CHAPTER 56

“Can you believe this sleazeball?” Marcy Faith shouts into the camera.

“She’s talking about you,” Flan says to me.

“I’m aware.”

We’re standing at the bar downstairs, Seamus now more than willing to raise the volume for this, news of the Kevin Corvelli-Erin Simms sex tape that has apparently been making the rounds on the Internet the past three hours.

“Beautiful setting,” Jake says of Erin’s lanai overlooking Kaneohe Bay. “I like the way they were able to capture Chinaman’s Hat in the background.”

“Quality’s good, too,” Flan says. “Even the stills. Have you seen the stills yet, Seamus?”

“Yeah,” Seamus replies, “one of my favorite porn site’s got them. Uncensored, too!”

“Nice.”

“There’s your mistrial, right there, son,” Jake says to me. “Or your suspension.”

“Or disbarment,” Flan throws in.

Jake shrugs. “Is doing your client even prohibited in the Hawaii Ethics Code?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I never bothered reading it.”

“You don’t say.”

“It is one of Milt Cashman’s Ten Commandments, however,” I tell him as I pull out a barstool. “Double Glenlivet on the rocks, Seamus.”

“On the house,” he says.

Well, that’s something at least.

*   *   *

Two hours later Flan and I are still sitting at a booth in Sand Bar, Jake having taken off for home.

“I’m not putting on a defense,” I tell Flan. “I’ve just decided.”

“You sure that’s a decision you wanna make after throwing back a fifth of Glenlivet?” he says.

I set my glass down. “Seems to be the only time I’m me.”

Flan rests a hand atop the manila folder full of photos I had Hoshi bring down from the conference room a half hour ago. “Then do you still need digital copies of these photos, or should I forget it?”

“Might as well get them,” I say, trying to get the rim of the rocks glass to my lips again. “Won’t cost much. Besides, Harper and Corvelli’s about to pull in six hundred grand on a bail assignment.”

On the table Flan’s cell phone starts dancing around.

“Go ahead,” I say, as though he needed permission. “Tell Casey I said hi.”

Flan stares at the Caller ID. “It’s Baron Lee,” he says. He puts the phone to his ear and has a conversation that I don’t bother listening to. I’m thinking that over the weekend I’ll have to prepare my closing statement.

If only I had someone to point to.

Flan sets down the phone, takes a pull off his Bushmills, then looks up at me. “Not going to believe this,” he tells me.

“What, is FOX News showing pictures of me on the can?”

“Maybe, but that’s small news compared to this, Kev.”

“Let’s hear it, Flan.”

“That unknown print on your Maserati,” he says, “Baron Lee’s found a match.”

“And?”

“And I think this bit of news better wait until you sober up a bit. Because now the shit’s really about to hit the fan.”