That was the first – and easiest – part of the plan over with.
Oryński walked towards Nowy Świat Street. He wanted another coffee and something to eat, but first he had another matter to attend to. He took out his mobile, remembering Żelazny’s warning about phones generating magnetic fields. Somehow, ever since then, it had seemed heavier when he carried it near his heart. He dialled Chyłka’s number and, still walking briskly, waited for her to answer.
‘What’s up, Zordi?’
That put him off his stroke.
‘Hello?’ said Joanna. ‘Are you there?’
‘I don’t know how to respond to that.’
‘Great. In that case, I’ll call you Zordi from now on.’
‘But . . .’
‘Have you filed the letter?’ she asked in passing, already preoccupied with other things. Perhaps she was setting a date to visit Langer to let him know everything had been taken care of and that they’d soon be fighting in court for his freedom.
‘I’m going to the court now,’ replied Oryński. ‘Also, I’m wondering if you could give me a lift later on? It’s so bloody hot.’
This was taking a huge risk, like balancing over a precipice. Kordian assumed that Chyłka would be too busy at this time of day, but if, on a whim, she agreed, then his entire plan would fall apart.
‘Chyłka?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I have to go to hospital for some routine tests.’
‘Take a taxi, I’ll refund you,’ she muttered. She wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation, thank God.
‘OK. It’ll take me some time though, and I probably won’t make it back to work today.’
‘You want the day off, Zordi?’
‘I’d rather rot in the newbie-burrow than get these jabs and things.’
‘I hope Roske will be gentle with the enema,’ she said. ‘And stop whingeing, you’ve got the rest of the day off.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Ask again and I’ll change my mind.’
That took a load off his mind. He’d hoped the hospital excuse would settle the matter, but things could have gone very wrong.
‘I’ve got to go now, whinger.’
‘OK, see you tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, see you,’ she said and hung up.
He looked at the phone, put it away in his pocket and walked along Marszałkowska towards Moniuszko Street. From there it was no more than ten minutes to the Starbucks in Nowy Świat. He needed a serious shot of caffeine, and the white chocolate mocha just hadn’t done the trick. He needed a pitch-black, freshly brewed Pike Place coffee.
He sat outside with his coffee and a chocolate muffin, calmly watching the pedestrians and cars. He felt he was no longer part of this world; the moment he had handed over the documents he found himself in a new place, one that was difficult to define.
Was he really considering collaborating with the mafia? When they’d talked about that twenty thousand, for a moment he was. But sitting outside Starbucks, he realised it was absurd. Was he really prepared to be an in-house lawyer for an organised crime gang?
There were some in the legal community who’d jump at the chance. For most, however, it would be worse than defending a child murderer.
On the other hand, if his actions came to light, he might have no other choice. The offer had been made. If it was genuine, he’d also have to consider the fact that Gorzym was not a man who took rejection lightly. Either Kordian agreed to take the job, or they’d dump his body in the Vistula on a cloudy autumn night.
It didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, now he had to think of the excuses he’d have to make in the office. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had a plan he hoped would work. But it was crucial that no one said anything more about the matter today.
After the telephone conversation, he didn’t have to worry about Chyłka. Langer couldn’t check whether the appeal had been filed on time, and no one at Żelazny & McVay had any reason to interfere.
Oryński took a sip of coffee and sighed with relief. He was convinced he had saved not just himself, but also Joanna. He was a hero, though probably no one else would ever know. He repeated this to himself a few times.
And then he realised that he’d failed everyone miserably.
It really only sank in the following morning, when he opened his eyes and realised that the final deadline for filing the cassation appeal was gone forever.
It took him a while to get himself together – for half an hour he stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror, repeatedly rinsing his face in cold water. The previous day he had not stopped at two shots of coffee in Starbucks. At home, he had several more large cups of coffee and then started on the beer. He had hardly slept, and looked like a ghost. Standing in front of the mirror, seeing the dark circles under his swollen eyes, he was overcome with lethargy.
But there was no turning back. He had to implement the next part of his plan. Yesterday, when he was tired and stressed, it had seemed like a flash of genius. Today it just looked foolish.
He pulled a shirt he had worn two days earlier out of the laundry basket, and carelessly knotted his tie. Ten minutes later he trudged down the stairs, his heart in his mouth.
He had no idea how to start the conversation with Chyłka. Nothing, not even the best lie, could get him out of this hopeless situation. Joanna’s anger would be boundless, and would last as long as the earth kept orbiting the sun.
He walked to the tram stop. With each passing minute he felt more and more like a Judas, and less and less like a hero. But he had to play out his role in front of Chyłka.
As he knocked on Joanna’s office door, his heart was pounding. This was the wrong time of day to intrude on her privacy, but today that was about as relevant as the price of butter.
Kordian walked straight in.
‘Will you ever learn? From morning till noon I’m busy working, and you are not allowed to pester me. When you were injured, that was an exception, because I felt sorry for you.’ She looked up from her monitor, frowned, and then winced. ‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. And that’s a polite understatement, because you actually look more like something that’s been through an animal’s digestive tract.’
Oryński closed the door behind him, and sat down in his usual place without saying a word. He hoped he looked like a condemned man walking up the steps to the guillotine.
‘What’s up?’
He remained silent, judging it to be a better introduction than anything he could say.
‘Has something happened? Tell me.’
‘I . . .’
‘Yes, you.’
When she saw he couldn’t utter another word, Joanna’s face fell. She knew that expression. She had seen it with clients who had inadvertently killed someone.
‘Speak, Zordon, what happened?’
‘It’s gone, Chyłka . . .’
‘What’s gone?’ she asked, although she already knew.
‘The cassation appeal, deadline, everything, gone . . .’
‘How?’
Oryński looked up, just a little. Just to see if she was already furious. But she looked quite calm, if perhaps a little incredulous.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Chyłka,’ he said. ‘God, I’m really sorry.’
‘Tell me,’ she repeated. ‘What happened?’
Kordian shook his head and winced, as if saying another word would only make matters worse. Finally, he began to describe in painstaking detail what had supposedly happened the previous day. He cursed and swore, burying his head in his hands as if it was causing him unimaginable pain. That, he did not have to imagine. He really did feel like a scumbag, and the embarrassment and shame were genuine. Only the reason was different.
He began his account with what happened after their telephone conversation. He told her he had decided to go to the courthouse via the Saxon Garden, which turned out to be the worst decision of his life. With the file under his arm, he felt quite relaxed, not expecting any problems. Then suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him. Before he knew it, he was lying face down, half conscious and paralysed with terror.
He said it all quite chaotically – at least he hoped it seemed that way.
‘Perhaps there were two of them. I’m not sure . . . when I came to, the file was gone. I immediately thought of that Bald Man.’
Kordian paused. He knew Joanna would start pelting him with questions. Why hadn’t he phoned, or printed out a new copy and rushed off to the nearest post office to get it rubber-stamped? He was prepared for it and began explaining himself even before she asked.
Still muttering nervously, he explained that he was in a state of shock – the trauma of his previous encounter with that thug had returned. He was disoriented and overcome by a paralysing fear so great that he couldn’t even lift himself up off the ground. He just lay there under a tree, covered with dirt. He lay there, waiting for them to come back and finish him off.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ he added. ‘It’s as if someone put a gun to your head and was ready to pull the trigger . . . and then . . . I don’t know. I chickened out, Chyłka. I simply chickened out. I wanted to phone you, get to the office, anything . . . but I was paralysed with fear. Completely fucking overcome . . .’
‘Don’t say any more,’ she interrupted. There was no bitterness in her voice, but neither was there any compassion. It was as if she was talking to one of her clients.
For a moment there was silence.
‘Go to the newbie-burrow.’
‘Chyłka, I . . .’
She raised her hand and pointed to the door. He nodded, got up and left the room without a word. Their relationship was over.