SIX days later, at 7:00 A.M. on June 20—a Thursday—Mona kissed Finn goodbye, got into her RAV, and headed for Paradise.
She was going to a dispute-resolution session mandated by the court. She had tried to get it moved to LA, but the judge wouldn’t countenance it. “You are the one who wanted to have this case heard in my court, Ms. Jimenez,” she had said. So now Mona was on the road again, driving her little RAV into the ground. The only consolation was that Wolfeson, White had to send someone, too. She anticipated that they would send a junior lawyer rather than one of their high billers. She doubted they expected any more from the session than she did; in the mercenary world of corporate litigation, the judiciary’s attempt to encourage cooperation through alternative dispute resolution was a quixotic boondoggle.
It was still cool when she left Redondo, but a heat wave was predicted. They were forecasting temperatures were over one hundred degrees out in the desert. By 10:00 A.M., Mona had reached the 215 at Riverside, and she didn’t need her cardigan anymore. An hour later, driving past Palm Springs on the I-10, Mona could taste the heat in the air flowing through the open windows. She put them up and switched on the AC. Immediately, the vent started rattling.
For the last hundred miles, through city and suburb, desert and mountain, the defective air-conditioning rattling constantly in the background, Mona mulled the same questions over and over, worked them over in her mind the way a kid works over a Rubik’s Cube in his hands, looking at it from all sides. What happened to Carmen? What did $5.8 million buy the BSCA? Who was behind Loyola Holdings? What had Maws been trying to say when he had shouted, “Lawyer is lost”? How was it all linked?
Mona reached the Paradise courthouse at 1 P.M. She stepped out of her air-conditioned car and into the baking heat and made her way inside.
The court had set aside a conference room for the session. Mona was surprised to see that the Wolfeson, White contingent had arrived early. She was even more surprised to see that Morrison Scott himself was there.
“Mr. Scott, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said.
“My dear, I am a firm believer in mutually beneficial accommodation,” he said with an avuncular grin.
The mediator—a man who affected thick-rimmed spectacles, an open collar, and stubble—began by introducing himself (his name was Gerard Mellon, a Paradise native), listing his qualifications (he had a community college certificate in general mediation), and the practical aspects of the day: the schedule, the confidentiality agreement, the rules of conduct.
Then he invited everyone to close their eyes and visualize their ideal outcome.
Mona groaned inwardly. This is going to be a long afternoon, she thought.
Four hours later, she headed back to her car. Her intuition had been right: neither she nor Morrison Scott had budged on any point of contention. The case was going to trial.
She turned on the ignition and set the air-conditioning to maximum when there was a knock on the glass. Morrison Scott was standing outside her door. She rolled down the window.
“Would you do me the kindness of meeting me for a drink, Ms. Jimenez?”
Mona considered. To avoid having to drive back to LA the same day, she had booked herself a room again at the Eden Inn. She had nothing planned that evening but an early night.
“I noticed a bar on Main Street called Paradise Karaoke,” said Scott. “I’m sure that if we go early enough we can avoid the karaoke component.”
Mona smiled. “I’ll see you there in an hour.”
Mona drove to the Eden Inn, ten minutes outside town, and took a shower. She consolidated her notes from the mediation session. Then she headed back into town.
She found Paradise Karaoke in a commercial court off Main Street near the intersection with the old highway. A few vehicles were parked outside the bar, all pickup trucks. Mona found a vacant spot next to a gleaming black Ram crew cab. Even its tires sparkled. In contrast, her RAV was covered in dust. The windshield had two angel wings on them, where she had used her wipers and washer jet to clear away the grime and smashed insects.
She went inside. Scott had taken up residence in a booth. He stood when Mona appeared and waited for her to slide onto the bench opposite him before sitting again. A cheerful young person poured her a glass of ice water before she’d asked for it.
“Could I have a vodka martini, please?” said Mona, pushing away the water.
“Martini. What a good idea,” said Scott. He ordered one, too. The young person skipped away.
“I’ve been authorized by the Border Security Corporation of America to make you an offer,” said Scott. “However, it wasn’t convenient to make the offer during the mediation session, due to Mr. Mellon’s rather tedious insistence on keeping a detailed record.”
“I see. So it’s an off-the-record offer?” said Mona.
Scott smiled. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and put it on the table in front of Mona.
“More than I’d expected,” she said. “You must be expensive.”
Mona understood now why Scott had made the trip all the way to Paradise. The BSCA’s insurance company, Chattel House, was hoping to reduce its exposure. If they could reach a settlement that amounted to less than the fee that Scott would charge for taking the case to trial, they would consider it a win. She knew also that the offer came with strings attached; the BSCA would insist that the settlement would in no way signify legal accountability. They would pay money, but they would not accept any responsibility for Carmen’s death. They wouldn’t want to set a precedent.
The waitperson brought their martinis. Or what the barkeep thought passed for a martini. The vodka was barely chilled, and Mona couldn’t taste any vermouth.
Scott took a sip, screwed up his eyes, and put down his glass. “Goodness, California is overrated. If you ever come to Washington, I hope you’ll let me make up for this abomination,” he said. “The man behind the bar at the Willard InterContinental is a friend of mine. Nobody in the world makes a better martini than Jim at the Willard InterContinental.”
“We’re a long way from Washington, Mr. Scott.”
He chuckled. “It would be a mistake to think that anywhere is a long way from Washington, Ms. Jimenez. Even Paradise.”
Mona ate the olives from her martini. The rest she left in the glass. Scott was right; it was an abomination.
“If that’s some kind of oblique threat, you’ve picked the wrong woman, Mr. Scott. Don’t think I don’t know who Michael Marvin is. But I’m not afraid of him. You know why?”
Scott smiled, shook his head.
“Because I’m too busy to be scared,” said Mona.
Scott laughed. “I admire your moxie, Ms. Jimenez.”
Mona held up the piece of paper. “Would you take this deal, Mr. Scott?”
“Certainly not.”
Now it was Mona’s turn to smile. “There’s another thing we have in common,” she said.
“What is the first thing?”
“We both know what a proper martini should taste like.”
He laughed. “You won’t beat me in court, you know. You may be an excellent litigator, but you have no friends. You’ve spent your career representing the powerless, and now you have no power. Me, on the other hand—when powerful people need a lawyer, they call me. And now I am the most sought-after trial lawyer in this country.”
“I bet you drive a white Porsche,” she said.
Scott affected a look of distaste. “Goodness, how vulgar. I don’t drive anything, Ms. Jimenez. I have a driver. He picks me up in my Bentley. In British racing green. Now, what answer shall I give the company?”
Mona shook her head. “It’s a no, Mr. Scott.”
After Scott left, Mona stayed in the bar and ordered a burger and beer for dinner. Paradise Karaoke may not have been able to produce a proper martini, but they could do the basics. Feeling restored and ready for bed, Mona checked the time on her phone. It was a quarter to eight. She settled up and got out of there just as they were turning on the karaoke machine.
Out in the parking lot, she saw the Ram pulling out. She glanced at the driver. He had a black mustache and black hair. He was staring at her. Mona’s blood froze in her veins. Soto.
The truck exited the lot and was gone.
Mona ran to her car, got in, and locked the doors. There was no one in the lot but her, but she still locked the doors. Her hands were shaking.
“It wasn’t him,” she said out loud. “It couldn’t have been him.”
She told herself that she was exhausted, that it had been a long day, that the heat was oppressive, that her nerves were frayed, that she should’ve skipped the beer.
Mona picked up her phone to call Finn. But she put it down without dialing him. “What are you going to say?” she said out loud. “You just saw Carmen’s psycho boyfriend in a parking lot?”
She started the car and exited the parking lot. By the time she was on the interstate driving back toward the motel, her hands had almost stopped shaking. She kept her foot steady on the gas, the RAV moving along with its unambitious, reliable engine. She drove out of Paradise and then through the few miles of desert between the town and the Eden Inn. Soon the repetition of roadside electricity poles, the rhythmic thump of her wheels passing over the joins in the asphalt, the desert shrubs merging into one, the stars coming out, put her almost in a meditative state. The adrenaline surge now dissipated. Either side of her, the highway dipped away a bit, and then it was desert, sand and scrubs as far as she could see. Soon, she thought, it would be dark, and desperate people would emerge from the dunes and hollows and start moving north, while border agents with night-vision goggles would search for the heat coming off their bodies. She kept the radio off. She didn’t want to break her somber state of mind. She saw the neon sign for the Eden Inn up ahead. The E was flickering, so that one second the sign read Eden, the next just den. Mona heard a rattling sound. Irritated, she glanced at the vents in her dash. She really needed to get that fixed.
Then she realized she hadn’t turned on the AC. The rattling wasn’t coming from the vents.
It was coming from under her seat.
Her throat went dry. Her heart banged to get out. Headlights from a vehicle heading the other way lit up the inside of her car.
Something smooth and strong and cold brushed against her leg.
She panic-slammed the brakes.
The RAV skidded, careened into the drainage ditch, and pitchpoled into the air. The last thing Mona felt before blacking out was a momentary lapse of gravity and then an earsplitting crash as the car landed on its roof.