No Legal Grounds Read Online Free PDF Page B

Larry Cohen find out someone was rooting around in places you’ve missed.
“Thanks,” Sam said, “but — ”
“No thanks? I got it.” Nicky sat back in his chair.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate — ”
“You have a card, Sam?”
Sam hesitated. Then he fished a card out of his wallet and gave it to Nicky.
“Very slick,” Nicky said. “Raised letters and everything.”
“Makes us seem more important than we are.”
“Yeah,” Nicky said, “that’s what lots of people think.”
A tick of unease hit Sam. He looked at his watch. “Hey, Nicky, I hate to say, but I’ve got to run.”
“So soon?”
“I’m sorry. Lawyering.” He stood. “Everybody wants a piece of me. It was sure great to see you, Nicky.”
Nicky stood up and put out his hand. “Let’s do this again.”
“Sure.” Sam shook Nicky’s hand, hoping Nicky would pick up on the noncommittal tone in his voice.
Nicky held the grip. “I mean it.”
“Right. Bye, Nicky.”
Nicky slipped Sam’s card into his shirt pocket. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.
3.
    I hope not, Sam thought.
    And he kept hoping not as he drove over to see Pete Harper. There was the faintest scent of desperation about Nicky Oberlin. Not that guys couldn’t find themselves a little down from time to time. But he had the feeling Nicky was putting out the first feeler to recruit Sam as part of the Nicky Oberlin reclamation team.
    Sam had enough going on with the Harper case and FulCo, not to mention his own family. Nicky would have to recruit someone else.
    The Harper place was nestled in a neighborhood built up mostly in the sixties. The houses were small, the lawns well kept. Sam cruised to the end of a cul-de-sac and turned around, then pulled up to the curb.
    Pete Harper was clipping a hedge as Sam got out of the car. Pete was fifty-two and stocky, perfect for the lumber business, with thin, graying hair. When he saw Sam he threw the clippers down so they stuck, handles up, in the grass. He removed his gloves and stuck his hand out. “Right on time,” he said. “Thanks for that.”
    Pete Harper led Sam into the living room. Sam took a seat on the sofa and placed his briefcase on the coffee table. Pete sat in a chair, then immediately stood up again. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee?”
    “No thanks, Mr. Harper.” It was apparent that Pete Harper was incredibly tense. Sam knew him to be a self-sufficient man, a hard worker, the kind who liked to control things. But litigation is inherently uncontrollable.
    Janet Harper, a good-looking woman in her late forties, stepped into the living room. She pushed a wheelchair, in which sat Sarah Harper. She looked thin and wan, her head slightly bowed.
    “Hello, Mr. Trask,” Janet said.
Sam stood. “Hello, Mrs. Harper, Sarah.”
“Please sit,” said Janet. She looked at Pete. “Did you offer Mr.
    Trask something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” said Sam. “And I really wish you all would call me
Sam. There’s no need to be so formal.”
“I don’t know,” Janet said with a lilt in her voice. “You being our
lawyer and all.”
Pete Harper wiped his hands on his shirt, the smile he had only
seconds before commandeered by tight-lipped anxiety. No one
spoke. It seemed to Sam they were all waiting for him to say something, but it didn’t feel right to bring up business right away. “You look good, Sarah,” Sam said.
Expressionless, Sarah answered, “Thanks.” It was forced, at once
polite and pained. She wasn’t looking good at all. She was, from
all appearances, wasting away. The elfin face that had captivated a
nation was gone, replaced by a hopeless facade. It had been more
than two years since the meningitis took away her sight and the
use of her leg, and substantially more. By all outward appearances,
Sarah survived. Inside, something was dead.
“Sarah’s been keeping up at the school,” Janet said. Sam absorbed
the nuance of keeping up. From previous conversations with the
Harpers, Sam knew Sarah