The Client

IX - Lake Baldwin

(Note: Wattpad messed up the formatting. I couldn't stop prevent the bold areas. Sorry)

A few days later I decided to attend my first public event since being appointed to Lester's case: lunch at Rotary Club. Rotarians are particular about their members showing up; I really needed to show my face so they didn't kick me out. Plus, I missed the social interaction. I always tried my best not to be awkward around those who ended up on the other side of my criminal cases. Getting heckled by a friend or acquaintance for defending the person that broke into their car or rutted up their lawn was something that came with the territory. But when it came to the death of someone's daughter, well, I knew how I would feel. I wanted to give Eric the space I thought he deserved. The only reason I decided to go was because Jeff, a friend of mine who worked at Eric Dunbar's accounting firm, had promised me Eric would be missing Rotary that day because of an out-of-town audit.

The Rotary club met Wednesdays at the Cotton House, a restaurant connected to an antebellum mansion built in the mid 1800's. It was a beautiful place, fronted by large, Corinthian columns and surrounded by centuries-old oak trees with branches so large they swept the ground. It was large enough that a garrison of Union troops had occupied it during the Civil War. The restaurant was built on the grounds behind the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the house's grand back veranda.

For those of us who called Coles Creek our home, scenery like this was commonplace. It wasn't the architecture or history we came for: it was the fried chicken. The Cotton House's friend chicken had a reputation for being equal parts crispy and juicy—a hard balance to strike if you ask any Southern cook, but one chef Bingo pulled off spectacularly every week. The lure of the chicken that Wednesday was yet another factor in my decision to venture out of the dark, solitary cave my office had become.

The speaker was an amateur entomologist and his presentation consisted of him passing around little boxes containing the various bugs he'd encountered and captured on a recent trip to South America. Boring didn't quite describe it. I took a look around the room to see if anyone else agreed.

That's when I saw Eric Dunbar sipping ice tea three tables behind me. He didn't look my way, but I'm pretty sure he knew I was there.

Well, shit, I thought. Thanks a lot, Jeff.

After the presentation, I shook the speaker's hand and tried to sneak out a side door before Eric saw me. Before I could make it out, I was cornered by some chairman asking if I could help with one of his committee's projects. I got a vague impression it was mandatory, so I walked over to his table and hastily scribbled my name. When I stood up again, Eric was behind me.

"Hey, Jack," Eric said, smiling. "How's your family?" He reached out his hand and gripped mine. He was shorter than me—and thicker—his physique closer to a lumberjack's than it was an accountant's. I wondered if he'd always shaken that tightly.

"Everyone's great," I replied, trying not to sound too jolly.

"That's great. Great to hear," he continued, his smile widening.

I could sense he was waiting for me to say something. Honestly, I should have just kept my mouth shut and gracefully bowed out of the conversation, but I'd never been able to censor myself. Even if I had tried, he may not have let me.

"Eric, look man, I haven't gotten a chance to tell you, but I'm really sorry about everything."

"Everything?" he asked. He cocked his head slightly. "Or just one thing?"

"Ah, um...I'm really sorry about Amanda, I mean."

"Is that right? You got a funny way of showing it." Two of Eric's friends had walked up and planted themselves behind and to either side of him, and I could feel several others gathering behind me. "You know that psychopath had her phone, right? You think he's innocent or something?" He took a step toward me. His happy façade, paper-mache thin to begin with, had finally crumbled.