Free The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters Page A

all the talking to me.”
    *   *   *
    City Hall was located on St. Charles Avenue. It was a three-story Greek Revival building made of Tuckahoe marble with Ionic columns.
    I waited outside the door that read “Lawrence Emerson” until Prescott arrived, gaudy as ever. He wore a double-breasted suit and nicely cut trousers. He was a handsome man, with slick black hair and cool gray-blue eyes.
    Emerson was the opposite. Prescott and Emerson had gone to the same law school, but that was all they had in common. While Prescott was smooth and clever, never having a problem getting the attention of the opposite sex, Emerson’s odd, studious form juxtaposed with his social ineptness made him the ultimate misfit. Emerson had hung on to Prescott’s coattails through law school, hoping to get some girl’s interest by mere association.
    Emerson was sitting behind a spade-footed walnut desk when we arrived. He stood up upon seeing Prescott.
    â€œJim! I wasn’t expecting you.”
    â€œI am here to see that he gets proper representation,” Prescott said. “So let’s get on with it.”
    â€œVery well,” Emerson said, sitting back down, while we occupied the two solid Dutch oak armchairs with faux leathering on the seat and arms at the front of the desk. “We got strong claims that Mr. Fletcher had a known criminal as a client. As you know, that can be interpreted as aiding and abetting.”
    â€œYou are referring to the late Bill Storm,” Prescott said.
    â€œThat is correct. The police interviewed his daughter, Miss Zella Storm. She corroborated that Mr. Fletcher was hired by her father to locate her.”
    â€œYou cannot prove that. My client did not accept any payment from Storm.”
    â€œEven if that was so, he knew he was a criminal, and should have called the authorities upon Storm’s arrival.”
    â€œYou cannot prove he knew he was a criminal at the time. If you took it to court, I would have it tossed out as nothing but hearsay.”
    â€œI was not planning on taking it to court. I simply wanted to have a dialogue about the matter with Mr. Fletcher.”
    â€œIf that were the case, you could have done it by phone or outside the office. Your intent was to bring him down here without representation and intimidate him. You got a history of doing that, Emerson. Several of my clients are victims of your bullying tactics.”
    â€œNow, let us not start mudslinging. We can be civil about this, can we not?”
    â€œSure we can. Is that all you got, Emerson?”
    Emerson didn’t say anything. He adjusted his thick cheaters, and looked down at his desk. He finally said, “Yes. That will be all for now.”
    â€œFine. I suggest next time you get the idea of calling my client down, you do not waste his and my time.”
    I followed Prescott out the door, but not before Emerson asked, “Are we still on for drinks at the country club later this week?”
    Not even turning around, Prescott said, “We’ll see.”

 
    CHAPTER 7
    For the rest of the day after leaving City Hall, I stayed with Zella. I waited as she winded down her practice session, after which we went for an early dinner before her evening performance. Zella stopped eating two hours before she had to sing. She said the digestion process would affect her voice.
    Her performance went well, or at least better than I was used to. She changed the routine from the previous night, giving the people who had seen her the night before something different. The bartender happened to be friendlier toward me this time around, giving my order of coffee swift service.
    Zella giggled the entire ride back to her place, but I paid little attention to what she was saying. Ecstatic, she started rambling on about how great she was tonight on-stage, but I couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that I’d seen the same pair of headlights drafting me every