The Simple Truth by David Baldacci

  but now he did so without the uniform. Just a briefcase, a cheap suit and a fast mouth. Bullets exchanged for words. Till the end of his days. He put the photo back and sat down. However, he looked over at the photo, suddenly unable to concentrate.

  * * *

  A few days later, Sara Evans knocked and then opened the door to Michael Fiske’s office. It was empty. Michael had borrowed a book and she needed it back. She looked around the room but didn’t see it lying anywhere. Then she spotted his briefcase underneath the kneehole of his desk. She picked it up. From the weight, she knew there was something inside. The briefcase was locked, but she knew the combination from having borrowed his briefcase a couple of times before. She opened it and immediately saw two books and the papers inside. Neither book was the one she was looking for though. She was going to close it back up but then stopped. She pulled the papers out and then looked at the envelope they had come in. Addressed to the clerks’of-fice. She had just glanced at the handwritten page and then the typewritten letter when she heard footsteps. She put the papers back, closed the briefcase and slid it back under the desk. A moment later Michael walked in.

  “Sara, what are you doing here?”

  Sara did her best to look normal. “I just came looking for that book I had lent you last week.”

  “I’ve got it at home.” “Well, maybe I can come over for dinner and get it.” “I’m kind of busy.”

  “We’re all busy, Michael. But you’ve really been keeping to yourself lately. Are you sure you’re okay? Not cracking under the strain?” She smiled to show she was kidding. But Michael did look like he was cracking.

  “I’m fine, really. I’ll bring the book tomorrow.”

  “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he said a little angrily, his face flushing, but he calmed down quickly. “I’ve really got a lot of work to do.” He looked at the door.

  Sara went over and put her hand on the knob, then looked back. “Michael, if you need to talk about anything, I’m here for you.”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks.” He ushered her out and closed and locked the door. He went over to his desk and pulled out the briefcase. He looked at the contents and then over at the door.

  * * *

  Later that night, Sara pulled her car down the gravel drive and stopped in front of the small cottage located off the George Washington Parkway, a truly beautiful stretch of road. The cottage was the first thing she had ever owned and she had put a lot of work into fixing up the place. A stairway led down to the Potomac, where her small sailboat was docked. She and Michael had spent their rare free time sailing across the river to the Maryland side and then north under Memorial Bridge and then on to Georgetown. It was a haven of calm for them both, surrounded as they were by a sea of crisis at work. Michael had turned down her last offer to go sailing. In fact, he had turned down all of her get-together ideas the past week. At first she thought it was due to her rejecting his marriage offer, but after the encounter at his office, she knew that was not it. She struggled to remember precisely what she had seen in the briefcase. It was a filing, she was sure of that. And she had seen a name on the typewritten letter. It was Harms. She hadn’t remembered the first name. From the little she had been able to read before Michael walked in, apparently Harms was filing some sort of appeal with the Court. She didn’t know what about. There had been no signature at the bottom of the typewritten letter.

  She had gone directly to the clerks’ office to see if any case with the name Harms had been logged in. It hadn’t. She couldn’t believe she was thinking this, but had Michael taken an appeal before it had been processed and put into the system? If he had, that was a very serious crime. He could be fired from the Court — sent to jail, even.

  She went inside, changed into jeans and a T-shirt and walked back outside. It was already dark. Supreme Court clerks rarely made it home while it was still light, unless it was daybreak and they were coming home to shower and change clothes before going back to work. She walked down the stairs to the dock and sat on her boat. If only Michael would confide in her, she could help. Despite his words to the contrary, Michael had pulled back from her. He had not taken rejection well. Who would? she told herself.

  She abruptly jumped up and raced to the house, picked up the phone and started to dial his number, but then stopped. Michael Fiske was a stubborn man. If she confronted him on what she had seen, that could very well make matters worse. She put the phone back down. She would have to let him come to her. She went back outside and looked at the water. A jet flew by and she automatically waved to it, a ritual of hers. Indeed, the planes were so low at this point that, had it been light, a passenger on the plane could have seen her waving. When her hand dropped back down, she felt more depressed than she had since her father had passed away, leaving her all alone.

  After that loss, she had started life anew. Gone to the West Coast for law school, where she had excelled, clerked at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and then taken a job with the Supreme Court. That’s when she had sold the farm in North Carolina and bought this place. She wasn’t running from her old life, or from the sadness that gripped her whenever she dwelled on her parents not being around either to see her accomplishments, or to simply hold her. At least she didn’t think she was. When the day came for her to leave the Court, she had no idea what she wanted to do. In the legal arena, she could go anywhere. The trouble was, she didn’t even know if she wanted the law to be part of her life. Three years of law school, a year at the court of appeals, starting on her second year up here, she was creeping close to burnout.

  She thought of her father, a farmer and also the town’s justice of the peace. He had no fancy courtroom. He often dispensed sound and fair justice while perched on his tractor in the field or while washing up for dinner. To Sara, that was what the law was, what it meant to most people, or at least what it should mean. A search for the truth, and then the handing down of justice after that truth was found. No hidden agendas, no word games, simply common sense applied to the facts. She sighed. But it was never that simple. She knew that better than most.

  She went back inside, stood on a chair and snared a pack of cigarettes off the top of the cabinet in the kitchen. She sat on the glider on the back porch overlooking the water. She looked up at the clear sky and located the Big Dipper. Her dad had been an avid, if amateur, astronomer, and had taught her many of the constellations. Sara often used the stars to sail by, a practice she had picked up while at Stanford. On a clear night, you could never lose the stars, and with them you could never be truly lost. That was comforting. As she smoked her cigarette, she hoped Michael knew what he was doing.

  Her next thoughts turned to another Fiske: John. Michael’s comment about his brother had been close to the mark despite her protests. At the very first instant she had seen John Fiske, something had clicked in all the important conduits of her heart, brain and soul that she simply had no way to explain. She did not believe that significant emotions could be aroused to such an intensity that quickly. It just didn’t happen. But that was why she was so confused, because, in a way, that’s exactly what had occurred to her. Every movement John Fiske made, every word he spoke, every time he made eye contact with someone, or simply laughed, smiled or frowned, she felt as though she could watch him forever and never grow tired of it. She almost laughed at the absurdity. But then again, how crazy could it be when it was how she felt?

  And that wasn’t her only observation of the man. Unknown to Michael, she had checked with a friend at the courthouse in Richmond and found out Fiske’s trial schedule for a two-week period. She had been amazed at how often the man was in court. She had gone down once more during the summer when things were slower at the Supreme Court, and watched John Fiske argue at a sentencing hearing. She had worn a scarf and glasses, just in case she was ever introduced to him later on, or in case he had seen her the first time she had come to watch him with Michael.

  She ha
d listened to him argue forcefully for his client. As soon as he had finished, the judge had put the man away for life. His client led away to begin his prison term, Fiske packed his briefcase and left the courtroom. Outside, Sara had watched as Fiske had attempted to comfort the man’s family. The wife was thin and sickly, her face covered with bruises and welts.

  Fiske spoke a few words to the wife, hugged her and then turned to the oldest son, a young man of fourteen who already looked to be a committed slave of the street.

  “You’re the man of the house now, Lucas. You have to look after your family,” said Fiske.

  Sara studied the teenager. The anger in his face was painful to see. How could someone so young have all that hostility inside him?

  “Uh-huh,” Lucas said, staring at the wall. He was dressed for gang work, a bandanna covered his head. He wore clothes one could not afford flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

  Fiske knelt down and looked at the other son. Enis was six years old, cute as the devil and usually bubbly.

  “Hey, Enis, how you doing?” Fiske asked, holding out his hand.

  Enis warily shook Fiske’s hand. “Where’s my daddy?”

  “He had to go away for a while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Cause he kill — ” Lucas started to say before Fiske cut him off with the sharpest of looks. Lucas muttered an expletive, threw off his mother’s shaky hand and stalked away.

  Fiske looked back at Enis. “Your daddy did something he’s not too proud of. Now he’s going away to make up for it.”

  “Jail?” Enis asked. Fiske nodded.

  As Sara observed this exchange it occurred to her that today Fiske, and adults in general, probably felt foolish and inadequate in these situations, like sitcom characters from the 1950s trying to deal with a second millennium child. Even at six years old Enis probably knew a great deal about the criminal justice system. In fact, the little boy probably knew far more about the evil parts of life than many adults ever would.

  “When’s he getting out?” Enis asked.

  Fiske looked up at the wife and then back at the little boy. “Not for a real long time, Enis. But your mom’s going to be here.”

  “Okay, then,” Enis said with little emotion. He took his mom’s hand and they left.

  Sara watched as Fiske looked after the pair for a moment. Again, she could almost feel what he was thinking. One son perhaps lost forever, the other casually leaving his father behind, like a stray dog on the street.

  Finally, Fiske had loosened his tie and walked off.

  Sara wasn’t exactly sure why, but she decided to follow him. Fiske kept a slow pace, and she easily was able to keep him in sight. The bar he entered was a little slit in the wall, its windows dark. Sara hesitated and then went in.

  Fiske was at the bar. He had obviously already ordered because the bartender was sliding a beer across to him. She quickly went to a back booth and sat down. Despite its dingy appearance, the bar was fairly full and it was barely five o’clock. There was an interesting mixture of working class and downtown office dwellers in here. Fiske sat between two construction workers, their yellow hard hats on the bar in front of them. Fiske slipped his jacket off and sat on it. His shoulders were as broad as the burly men’s next to him. Sara noted that his shirt was untucked and fell over the back of his pants. The way his dark hair covered the back of his neck and touched the white of his shirt held her gaze for some time.

  He was talking to the men on either side of him. The workers laughed heartily at something Fiske had said, and Sara felt herself smile even though she hadn’t heard it. A waitress finally came over and Sara ordered a ginger ale. She continued to watch Fiske sitting at the bar. He was not joking around anymore. He stared at the wall so intently Sara caught herself looking at it too. All she saw were bottles of beer and liquor, neatly arranged; Fiske obviously observed far more. He had already ordered a second beer, and when it arrived he held the bottle to his lips until it was empty. She noticed that his hands were large, the fingers thick and strong-looking. They didn’t look like the hands of someone who spent all his time pushing a pencil or sitting in front of a computer screen.

  Fiske slapped some money down, grabbed his jacket and turned around. For an instant Sara thought she felt his eyes upon her. He hesitated a moment and then pulled his jacket on. The corner she was in was dark. She didn’t believe he had seen her, but why had he hesitated? A little nervous now, she waited an extra minute or so before she rose and left, leaving a couple of singles behind for her drink.

  She didn’t see him as she came back out into the sunlight. Just like that, as though in a dream, he was gone. On an impulse she went back into the bar and asked the bartender if he knew John. He shook his head. She wanted to ask some more questions, but the bartender’s expression signaled that he would not be communicative if she did.

  The construction workers eyed her with a great deal of interest. She decided to leave before things turned uncomfortable for her. Sara walked back to her car and climbed in. Half of her had wanted to run into Fiske somehow, the other part of her was glad that she hadn’t. What would she say anyway? Hello, I work with your brother and I’m sort of stalking you?

  She had driven back to northern Virginia that night, had two beers herself, and fallen asleep in the glider on her rear deck. The same one she was sitting in right now as she smoked her cigarette and watched the sky. That had been the last time she had seen John Fiske, almost four months ago.

  She couldn’t be in love with him, since she didn’t even know the man; infatuation was far more likely. Maybe if she ever did meet Fiske it would destroy her impression of him.

  She wasn’t a believer in destiny, though. If anything was going to happen between them, it would probably be up to her to make the first move. She was just totally confused as to what that first move should be.

  Sara put out her cigarette and stared at the sky. She felt like going for a sail. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair, the tickle of water spray against her skin, the sting of rope against her palm. But right now, she didn’t want to experience any of those things alone. She wanted to do them with someone, someone in particular. But with what little Michael had told her about John Fiske, and what she had seen of the man herself, she doubted that would ever happen.

  * * *

  A hundred miles south, John Fiske too gazed up at the sky for a moment as he got out of his car. The Buick wasn’t in the driveway, but Fiske had not come to see his father anyway. The neighborhood was quiet other than a couple of teenagers two doors down working on a Chevy with an engine so big it looked like it had ruptured through the car’s hood.

  Fiske had just spent all day in a trial. He had presented his case, warts and all, as best he could. The ACA had vigorously represented the commonwealth. Eight hours of intense sparring, and Fiske had barely had time to go to the john to take a leak before the jury came back with a guilty verdict. It was his guy’s third strike. He was gone for good. The ironic thing was Fiske really believed him innocent of this particular charge — not something he could say with most of his clients. But his guy had beat so many other raps, maybe the jury was just unconsciously evening the score. To top it off, he’d die of old age waiting for the rest of his legal fee to come. Prisoners for life seldom bothered about settling their debts, particularly debts to their loser attorneys.

  Fiske went into the backyard, opened the side door to the garage, went in and pulled a beer from the fridge. The humidity still lay over them like a damp blanket, and he held the cold bottle against his temple, letting the chill sink deep. At the very rear of the yard was a small stand of bent trees and a long-dead grapevine still tightly wrapped around rusty poles and wire. Fiske went back there and leaned up against one of the elms. He looked down at a recessed spot in the grass. Here was buried Bo, the Belgian shepherd the Fiske brothers had grown up with. Their father had brought the dog home one day when Bo was no bigger than his fist. Within a year or so he had grown
into a big-chested, sixty-pound, black and white beauty that both boys adored, Mike especially. Bo would follow them on their morning paper routes, taking turns with the two boys. They had had almost nine years of intense pleasure together before Bo had toppled over from a stroke while Mike was playing with him. John had never seen anyone cry that hard in his whole life. Neither his mother nor his father could console Mike. He had sat in the backyard bawling, holding the dog’s bushy coat, trying to make him stand up again, to go play with him in the sunshine. John had held his brother tightly that day, cried with him, stroked the still head of their beloved shepherd.

  When Mike had gone to school the next day, John had stayed behind with his father to bury the dog here. When Mike had come home they all had attended a little service in the backyard for Bo. Mike had read with great conviction from the Bible and the brothers had placed a little headstone, actually a chunk of cinder block, with Bo’s name scrawled on it in pen, at the head of the simple grave. The piece of cinder block was still there, though the ink had long since vanished.

  Fiske knelt down and ran his hand along the grass, so smooth and fine in this shaded spot. Damn, they had loved that dog so much. Why did the past have to recede so quickly? Why did one always recall the good times as being so brief? He shook his head, and then the voice startled him.

  “I remember that old dog like it was yesterday.”

  He looked up at Ida German, who stood on the other side of the fence staring at him. He rose, looking a little embarrassed. “It was a long time ago, Ms. German.”

  The woman smelled perpetually of beef and onions, as did her house, Fiske knew. A widow for nearly thirty years now, she moved slowly, her body shrunken, squat and thick. Her long housecoat covered veiny, splotched legs and bloated ankles. But at nearly ninety years old, her mind was still clear, her words crisp.

  “Everything’s a long time ago with me. Not with you. Not just yet. How’s your momma?”

  “Holding her own.”

  “I’ve been meaning to get over there to see her soon, but this old body just doesn’t have the get up and go it used to.”

  “I’m sure she’d love seeing you.”

  “Your daddy went out a while ago. American Legion or VFW, I think.”

  “Good, I’m glad to see he’s getting out. And I appreciate you keeping him company.”

  “Isn’t any fun being alone. I’ve outlived three of my own children. Hardest thing in the world for a parent to do is bury their babies. Ain’t natural. How’s Mike? Don’t see him much.”

  “He keeps pretty busy.”

  “Who would’ve thought that chubby-cheeked little tow-head would’ve gone on to do what he’s done? Mind-boggling, if you ask me.”

  “He’s earned it.” Fiske stopped for a moment. That had just slipped out. But his brother had earned it.

  “You both have.”

  “I think Mike hit it a little higher than I did.”