Night Fever. Diana Palmer
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Becky, and thank you,” he said brusquely, with his hand over the receiver. He glanced at one of his colleagues. “Kilpatrick just walked in the door. How’s that for timing?”
Becky passed the cups of coffee quietly and received mumbled thank-yous from Harley and Jarard. Bob began to speak into the telephone again.
“Listen, Kilpatrick, all I want is a conference. I’ve got some new evidence I want you to see.” Her boss banged his fist on the desk and his swarthy face reddened. “Dammit, man, do you have to be so inflexible?!” He sighed angrily, “All right, all right. I’ll be up in five minutes.” He slammed the receiver down. “My God, I’m praying he won’t run for reelection,” he said heavily. “This is only the second week I’ve had to deal with him, and I’m already sweating blood! Give me Dan Wade any day!”
Dan Wade was the Atlanta judicial circuit’s D.A. Becky knew he was a nice man. But here in Curry County, the district attorney was Rourke Kilpatrick. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, her employer had just gotten off on the wrong foot with Kilpatrick. He was probably every bit as nice as Dan Wade when you got to know him.
She started to point this out to Mr. Malcolm when Harley broke in. “Can you blame him?” Harley asked. “He’s had more death threats in the past month over this drug war than any president. He’s a hard man, and he won’t back down. I’ve had a couple of cases down here before, and I know Kilpatrick’s reputation. He can’t be bought. He’s a law-and-order man from the feet up.”
Bob sat back in his plush leather chair. “I get cold chills remembering how Kilpatrick once eviscerated a witness of mine on the stand. She actually had to be tranquilized after she testified.”
“Is Mr. Kilpatrick really that bad?” Becky asked with soft curiosity.
“Yes,” her boss replied. “You’ve never met him, have you? He’s working here in this building now, temporarily, while his office is being redecorated. It’s part of that courthouse renovation the county commission voted in. It’s pretty convenient for us to go up a floor rather than over to the courthouse. Of course, Kilpatrick hates it.”
“Kilpatrick hates most everything, including people.” Hague grinned. “They say that mean temperament comes from his heritage. He’s part Indian—Cherokee, to be exact. His mother came here to live with his father’s people when Kilpatrick’s father died. She died pretty soon afterward, so Kilpatrick became the ward of his uncle. The uncle was the head of one of the founding families of Curry Station and he literally forced Kilpatrick down local society’s throats. He was a federal judge,” he added, smiling. “I guess that’s where Kilpatrick learned his love of the law. Uncle Kilpatrick, you see, couldn’t be bought.”
“Well, I’ll go up anyway and offer him my soul on behalf of our shady client,” Bob Malcolm said. “Harley, get the brief ready for the Bronson trial, if you don’t mind. And Jarard, Tyler’s down at the clerk’s office working on that estate suit you’re researching.”
“Okay. I’ll get busy,” Harley said with a smile. “You might send Becky up to work on Kilpatrick. She might soften him up.”
Malcolm laughed gently. “He’d eat her for breakfast,” he told the other man. He turned to Becky. “You can help Maggie while I’m away, if you don’t mind. There’s some filing to catch up.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Good luck.”
He whistled, smiling back. “I’ll need it.”
She watched him go with a wistful sigh. He was a caring kind of person, even if he did have the temper of a barracuda.
Maggie showed her the filing that needed doing with an indulgent smile. The petite, thin black woman had been with the firm for twenty years, and she knew where all the bodies were buried. Becky had wondered sometimes if that was why Maggie had job security, because she had a sharp tongue—she could be hard on clients and new secretaries alike. But fortunately, she and Becky got along very well—they even had lunch together from time to time. Maggie was the only person she could talk to except Granddad.
Jessica, the elegant blond secretary on the other side of the office, was Mr. Hague and Mr. Randers’s secretary. She enjoyed her status as Mr. Hague’s after-hours escort—he wasn’t married or likely to be anytime soon—and she primped a lot. Tess Coleman was one of the paralegals—a just-married young blonde with a friendly smile. Nettie Hayes, a black law student, was the other paralegal. The receptionist was Connie Blair, a vivacious brunette who was unmarried and in no hurry to change her status. Becky got along well with the rest of the office staff, but Maggie was still her favorite.
“They’re going to buy a new coffee urn, by the way,” Maggie mentioned while Becky filed. “I can go shopping for it tomorrow.”
“I could go,” Becky offered.
“No, dear, I’ll do it,” Maggie said with a smile. “I want to pick up a present for my sister-in-law while I’m out. She’s expecting.”
Becky smiled back, but halfheartedly. Life was passing her by. She’d never even had a real date, except to go to a VFW Club dance with the grandson of a friend of her grandfather, and that had been a real bust. The boy smoked pot and liked to party, and he didn’t understand why Becky didn’t.
The word around the office was that Becky was an old-fashioned girl. In such a confined society, eligible bachelors were pretty rare anyway, and the few who were left weren’t looking for instant matrimony. Becky had hoped that when the law firm moved to Curry Station, she might have a little more opportunity for a social life. For a suburban area, it did at least have a small-town atmosphere. But even if she found someone to date, how could she afford to get serious about anybody? She couldn’t leave her grandfather alone, and who’d look after Clay and Mack? Daydreams, she thought miserably. She was being sacrificed to look after her family, and there just wasn’t any way out. Her father knew that, but he didn’t care. That was hard to take, too—that he could see how overworked she was and it didn’t even matter to him. That he could go away for two years and not even call or write to see how his kids were.
“You missed two files, Becky,” Maggie said, interrupting her thoughts. “Don’t be careless, dear,” she added with an affectionate smile.
“Yes, Maggie,” Becky said quietly, and put her mind to the job.
She drove home late that afternoon in her white Thunderbird. It was one of the older models with bucket seats and a small, squarish body with a Landau roof. But it was still the most elegant thing she’d ever driven, with its burgundy velour seats and power windows, and she loved it, car payments and all.
She’d had to go downtown to pick up some files from one of the attorneys who’d left before the firm moved. She hated midtown Atlanta, and was glad not to be working there anymore, but today it seemed even more hectic than usual. She found a spot in a car park, got the files, and hurried back out—just in time to get in the thick of rush hour.
The traffic going past the Tenth Street exit was terrible, and it got worse past the Omni. But down around Grady Hospital, it began to thin out, and by the time she passed the stadium and the exit to the Hartsfield International Airport, she was able to relax again.
Twenty minutes down the road, she crossed into Curry County, and five minutes later, she rounded the square in Curry Station, still several minutes away from the massive suburban office complex where her bosses had their new offices.
Curry Station looked pretty much the way it had since the Civil War. The obligatory Confederate soldier guarded the town square with his musket, surrounded by benches where old men could sit on a sunny Saturday afternoon and pass the time of day. There was a drugstore, a dry goods store, a grocery, and a newly remodeled theater.
Curry Station still had its magnificent old red-brick courthouse with the huge clock, and it was here that superior court and state court were convened during its sessions. It was also here that the district attorney had his office, which they said was being remodeled. She was curious about Mr. Kilpatrick. She knew of the Kilpatricks,