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“They have one. Old man Knight thinks of himself as cutting-edge when it comes to manufacturing. What could be more cutting-edge than China?” When David didn’t respond, Keith went on, “I’ve been over there, you know, doing the due diligence work and working with Knight’s American accountants to get all the financials in order for review by the Securities and Exchange Commission. I’ve seen a lot of stuff.”
“Like?”
Keith considered, then said, “Nothing exciting. It’s a factory out in the boonies, and I can tell you that those accountants Knight flew in suffered from major culture shock from the food and the strangeness of the place. Those guys came and went as fast as they could.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “Although I don’t know why. Knight only employs women—some pretty ones too.” He wiped his forehead again.
David stared at Keith, trying to make sense of the strange fluctuations in the other man’s behavior. Finally David asked, “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” There again was that testy tone, a response that was far removed from what David expected from his friend and colleague of many years.
“You seem to be under a lot more pressure than I’ve ever seen you. What’s happening?”
Keith’s eyes seemed to get watery, but he covered this by lifting the snifter and taking another sip of brandy.
“I can’t help you if you don’t confide in me,” David persisted.
Keith put the snifter down. “I’m in a bind,?
?? he said, keeping his eyes focused on the inside lip of the glass. “I’m in trouble and I don’t know what to do.”
“What is it? Can I help?”
“It’s personal.”
“Keith, we’ve known each other a long time—”
“And it’s professional,” he said, raising his eyes to meet David’s.
For the second time this evening, the honorable, yet sometimes horrible, code of ethics to which honest lawyers adhered had come into the conversation. They could skirt around the code: David could ask general questions about a client (Tartan) or about what that client was involved in (the acquisition of Knight), and Keith might even answer them, although he certainly hadn’t tonight. But to exchange real information about a particular case, a particular client, a particular act involving jurisprudence? To actually divulge that a lawyer had been involved in something shady or sinister or straight-on illegal was another matter entirely. They both knew it was taboo.
David took a deep breath. “Is there something I can do?” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you need to talk to someone at the Justice Department or the FBI? You know I can arrange it.”
But Keith just shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is that I want to set things right.”
The conversation had run aground. Keith was up against the wall, but still at a point that he couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about it. Keith smiled wanly, then looked away. “Man, I’m beat. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He flagged down the waitress, got the check, and paid it, saying, “Don’t worry about it. I can expense it out.” When he stood, his body swayed slightly. Then he made an unsteady line for the door.
They emerged into the cool night air. Tomorrow would be the Fourth of July. In Los Angeles that could just as easily mean dense fog or a heat wave. This year it looked to be foggy. Standing in the cool white dampness, David and Keith chatted a few more minutes. He wondered if Keith, who’d consumed far more alcohol than David, should drive.
“I left my car with the valet,” David said. “You want a lift?”
Keith shook his head. “I’ll just walk back to the office. I have a couple of faxes I need to send.”
The offices of Phillips, MacKenzie were in one of the skyscrapers on Bunker Hill. All Keith had to do was cross Grand, walk past the library, cross Fifth, then climb the “Spanish Steps” up to Hope. The distance wasn’t far, but downtown wasn’t all that safe at night after the day workers had gone home to the suburbs.
“I can drive you up there if you want.”
“No, I’ll walk. It’ll do me good. Clear my head.”
They shook hands. “Lunch next week?” David asked.
“Sure, I’ll give you a call.”
Grand was a one-way street downtown. Keith looked right, saw nothing, then stepped off the curb. Up the street David saw headlights through the mist. Keith was halfway across the road, oblivious to the car. For a moment David thought the car was going to hit Keith, but then the driver decelerated.
To David it seemed then that everything slowed down so that he could see every detail as, maybe even before, it happened. A hand with a gun in it reached out the rear left window and swung toward David. He heard the gunfire and saw the flashes of light from the muzzle. Instinctively he fell to the ground. He heard screams behind him—probably other customers who’d left the restaurant just behind David and Keith and were on their way to the valet. David heard the bullets ricochet off the wall and felt pieces of stone and stucco rain down on him. From his position on the sidewalk, he saw Keith look back and left over his shoulder. If he’d looked right, he would have seen the car and hustled out of the way. Instead the car hit him. Keith’s body flew up into the air, moving fast, arms and legs flailing, then slammed into the back wall of the library with a sickening thud. The car sped away, skidding as it turned the corner.
There was a period of silence, then David heard behind him the clatter of high heels on the sidewalk, the sound of men shouting, and someone begin to whimper in pain. All the while he didn’t take his eyes off the motionless form of Keith across the street. Shakily David got to his feet, staggered across the asphalt, and knelt next to his friend. The bones in Keith’s left arm were jagged sticks of white protruding from flesh. His legs were at unnatural angles, not moving. Blood gushed from a deep gash in one of his legs, probably where the chrome of the bumper had cut into flesh. David felt Keith’s neck for a pulse. Somehow he was still alive.
“Help! Somebody help us!” David screamed.
