Man in the Middle Read Online Free Page A

house-blend. Hound-dog eyes, however, gave his face a sympathetic look.
    After a few minutes of brutal overview—in which Peter learned more than he cared to about red ink—Smitham informed him, “I advised your mother to declare personal bankruptcy,” as if explaining why he shouldn’t be sued for malpractice.
    “No way she’d do that,” Peter said. He didn’t bother to explain about the Neil family pride. His father had laid it on the line: pay your debts, and meet all your obligations, no matter what.
    “You’re right,” Smitham said. “The suggestion of bankruptcy offended her. I’ve been advising Hanna pro bono off and on for the last five years at the request of Jason Ayers. He sends substantial referral business my way, so I was happy to do him a little quid pro quo . That means—”
    “I know what quid pro quo means, Mr. Smitham. I also know pro bono means you’ve been working for free.” Peter immediately regretted his tone of voice. “Mr. Smitham, I appreciate what you did for my mother.”
    Smitham nodded.
    Peter looked over the ledger pages lying on the table and tried to make sense of the lines and rows of numerical entries. “Excuse me if I sound stupid,” he said, “but it looks as if Mom still owed money from Dad’s hospitalization.”
    Smitham gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Unfortunately, yes.”
    “How could there still be debts after more than ten years?”
    The attorney explained about the medical costs associated with Matthew Neil’s illness. “They were gigantic,” he said. “Peter,” he continued, “if Hannah were still alive, I wouldn’t say anything.”
    “About what?” Peter asked the question, despite knowing he didn’t really want to hear the answer.
    “Your schooling was another drain on her finances. In your junior year, a tuition check bounced. Jason Ayers picked up the shortfall.”
    Peter’s guts sank. “That can’t be. She and Dad set up a trust. She said everything was paid for.”
    “Saying it didn’t make it true. Hannah had nothing—as I already implied, her entire income went to pay bills and debt service.”
    Peter surveyed the attorney’s office while he absorbed all this new information. Diplomas and pictures of Smitham’s family hung in precise rows: a son, a daughter, several grandchildren, a plump wife. A picture of him in a fishing outfit, a bass flapping in a net, was blown up into a three-foot by four-foot glass-fronted frame, and made the centerpiece of an entire wall.
    Despite its cavernous dimensions, the office felt confining. Overstuffed furniture, standing lamps, pine filing cabinets, and over-filled bookshelves shared the room with billowy live plants whose broad leaves selfishly demanded space.
    Worse, the room felt jungle hot.
    Peter removed his jacket and slung it over the arm of the leather chair. His knees bent into his chest. He felt like a leaf-eater waiting for the next predator to take a bite.
    “I need to know what you intend to do about your mother’s mortgage,” Smitham said.
    “Mortgage?” Peter had no notion his mother still owed money on the house. He quickly came to a new understanding: he didn’t just have nothing, he had less than nothing. No make that substantially less than nothing. “How much?” he asked.
    “Unfortunately, your mother secured loans against her property. Little or no equity remains. If you don’t repay approximately fifty thousand dollars, creditors will force sale.”
    “I grew up in that house, Mr. Smitham. Mom would never have wanted me to give it up.”
    “If you can manage the payments, I should be able to convince the creditors to let you keep the place.”
    “Fat chance of that. I’ve got no job, and, because I opened my big fat mouth when I quit, I’ve got a former boss who hates my guts and won’t give me a reference worth shit.”
    The phone rang. On the third ring, Smitham said, “Excuse me. I must take this call.”
    The desk separated the older man from Peter