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“Yes, Griff, my fee,” he said defensively. “I get paid to do my job. Just like you do.”
Griff looked at him for a moment, then said softly, “Did. Just like I did.”
Turner backed down and, looking slightly embarrassed by his momentary testiness, turned away and laid another set of keys on the stick-furniture coffee table. “Our extra car. It’s parked outside. Can’t miss it. Faded red, two-door Honda. Not worth anything as a trade-in, so when Susan got her Range Rover, we kept it for emergencies. It runs okay. I had the oil changed and the tires checked. Use it for as long as you need it.”
“Will the daily rental fee be added to my bill?”
Again, Turner took umbrage. “Why are you being such a prick about everything? I’m trying to help.”
“I needed your help five years ago to keep me out of fucking prison.”
“I did everything I could for you,” Turner fired back. “They had you. You do the crime, you do the time.”
“Gee, I need to write that down.” Griff patted his pockets as though looking for a pen.
“I’m outta here.”
Turner moved toward the door, but Griff headed him off. “Okay, okay, you’re a prince among lawyers and I’m an unappreciative prick. What else?” He allowed Turner a few moments to fume in righteous indignation, then repeated in a more conciliatory tone, “What else have you done for me?”
“I put some of your clothes in the closet in the bedroom.” He gestured toward an open doorway across the room. “Jeans and polos haven’t gone out of style. I picked up some sheets and towels at Target. You got toiletries?”
“In my duffel.”
“Bottled water, milk, eggs are in the fridge. Bread’s in there, too. I thought there might be roaches in the pantry.”
“Safe guess.”
“Look, Griff, I know it’s no palace, but—”
“Palace?” he repeated, laughing. “I don’t think anyone would mistake this dump for a palace.” Then, to keep from appearing ungrateful, he added, “But as you said, it’s only a stopgap. Do I have a phone?”
“In the bedroom. I put down the deposit for you. It’s in my name. We can have it disconnected when you get your own.”
“Thanks. What’s the number?”
Turner told him. “Don’t you need to write it down?”
“I used to carry a couple hundred plays inside my head. I can remember ten digits.”
“Hmm. Right. Don’t forget to check in with your probation officer. He’ll need to know how to contact you.”
“First item on my list. Call Jerry Arnold.” Griff drew a check mark in the air.
Turner handed him a bank envelope. “Here’s some walking-around money until you can get a credit card. And your driver’s license is in there, too. Address is wrong, of course, but it doesn’t expire until your next birthday, and by then you’ll have a new place.”
“Thanks.” Griff tossed the bank envelope onto the table beside the keys to the borrowed car. Taking handouts from his lawyer was almost as humiliating as the first day of prison, when he’d been told the rules as well as the punishments for breaking them.
“Well, then, I guess you’re good to go.” The lawyer clapped him on the shoulder, which seemed an unnatural and awkward gesture for him. He turned away quickly, but at the door he paused and looked back. “Griff…uh…folks are still pissed at you. To a lot of people, you committed a cardinal sin. If someone gives you flak, don’t let it bother you too much. Turn the other cheek, okay?”
Griff remained silent. He wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep.
Turner hesitated, looking worried. “Getting out…It’s a tough transition.”
“Beats staying in.”
“Those classes they have for inmates about to be released…”
“The Release Preparation Program.”
