Page 84 of Hard to Kill
“Not exactly,” he says.
Anticipating his reaction to my news, I feel myself smiling.
“But I thought you wanted to pledge your heart to me.”
He shrugs, turns his hands palms-up. His eyes are puffy, either with sleep or from drinking, because I know for a fact he’s been hitting the bottle hard.
“If you can’t be with the one you love…”
“Love everybody you can get to stay still long enough?” I’m already moving past him as I add, “May I come in?”
I don’t want to know who he’s sleeping with in the upstairs bedroom and don’t much care.
He shows me out to the back patio. There’s a coffee mug on the table. He asks if I’d like a cup.
“I won’t be staying that long,” I say, “but we need to have this conversation in person.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.”
We take seats across from each other at the table. Over the past several months, I have spent more hours in this man’s presence, in court and in jail and in this house and in the much bigger house he still owns in Sagaponack, than I care to count.
“You need to find a new lawyer,” I say.
His eyes don’t look nearly as sleepy now. But he collects himself quickly, the way he did the day I gave him a good slap.
“I’m a little too tired and a little too hungover for jokes,” he says, and sips some coffee, trying to act casual.
“It’s no joke. I’m quitting. For good this time.”
He stares at me, eyes even bigger and more alert than before.
“You’re serious.”
Jacobson is shaking his head now, and not just to get rid of the cobwebs.
“I understand this is probably a shock,” I say. “You can go back to Howie the Horse.”
“Howie’s not a horse. He’s a jockey.”
“Or I can make some recommendations.”
“You’ll be wasting your time. I don’t want another lawyer. I want you.”
“I hear you,” I say. “I thought that I was still Bring It On Jane. But I’m not. And I can’t.” I sigh. “So I’m out.”
He’s still shaking his head. “No,” he says. “No… no…no.”
“It’s not just one thing,” I continue, knowing I’m giving him more information than he needs, or really deserves. “It’s my treatments and the trial and putting people I care about in danger.”
He reaches underneath the print edition of theWall Street Journalnext to his coffee mug and comes up with a thin silver flask. He pours some of whatever’s in it into the mug. Takes a big gulp now.
“This is because of what I told you at lunch about falling in love with you, isn’t it? You’re just throwing it back in my face.”
“What? No, Rob. It might shock you, but this isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’ve always told my clients that I’d be willing to fight to the death for them. Well, not anymore.”
He snaps then, just like that, pounding his hand down on the table, veins popping in his neck, spilling some of his coffee. Shouting.“It will make me look guilty if you quit!”