Defense for the Devil (15 page)

She called Maggie, who sounded terrible, frantic with worry. She would get the documents together and bring them over the following day.

“They’ll arrest Ray, won’t they? He has a lawyer, a man named Bishop Stover, someone who comes in to the sports shop now and then. I told him to try one you recommended, but he said a lawyer he knew would be better…. Barbara, I’m so scared for him.”

“Take it easy,” Barbara said. “Don’t go to pieces. We’ll talk tomorrow. When will you get here? You might as well come to the office.”

When she hung up, she cursed. “Stover! For God’s sake!”

“Maybe he’ll shake himself for a friend,” Frank said. Stover was not a bad man, not evil; he was lazy, and too many of his clients ended up going for a plea bargain. No doubt, most of them were guilty of something or other, everyone was, but a plea bargain should be used as a last resort, not the first.

At three-thirty Trassi called. “I told Mr. Sunderman to arrange a meeting with IRS as soon as possible,” he said curtly.

“Good. I shall remove a couple hundred sheets of printout and hold them until the Internal Revenue Service signs a closing agreement. That will take several weeks, no doubt. Meanwhile, you will have enough of the material to satisfy your clients.”

“You don’t know the people you’re trying to outsmart,” he said in a low voice. “You don’t know what kind of danger you’re inviting.”

“Maybe not, but I have a very good idea of what my bargaining chips are.”

When she hung up the phone, she had to wipe her hand, suddenly sweaty on the phone. Good God! she thought in wonder, Trassi was going to do it! He was going all the way.

At four-thirty she arrived at Valley River Inn, asked for Mr. Waters’s table, and was led to the same table they had sat at before.

Waters/Gilmore jumped up. “I thought you might not make it,” he said. “I’ve been trying and trying to reach you.” The waiter was hovering. Barbara waved him away. “Russ is really losing it,” Gilmore said. “It’s really bad. He’s threatening to throw himself off a cliff. Ms. Holloway, Barbara, please…” He reached across the table and took her hand. “For God’s sake, please. I’m begging you. Let me tell him I have his program.”

She pulled free and shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Waters. I’m going with Trassi.”

He leaned back in his chair, as if stunned. “Why? I thought you were an honorable woman, a decent human being. Why?”

“Because he can give me what I need, and you can’t. Not just the money, but legal justification for it.”

“We’ll find a way,” he said. “If that’s all, we’ll fix it. Russ will make it legal as hell.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Trassi can do it easily in a way the tax people will understand and accept. So, sorry. I have to run.”

“You’re like the rest, after all,” he said harshly. “A lawyer through and through. Don’t let decency get in the way of a buck. You’ll be directly responsible if Russ does something desperate, if he kills himself. It will be on your head.”

“I don’t believe your employer’s emotional or psychological distress is any of my business. And if two giants nibble each other to death, let them.” She walked away.

In the lobby a small group of women were standing under a banner: GRANDPARENTS’ RIGHTS ADVOCACY ASSOCIATION. Most of them were silver-haired with a touch of blue here and there, and most of them were extremely well dressed with discreet jewelry. Sylvia stood out like an orange in a snowbank. Her hair was bright orange, frizzed in an Afro; she was wearing leopard-spotted silk pants, and a gold lamé top, and every finger was dazzling with diamonds; diamond pendants dangled from her ears.

Barbara walked past her. In a moment she heard Sylvia’s carrying voice: “Excuse me, Lucy. I’ll be damned if that isn’t Stu Gilmore!”

14

Frank strolled into
the office at nine in the morning. Barbara would drop in around eleven, she had said, and Maggie was due by eleven-thirty. There were a few things for him to attend to, nothing of great importance, no matter how Patsy regarded them.

She scurried from her office as he drew near his own. Patsy had coal-black hair she tended so carefully that no white root had ever shown itself. He was very fond of her.

“Mr. Bixby asked you to give him a buzz as soon as you arrived,” Patsy said.

He grinned amiably at her. “All right.” He entered his office and gave Sam Bixby a buzz. “What’s up, Sam?”

“I’d like a few moments, if you have time,” Sam said. “I can come over if you’re not tied up.”

“Come on over.”

Moments later Sam arrived. He knocked and waited to be invited in, the way he always did. They exchanged pleasantries and seated themselves in the comfortable chairs by the coffee table.

“What’s on your mind?” Frank asked.

“I heard that the Fentons sent a car for you,” Sam said, not quite nonchalantly. “I thought it was agreed that if we took on a new client, we would discuss it.”

“I didn’t take them on,” Frank said. “A little advice, no more than that.”

Sam looked disappointed. “Oh,” he said. “But there’s something else. I hear that Barbara’s been in and out a lot this past week, even working late. Has she taken on someone we should talk about?”

“Sam, knock it off,” Frank said. “You know as well as I do that we’re consulting with Lou Sunderman, and yes, it’s going to involve him and the office. A tax matter, Sam.”

Sam looked uncomfortable. At one time he had worn a hairpiece, but he had given it up and, in fact, had been ridiculous in it; but his head did gleam, and it was very pink. Frank suspected that Sam was a little jealous of his, Frank’s, abundant hair, gray as it was.

“What’s really bugging you?” he asked bluntly.

Sam took in a deep breath, then said, “I don’t believe you’re unaware of how this whole office has changed over the years. Drastically. The day you retire, we no longer will be concerned with criminal cases, for example.”

“Ah,” Frank said. “You haven’t forgotten that my cases kept us in chow for a good many of those years, I hope.”

“Of course not. But things change. Our image has changed. And criminal cases do not enhance it.”

“So when I walk out, you assign this office to whom? Got that far yet?”

Sam turned a shade redder. “No, no. Frank, I’m not suggesting you leave, for God’s sake. I haven’t forgotten anything. But things change. That’s all I’m saying. Things change. High-profile cases alienate people. They take sides. People associate the firm with unsavory publicity, with a lack of discretion. It isn’t good for us as a firm. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I give you discretion. You handle more crooks in a month than I see
all year, but discreetly. Now I get it.”

“No, you don’t! I know you aren’t pulling in those cases yourself anymore. But you let Barbara drag you into the middle of them. She uses this firm when and how it suits her. She’s a maverick like you. There was a time when we needed that, but we don’t any longer. Let her open her own stable of criminal attorneys if that’s what she wants. I don’t want us to get involved in another murder trial, Frank. Now, do you get it?”

Frank laughed. “Sam, if I decided to take on Manson, there’s not a damn thing you could do about it.”

Sam jumped to his feet. “Don’t do this, Frank. This isn’t just my opinion. I told you, things change. This firm, without exception, does not want to get involved in another high-profile criminal case.”

Very silkily Frank said, “Oh, you’ve had meetings? Is that it? Anything else on your mind?”

Wordlessly, Sam Bixby left the office. His scalp was cherry red. Frank knew very well that when he retired, this office would go to one of the associates, and from then on the firm would handle trusts, corporate business, wills, matters guaranteed not to alienate important clients. And the only criminals who would be free to come and go within these august walls would have clean hands, manicured nails, white collars. And their crimes would only affect hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of other people, not the simple one-on-one that he preferred. But, he told himself, things change.

Maggie arrived soon after Barbara, and they all went down to Lou Sunderman’s office, where the gnome-like man looked over the documents Maggie had brought and pronounced them satisfactory.

“Very well,” he said. “Our next step is to transfer the money to an escrow account and obtain a court order to keep it there until we finalize a closing agreement with Internal Revenue. If Mr. Trassi produces the appropriate documents, we should have no trouble arriving at a closing agreement; however, it will take several months, more than likely. There is no need for you to be present at our initial conference, Ms. Folsum, although your presence will be required at the closing-agreement formality. Also, I think it is in everyone’s interest to have this matter kept confidential, and I shall so stipulate in the court order and at the conference. Otherwise, you may find yourself inundated with requests of various kinds, and, of course, there would be unwanted publicity which might make much of the fact that Mr. Arno has been murdered, arousing unnecessary speculation.”

He stood up. They would need a separate agreement, he said, since the one Barbara had drawn up was for her, not the firm. Frank said they’d be in his office and to send it around when it was ready for Maggie to sign, and they left the little man.

Maggie stopped just inside Frank’s office, staring in disbelief at Barbara. “You’re getting it for us? Is it going to work?”

“Looks like it,” Barbara said.

“But what if they ask me questions?” Maggie said.

“You answer.” She was watching Maggie closely. “The only thing you have to conceal is that you saw Mitch or even knew he was back before Ray told you.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Maggie said.

“Just listen carefully to any question put to you, and answer it as briefly as you can. Don’t volunteer anything and don’t stray from the question. You’ll be fine.”

Maggie looked at Frank, who nodded.

“When we get the fingerprint report, do I give it to his lawyer, or to the police, or just to Ray himself?”

“What’s your instinct about that?”

“Both the police and his lawyer,” Maggie said after a moment. “I think you should pay attention to your own instincts,” Barbara said. “Have you accepted that if Ray’s arrested, there’s nothing you can do or should do immediately?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “I’d just make it worse for him if they knew so much money might be involved. I understand that.” She looked miserable.

“That’s exactly right,” Barbara said. “As soon as we have a formal statement from Trassi that the money is legally yours, we’ll go to the D.A. and I’ll try to get them to drop the charges against Ray. He’s in for a bad time, so is his family, and so are you. It can’t be helped now. He’ll be frightened. They’ll tell him the penalties for various degrees of murder, for manslaughter. They’ll tell him his cooperation and a statement of remorse can lighten his sentence, and they’ll pretend to assume he’ll be convicted.”

There was a tap on the door; Lou Sunderman’s secretary was there with the agreement for Maggie to sign, and she didn’t stay long after that. She would reopen the inn on Sunday, she said; she had to.

Barbara let herself into the apartment quietly, then stopped with her hand on the doorknob, the door not closed all the way yet. John was talking to someone. She hadn’t realized how sound traveled in their small apartment; his words were quite audible.

“Yes, vaguely familiar with it. When would you need a report?” After a moment he said, “When do you expect it to start snowing?” Then, “That’s cutting it pretty fine. Look, fax me what you already have, and I’ll get back to you later today.”

She finished closing the door, and called out, “I’m home.”

John stepped out of his office, holding the telephone. He waved. He said into the telephone, “Right. I’ll call back as soon as I have a chance to look it over. Might be late this evening.”

She went in to wash her hands, and when she came out of the bathroom, he was in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator.

“Time to go out for a hamburger?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Waiting for some faxes. We have some tuna fish, or soup. Flip a coin.”

They had soup, and Barbara found herself biting her tongue when she started to ask what was up. He went back into his office, and she went to hers and closed the door. But she could hear his fax machine, and a few minutes after it stopped, she heard papers rustling, a noise she couldn’t identify, more rustling.

Finally she stood up and began to gather her things to return to the downtown office. John’s door was open; he was bending over a map spread out on his mammoth desk.

“Leaving again,” she said.

He looked up, then came around the desk and kissed her. “Short visit.”

“Way it goes. I think I’ll be out from under all this mess soon.

Then back to routine stuff.”

He nuzzled her earlobe. “I’ll be waiting.”

She left and as she drove to the office she thought how different they were. He could leave something he was doing in the middle of a word, then get back to it as if he had an on/off switch. If she became distracted, it took a long time to recapture whatever she had been thinking. Not his problem, she told herself, hers. When his kids were around, it would be just like that, too. He would do things with them, and return to work. On/ off/ on. Simple. It was as if he could turn his focus into such a narrow beam that what was immediately at hand was all that he was aware of, but her focus wanted to take in everything. Again she told herself, sharply this time: not his problem, hers.

She was in the office, reading more of the Jolin material, when Frank entered. He went to his desk and sat down. “They arrested Ray Arno, charged him with aggravated murder.”

There was nothing to say.

“Lou met me in the hall outside,” Frank said after a moment. “He’s getting a court order for Monday to transfer the money to an escrow account. I’ll be glad to get it out of here.”

There was still nothing to say. She returned to the report she had been reading about the Palmer Company and finished the last page. “Palmer probably delivers for the Mafia,” she said. “Never arrested, never seriously questioned about anything, but there are rumors.”