I WAS IN A BAD MOOD. My lanky body didn’t fit in the narrow second-row seat of the plane, but it had been my only choice. Fortunately, my seatmate was a small, stylishly dressed woman who had returned my smile with a glare and buried her head in a paperback for the flight. I stared glumly at the city emerging from the clouds as the smallish commuter jet began its approach into New Orleans. Clovis Jones had called yesterday to tell me I’d been summoned to lunch with the men who controlled organized crime in the state of Louisiana. I’d known this day would come—it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.
The meeting was to take place at Charlie’s Steak House in Uptown. I’d heard the radio ads for Charlie’s: “There’s nothing fancy about Charlie’s, just a great steak, a cold drink, and a good time.” A good time was the last thing I anticipated.
As I stepped onto the jetway the blast of intense, muggy heat reminded me why I seldom came to New Orleans in the summer. I was a Washington, DC anti-trust attorney. I’d paid my dues, working first for the Department of Justice and then for a multi-national law firm before establishing my own offices in an old, unassuming building near the White House. I now split my time between my anti-trust clients and Red Shaw, a successful defense contractor and owner of the NFL’s San Antonio Lobos.
Why had I dropped everything to meet with the heads of Louisiana’s organized crime? The answer was simple—I owed them. Years earlier, during a highly charged lawsuit, the opposition had hired an assassin to kill my daughter Beth, who then lived in New Orleans. I learned of the plot through an unlikely acquaintance who convinced me to hire a New Orleans “family” to provide her protection. The syndicate dealt with the issue quickly and efficiently, and I had continued to employ their services to ensure Beth’s safety when she and her fiancé moved to St. Louis. They were very discreet—neither Beth or Jeff had any idea she could be in danger, and I slept much better knowing my daughter was safe. I knew that one day the true cost of my daughter’s safety would be exacted. Someday my phone would ring, and the syndicate would ask for a favor. Today was that day.
Why would a respected lawyer get in bed with a crime syndicate? The answer is both simple and complicated. The simple answer is that I would do anything to protect my daughter. Beth is my only child and, since the death of my wife more than five years ago, she is my only family.
The more complicated answer dealt with the nature of the practice of law. A well-trained lawyer has been taught that everyone is entitled to a defense and zealous advocacy on his or her behalf. That training, coupled with experience, gives most lawyers the ability to see beyond their client’s faults and alleged crimes.
The only person in my circle of friends who knew about this arrangement with the ‘family’ was Clovis Jones, my good friend and occasional bodyguard, who was waiting at the taxi stand on Level One. A former All-American linebacker at Middle Tennessee State, Clovis manages a security business in Little Rock and has saved my life more than once. He’d volunteered to be the contact between me and the syndicate and didn’t hesitate when I asked him to join me in New Orleans.
As the cab carried us uptown, I couldn’t help but worry. Most lawyers have a line they won’t cross. My friend and Arkansas co-counsel Micki Lawrence drew the line at representing rapists and sex traffickers. My clients are usually big-business types who’ve run afoul of the government, accused of misdoings based on what I thought of as food for the ego—money, power, and greed. So far, I haven’t refused to represent anyone. What if the syndicate asked me for something I couldn’t give? Could I refuse?
The cab pulled to the curb with a jolt, and I woke from my musings. A small white neon sign flashed—Charlie’s Steak House. When I told Beth I was going to New Orleans to meet an old college buddy, she’d asked if I’d remembered to make reservations for lunch—a necessity I frequently forgot.
“Well, I thought we’d meet for lunch at Charlie’s, sort of break the ice. I haven’t seen him in a long time,” I lied.
“Charlie’s is great,” she said. “Be sure to get the blue cheese salad. But Dad, I’m pretty sure it’s not open for lunch. You’d better check.”
I had checked and was told the meeting would be a private gathering. No other customers.
I suppressed a smile as Clovis frowned at the shiny suits leaning against the late model SUVs that lined the narrow street. They looked like caricatures of the types portrayed in old gangster movies, as did the two younger guys lounging near the front entrance. Their function was obvious: no one would enter the restaurant without permission. They followed us through the front door, guiding us to what was the coat room during normal business hours. The search was perfunctory, but efficient.
Clovis gave them a little lip as they opened the door, but the smaller of the two just grinned and pointed toward a man waiting near the host desk. He flashed an easy smile and introduced himself as Royce Peters. I recognized the name as Clovis’ contact with the syndicate whenever we had reason to worry about Beth’s well-being. I always hoped we would never need him again, but I was always wrong.
Royce looked like an aging golf pro. His dark hair was flecked with gray, and a Peter Millar polo highlighted a deep tan. The lines on his face showed the effects of the sun, and one hand absently twirled a pair of sunglasses. His face was marred by the white line of an old scar running from the corner of one eye back toward his ear. He raised a casual hand to my shoulder and said, “Jack, Mr. Thibodeaux has asked that you sit in the open seat next to him. Clovis, you and I will take the table right behind. Okay?”