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Milo said, “He got it right.”
“If it breathes, they leave,” said Porras. “That’s how Uncle Ernie pegged it.”
“No debate there.”
Porras cracked his knuckles and glanced at the board behind the counter. “Nothing’s drinkable, huh—okay, enough screwing around. Mrs. Ruiz had something in her possession that she passed along to Ms. Guzman, who consulted me because during the early days of my practice I did some defense work. Not criminal, civil. Let me make it clear: this material was acquired legally by Mrs. Ruiz, via conditional transfer.”
“That’s a new one on me, Counselor.”
“Mrs. Ruiz was given something on the stipulation that she’d maintain possession and do her best to provide security for the object unless and until circumstances dictated that she transfer it.”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“Yeah, it’s legal mumbo jumbo but I need to define parameters. You wouldn’t be recording this, would you?”
Milo smiled. “Feel free to pat me down. The doctor, as well.”
Porras smiled back. Uneasily, well short of camaraderie. “I’ll pass. Sorry if this is coming across paranoid. One thing I’ve learned practicing law for fourteen years is to be careful.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Milo. “So Irma was given something by Meagin March and instructed to hold on to it unless something bad happened to her. Which turned out to be the case.”
Tony Porras’s lips tightened. “Before we go further, I need to ensure that the time lapse between that unfortunate event and the present time will not be held against my client.”
Milo said, “She has no reason to worry. No one will blame her for being scared.”
“As is appropriate,” said Porras. A last-word kind of guy. “All right, then, I’m going to transfer the material from my possession to yours after which Mrs. Ruiz’s obligation will have been fulfilled.”
Reaching down, he unzipped the wheelie bag and drew out a white cardboard box that had likely once held a fresh ream of paper. Grasping the box with both hands, he stood, quickly rezipped the bag, placed the box on the table, and began walking away.
Milo said, “Counselor?”
The women turned and stared.
Tony Porras said, “What?”
“A second.” Milo guided Porras out of the coffee shop. The women and I watched an intense sidewalk conversation through the glass.
One of them said, “Lawyers,” as if it were a dirty word. Milo, made shabby by contrast to Porras’s perfectly put-together look, might’ve been flattered to be taken as an attorney. Then again, maybe not.
Finally, Porras walked off and Milo returned. He caught the women staring at him and frightened them with a mouthful of teeth.
“C’mon,” he said, gloving up and snatching the white box. To the women: “Hope the kids get into good colleges.”
At the unmarked, I said, “What was the sidebar about?”
“I told him if what he gave me was relevant to solving the case his client might be subpoenaed to testify so it would be better if he gave me her contact information. He said he was under no obligation and I said that was true, but still, it would be in everyone’s interest if she remained available. He refused flat-out, I talked about two victims cut down in the prime, one of them collateral damage. Then about how appreciative we were of Ruiz’s coming forth, how she’d be in no danger from immigration or anyone else and that I’d get that in writing. The writing part seemed to impress him but the best I got out of him was he’d think about it.”
He hefted the box. Thin shuffling noise, as if full of dry leaves. “Not much inside.”
I said, “Enough to terrify Irma Ruiz.”
“True,” he said. “It’s a good sign when witnesses get terrified.”
—
The box rode on the Impala’s rear seat, belted securely, like a prisoner. Waiting until we’d returned to the office to open it had been a heroic test of self-control. Milo had remained gloved and handed me a pair.
“Just in case there’s some blockbuster Agatha Christie thing in there: the butler did it.”
