Reilly 04 - Breach of Promise (23 page)

“Ah. You didn’t like that.”

“I have to question their judgment, that’s for sure.”

“Those kids.”

“Exactly. They aren’t kids. This isn’t hormones, it’s folly. Now, I know things get intense when you work closely with people. I don’t object to their fling. Just . . .”

“You’d prefer they play in their own backyard.”

“Exactly. And it doesn’t help that we had a meeting today where I finally saw the clashing between our styles clearly. Winston and Genevieve are only interested in tactics. Maybe they’re too big-city for me. They’re taking over, and I don’t like their—their cynicism. I feel ganged up on sometimes.”

“They’re not hard to understand. They’re in it for the money. Just like you, right?”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “It’s an important legal case with important issues.”

“And important money,” Paul said.

She kept her mouth shut to stave off any further talk on the matter. Kneeling down in front of her, he slipped her shoes off and began massaging her stockinged foot. “Listen, Nina. If you don’t like the way things are going, fire Romeo and Juliet. You’re the boss. Go it alone.”

“Not possible at this point. With the trial just around the corner, I need them. Besides, they do seem to know more than I do about this whole jury business. It makes me mistrust my own judgment . . . .” His hands kneading her feet sent radiant heat coursing up her legs.

“Ah, who cares what they do on the rug after-hours,” she said. Her voice trailed off.

Paul got up and stood behind her. Taking a long strand of her hair, he curled it around his finger. His hands pulled gently at her jacket, and took it off. Immediately his thumbs pressed deeply into her shoulders as he began working the tight muscles around her neck. She sighed as her tension melted away at his touch. Her head drooped forward.

Paul took the drink from her hand and put it on the table.

“I find . . .” he said, continuing a mesmerizing circling motion at the center of her shoulder blades, “it’s always a good idea . . .” His fingers moved inside the top of her blouse. “When things look a little bleak . . .” They began a slow, gentle journey from the back of her neck. “I need to forget my troubles . . .” Settling in to explore the vicinity in front. “Lie down for a little while. Now, doesn’t that sound like a fine idea?” The hazy twilight had faded, and his hands appeared to ignite as they touched her skin, his tan against her pale.

“Excellent . . .” Nina said.

He turned her around, backing her onto the bed.

“ . . . suggestion.” The light went off, but her eyes had closed anyway; there was only Paul’s clean-scented body beside her, burning.

You don’t approach a case with
the philosophy of applying abstract justice.
You go in to win.
—Percy Foreman

“Mrs. Lim fits. Age fifty-four, close to Lindy’s. Realtor, two grown kids, husband with heart problems. Member of the American Association of University Women. Her parents are both dead. Her questionnaire says she doesn’t have a problem with people shacking up. Equality in a relationship—she says it’s important,” Genevieve said rapidly. She reached for her jacket pocket and whispered, “Hang on. I’m getting beeped. It’s Paul.”

She left the courtroom for a moment to call him. Paul had ferreted out the fifty-five names in the jury pool, and was finding out what he could about the candidates to help Lindy’s team make more informed selections.

Nina stalled Susan Lim with a few more questions.

The jury box was against the left wall of the cavelike courtroom, closely attended by the bailiff. Nina’s station, the table on the left reserved for the side bringing the main action, was closest to the box and about ten feet from the court reporter and the witness box in front.

Milne’s roost occupied the right front corner. Over at the long table to Nina’s right, Riesner and his new associate, Rebecca Casey, put their heads so closely together, Nina could swear they touched. If he had done that to her—come to think of it, he
had
done that to her a couple of times—she would be cringing the same way she would from a scorpion in her shoe. In their encounters, Riesner usually edged up close, getting in her face, trying to intimidate.

Rebecca, pleasant-faced and professional-looking, was Riesner’s match for Winston Reynolds. Educated at Stanford, she was younger than Winston, somewhere in her late thirties. Her confident air and no-nonsense attitude must be helpful when negotiating the testosterone-laden halls of Caplan Stamp etcetera. She nodded at something Riesner was saying and passed a quick note behind Riesner to Mike, who also sat at their table in a spiffy suit he had surely never worn before, his thick neck bulging out of the collar.

In that suit, Mike didn’t look honest. Was it the perspiration dotting his forehead and the bashed-up nose? His jaw worked as he gritted and relaxed his teeth. The yellow-tinged lights in the ceiling of the paneled courtroom shone down on him without mercy. He looked unwell, the flesh on his face sagging more than Nina remembered from his deposition a few months ago.

Obviously he felt the pressure of the judgment facing him up front as well as the judgment behind him, which consisted of the corps of reporters and other media types jamming the courtroom. Lindy, who sat on Nina’s left, closest to the jury box, had been leaning over frequently to look at him, not a wise idea. Winston, who had handled the
voir dire
the day before, loafed in his seat next to her. He was relying completely on Genevieve, but Nina couldn’t do that.

Nina turned back to Mrs. Lim and asked a few more polite questions. Aside from the fact that she fit Genevieve’s profile of a “friendly” juror, Nina liked Mrs. Lim’s earnestness and the thought she put into her answers. She looked successful and smart in the tweed suit, like someone who would listen carefully to the judge’s instructions and think through the issues.

Genevieve returned in the nick of time, sliding in next to Nina, and said breathlessly, “Paul just found out that she filed an employment discrimination complaint with the Office for Civil Rights twenty-two years ago, when she was just getting started in the business world. Don’t look at me! We’ve got to have her. Look bored.” She yawned and opened her notebook. Nina looked at the clock above the jury seats. Eleven-eighteen, already well into the fifth day of jury selection.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lim,” Nina said. Using the prospective juror’s name was another of Genevieve’s innovations and an indubitable improvement. The more you acknowledged a person’s identity, as she put it, the more loyalty you won. The grocery clerks where Nina shopped used the same technique after she handed them a check. “Thank you, Mrs. Reilly,” they would say, and she’d think almost subliminally, exactly as intended, aw, they noticed me.

Milne announced, “Mr. Riesner? I believe you have the next challenge.” Riesner could now exercise one of his six peremptory challenges on any of the twelve nervous people sitting up there, some nervous because they wanted to be excused, some interested enough in the process and free enough of commitments to want to stay there.

“The cross-defendants will thank and excuse Mr. Melrose,” Riesner said, offering Mr. Melrose the consolation prize of a simpering smile that said, nothing personal, I’m sure. He had chosen well. Nina had decided that Melrose, a Lutheran widower with a sad look in his eyes, would be kindhearted about the situation, a reaction that could only help Lindy. Poor Mr. Melrose edged his way awkwardly from the jury box and disappeared forever from the case.

Mrs. Lim remained. She wore her gleaming black hair short, tucked behind her ears, neat and businesslike. She would remain a sitting duck until—

“How many more peremptories do we have?” Nina whispered to Genevieve.

“Last one,” Genevieve scribbled. Nina bit her lip and searched the faces in the jury box. None of them looked back.

Lindy also scrutinized each person. Now and then during the selection process she had written a vehement
NO
! or
YES
! as various jurors were called to the jury seats and questioned. Most of the time Nina had agreed with Lindy’s assessments. And she had to admit that so far she also agreed more or less with Genevieve. The primary difference seemed to be that Nina never felt sure of anybody, while Genevieve watched, consulted her notes and profiles, and judged without doubt.

So far, their disagreements had been minor and resolvable. Of the eleven people seated in the box this morning, besides Mrs. Lim Nina liked four, had doubts about four, and feared two. Riesner’s team had unseated her strongest choices over the past few days, and she in turn had thanked and excused the ones he had to love, the ones who fit Genevieve’s other profile, the negative one.
Avoid:
her report read,
Conservatives. No higher education. Divorced men. Hunters, fishers. Young married women. Republicans—
since political and religious affiliations had been nosed out by Paul
—follower types, wealthy types.
There were many more such guidelines, graded by degree of hazard.

“Now this next one, Clifford Wright. What do we know about him?” Nina said from behind her hand as a light-haired, boyish-looking man with an engaging smile made his way to the chair still warm from poor Mr.—what had been his name?

Genevieve slid over the chart she had whipped together on Wright when they had received a list of jury pool members the week before. “Thirty-nine years old,” she said. “He scored high on his questionnaire. Currently campaign manager for our congressman. Skis, plays racquetball, rides a bike. After a number of casual girlfriends he recently married. Mother divorced from father after twenty-three years, which could be excellent; she continued to receive alimony from his father until her death last year. Loves ice cream, Chinese food, vegetables. Won’t eat strawberries, apples, or peanuts because of allergies. Self-described feminist. His wife works, not with him, but they pool their money and have accumulated enough for a down payment on a house. Paul didn’t get far with him . . . he just moved to Tahoe from Southern California. He was a state assemblyman there and is active in politics here. His voting record showed a definite liberal bent. Leader type. He smokes. Good on paper. Let’s see how he fares with your questions.”

“Mr. Wright, my client, Lindy Markov,” Nina said, gesturing toward Lindy. Wright turned his smile on Lindy.

“You’ve lived in Tahoe how long?” Nina began.

“Just a year.”

“And before that?”

“In the suburbs of L.A. Yorba Linda.”

She went on, asking him some neutral questions to give him time to get accustomed to the pricking of many eyes and the reporter tapping out his every word.

“The town you grew up in. It’s in Orange County?”

“Yes.”

“Birthplace of Richard Nixon?”

“Infamous for it.”

“People in other part of the state would probably say Orange County is one of our most conservative counties. Would you agree with that?”

“Yes, it’s conservative.”

“How is it conservative?”

“It’s a place that has probably seen more change in terms of growth in the past three decades, my whole lifetime, than anywhere else in the world. People are struggling to hold on to old-fashioned values, like family and religion. They feel a little under siege, I guess, so they are pretty noisy about it.”

Articulate s. o. b.,
Genevieve scrawled for Nina to see.

“Would you say you share the conservative attitudes Orange County is famous for?”

“I would have to say that I couldn’t wait to leave.”

“You don’t have old-fashioned values?”

“I got tired of the paranoia, the bigots, and the rigidity. I got tired of the traffic and pollution. I got tired of not being allowed to walk on people’s lawns.”

Nina wasn’t satisfied. He sounded so candid. Too candid. Under the candor and the smile he seemed quite nervous. She veered back into neutral territory. After a few minutes, he had let up his guard only slightly. “Is this your first experience with the criminal justice system?” Nina asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Nervous? People usually are.”

“ ’Fraid so.” He laughed.

“It’s not an easy place to spend a morning, is it, Mr. Wright? Bet you’d rather be out,” she pretended to consult her notes, “riding your bike up the path near Emerald Bay on a glorious day like this?”

“You bet I would.”

Nina smiled and let the audience have their laugh. The tension in the room lifted enough so that Clifford Wright finally lost the tightness around his mouth.

“Unfortunately, we’re all here doing our duties today,” said Nina. “We’re here to decide some very serious issues. This is a case that some have described as a palimony case. Are you familiar with that term?”

“Sure. Clint Eastwood was sued for palimony, wasn’t he? Also Bob Dylan. Even Martina Navratilova, I think.”

“What did you think about those cases?”

“Well,” he said slowly. “I didn’t follow the details, you understand. But from what I heard, Bob Dylan’s girlfriend lived with him for a long time, even had and raised his kids. She probably ought to get something. The Martina thing, that was iffier.”

“So, as a fair-minded person, you think you could try to look at these things on an individual basis.”

“That’s right,” he said. He gave her a frank open smile. “Mrs. Reilly,” he added.

“Do you understand what a contract is?” Nina asked.

“I think so.”

“How would you define it?”

“An agreement.”

“Do you know that in law, there are different kinds of contracts, both oral and written?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that, in law, an oral contract has the same validity as a written contract?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Do you think they should?”

“As long as you know what the agreement was, I have no problem with that.”

“Would you agree that it’s easier to prove an agreement in writing, Mr. Wright?”

“Well, of course.”

“But not every writing is an agreement, is it?”