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A Lawyer's Tale
A Lawyer's Tale
A Lawyer's Tale
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A Lawyer's Tale

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Harry McConnell, a cynical lawyer searching for fame, fortune and romance, finds himself advising a cadre of ruthless corporate barons and corrupt politicians, until they turn on him and try to kill him.

"An amazing ending."

"One of Peter's better efforts."

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LanguageEnglish
PublisherT.L. Peters
Release dateMar 19, 2013
ISBN9781301866946
A Lawyer's Tale
Author

T.L. Peters

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews About the author: T.L. Peters is an ex-lawyer who enjoys playing the violin and giving his dog long walks in the woods. In between, he writes novels.

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    A Lawyer's Tale - T.L. Peters

    A LAWYER’S TALE

    By T.L. Peters

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2013, T. L. Peters

    License Notes

    This e book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

    This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    To read more about the author and his other books, go to http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tlpeters.

    Chapter 1

    The 727 landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport in La Paz, Bolivia, the City of Peace, at precisely 7:19 P.M. on a mild crisp evening in early December, the beginning of summer in the tropics. Harry McConnell looked around the packed flight and then popped two tablets into his mouth, enzyme pills to aid his digestion in the oppressively thin air at nearly 13,000 feet above sea level. On each of his first two trips to Bolivia he had eaten too much and thrown up, once in the hotel lobby in front of a highly amused group of Finnish high school kids, and the other time on a bus heading to the ancient temple ruins of Tiwanaku, which his boss had told him to visit to broaden his cultural horizons.

    Harry didn't remember much about the pre-Inca civilization reputedly centered there, but the angry faces of his fellow passengers left an indelible impression. Then on his last trip he had made the mistake of taking a hot morning shower, speeding up his metabolism to where he almost passed out two hours later at a get-acquainted meeting with some local big shots. This time though he was determined to get it right--just go to the meeting, do his job, and then get out of the country as fast as possible, all without any embarrassing incident, sickness or other ill-timed mishap.

    Why the firm kept sending him to Bolivia was a mystery to Harry, but since he was less than a year away from making partner he didn't feel that he had much leeway to squawk about his treatment. He chewed the tablets down and then stared glumly out the window at the flat gray dawn, watching the agile Aymara Indian workers busily unloading the luggage from the belly of the plane.

    The cabin bell pinged to announce to the weary travelers that they had officially arrived. Harry got up slowly, bouncing his shiny new cherry wood briefcase off his knee and then taking a last few gulps of pressurized oxygen. He dreaded that first step off the plane when the Andean air would seem to rise up and hit him in the face like a ton of bricks.

    This time was no different, and he had to steady himself on the railing as he trudged down the metal steps and out onto the tarmac, all hunched over with creased brow and grimly focused eyes, like some overworked schmoe with chest pains trying to figure out if he was having a heart attack. Then, oblivious to everybody around him and wholly immersed in growing self-pity, he gingerly walked the hundred or so feet to the tiny ramshackle terminal and waited for the baggage conveyer to spit out his luggage, a nondescript black suitcase to which he had dutifully tied a string to distinguish it from the millions of other black suitcases in the world. He was just about to reach for the bag when a large smooth hand beat him to it. He looked up at the darkly handsome Iberian face and mustered as much indignation as his oxygen-deprived body would permit.

    Hey, where are you going with that?

    The tall man had already started for the customs desk, his jet black hair fairly sparkling in the drab light, but at Harry's sudden protest he turned around and scowled.

    Mind your own business, he barked in fluent English, and then resumed his purposeful stride.

    Harry ran after him and grabbed his shoulder. The man spun around and raised his fist, but the absurdity of any rash assault in such a public area must have slipped into his hot-blooded consciousness. The intensely imperious face quickly softened, and he flashed a thin smile that vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared.

    You must be mistaken, Señor.

    Look at the string, Harry replied, pointing relentlessly.

    The man kept staring at Harry with unblinking severity.

    We must have similar traveling habits, Señor, but I can assure you that this is my suitcase.

    Open it up and we'll see, Harry sputtered, trying to sound forceful, though he was quite intimidated at the prospect of creating a scene on foreign soil where strange customs aand laws might suddenly assail and engulf him.

    The man peered over at some uniformed guards standing in a corner, who were beginning to rouse from their gossip, and apparently considered it wise to change his tactics.

    I can't do that, Señor, and he lowered his voice.

    Why not? Harry barked as he reached for the handle, but the man pulled the suitcase away and walked suddenly back to the baggage claim.

    Perhaps, this one is yours, and the man pointed to a nearly identical model, likewise with a thin string tied about the handle.

    Harry examined it, fingered the string and then, his face increasingly flushed both with activity and embarrassment, unzipped the lid and beheld his folded underwear. By the time he looked up the man was at customs, where a heavy-set guy behind the desk was already stamping his passport and waving him through. Harry pushed the lid down and began to wonder what other unpleasant surprises this trip might hold. He zipped the bag shut and walked to the desk hoping for similarly easy passage, but the fat guy's acerbic expression quickly told him otherwise.

    Why were you bothering Señor Chavez? the attendant asked in broken English.

    I thought he was stealing my luggage.

    Where is your passport?

    Harry handed it to him and then shifted uneasily as the attendant flipped through the heavily stamped pages, gazing alternately between Harry's face and the dim, outdated photograph stuck to the front cover. Finally he gave the worn booklet back and opened the suitcase, digging down deep into the clothes with his chubby hands before triumphantly pulling out an electric shaver like it was some grand prize. He flipped the head off and meticulously examined the cutter. Apparently disappointed that he had not uncovered incriminating evidence of some terrible plot against the public order, he reached down again and this time emerged with Harry's little white bottle of enzyme tablets, which he eyed with ever growing suspicion. Finally he screwed off the lid and with a malignant shake of his head poured at least half the tablets out into his open palm. Back in the States Harry might have ventured a mild rebuke, but this was Bolivia and he didn't want to come off like a smart-aleck. He had read about the inhospitable accommodations in Bolivian jails, and the prospect of spending the evening in one didn't appeal to him.

    What is your job? the attendant asked.

    Tax lawyer.

    Where are you from?

    It says right here, and Harry began to gesture with some irritation at his passport. But when he noticed the man's eyes widen considerably, he decided to relent.

    Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh.

    Why are you here?

    Business.

    Are you transacting this business in La Paz?

    No, Oruro.

    Have you ever been to Oruro before?

    No.

    How long do you plan to stay?

    A couple days.

    The man frowned, picked up a tablet between his coarse, meaty fingers and examined the gray speck from all angles. Then he put it up to his fat lips and licked it cautiously. He smelled it and then licked it again.

    Vitamins, Harry said as matter-of-factly as he could.

    The man sneered, dumped the tablets back into the bottle and proceeded to tear through the suitcase with such ferocity that most of the contents were soon scattered over the table. Then he frowned distractedly and waved for Harry to be on his way. As Harry was trying to restore some semblance of order to his belongings another customs official, apparently with more of a public relations bent to his job, walked over to him and smiled courteously.

    I am sorry for the inconvenience, Señor, but drug traffic through this airport has increased in recent months. We must be vigilant.

    That other guy got through fast enough, Harry observed peevishly.

    The man stiffened.

    Who do you mean, Señor?

    He was just here, that tall guy, looked like a playboy. How could you miss him?

    I am sorry for the inconvenience, Señor. Have a nice stay in our country, he replied as he turned to confront another passenger riled by some similarly intrusive act.

    Harry sighed in resignation that there was little he could do to improve the behavior of local officialdom. Then he headed out for the cabs that were all lined up on the curb ready to go, the drivers standing around blowing on their hands while searching the onrush of potential passengers for a kind face and an easy tip.

    Where to, Señor? one of them asked Harry in painful English.

    The Plaza hotel, Harry said, handing him the suitcase.

    The cabby, a middle-aged mestizo wearing a smelly blue sweater, stuffed the bag in the trunk and held the back door open. Harry took a whiff of the disagreeable air and then relaxed his mouth and jaw in an attempt to get his Spanish going. Judging from the cabby's quizzical expression, Harry's first effort was unsuccessful. He wet his lips and tried again.

    How is the road between La Paz and Oruro? Is it blocked?

    The driver shook his head indignantly.

    No, the road is clear, Señor. No demonstrations are planned that I know of. But be careful in Oruro. Seven campesinos murdered there in the last month alone.

    Drugs?

    That and crooked politicians. The people go hungry. What choice do they have but to steal?

    Harry climbed in and settled his expanding posterior against the torn up seat, preparing himself with some eagerness for the spectacular view of the Bolivian capital that awaited him. First though he would have to endure the depressing squalor of the ramshackle huts set up hastily around the airport, all filled with impoverished campesinos from the countryside who had come there in vain hopes of finding work. Annoyed at this disturbing prospect, he began to cast about for momentary diversion. Remembering his delicate digestive tract he reached into his coat pocket and grabbed some more enzyme tablets, which he tossed into his mouth like peanuts. Then he took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

    It had been eighteen hours since he had left Pittsburgh, and after layovers in Charlotte and Miami and a noisily crammed seven-hour flight in coach, lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him. He patted the soft rolls on his stomach and noticed a brown spot on the back of his hand. He rubbed it, as though friction would somehow make it go away, frowned in disgust at the onset of such a visible sign of physical deterioration at the tender age of thirty three, slipped his glasses back on, adjusting the frames so that they wouldn't pinch behind his ears, and then leaned forward to see what all the ruckus outside was about.

    Just some kids, Señor, the cabby said gingerly.

    Harry watched a group of young men with wild faces laughing and drinking from bottles and then smashing the empty bottles on the street. The police arrived quickly and waving automatic weapons about in a rather loose fashion soon broke up the shabbily dressed mob, which dispersed in all directions to the accompaniment of angry oaths, the precise meaning of which Harry couldn't distinguish. Finally the cab pulled out of El Alto, the High Place, which was the name recently bestowed to the teeming slums by the local politicians, and then headed full tilt down the four lane highway hugging the steep chasm that guarded the ancient city of La Paz. Harry stared down at the small cluster of tall buildings in the center of what resembled a vast cereal bowl carved out of the Andean rock. After passing rows of noisy street peddlers interspersed with menacing cops and old women lugging their earthly belongings over their shoulders in large tattered sacks, they pulled up to the brightly lit hotel.

    Ten Bolivianos, Señor, the driver said, turning around and holding out a caloused and dirty hand.

    At an exchange rate of 7.25 Bolivianos to the dollar it was a meager fare, and Harry handed him a twenty dollar bill, which brightened the driver's face considerably. Harry liked to tip generously when in poverty-stricken parts of the world, especially when he could charge it to a client. The driver jumped out of the car to hold the door for Harry and then promptly opened the trunk and whipped out his suitcase, passing it to the waiting hotel porter, who was all dressed up in a dark blue coat with bright silver pins on the lapel. The porter officiously escorted Harry inside through the revolving doors, all the time looking around intently as if expecting a rock suddenly to come sailing in their direction. The lobby was empty of guests and Harry walked up to the tall dark-haired young man behind the check-in counter and proceeded to try and impress him with his Spanish. The man indulged him with a polite smile until Harry got stuck trying to ask for an early morning wake up call.

    We will wake you at six, Sir, he said quickly. That should give you plenty of time to catch your bus.

    The trip to Oruro takes about three hours, I understand.

    If there are no problems, the clerk explained.

    Do you expect problems?

    Not tomorrow, Sir. But the blockades sometimes arise quickly. No large demonstrations are planned, though I would not advise you to stay in Oruro past tomorrow. Things could turn ugly later in the week

    Great, Harry muttered and signed in.

    He took the old-fashioned metal room key, put his Visa card back in his wallet and looked around at the Christmas tree in the center of the lobby. It was a scraggly thing with few ornaments, and Harry couldn't help but smile at it in a rather condescending way. Then he walked past the buffet with its colorful and aromatic offerings of local fruits and meats. He was tempted to partake of a particularly interesting concoction of fried beans and ham, but then he recalled his still slightly squeamish stomach and decided not to risk eating until he was more confident of his digestive system.

    The elevator had a full-length window on the outside, and Harry looked absently at some girls practicing soccer on a street corner in the midst of stern-looking businessmen in dark suits apparently on their way home from work. Harry observed, for he was of the kind who deemed it intellectually fashionable to draw penetrating conclusions from scanty evidence, that other than for their dark Latin skin and consistently short stature, they bore a remarkable resemblance to businessmen in Pittsburgh, in New York and everywhere else in North America for that matter, a stability of perspective that provided him strange solace in these exotic environs.

    The room was the same as he had remembered all his rooms at the Plaza, two queen size beds, a small bathroom, a round table near the window, a tiny but well-stocked refrigerator by the closet, and a television perched up on the counter opposite the beds. Harry flipped on the TV and listened to the local news for a few minutes trying to acclimate himself to the relaxed Andean accent. Out in the countryside Harry knew that foreign visitors couldn't count on finding someone who spoke English, and Harry listened until he could make out the gist of almost everything said. Then he set the alarm, laid back on the bed and considered his itinerary.

    He would get the bus first thing in the morning, attend the meeting in Oruro in the early afternoon and then, if the clients didn't raise all sorts of stupid issues, he would return promptly to La Paz where he hoped to catch the late flight back to the States. It was an ambitious schedule, especially in a country which prided itself on a determined lack of punctuality, but even if he got stuck out in the boondocks for a while it wouldn't be a disaster. He could always live on the bottled water and protein-enriched food bars that he had packed away in his briefcase for emergencies.

    He closed his eyes and tried mightily to go to sleep, but there was some loud rally going on nearby and despite his exhaustion Harry could only lay in nervous repose and curse his bad luck. After a few more minutes of increasing annoyance he decided that he might as well go down and wander around the lobby, and perhaps take a short walk along the main street in front of the hotel. He had just come from the freezing climate of Pittsburgh after all, and it occurred to him that the mild tropical air in early twilight might arouse his flagging spirits.

    Downstairs things had picked up with small groups of well-dressed men and women sitting at various corner tables munching delicacies, drinking wine and engaging in cozy conversation. Still not up to a meal though, Harry walked over to the bar and ordered a glass of Ginger Ale, a drink which on previous trips he had found particularly soothing to an anxious stomach. The bartender, a graying old sinner with a a big belly and pockmarked face, smiled pejoratively but complied with the request without comment.

    Harry glanced up and down the bar more out of habit than genuine interest, when suddenly he happened to spot the tall man from the airport talking with two beautiful women, one a shapely brunette and the other an even shaplier blonde. Not wishing to engage his previous adversary in renewed and potentially embarrassing conversation, Harry looked away at first and pretended to be fixated on a large bowl of fruits resting in magnificent splendor beside the cash register. But after a few moments it became clear that the man either did not recognize him, or if he did, that Harry's proximity did not particularly concern him, because he continued chattering away to his fleshy companions in high spirits, even though the reflection of Harry's sagging face was plainly visible to him in the mirror behind the bar.

    Muttering a mild stream of obscenities fully in keeping with his buttoned down insecurity, Harry downed his drink and was about to leave when a handsome woman in her mid-thirties sat down beside him. He thought about saying something clever, but as usual in such situations words failed him utterly.

    And what is your story? she finally asked in a husky accent, and then smiled with the amorous intentions of an ambitious woman in search of a wealthy American.

    Harry gulped at her audacity, not to mention her poor judgment, scratched the side of his head and then stumbled over to the cash register to pay his tab, leaving the woman to light her cigarette in solitude with a look of annoyed bewilderment. The bartender took Harry's money and banged open the till.

    Señor, if you do not like the ladies, we have some wonderful men who come here quite frequently. I can put you in touch with one of them if you like.

    His face reddening Harry took the change and blinked angrily at the man until he finally went away. Then he threw one more glance at Chavez, who by now had draped an arm suggestively around the bare shoulders of each of the giggling women, before heading for the front door. The air outside was cool but pleasant, and he pulled up on his collar and considered whether he should venture out far to explore the city at night. The street had its normal complement of beggars and peddlers, with enough pale-faced tourists mixed in that he felt secure enough to take a brief stroll. The rally seemed only a few blocks away, and despite his morbid reservations Harry seemed drawn to it out of curiosity as to the injustices being ranted against so fiercely.

    He turned into one small dismal street and then another, before arriving at a large square where about a thousand or so peasants were standing around waving placards. They were shouting in the general direction of a thick-chested man of about five feet ten inches, rather tall for an Aymara, marching about on a rather hastily constructed wooden platform, his scraggly black hair bunching up onto his broad shoulders as he swayed back and forth to gin up the crowd. The man was shouting foul oaths continually through a loudspeaker and waving his free arm in broad arcs over his head.

    Harry made his way to the outer edge of the proceedings to see if he could make out precisely what was being said. An old woman eyed him with such malignancy that for a moment he considered turning back, when suddenly the speaker launched into a tirade of such fury against the current political powers that Harry felt an anthropological interest to stay and listen. The speaker seemed to be emphasizing the need for confrontation instead of negotiation as the preferred method of achieving social justice, but Harry still couldn't figure out exactly what it was that they had all gathered to complain about. He read some of the placards, but they were of little use in satisfying his curiosity, containing nothing more than crude and highly derogatory assessments of the incoming President's intellectual capacity and moral character. Harry listened a few more minutes without gleaning much new information before he finally gave up and turned to leave. An old man bumped into his shoulder and then shook an angry, palsied fist at Harry's startled face.

    You gringos buy drugs and then tell us we can not grow coca. It is not your business what we grow on our lands.

    This sentiment was echoed by a young woman just then passing by who, after shoving her stubby finger perilously close to Harry's nose, added in beautiful English that coca had many legitimate uses besides serving as the principal ingredient for cocaine, and that if Americans wanted to stop drug production in Bolivia they should stop using drugs. Reluctant to debate these irrefutable propositions, Harry beat a hasty retreat back to the hotel where he made quickly for his room, and despite the continuing din, managed in short order to fall soundly asleep.

    Chapter 2

    The alarm clock rang and Harry jumped up, grateful for the brief rest. Deciding to travel light he carefully stuffed some necessities into his briefcase--the enzyme tablets of course, an extra pair of underwear just in case of accidents, and a half roll of toilet paper if he had to defecate out in the countryside. He put on a baseball cap to ward off the equatorial sun and then headed downstairs to the lobby. The city was already fully awake, and the street in front of the hotel was jammed with people and cars. The electric pulse of life in developing countries never ceased to amaze the young lawyer, and he took a long look around before climbing into the cab.

    La Terminal, por favor.

    Si, Señor.

    Hace buen tiempo.

    Si, Señor. No rain today, the driver said slowly, turning around and proudly displaying a mouthful of missing teeth.

    Harry looked out the window at a little parade of Aymara kids holding hands and skipping off to school, surrounded on all sides by their talkative moms. Of the numerous indigenous peoples that made up the bulk of Bolivia's roughly eight million inhabitants, the Aymara were one of the most prominent, proudly occupying the Andean regions of Latin America long before the Incas had established their famous empire later destroyed by the Spanish. Harry liked the look of the locals too, especially the men, who were generally small and wiry with thick dark hair, prominent noses and soft oval faces. Unlike the native women, they mostly wore modern attire and, in the cities at least, had a distinct preference for black leather jackets and baseball caps, striding along the sidewalks with confident forward looks as if they knew precisely where they were going and were prepared to flatten anyone who dared obstruct their path. Of particular fascination to Harry were the construction workers, vast areas of La Paz constantly being torn down only to be immediately rebuilt into even more haphazard patterns and shapes. Harry admired the workers for the qualities that he so conspicuously lacked, namely, courage and a flair for life that they displayed so poignantly in their fearless scampers up narrow catwalks and steel beams high above the city streets, sometimes not even wearing hard hats or gloves. He loved watching them as they silently, almost artistically, executed deft maneuvers with long metal tongs and heavy drills, all the while clinging to some lonely beam with their legs and shouting happy curses to their comrades. The workers were already out in full force on this fine summer day, and Harry gazed up into the sunshine at their black silhouettes framed nobly against the blue, cloudless sky.

    The Aymara women, too, were of interest to Harry, but for altogether different reasons. If the men were distinctive for their modernity and agility, the women distinguished themselves by their ancient dress and their impressive bulk. Young or old, they would continually plod along the sidewalks with their round wide-brimmed hats, tilted strategically to the side to signal their availability for romantic relations, long colorful skirts and sweaters bulging out at the stomach, flat sandals under calloused feet spotted with grimy dust, and usually a bag or two draped over their rather broad shoulders. On his first couple of trips Harry had wondered why all the native women were so large, until someone explained to him that it was their custom to carry much of their daily necessities in sacks underneath their sweaters and skirts. Studying these

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