Grave Truth

Chapter 1-2

“I hope you’re going undercover as a homeless person,” were the first words out of Roger’s mouth that evening.

Head bowed over his desk, scribbling notes in the margins of a thick, binder-clipped document, I’m not sure when he’d glanced up long enough to see what I was wearing. (For the record, a faded navy-blue T-shirt I couldn’t recall buying peeked from beneath my jacket, over gray sweats with no holes.)

“I’m going from here to self-defense class,” I snapped, feeling defensive already. I’d failed to grab a late-day snack, which meant I’d either drop to the floor or kill someone in class. “And I’m dressed fine. It’s not at one of your fancy gyms with key cards and saunas and… juice bars.”

I had no idea whether Roger had a gym membership, but if he did, it would be a fancy one. Of course, I also didn’t know what benefits fancy gyms actually offered, since I avoided gyms in general. And fancy things, come to think of it.

Roger glanced at me sharply. “You mean you have class with the outlaw?”

Outlaw was his way of referring to my friend Glenn. “You know he’s not an outlaw. I mean, he might have been,” —I wasn’t sure what biker gang he’d been in back in the day, and The Outlaws wasn’t out of the question— “but he’s not anymore. He’s a respectable businessman.”

Roger rolled his eyes. Okay, Glenn owned a bar. But as a criminal defense attorney, most people would say Roger had no room to talk.

“What’s on the schedule for tonight, advanced shiv technique?” Roger asked. “Molotov cocktails made out of Schlitz bottles?”

Hands on hips, I bit my lip against my first response, instead saying, “I’m not sure Schlitz ever came in bottles. So what crawled up your butt and died, counselor?”

Roger ran his fingers through his dark hair, worn a little longer than usual, before raising the fat document and waving it like a challenge. “A lying bastard of a witness. And a particularly ambitious and amoral assistant state attorney.”

Flopping into a chair, I said, “I thought all the best ASAs already lived up your butt.”

An almost-smile flickered across his face. “In their dreams.” He tossed the paper back on his desk and added, “Sorry, Sydney.”

I shrugged. “You’re allowed. It’s Monday.”

“I should not be ‘allowed’ to be an asshole to you anytime,” he said, meeting my eyes like a good adult. “And it’s Tuesday.”

“Whatever. You’re forgiven,” I said, sliding lower in my chair as my blood sugar continued to drop. Roger’s loosened tie hung awkwardly, and the circles under his eyes matched his elegant gray suit. I asked, “Anything else have your boxers in a bunch?”

Roger and I have worked together for years, but he is a very private person. I’d only recently gotten a head count on his ex-wives (three). I wasn’t surprised when he shook his head and asked me, “So what’s the case that requires my considerable expertise?”

I told him about the Spencers and their tangled road to establishing a relationship with, and the safety of, their niece. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair, making it rock even though it wasn’t designed to do so.

“The only thing worse than criminal law is family law,” he said. “You have to deal with just as much dysfunction and drama, if not more. There’s still a strong likelihood of somebody’s life becoming irrevocably messed up. And your clients aren’t in jail or prison, so you actually have to see them.”

“Most attorneys have to see their incarcerated clients, too. They haven’t learned that’s what investigators are for,” I observed, earning another almost-smile. Roger’s refusal to see clients was legendary, and anyone who worked as a second chair attorney or investigator quickly learned what it was to become the Voice and Face of the Man.

“I’ll need to talk to someone who specializes in family law,” he said. “My instinct is that you’re right to tread carefully. It’s illegal to aid a runaway without notifying law enforcement.”

“What if the niece were emancipated? How would that change things?” I asked.

Roger’s mouth twisted and he shook his head. “Again, it’s been a while since I was exposed to any of this stuff, but my recollection is that it’s a lot harder to do in Florida than you might think. For a minor to be cut loose prior to the age of majority, generally, both parents have to consent. If the minor is orphaned… I don’t know, I guess there’d have to be a guardian ad litem.”

That meant someone appointed to specifically represent the child’s best interests, and even more time spent in court to make that happen. “I hate to be a pain,” I said, face squinting in anticipatory apology, “but the guy asked me to get back to him tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s fine. I have to be somewhere,” —he checked his watch and rose— “now, actually. But I’ll make some calls after. Theoretically you should be okay looking for her, but if this girl is a runaway, things will get complicated when you find her.”

“Of course they’ll get complicated,” I said, reluctantly standing from what had become a comfortable chair and following Roger to the door. “She’s a teenager.”

But I’d soon discover her hormones would be the least of my complications.