Page 7 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“I know there’s a lot of politics, obviously,” I say. “Elections, campaigns, all that. Administration. But I don’t think, I mean…” I stop and clear my throat. “Sir, I’m not even close to thinking about even considering the idea of challenging you.”

“Again,” the State Attorney says, with a wry half-smile. “Either a liar or an idiot. And I’d prefer—just this once—for you to be lying.”

“Okay. Fine.” I meet his smile with a grin of my own. “I’ve thought about it. But seriously, those are long-term ideas. Twenty years, twenty-five. You’ll be retired by then. It’s your successor who’ll have to worry about me.” It’s a safe assumption: John’s in his sixties now. He won’t still be working at eighty-five, will he?

John laughs, loud and clear, echoing through the atrium, causing several people to look up at us from the polished concrete below. They quickly look away, after recognizing the source of the sound.

“You know who ran the Narcotics Unit before Lamar, Mister Cooper?” John cocks his head to the side, his face mild, guileless. The expression is a sham, though. I don’t know why I think that, but I do. Is it paranoia?

“You did, sir.”

“That’s right.” The SA nods approvingly. “Fourteen years ago, when I won my first election to the SA’s office. That’s when Lamar took over the Narcotics Unit. And do you know who’s going to be the Assistant State Attorney heading it up once he’s gone?”

“I have a nasty, sneaking suspicion, sir.” I think I managed to keep my voice level, in spite of the chill running down my spine. No way. There is no way he’s really going to do this.

“Monday morning, Mister Cooper. Gabriel.” The SA squares off in front of me. “On Monday morning, I want you in the Narcotics Unit. Lamar’s giving me another week, at great personal cost to his own health, to make sure that you’re as ready as possible to take over for him.”

“A week? That’s not a lot of time.” And the award for understatement of the year goes to… Gabriel Cooper.

“No, Gabriel. It’s not. On this coming Monday you start taking a turnover from Lamar, and next Monday, you’ll be the head of the Narcotics Unit. You’re in the big leagues now, young man.”

“If you think I’m ready, sir…” My head is spinning. This is a serious promotion, and far earlier than I could have ever expected.

“I didn’t ask if you were ready, Mister Cooper,” Whitehall says, in a voice cold and hard enough to shatter granite. The charm andbonhomieis gone, now. He’s not trying to win votes. “I gave you an assignment. It’s time to sink or swim.”

“I, wow.” I clear my throat, trying to gain a moment of breathing room. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir. I’ll try not to let you down.” The words sound lame in my ears, but I’m too off balance to come up with something any better.

“See that you don’t, Mister Cooper,” the SA says with a thin, hard smile. He glances down at his watch. “Oh, look at the time. I’m going to be late,” he says, turning to walk away. “Sink or swim,” he says again, over his shoulder. A Parthian shot, a metaphorical arrow meant to land square in my chest, leaving me bloody and gasping.

Maybe I’m reading too much into Whitehall’s tone and mannerisms, but this promotion doesn’t smell right. Raynor had been prosecuting cases as an Assistant State Attorney for seventeen years, maybe eighteen, before he got the Narcotics Unit. Whitehall himself? I swear, he went to law school with the prosecutor who got Jesus himself executed. I’ve been in the SA’s office now for, what, five years?

Sure, I’ve got a good streak of felony convictions. My last ten were all wins, but I’ve had plenty of losses before that. And yeah, of course I’ve thought about running for State Attorney at some point in the future, but that’s so far off that I could never pose any sort of…

Suddenly, my knees feel wobbly, and I grip the guardrail tighter.

John Whitehall thinks I’m a threat.

That’s the only explanation. I’ve never been his protégé. He’s never treated me like a star pupil, or acted like he was my mentor. Hell, Lisa Hatcher was my mentor when she still worked here, and there’s no love lost between her and John. She disliked him enough that she quit working for the SA’s office than spend another minute with him as her boss.

There’s plenty of other ASA’s with more seniority than me, and there’s plenty of them who already have the management skills to handle a major division of the State Attorney’s office. I’m going to be in charge of over three hundred employees. I’ll be directing thirty-one other attorneys, some of whom have been practicing law since I was in second grade.

“Sink or swim,” I mutter into the emptiness. The three-story drop again captures my imagination. The deepest of the deep ends, and it’s hard to swim when there’s not even a puddle at the bottom of it.

I hope I’m just being paranoid. Maybe there’s nothing more to this promotion. Maybe it’s just recognition of a job well done, and it’s possible that Whitehall really is just taking me under his wing, finally, and grooming me for later success. He’s taking a big risk, after all. This is high-visibility. If Narcotics fails, it could sting him in the next election.

When I walk back to the office, Whitehall is again flirting with the receptionist, but he follows me through the lobby with cold eyes, and I grow even more convinced that I’m not being paranoid. As soon as I get home tonight, I have to call Lisa. I need advice, and there’s nobody else I can talk to about this.

Back in my office, back in my well-worn swivel chair with the squeaky wheel, I turn to stare out the window. I look through the mildew stains at the corners, and the dewdrops of South Florida humidity that condense against the chill of the air-conditioned office, past the beaches covered with tourists even in the shark attack capital of the world, and out to the great, dark blur of the Atlantic as it vanishes on the horizon.

Sink or swim, he’d said. In these shark-infested waters, I’ll have to sharpen my own teeth.

You think I’m a threat, Whitehall? You’re promoting me into a job where I might actually develop into one.

Sink or swim?

I choose swim, you sonofabitch.

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