Chapter 187: Richard’s Powerful Ties! [FIXED!][13/10!]

Richard Harlan stepped out of the back of the town car and dismissed his driver with a single wave.

"Wait at the corner. Don’t follow me."

The driver hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, then thought better of it. Nobody argued with Richard.

The alley ahead was narrow and unlit, wedged between the back of a shuttered warehouse and a brick building with boarded windows. Puddles from the afternoon rain had collected in the cracked asphalt.

Somewhere further in, a pipe dripped in slow, uneven rhythm.

Richard walked into it alone.

That alone was unusual. Men like him didn’t go anywhere alone.

Over the years, power had cost him the ordinary freedoms other people took for granted.

He couldn’t walk down a street without being recognized, couldn’t take a meeting without someone logging it, couldn’t sneeze without three people noting the time. Everywhere he went, he went with drivers, assistants, security, and lawyers.

Tonight he had none of them. The person he was meeting had asked for that, and Richard had agreed.

That told him, more clearly than anything else, that this was no ordinary deal.

His polished shoes clicked against the wet ground as he moved deeper into the alley, coat buttoned, expression unreadable.

He didn’t hurry, and he didn’t look over his shoulder.

If anyone was watching, they’d see a man who belonged exactly where he was.

Near the end of the alley, he stopped in front of a heavy metal door. No sign, no number, just layers of chipped paint and a rusted handle.

He raised his hand and knocked twice. A pause. Then once more, slower.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then a narrow slot at eye level scraped open. A pair of dark eyes looked out at him, flicked over his face, and studied him for a beat longer than necessary.

The slot snapped shut.

Locks turned on the other side, one after another, and the door swung inward.

The man standing there was tall and broad, in a tailored black suit that fit him a little too well for a doorman.

His face was calm, almost bored. But when he shifted his weight, his jacket fell open just enough for Richard to see the holstered pistol at his side.

"Arms out," the man said.

Richard raised his arms without complaint. The man patted him down with quick, practiced efficiency: shoulders, ribs, waist, ankles. He checked the inside pockets of Richard’s coat and found only his phone, which he examined briefly and handed back.

"He’s expecting you," the man said, stepping aside.

Richard lowered his arms, straightened his coat, and walked in.

The guard led him down a short, narrow corridor. Peeling wallpaper, a single flickering bulb overhead, and the faint smell of mildew and stale cigarettes. Richard walked through it the same way he walked through the marble lobby of his own firm: shoulders back, pace unhurried, expression completely unbothered, as if the place had been built around him.

At the end of the corridor, the guard opened a second door.

The difference was startling.

The room beyond was all dark wood paneling and soft amber lighting. Thick Persian rugs covered the floor. A leather sofa sat beneath an oil painting of a hunting scene, and a crystal decanter of amber liquor glowed on a sideboard beside two heavy glasses. Somewhere, a record player was playing low jazz. It was like stepping out of a sewer and into a gentlemen’s club.

In a wingback chair by the fireplace sat a man.

He was about Richard’s age, early sixties, but time had been far less generous to him. His body had gone soft and heavy, his belly straining against the buttons of an expensive shirt. His jowls sagged over his collar, his skin was blotchy and red around the nose, and what was left of his gray hair was combed carefully across his scalp. Next to him, Richard looked like he belonged to a different generation entirely.

"Richard," the man said.

His voice was a wet rasp, like air being pushed through a cracked bellows. Every word sounded like it cost him something.

"Wendell," Richard replied evenly. "You look well."

Wendell Abernathy laughed, which turned into a cough that rattled in his chest for a few seconds before he waved it away.

"You always were a polite liar."

Twelve years ago, Wendell Abernathy had been one of the most powerful senators in the state. Then a scandal involving campaign funds, a lobbyist, and a hotel room in Olympia ended his political career almost overnight. He’d lost the seat, the title, and the public face.

But he’d kept everything else: the donors, the favors, and the phone numbers of judges, prosecutors, and police chiefs who still remembered exactly who had helped them get where they were.

"Sit," Wendell said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Drink?"

"No, thank you." Richard turned him down right away.

Richard sat, crossed one leg over the other, and waited.

Wendell took a slow sip from his own glass. "It’s my son. Trent."

"I assumed it wasn’t you. You’d have called a different lawyer for your own mess."

A grim smile. "There was an incident. Three weeks ago. A disagreement outside a bar downtown that got out of hand. Another young man was hurt."

"How badly?"

Wendell’s jaw worked for a moment. "Badly. He’s alive. But the doctors say there’s permanent brain damage. He won’t be the same."

Richard said nothing. He simply watched.

"The other boy started it," Wendell went on quickly. "Trent was defending himself. There were words, a shove, and he fell wrong. Hit his head on the curb. It was an accident."

"Witnesses?"

"A few. Unreliable. Drunk, most of them."

"Cameras?"

A pause. Short, but Richard caught it. "Nothing clear."

"And the police?"

"They’re asking questions. The prosecutor’s office is talking about aggravated assault. Maybe worse." Wendell leaned forward, the chair creaking under his weight. "I need this to go away, Richard. He’s twenty-four. He has his whole life ahead of him."

Richard studied the old man’s face carefully: the way his eyes slid away at the mention of cameras, how quickly he’d offered "self-defense" before anyone had asked, and the too-neat version of the story.

He was lying. Maybe not about everything, but about enough.

That wasn’t Richard’s concern. Not yet.

"I don’t take cases secondhand," he said finally. "I’ll need to meet Trent myself. Alone."

Wendell exhaled slowly, as if he’d been bracing for that. "When?"

"This week." Richard rose and buttoned his coat. "After that, I’ll decide whether I’m taking it."

Wendell nodded slowly. "I’ll be in touch. We’ll arrange for you to meet Trent."

"Fine," Richard said, and shook his head once at the decanter Wendell offered again.

He turned toward the door.

"Richard."

He stopped and looked back.

Wendell searched his old friend’s face for something familiar: the young man from the lake houses, the one who’d laughed at his toast. There was nothing there. Richard’s gray eyes were flat and patient, as empty as a closed office.

Wendell let out a low, rasping chuckle.

"Never mind."

The guard opened the door, and Richard walked out without another word.

-

Richard and Wendell had known each other for almost thirty years.

They’d met when both of them were young and hungry: Richard a sharp new lawyer and building his way up with his firm Harlan & Associates, Wendell a junior state legislator with big ambitions and a gift for making powerful people like him. They’d been useful to each other from the start. Richard gave Wendell legal cover, clean advice, and a reputation by association. Wendell gave Richard access to rooms most lawyers never saw the inside of.

Somewhere along the way, it became something closer to friendship.

They spent summers at the same lake houses. Their wives sat together at charity galas. Richard stood beside Wendell the night he won his first Senate race, and Wendell gave a toast at Richard’s 48th birthday that made even Richard laugh. For years, people in Seattle’s political and legal circles spoke of them in the same breath.

Then the scandal broke.

Campaign funds that couldn’t be accounted for. A lobbyist with too many favors to call in. Photographs from a hotel room in Olympia that ended up on the front page. Within a week, Wendell’s career was finished.

Richard didn’t call him.

He didn’t attend the hearings, return Wendell’s messages, or offer a single word in public. Within a month, every trace of their connection had been quietly scrubbed from the firm: old photos taken down, joint ventures dissolved, introductions redirected elsewhere.

It wasn’t cruelty. It was policy. Richard had built his name on one principle above all others: he did not associate with dirty people. Not clients, not partners, and not friends. The moment someone became a liability, they ceased to exist to him.

Wendell had never blamed him for it as he knew the kind of man his former friend was.

And Richard had never once regretted it.

Which was exactly why, tonight, he was in no hurry to say yes.