Brad Ferguson - Last Rights
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“Last Rights” by BRAD FERGUSON
Originally published in Analog, November 1988
1
Copyright © 1988, 2000 by Brad Ferguson. All rights reserved.
Duplication or redistribution of this file in any form whatsoever is strictly prohibited.
T WAS ONE OF THOSE GRAY-ON-GRAY March
mornings that go so well with decaying
downtown Manhattan. I had nothing much
to do but look out the window to where the
demo crews were nibbling away at the World
Trade Center, inch by ugly inch. Then my phone
buzzed.
The ansatape whirred, lying to whoever it
was that I was busy. I pressed the bug button
and listened to the incoming message.
“Dave?” came a voice I didn’t recognize.
“This is Frank Bridges. Might have a job for
you, if you’re not too busy. Call me before
noon. You should have the number. Bye.”
Bridges clicked off.
But who was Bridges? I couldn’t remember
him to save my life. “Computer.”
“I’m listening.” Insolent bitch. I wished
again for one of those sweet, new IBApples
with the sexy voice and the white slave manner
... but at six thousand newbucks, one of those is
too rich for my blood. (I was still paying off my
law school loan and my initiation charge for the
Metropolitan Law Library. Oh, never mind.)
“Search: phone file: Bridges, Frank. Add:
Bridges, Francis.”
“Okay.” There was a short pause, and then:
“Found. One entry.”
“Read it.”
“Bridges, Francis Xavier. Assistant vice
president, Aetnadential Insurance. Address,
Two Broadway. Shall I dial?”
“Hold,” I said. “Date of entry?”
“Last December 16.”
That explained it. I must have met Bridges
at a Christmas party and filed his business card
right away. That meant I probably didn’t owe
him any money or favors.
I looked at my watch; it was just nine thirty-
two. I had plenty of time to call Bridges back
without appearing overanxious. “Flag reference:
Bridges, Francis. That’s all.”
“You’re welcome,” the computer said.
I leaned back in my creaky chair and put my
feet up on the desk. If Bridges had work for me,
I wanted to talk to him; the office rent was due.
And I noticed I could use a new pair of shoes;
the uppers were cracking.
I killed the rest of the morning doing the
Times puzzle and did not call Bridges back until
just before eleven-thirty. “Computer.”
“I’m listening.”
“Retrieve reference: Bridges, Francis. Dial.”
It did, and Bridges came on the phone.
“Frank, this is Dave Aaron, returning your call.
How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Dave. Busy morning?”
Bridges seemed in a good humor. I wished I
remembered what he looked like; I had a vision
circuit when I worked for the city, but not any
more.
“As usual,” I replied. “And you?”
“Busy enough. Actually, not to rush you, but
that’s what I called about. Tom Meaghan over at
Smith and Stern says you’ve done some revival
work for him.”
Yes, I had. I knew Tom pretty well; I’d done
half a dozen cases for him, all paper-filing, all
pre-programmed losers. It was good to know
Tom didn’t hold it against me. “That’s right,” I
said, and gilded the lily: “Revival work is a
specialty of mine.”
“Fine. Want to handle one for me?”
My eyebrows went up. “We could talk about
it,” I said casually. A revival case for
Aetnadential, the biggest life insurance outfit in
North America? You bet your ass I’d talk about
it.
I
“Last Rights” by BRAD FERGUSON
Originally published in Analog, November 1988
2
Copyright © 1988, 2000 by Brad Ferguson. All rights reserved.
Duplication or redistribution of this file in any form whatsoever is strictly prohibited.
“Good. Look, I don’t want to waltz around
the block with you on this. The fact is, I need
someone fast to handle a revival hearing.”
A hearing? I hesitated a bit; I hadn’t pleaded
a revival in person before, but I couldn’t afford
to let Bridges know that if he didn’t know it
already. “Uh, Frank, if I might be so bold —
why are you farming this one out?”
Bridges didn’t hesitate. “Fair question. Our
guy got sick, and his backup’s on vacation. Tom
can’t oblige me either; too busy. It happens.”
“It does indeed.” I thought a moment. You
win about one of every hundred revival cases,
ungood for a lawyer newly in private practice.
Revival cases are dogs. “Frank, I need to know
more.”
Bridges hesitated. “If you take the job, I can
zap you the particulars over this line.”
So I was supposed to buy a pig in a poke,
after all. But it didn’t matter. First assumption:
The case was a truly sick dog, even for a revival
case. Second assumption: I would lose. Third
assumption: Bridges didn’t expect me to do
better than lose. Fourth assumption: If I won, I’d
be in tight with Aetnadential. “Fair enough. I
accept.”
“Thanks,” Bridges said. “Thanks very much.
If you’re ready to receive, I’ll shoot you the
packet. The hearing’s at two.”
“Two? This afternoon?”
“Yep. Told you it was a rush job.” I think he
was grinning, the scumbag.
“All rise,” called the bailiff. We did. “This
honorable Court is now in session. The
honorable Houghton J. Barnes, presiding.” The
honorable Barnes sat down in his plush chair
behind the bench. “Be seated,” said the bailiff.
“First case?” asked the judge.
“The petition of Barbara W. Criswell, Your
Honor. Docket number NYRC-8965-44.”
The judge scanned a sheet in front of him
and nodded. “Will the parties in the matter now
before this Court please rise and identify
themselves?”
Maggie went first, of course. “Margaret
Whitling for the City of New York, Your
Honor.” The judge bestowed upon her a fatherly
smile, which Maggie returned with just the right
amount of Virgin Mary behind it. It’s all a
game, every bit of it, and Maggie plays it pretty
well. (I’m not much of a game player, myself;
about all I do is make sure my hair’s combed,
my nose is blown and and my fly’s zipped.)
Maggie looks the part, too: tall, pretty and slim,
her head topped with bunches of tight blonde
curls. She looks real good in a navy blue
business suit, which doesn’t hurt a lawyer,
especially a female one. I used to work with
Maggie. I miss that.
It was my turn with the judge. “David
Aaron, Your Honor, representing the
petitioner.” I got a respectful nod, something I
don’t rate yet from a man with as many years on
the bench as Howie Barnes has — except that
Judge Barnes is generally respectful of everyone
who’s respectful of him. I’d only been before
him twice, on city business. “To my left are
Mrs. Barbara Criswell, the petitioner, and her
son, Michael Anthony Criswell. Mrs. Criswell is
Mr. Alton Criswell’s widow, and Michael is
their son. He is an only child.”
Judge Barnes smiled at the boy, who
returned it sweetly, thank God. “How old are
you, son?”
“Four and a third, sir,” piped the boy. Ten
points for using “sir”, I told myself. Ten more
points for the cute answer, not that it’ll make
much of a difference. Mother and son were good
casting, too. Barbara Criswell was a slight
brunette who looked like she’d been crying all
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分类：外语学习
价格：5.9玖币
属性：17 页
大小：48.06KB
格式：PDF
时间：2024-11-24
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