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And I didn’t care if he understood. In fact, most of the time I didn’t want him to understand. Some things in life are hard to understand if you haven’t gone through them. I didn’t want him to go through any of the things I’d had to face. I wanted his life to be a safe, happy place. Always.
11
April 9, 1996
Tuesday morning
Getting Danny Osbourne out of prison had resulted in a substantial amount of publicity, which caused a new wave of letters from prisoners who’d like to be released from prison. Most of them were in California, but a significant amount were from around the United States. Given our budget, Lydia tried to keep things relatively local. Occasionally, she forwarded files to other justice organizations.
My space was at the end of one of the banquet tables. I had a decent chair I’d bought myself at Staples, an inbox, a beige desk phone, and an accordion file folder to keep any loose papers from the cases I was working.
When I got there Tuesday morning, a file was waiting for me. Detective Wellesley. I set it aside. I’d look at it after I wrote up my notes from the meetings I’d had with the victims the prior week and the three meetings I’d had the day before at the prison. That took most of the morning.
Lydia was in her office with the door shut. She did that when she was drafting motions or pulling together question lists for depositions. I didn’t really know what she was working on. I did know better than to knock on her door.
I went up front and asked Karen, “Um, did you find out anything about that Hamlet person?”
“Of course I did. Which client did you say that was in reference to?”
“I didn’t say. It’s personal. I said that, didn’t I?”
In a traditional law firm, every move, every question, indeed every thought, would be billed back to a client. Since we worked pro bono we weren’t as careful about which case we were working on. That didn’t mean personal work wasn’t frowned upon—a fact that Karen drove home by raising an eyebrow.
But seriously, what did she think the wine was for?
“I found two private detectives named Hamlet Gilbody. Which seems ridiculous. I suspect they’re father and son. Hamlet Senior works out of Chicago, he’s nearing sixty. Hamlet Junior is licensed in Michigan. Do you know—”
“Hamlet Senior.”
“He’s been licensed for ten years. I called the Better Business Bureau. There were a couple of complaints, both about billing. I was also able to establish he’s done a lot of work for a law firm called Lackerby, Leone and Cooke.”
“Cooke, Babcock and Lackerby,” I corrected her.
“Excuse me?”
Immediately, I realized my mistake. Cooke, Babcock and Lackerby was a law firm I’d done business with for years. It appeared that Hamlet Gilbody might have replaced me. They’d apparently lost one of their partners and reshuffled the names. Of course, I should not have corrected Karen. She was far too—
“I thought you were from Detroit.”
“I am.”
“So how come you think you know law firms in Chicago? In fact, you’re a bartender. How do you know law firms at all?”
The way out of that came to me easily. “I’ve been reading one of Lydia’s books,Operation Tea & Crumpets. That law firm is mentioned. A lot.”
She was still suspicious, but she bought it. Or at least pretended to.
“When are you taking lunch?” I asked.
“Why?”
“I have some notes I need to—”
She held out her hand for the notes I was holding.
“I can do it, it’s okay,” I said.
“No, you can’t. It’s my job.”
