Keep the Ghost

11. Plea

The taxi driver gives me eighty-seven dollars of Morgan’s money back in change; I hand him a five dollar bill as a tip. He’s cheered up a little, since my last ride with him. He’s probably Port Lavaca’s only cabbie. 

I’m here to meet the public defender—but before I can do that, something has been weighing on my mind. I take my phone from my pocket, and withdraw my wallet. There’s a scrap of paper stuffed between a few dollar bills; I take it out and enter the digits into my phone.

Couldn’t call him from the motel room, not when Morgan might be listening. I don’t know how Cole fits in yet.

It rings four times before someone answers. 

“Cole?” I ask. “You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Who is this?” He sounds annoyed. 

“Sean Reilly.”

I look back and forth across the street, as though I expect Morgan to be watching. She is not. 

“You’re out of prison,” Cole notes. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t last long in there. Listen, I’m about to talk to my attorney. Is there anything you can tell me that would help? You find anything about Jack, yet?”

“I’m still looking. Listen, who bailed you out?” he asks, voice tinny over the little cell phone speaker. 

“A friend of my father.” The lie comes easily.

“Is that right?” he asks. “And she’s staying in the room next to yours?” 

“How did you know that?” I ask. “Were you following me?”

“Listen, Sean, I just don’t want you to fall in with the wrong crowd. I’m worried about you. What can you tell me about her?”

I turn, scan the street. An old truck, green body and red hood, passes slowly. 

“Nothing. She’s a friend of my father’s,” I insist. 

“Come on, Sean. Your parents didn’t even know you were out.”

“What? You talked to my mom and dad? Who are you?” 

“Tell me about her, Sean. I can help you.”

“Find Jack. That’s how you’re supposed to help me, remember? Look, I’m hanging up. Don’t call me.” 

And with the tap of a button, he’s gone. Suddenly feeling exposed. He called my parents, he’s watched me—why? 

I stand still for a moment, waiting to see if he calls back. He does not, and after a minute in the sun, I decide to continue to the attorney’s office. 

I’m embarrassed to realize my lawyer’s office is in a strip mall—acupuncture, pet groomer, nail salon, and the public defender’s office. The plastic blinds covering his window are half-broken, and the little slats reveal a dark, cluttered office. 

A bell tied to the door jingles as I enter. Hot in here, with no air flow. Got to be eighty, at least. 

This room must have desks, filing cabinets and chairs—it’s hard to say, because every available surface is covered in stacks of paper, loose binders and overflowing Bankers boxes. 

“Hello?” I call. 

“Back here,” a man’s voice answers from further in the office. 

I follow the sound to a flimsy door in the back. I open it to find an even smaller, more cluttered sanctuary within the office—the mess outside is only spillage from this room.