Chapter 7: The Saul Goodman Connection
POV: Marcus
Every criminal empire needed a lawyer who didn't ask questions. Lucky for Marcus, Albuquerque had the best.
The strip mall squatted under fluorescent lighting that made everything look diseased, a collection of failing businesses clinging to relevance in a neighborhood that had given up on prosperity years ago. Between a nail salon advertising "MANI/PEDI $15" and a check-cashing place with bulletproof glass, a door bore the legend "SAUL GOODMAN & ASSOCIATES" in gold lettering that was already peeling around the edges.
Marcus pushed through the door and immediately understood why Walter White would eventually choose this man as his legal counsel. The office screamed desperation disguised as confidence—fake wood paneling, motivational posters featuring eagles and mountains, a constitution replica that looked like it had been purchased from a gas station gift shop.
Behind a desk that belonged in a 1970s furniture showroom sat a woman whose expression suggested she'd seen every variety of human failure and found none of it particularly interesting. Her nameplate read "FRANCESCA," and she examined Marcus with the professional disinterest of someone who'd learned not to get emotionally invested in clients.
"You here about the DUI?" she asked without looking up from her magazine.
"No. I need a consultation."
"Criminal or civil?"
"Hypothetical."
That got her attention. Francesca's eyes sharpened, and she reached for an intercom button. "Mr. Goodman? Got a hypothetical situation out here."
The voice that responded through the speaker was pure enthusiasm wrapped in a used-car-salesman cadence: "Send 'em back! I love hypotheticals!"
The inner office made the reception area look restrained by comparison. More fake wood, more motivational posters, and behind a desk that could have doubled as a landing strip sat a man who radiated the kind of confidence that came from having no shame whatsoever.
Saul Goodman bounded to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, extending a hand that gripped with the practiced firmness of someone who'd shaken ten thousand hands in service of ten thousand desperate causes.
"Better Call Saul! What can I do you for?"
"Legal consultation," Marcus said, settling into a chair that squeaked ominously under his weight. "I have some hypothetical concerns about pharmaceutical distribution."
Saul's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "Hypothetical. Sure, sure, I love hypotheticals. They pay real well and never result in actual jail time for anyone involved."
Marcus had rehearsed this approach during the drive over, crafting a story that would establish his credibility without revealing anything that could later be used against him. "Let's say someone wanted to move pharmaceutical products across state lines. Hypothetically. What kind of legal complications might arise?"
"Hypothetically? FDA regulations, DEA oversight, interstate commerce laws, tax implications, and about fifteen different ways to accidentally commit felonies." Saul leaned back in his chair, clearly warming to the subject. "But hypothetically, if someone were very careful about documentation and had the right connections, certain... irregularities... might be overlooked by busy federal agencies."
"What kind of connections?"
"Oh, you know. Paperwork specialists. Import/export facilitators. People who understand that bureaucracy exists to be navigated, not obeyed." Saul's grin widened. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."
Marcus nodded thoughtfully, filing away information that would prove valuable later. "And if these hypothetical pharmaceutical products needed to move quickly? Time-sensitive situations?"
"Speed costs extra, but it's doable. Matter of knowing which forms to file when, which inspectors to avoid, which routes have the least federal oversight." Saul paused, studying Marcus with calculating eyes. "These hypothetical products wouldn't happen to be of the controlled variety, would they?"
"Hypothetically? Let's say they exist in a legal gray area."
"Ah, gray areas. My specialty. Hypothetically, gray-area pharmaceuticals require very specific handling. Documentation that looks legitimate but doesn't invite scrutiny. Transportation methods that bypass traditional shipping networks. Payment structures that don't leave paper trails."
"You have experience with these hypothetical situations?"
"Let me put it this way—I know a businessman who might be very interested in efficient distribution networks. Hypothetically, he runs a food service operation, but he's always looking for ways to expand his... logistics capabilities."
Marcus's blood pressure spiked. Gus Fring. Saul was already connected to Gus, even if he didn't realize the full scope of that connection yet. The pieces were in place, just waiting for Walter White to stumble into the machinery that would transform him from high school teacher to methamphetamine kingpin.
"This businessman," Marcus said carefully. "Hypothetically, what kind of distribution network does he operate?"
"Regional, mostly. Southwest focus. Very professional, very discreet. The kind of operation that values reliability over flashiness." Saul leaned forward conspiratorially. "Hypothetically, if you had a product that could benefit from professional distribution, he might be interested in a conversation."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that. And when your hypotheticals become actualities, you give old Saul a call. I'm very good at making problems disappear."
Marcus paid for the consultation with cash—two hundred dollars that bought him sixty minutes of information and established him as a legitimate client in Saul's files. The lawyer walked him to the door with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just identified a potential long-term revenue source.
"You're different from my usual clients," Saul observed, handing Marcus a business card that was somehow both professional and gaudy. "Calmer. Like you've seen worse than whatever brought you to my door."
"Maybe I have."
"Well, worse is my bread and butter. When things get complicated—and they always get complicated—you remember that Saul Goodman specializes in making impossible problems go away."
They shook hands again, and Marcus felt the weight of future necessity in that grip. This man would become essential to Walter White's operation, the legal architect who would enable Heisenberg's transformation from amateur cook to criminal mastermind. Having a connection to him now might prove invaluable later.
"One more thing," Marcus said, pausing at the door. "Hypothetically, if someone needed to move money offshore quickly and quietly, what would that look like?"
Saul's grin could have powered half of Albuquerque. "Hypothetically? That would look like a very profitable conversation for both parties involved."
Outside, Marcus sat in his car and studied Saul's business card. The design was exactly as tacky as he'd expected—stars and stripes border, oversized lettering, a phone number that spelled out "CALL-SAUL" in the kind of marketing gimmick that should have been embarrassing but somehow worked.
One more piece on the board secured. When Walter White finally needed legal counsel for his criminal empire, Marcus would already have an established relationship with the lawyer who'd enable that empire's growth.
Ryuk materialized in the passenger seat, his yellow eyes reflecting the strip mall's neon lighting.
"Interesting choice," the death god observed. "Most humans with ultimate power focus on eliminating threats. You're building alliances."
"I'm preparing for contingencies."
"Why not just kill all the bad people now? You have their names, you know where they live. Write 'Tuco Salamanca' in the notebook and watch his reign of terror end in cardiac arrest."
Marcus started the engine, but didn't pull out of the parking space immediately. "Because I need to see who survives first."
"Elaborate."
"Killing Tuco creates a power vacuum. Maybe someone worse fills it. Maybe the cartel sends reinforcements. Maybe Gus moves faster to consolidate territory." Marcus turned to face the death god. "Every action has consequences I can't predict. Better to understand the system before I start breaking it."
"Or maybe you're just afraid of responsibility."
"Maybe I am. But fear can be a useful tool if it keeps you from making stupid mistakes."
Ryuk crunched his apple thoughtfully. "Light Yagami never worried about consequences. He just acted on his convictions."
"Light Yagami also ended up dead in a warehouse, abandoned by everyone who'd once followed him. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of decisive action."
"Fair point. But paralysis by analysis has its own risks. While you're studying the system, people are dying who might have been saved."
Marcus pulled out of the parking space and headed toward home, carrying the weight of Ryuk's words like stones in his chest. The death god was right—every day he delayed action was another day that Tuco terrorized dealers, that addicts overdosed on contaminated product, that innocent people suffered because he was too cautious to intervene.
But rushing into action without understanding the consequences was how empires fell and cities burned. Marcus had seen what happened when people with power acted on incomplete information. The cure often proved worse than the disease.
"Two months until Walter's diagnosis," he thought, watching Albuquerque's lights blur past his windshield. "Two months to prepare for the hurricane that's coming. Better to be ready than sorry."
The business card sat on his dashboard, a small piece of cardboard that represented access to the legal infrastructure of Albuquerque's criminal underworld. When the time came to act, Marcus would need allies who understood how to operate in the shadows.
Saul Goodman was corrupt, amoral, and absolutely essential to any serious criminal enterprise. Having him on retainer—even hypothetically—was an investment in future necessity.
As Marcus pulled into his apartment complex, he made a mental note to research offshore banking procedures and document forgery services. Hypothetically, of course.
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