shay told Colby on the telephone. “I'm on my way.”
Something in Colby's voice screamed sirens.
Jeff Colby made a special effort with Sandra and the kids before leaving that morning, hugs and kisses all around, lots of positive words. “I'm stopping by the job site for a quick howdy before heading to the courthouse,” he said.
“Are you sure you don't want us to go with you? Your attorney said it might be good for us to be there with you in court.”
“No need, sweetheart.” He kissed her again, holding her around her narrow waist, marveling that his childhood girlfriend had been so steadfast and true for so many years, and had stood by him through so much. He felt himself flinching at the thought of the next few hours. And he felt righteous.
“What's in the duffel?” his son asked as he walked out the door.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he replied, smiling. “Good-bye, son.”
“It's me, Patrick O'Shay. Is Jeff there?”
“He's gone.”
“Where is he?”
“On his way?”
“You sound unsure.”
“He was stopping by Dunkirk on the way to court.”
“Oh, no.”
“He won't be late,” she said. “He's never late.”
O'Shay got the insurance lawyer on line one. He had a new case just decided by the California Supreme Court to talk about.
“I'll call you back,” Castile said. “Give me ten minutes.”
O'Shay shot into traffic and headed toward Romie Lane, toward the scene of Jeff Colby's latest humiliation. He drove through the construction on Main Street like a man possessed. Somehow, he was not ticketed for turning illegally.
O'Shay thought about the list of people Jeff hated: the receptionist who mocked him; the stock boy who played malicious tricks; the boss who fired him…
Twenty minutes, and their case would be called. Barring a miracle, he couldn't make it back in time at this point. He pulled into the parking lot, frantically scanning for Jeff's car. He couldn't find it. Inside the developer's office, a man drinking coffee hovered over a pretty girl's desk.
O'Shay's phone rang.
“Jerome Castile here,” the insurance lawyer announced officiously. “We need to talk.”
A few minutes later, Jeff Colby pulled up three cars away, stopping to park directly in front of a bland stucco building sporting a boldly lettered sign which read “Dunkirk Enterprises.” If he was surprised to see O'Shay sitting in his car so close by, he didn't show it. “Had a flat,” he said.
“You should have gone straight to court,” said O'Shay.
“Maybe.”
Colby opened the trunk of his car, revealing a canvas duffel. “Why are you here?” he asked, tugging at the bag, bringing it out.
“It's over.”
“What's over?” Colby, distracted, looked toward the entrance of the building, peered through the glass doors.
“Your case, Jeff. You beat them.”
“I-what?”
“You beat them,” O'Shay repeated. Since Colby seemed suddenly incapable of speaking, O'Shay outlined the details of the deal he had finally struck with the insurance company. They would pay for Colby's medical. They would provide a steady flow of income, a pension.
Colby fingered the duffel. “You wouldn't try to con me.”
“No, I wouldn't.”
Finally convinced, Colby was jubilant, ecstatic. He jabbered at O'Shay: he had pulled a fast one, showing them he could work the system just like the best of them! They would be buying his farm, his retirement, his security. They would dig him out of this hellhole. He could start fresh somewhere new. He finally had a stake. He couldn't wait to tell everyone, see their faces. They were stuck in that dump without windows, while he would be breathing the fresh air. Maybe he would spring for a trip to the Caribbean, just to check things out. He'd forgotten all about the duffel.
O'Shay drove away. He had won the biggest settlement he ever had but he'd had to cheat and lie to get it. He had gotten others involved in his tricks. He had disappointed Rosa, Diana, and other professionals who had once respected him. Maybe he had compromised his good name forever.
But he, Patrick O'Shay, knew a special case when he saw one.
He shrugged, turned the ball game on the sportsradio channel, and thought about lunch.