Page 37 of One of Us Is Guilty

Only one person lived in two townhouses, knocked together, on his very own block.

Flanked by the men in overcoats, I stood in a vast marble hallway that reminded me of City Hall. A collection of Fabergé eggs sat on a hall table, casually, no security glass surrounding them. Above them, I was pretty sure sat a Jackson Pollock painting that stretched high above onto what would have been the second floor, if they hadn’t taken this ceiling away to create an entrance to drop the jaw of any billionaire. Right there, just on that one wall, with those eggs and that painting, was more money than I’d ever seen in my life.

An archway below the winding marble staircase led into a secluded garden. A door opened upstairs, and a man stepped onto the landing and started walking down the staircase. He made the guys standing beside me look small. A huge man, with a jaw like a wash basin, legs that were the size of my torso and pale arms impossibly swollen with muscle and decorated with what looked like military tattoos. He wore black pants and a black tee. Tight hair ina buzzcut. Graying at the temples. His skin was waxy, and white. Like a marble statue.

A handgun was visible on a quick-release holster on his hip.

Only when he was halfway down the stairs did I notice the little guy behind him. The small man wore the same outfit, but on him it looked like he was modelling babywear. The skin on his shaven head was mottled with age, and the hairs on his arms were thick and white, making him look like he’d reached both hands deep into a cotton candy machine. He held a thick cigar in his hand, smoke swirling around his face, and his lips were worm-like and slightly purple. He wore sunglasses in thick black frames, his skin was tanned and I got the impression this was a permanent effect, which he topped up via weekends in the Caribbean.

The big guy said, ‘Did you search him?’ in an accent that I couldn’t immediately place.

The two guys in overcoats looked at each other, shrugged. The blond said, ‘The guy’s a lawyer. He ain’t gonna be carrying.’

The big guy tutted, looked at me and said, ‘Hands up.’

That’s when I recognized the South African accent. I raised my arms, stood still as he searched me. Sweeping my legs, arms, torso. He took my phone out of my pocket, switched it off, said, ‘You’ll get this back later.’

The small man said, ‘Julian Vanderpool,’ in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘let’s talk.’

No handshake. No smile. All business.

He set off through the archway beneath the stairs to the garden. I followed, the big guy stalking behind me. It was then I realized this wasn’t an outdoor garden. It had a glass ceiling, and a temperature control to keep the exotic plants and tropical trees in good health. I could feel the wave of heat as soon as I saw the glass above me.

Julian folded himself into a rattan chair, crossed his legs and gestured that I should take the chair opposite. I sat down, watched him take off his sunglasses and place them on a table.

His eyes were hard to look at. The irises were strangely blue. The color of a Scandinavian lake in summer. What made them strange was that the irises were not surrounded by the usual white fibrous tissue. Instead, it was red. As if every capillary had burst. Staring into his eyes was like looking at two sapphires resting in bowls of blood. When he placed the cigar between his lips and smoked, it almost looked like he had three burning eyes.

‘You’ve got promise, Flynn. I’ve followed your cases. You’re good on your feet. You know how to work-over a witness and talk to a jury. I like that. The only thing holding you back is that conscience of yours. That’s weakness. If you were serious about your career, you’d have some heavyweight clients. I can make that happen – oil companies, pharmaceuticals, politicians – I can open the right doors for you, Flynn.’

‘No, thanks,’ I said.

His lips drew back over a row of small, rounded teeth, in what I guessed was a smile.

‘Moral pride is this country’s great sickness,’ he said.

‘My conscience is my greatest weapon. It stops me from representing oil companies, big pharma and politicians.’

‘Then consider this as your wake-up call. Your real client in this case isme.’

‘Like I said, I don’t represent the guilty.’

He threw his head back and laughed.

‘You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid. I’m going to put up Vanessa’s bail through a shell company. She’ll be out on the street today and I’ll make sure her trial happens in record time. You just be ready.’

‘I didn’t know you controlled the courts as well as the media.’

‘You’d be a fool if you underestimated my sphere of influence. Let’s be clear: my son is running for office. He is my priority. In an ideal world, I’d like his wife cleared, clean and fast. I want this shit gone in three months, tops.’

‘You got a magic wand I could borrow?’

Julian leaned forward, said, ‘I’ve got the media, two hundred and thirty billion dollars and a contacts list you wouldn’t believe. For now, you will proceed as instructed. If things change, your instructions will change.’

‘I only take instructions from clients.’

‘You’re not getting this, are you? Don’t worry. You will. For now, you will defend Vanessa and you’ll do a good job. If she gets convicted, so be it. I couldn’t give a fuck. What I do care about is my son. The DA will go after her, but you, my friend, you’re going to keep my son’s name out of this courtroom and out of your mouth. If you do what I tell you, I will make you a rich man. If you accuse my son in order to get Vanessa acquitted, you’re walking into hell. I have more money than God, but you know what I spend most of it on?’

I said nothing, just stared at him.