Suspicion of Guilt (13 page)

Jack Warner was annoyed. "If we refused every case where we were remotely connected to anyone affected by the outcome, we'd lose half our client base. So would every other large firm in Miami."

Still standing, Schoenfeld leaned his forearms on the back of his chair, belly hanging, and passed a hand over his bald head. "It's not just conflict of interest I'm worried about. I think we could get around that and take the damn case if we want it. What I think is, we're going to get our asses kicked out of court without the proof. I want more than some ex-cop saying Althea Tillett didn't sign the will. I want carved-on-stone, appeal-resistant proof."

Hand cupped at his mouth, Cy Mackey made a stage whisper. "Hey, Bill." He pointed at Gail's file. "We've still got the quarter million bucks."

Gail gave him a look. "No. That isn't a good enough reason to take this case. It isn't only about money. And if we turn it down, it shouldn't be because of who we're afraid to offend. Althea Tillett's will was forged. Someone screwed Patrick Norris out of his inheritance. He came to me—to us— for help."

"Bravo!" Putney laughed, his pale, mottled cheeks growing ruddy. He leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good for you."

Robineau asked her, "What are the chances of settlement?"

"Depends on what I can find out, who did what. Possibly Rudy and Monica Tillett would pay Patrick fair market value for tiie house and art collection. If Weissman had a hand in this, he'd have to kick in. I don't know what Patrick would accept. Fifteen million dollars is a lot to lose. Even half that, after taxes."

There was silence around the table. Putney finally said, "If Alan Weissman did participate, we are obliged to notify the Bar."

Bill Schoenfeld dropped back into his chair. "Who gets that honor? You do it, Forrest. You're retiring."

Larry Black said quietly, "Poor Alan. I hope he wasn't involved."

"Shit. Tell me how he couldn't be," Mackey said.

A knock sounded on the door, and Robineau swung around in his chair, annoyed. "Who is it?"

It was Eric Ramsay, pinstripes and suspenders, his sandy hair as rumpled as his long-sleeved white shirt. "Mr. Schoenfeld, you were looking for me?"

"I said call. You didn't have to come up."

"It's okay. I was just in the library."

Schoenfeld said, "Last year we did some work for somebody connected to the Easton Charitable Trust. Who was it?"

Eric took a second, looking at the faces turned to him. "Howard Odell, I believe."

"What about?"

"He was selling some real estate and I reviewed the contract for tax consequences."

"How did he happen to ask you to do that?"

"We met playing racquetball. I said I had some ideas that he could use. He was interested and we talked."

"Did it involve the trust in any regard?"

"No, it was his own personal business."

"Anything to do with Sanford Ehringer or Althea Tillett?"

"I don't recall those names."

"Is Odell still our client?"

"No, I only handled that one matter for him." "Okay. Thank you."

Eric looked around the room again, apparently mystified. When Bill Schoenfeld told him that was all, he nodded and went out, closing the door.

Robineau announced, "No conflict there."

"No, not there," Larry said. "Just with our existing clients. I hope you can explain it to them when this hits the news, as it surely will. Explain why we want to take the millions of dollars that Althea Tillett left to charity and give it all to her estranged nephew."

Robineau pinned him with a hard gray stare. "Speaking of conflict of interest, Larry. Didn't you and Althea Tillett belong to the same church?"

"Yes. Miami Shores Presbyterian."

Gail hadn't heard this before. Larry had known Althea Tillett.

He went on, "And yes, Paul, she made a bequest of two hundred thousand dollars. Which is precisely the point. Do you have any idea how many of our clients attend that church?"

"What are we? A law firm or a country club?" "You don't survive by alienating prominent members of society."

"What society? The only society we're going to alienate is Rudy Tillett and his sister and the South Beach-Warsaw Ballroom-afternoon tea dance crowd."

"Watch it, Paul." Cy Mackey snickered. "You're making politically incorrect statements about persons of another sexual orientation."

"Cy, shut up," Schoenfeld said tiredly.

"You're going to regret pushing us into taking this case." Larry was standing over Paul Robineau's chair. "I swear you will."

"You swear." Robineau's eyes gleamed coldly, but his body showed no sign of tension. He shook his head, smiling. "Larry, your trouble is, you're too much of a pussy."

Larry said, "Screw you, Paul."

"And fuck you."

Mackey gave a delighted laugh, as if he would shortly see someone knocked across the room.

"Gentlemen!" Putney rose magisterially from his chair.

Robineau made a shrug of apology in Gail's direction, apparently remembering there was a woman in the room.

"You miss the point," Putney thundered. "
I
am offended as well. As a member of this law firm I am offended."

Larry retreated, squeezing the bridge of his nose, mumbling.

The smirk was off Mackey's face. "Sorry."

Putney glared around the table, then straightened the front of his seersucker jacket and sat down.

Robineau said, "Ms. Connor, that will be all. Thank you for coming in."

Schoenfeld lit another cigarette. Warner seemed to look through the wall with his hooded eyes. Cy Mackey picked something out of a front tooth with the nail of his little finger. Larry hid his face in his coffee cup.

No one spoke. Gail drew her notes together and tapped them into a neat stack. After she was gone, the committee would talk about what to do. She would find out tomorrow. If they took the case, then she would ask to handle it. Insist on it. But not now. They weren't in a good mood, any of them.

She stood up to go. Then stopped, knowing beyond doubt that her future at the firm depended on what happened in the next few seconds.

Paul Robineau asked from the far end of the table, "Is there something else?"

Her heart raced erratically, as if a hand were trying to pull it out of her chest. She said, "Yes. Patrick Norris wants me to represent him. If you decide not to take the case, then I'll have to decide what to do about that. I have no current plans to leave this firm, but I do feel some obligation to Mr. Norris. If you want the case, then I would like a percentage of the fees. And I would like to apply that to a purchase of an equity partnership."

There was dead silence in the room. Finally Robineau said, "You're assuming a great deal, aren't you, Ms. Connor?"

"After almost eight years, Paul, I have a right to make assumptions. I assume I'm a good attorney. I assume I belong here."

Cy Mackey's teeth were showing again. "Gee. And I thought you wanted the case because the guy came to you for help."

Gail forced herself to smile at him.

From where he leaned on the sideboard, Larry said, "Gail is right. It's past time."

Most of the other attorneys were looking into space. Putney chortled silently, the loose skin of his neck shaking. "Here's a young woman with chutzpah!"

Robineau's pen turned over and over in his fingers. Finally he said, "Thank you, Ms. Connor. We'll let you know."

When she got back to her office, shaking so hard she had to sit down, there was a message from Anthony. She called. He was home. A second-degree murder had pled out to aggravated battery. Could she come over for dinner?

Gail called Irene next and talked her into taking Karen for a round or two of miniature golf. She drove straight to Anthony's house from work, unbuttoning her dress on the way up the stairs.

Now the smoky baritone voice of a Spanish ballad singer was winding upward from the stereo in the living room. A candle flickered in the mirror. The bathroom was dark; Anthony had pinned a towel over the window to keep out the late-afternoon sun.

It was a big bathtub, shiny black, with water jets to turn on and a ledge along the wall for scented soap and bath oil and loofah sponges. Anthony reclined against the back of the tub, Gail between his legs, eyes closed, head on his shoulder. He was soaping her breasts, making designs.

She said, "I thought I was going to die."

"No." He nudged aside her hair with his chin to kiss the back of her neck. She felt the rasp of beard.

"Really. I thought my heart would stop and they would have to call 911. Then I said, Well, if they can be such pricks, then I can too. So I went for it."

"Soon you'll be too much for me, do you think?"

"Damn right. More macho than even you." Gail rolled over, slippery in the perfumed water, then held on to his shoulders and pulled slowly up his body, feeling his chest hair on her skin.

He whimpered.
"No puedo mas.
Gail, please."

She ran the tip of her tongue along his teeth until he gave in and opened his mouth. His hands slid under the water, parting her legs, shifting her on his lap. The water rose and fell on the sides of the bathtub.

He had the pale skin of northern Spain, the long nose and aristocratic bearing of his maternal grandfather, and the dark eyes of his father's people: ex-slaves, santeros, and worshippers of Santa Barbara, who under a full moon gave herself to Chango, god of lightning, thunder, and virility. That would make Anthony an octoroon, Gail thought. The word rolled around in her mouth. Octoroon. Like macaroon. Or full moon. One-eighth Afro-Cuban, mambo and cha-cha and
ritmo latino,
timbales and congas pulsing in his blood.

A while later, she sank onto his chest.

"iQuien es mas macho, mujer?"

"I am," she said.

"Who?" She shrieked when he tickled under her arm. "Who's more macho?" He poked at her ribs. "Say it." "Oh, stop. Anthony!"
"iQuien es? Dimelo."

"You! You are." She slid under the water, her laughter turning to bubbles. Anthony pulled her up by an elbow and swept the hair out of her face.

He kissed her, hard, then put his arms around her back.

For a few minutes she closed her eyes. "Imagine. Anthony Luis Quintana Pedrosa and a skinny-assed
Americana
with her bad-mannered kid. Can't cook, doesn't clean. Every Cuban mother's nightmare. God. Who could have predicted this? Could I? Not in a hundred years. Could you?"

His breathing was slow and steady.

"Not in a thousand." Then she whispered, "Are you asleep?"

"No." He moved his arms and cool air from the vent in the ceiling hit her back. "Gail. It's late. Eight-thirty. You wanted me to remind you."

She looked at the clock on the vanity. "I could stay a little longer. We haven't eaten."

"I'll fix something later." He patted her bottom. "You should go."

They stood carefully and got out. Anthony dried off, singing softly in Spanish the words of a song from downstairs.

Gail wrapped a towel tightly around herself as she watched him—the long lines of his back and legs, the muscles moving under the skin, the dark hair on his chest and groin. Soon he would kiss her goodbye at the door, and at midnight they would both be reading their office files, a cup of tea or
cafe
on their respective night tables.

She stifled a sob and sank down on the edge of the bathtub.

"What is it? Gail?"

"Nothing." She laughed, wiping her cheeks with a towel.

"Nothing?" He sat beside her.

"God, it's—too much to do when I get home. I don't know." She stood up. "I'll call you during the week, all right?"

"We'll talk about it now."

"Talk about what? I'm fine."

Still sitting, he looked up at her. "You make me crazy."

"Do I? Well, good." She lightly kissed his mouth. "As long as you're not crazy for anyone else."

Chapter Nine

Two days later Gail got the news from Jack Warner, head of litigation. She could do the Norris case. They haggled for a few minutes over details of the fee agreement, but in the end he gave her what she wanted. He hoped she would allow him to assist. She would. She asked about a share of the proceeds. He said she could have it, five percent of recovered fees. And if all went well, they would apply that percentage to her purchase of a partnership in the firm. He shook her hand as she left. It seemed to Gail that the men on the management committee hadn't held it against her that she had pushed. If you're afraid to use your cleats you don't belong on the team.

Walking out of Warner's office she felt an odd mixture of exhilaration and dread. Five percent of legal fees of 15 percent on fifteen million ... if she won the case.

Now Gail stood at her desk dividing files and correspondence into two stacks—urgent and pressing. Miriam's head was bowed over a legal pad, her pen flying. There would be a heavy schedule in the morning, then at one o'clock Gail would meet with Patrick Norris and he would sign some papers.

At a stopping place she glanced at her watch. Eight-fifty. "Can you get all that done before noon?"

Miriam flipped her hair back over her shoulder. She had loop earrings with little gold hearts that swung on tiny chains. "Sure, but not if you still want me to take that letter to Karen's school this morning."

"Call a courier service, then. I can't think of what else to do."

Karen had forgotten her permission slip for a school choral concert at the Holocaust Museum on Miami Beach, and the bus would leave at ten. Karen was doing a solo. Otherwise, Gail might have been tempted to teach her a lesson.

"I was wondering," Miriam said. "I've got a finance exam tonight. Could I leave an hour early? I didn't have a chance to study last night because Danny was working and couldn't watch the baby."

"Sure, go ahead." Gail stood on tiptoes to reach a heavy box on her bookcase. "Your schedule is as bad as mine. Danny doesn't complain?" She dropped the box on a chair.

"Not so much. I know how to handle him." When Gail looked around, Miriam laughed. "Men are like that! They give you anything you want at first, then"—she snapped her fingers—"they turn into husbands. They try to order you around. But I never let Danny do that,
olvidalo!
He won't be like my father. He makes my mother ask permission for everything. Papi is very old-fashioned, you know?"