Suspicion of Guilt (14 page)

"Hmmm."

Miriam uncurled herself from behind the desk, a flash of knees and bare legs. "Anthony? Don't worry, he's not as old as my dad. You can probably teach him to do things for you."

Gail rummaged in the dusty box. "I can't imagine."

"You don't just
tell
him to," Miriam said, as if astonished that Gail could be so dense. "It can't be stuff he won't do anyway. But sometimes he'll only say he won't, so he can think he's in control. Danny does that. I say, Please, Danny.
Por favor, papi"

"Ick."

"No, it works,
te juro.
I swear to God. If you don't make him do things for you, how does he know you love him?"

Gail stared at her. "You actually do this?"

Miriam burst into giggles. "Oh, Gail. You are so funny." She gathered up an armful of files, then said, "You should let me take you shopping sometime. It's okay to look like a lawyer at work, but if you're going to go out with a Cuban guy, you have to know how to dress. For one thing, you ought to wear tighter skirts."

"Miriam, please."

She shrugged and vanished into the corridor.

A moment later Gail heard a knock at the open door. Eric Ramsay stepped inside. He said, "Got a minute?"

"About that much. What do you need?" Gail headed back toward the bookcase with the box.

Eric shut the door. He wore cuffed trousers and blue suspenders. The shirt was snug across his wide shoulders. "I thought maybe you could use some help with the forgery case."

She looked at him. "The forgery case?"

He took the box out of her hands and tossed it easily on the top shelf. "It is your case, isn't it? Tillett?"

"Where did you hear that?" The partners had agreed to keep it quiet for a while, until Gail had formed her strategy.

His smile faded. "A couple of paralegals were talking about it in the coffee room."

"Oh, great."

"They said you've just taken a will forgery case. Alice Tillett?"

"Althea."

"Right. Althea. The name sounded familiar. Bill Schoenfeld asked me about Althea Tillett at the meeting on Monday. When I heard the paralegals talking, it hit me as something I'd like to work on."

"Why?" Gail asked.

"Why?" One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. "Because they say it's going to be one hell of a trial. Except for moot court in law school, I've never argued a case. You know why Hartwell Black hired me. Taxes. At Michigan I specialized in tax. I wrote articles on tax shelters and offshore investment. At Hartwell Black I do corporate tax evaluations. Tax."

He leaned on the edge of her desk. "Frankly, I'm sick of it. It's numbers. No soul. You know what I'd like to do? I want to be a trial attorney. That's a one-eighty turn, but I've felt it pulling at me ever since I saw the inside of a courtroom."

"Really."

"Really." He smiled again. "And who better to teach me trial tactics than Gail Connor? You're one kick-ass lawyer."

She made a little moan and crossed her office. "Eric, please. I can't take bullshit this early in the morning."

He blinked. "It wasn't bullshit."

"All right. Thank you for the generous offer of your time, your compliments, and so forth, but I don't need any assistance."

"Look at this." He motioned toward the files stacked on her desk. "You've already got too much to do. How are you going to take on a major case by yourself?"

She folded her arms. "Okay. I'm going to be real honest here. Remember that complaint in the Aventura Mazda case I asked you to do a couple of weeks ago?"

"It was the beginning of September."

"A month ago, then. Whatever. Frankly, I was disappointed. I had to do it myself and nearly missed the filing deadline."

"Gail, you dropped it on me without any instruction except 'Draft a complaint.'" "I should hold your hand?"

He stepped in front of her, lifting placating palms. "Okay, I messed up. I'm big enough to admit that."

"Great. I still don't need your help."

"I need yours. Please. Gail—" He dropped into one of the client chairs. "They're going to let me go. I'm on probation now, and I don't think I'm going to make it."

Gail stared down at him.

"Gone. My career. Everything."

"Eric. I'm so sorry. Are you sure? Who told you?"

"The man himself. Paul Robineau. Christ, they're such jackals in this place."

"No, not everyone." She sat down next to him. "Eric, can I make a small suggestion?"

"Sure."

"It's your attitude. As if nobody knows as much as you do. People don't like that. Senior partners particularly don't like it."

He sat silently, then nodded. "Maybe I'm overcompensating. See, I didn't have things handed to me, like most people around here. My mom died when I was a kid, and my dad worked double shifts putting us through school—my sister and my kid brother and me. We lived in a trailer. All I remember is snow and rain. I didn't want to end up like that. I studied and got out. I promised to put my kid sister through college." He sucked in a breath. "What the hell am I going to do? What can I tell my father?" He squeezed his eyes shut.

Muffled voices passed by the door. Gail put a hand on his shoulder. "They haven't fired you yet."

He lifted his head from his fist. "If I could prove myself. Let me do this. Just give me a chance. That's all I'm asking. One chance."

She slid her eyes away from him. She didn't like hearing a grown man beg. Or knowing that she cared about how it would look to the partners if she took on Eric Ramsay, the top-five-percent tax whiz whom Paul Robineau had just put on probation.

Screw Paul Robineau.

She said, "What's your schedule this morning?" "Whatever you want it to be."

"First, calm down. Second, go tell Miriam to show you the Norris file. By noon I want a draft of a petition for revocation of probate."

He grabbed her hands and rose slowly to his feet. "Thank you, Gail. Thank you so much."

She retreated behind her desk, afraid he was going to put his arms around her. "You're going to have to get along with Miriam. She has her own way of doing things, and I don't want her to feel pushed aside."

"No problem. You're the boss." He opened the door, then stood there a moment. "You won't be sorry, I promise."

Patrick had suggested yesterday that Gail bring the papers to him to sign. That way she could take a look at the neighborhood where he wanted to put his inheritance, if he got it. Gail asked Eric Ramsay to come with her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to go into that area alone. Besides, the AC in her Buick still wasn't working, even after three hundred bucks to the mechanic.

Eric's car turned out to be a silver Lexus coupe with a cellular phone and a $2,000 sound system. As they corkscrewed their way down the ramp of the parking garage, tires singing, he grinned at her through his gold-framed, leather-trimmed sunglasses. "What do you think? Is this great?" She gripped the handhold and agreed that yes, it was a very nice car. He explained how he could afford such a thing: long term lease/ buyout plan. She ought to consider it.

They drove north on Biscayne Boulevard, past the shabby urban shopping center that had tried but failed to lure people downtown, then past Belle Mar, the walled subdivision where her mother lived, with its waterfront houses, profusion of flowering trees, and private security guards.

"When do we file the petition?" Eric asked.

He had absorbed the Norris file with startling speed. He knew the smallest details of Althea Tillett's will better than Gail did, and had roughed out a fairly good draft of the petition for revocation.

"Well, first," she said, "we're going to make damn sure we have a case. If I can show Weissman and the Tilletts that we've got them dead to rights, they might give up without fighting. Do some emergency motions for deposition. I want to nail these people before they can get their stories straight." Gail rested her elbow on the bottom of the closed and tinted window. "My God. Taking Alan Weissman's deposition. That's going to be exciting."

At a traffic light Eric came to a stop and glanced out the side window, mumbling something about the lousy neighborhood.

"Here's something else you can do," Gail said. "Find Carla Napolitano."

"The notary."

"Yes. I thought she'd be in Weissman's office. Miriam called on a pretext yesterday, and they said she didn't work there."

"So where is she?"

"Miriam can find her through state records. I want you to check her out. Just see where she works, what kind of place it is. Then go by her house. Find out what she drives and write down the tag number. We'll get her driving record. Maybe a credit check too. But don't let her see you."

"I can handle that." Eric looked through the windshield at the street signs. "Where do we turn?"

"Left on Sixty-second," she said.

It was just ahead. He put on his blinker, waiting for traffic, then hit the button for the automatic door locks.

They turned west, passing a triple-X movie house on the corner.
The Reel Stuff. Adults Only, 24 Hrs.
Half the flowing yellow lights around the marquee had burned out. Gail watched the tacky motels and run-down storefronts on Biscayne turn into squat, concrete block houses behind chain-link fences, then into two- or three-story tenements, some with plywood over the doors and windows. Children played on tattered lawns. A rotting sofa, scorched on one end, lay halfway in the street. She remembered that a child had died near here, hit by a stray bullet.

Three teenagers wearing baggy jeans and sneakers as big as buckets watched them pass. Gail was aware of drawing away from the window, as if someone were going to run up and hit the glass with a spark plug. She had heard that was the method for smash-and-grab.

She put her purse on the floor.

"This is nothing." Eric snorted. "Visit Detroit."

"Patrick wanted me to see the neighborhood, so I'd feel a personal connection." She watched a skinny girl pushing a stroller along the littered sidewalk.

"Personal connection," Eric repeated.

"Take the next right."

Three blocks to the north she pointed. 'There. That must be it." The two-story building was sandwiched between a Laundromat and a hardware store with bars on the window. The white paint was smudged and flaking. A sign beside the door announced CENTRO RENANCER, COUNSELING AND JOB PLACEMENT.
Archdiocese of Miami.
Eric parked in the pitted lot beside the Laundromat. He got out, waited for Gail, then aimed his key ring. The Lexus chirped twice, and a tiny red light blinked on the dashboard.

Two spaces away a barechested young man sat on the trunk of a faded green Plymouth, drinking a Jupifia pineapple soda.

"Hey! Bro!" Eric motioned for the young man to come over. "How'd you like to watch my car for me?" He extended a twenty-dollar bill folded lengthwise. "Twenty more when I come back, what do you say?"

He looked into Eric's sunglasses for a while, then smiled and took the money. He was wearing a heavy gold crucifix. "Okay.
Bro."
He jumped back onto the trunk of the Plymouth.

Gail whispered, "Eric, I don't know."

"Don't worry about it," he said, and took her arm.

When they reached Centro Renacer, a black man with an island accent invited them to be seated, he would fetch Mr. Norris. The narrow room, which smelled vaguely of disinfectant, was sparsely furnished with a green leatherette sofa and several metal chairs. An aquarium with yellow striped fish and bright blue rocks buzzed on a folding table by the window.

The wait was short. Patrick Norris came in, smiling at Gail. He seemed thinner than before, if that was possible, but now he moved with assurance. His eyes shone behind the wire-rimmed glasses. He took both her hands, then said to the other man, "Trevor, this is Gail."

The man showed a wide white smile. "Patrick has spoken of you, miss."

Murmuring her niceties, Gail wondered what Patrick had said about his case. It would be better if he kept his mouth shut before he raised anyone's hopes. She introduced Eric Ramsay and the two men shook hands. Then Patrick said, "Come to my apartment. It's half a block away. We'll have tea."

He took Gail's arm and Eric followed, carrying her briefcase. It wasn't bad, walking. The weather had finally broken, the temperature dropping to the mid-eighties. Patrick smiled and nodded to people along the sidewalk, and one older man tipped his hat.

"Imagine this neighborhood in a few years," Patrick said. "New businesses, day care, a community center. These are decent people. They want the trash picked up as fast as in the suburbs. They want to get rid of the drug dealers and the porno movie theater."

"That place on the corner of Biscayne?"

"Prostitutes hang out there."

"You should report it to the police."

"This isn't Coral Gables," Patrick said, practically patting her on the head. 'The cops don't give a damn. We're on our own."

He led them through a gate into a yard green with banana plants and riotous with flowers. Half a dozen chickens were pecking in the dirt beside a white frame house. A woman with a kerchief tied around her head sat on the porch. A radio played on a table at her elbow, a talk show in Creole. Seeing Patrick, she smiled and nodded to him.
"Bonjour, m'sieu."
Gail wondered if everyone in the neighborhood had heard what he intended to do here.

"Bonjour,
Madame Debrosse," Patrick called out, then said to Gail, "My landlady. She's from Port-au-Prince." He lowered his voice still further. "She's part of a network, helping to get people out of Haiti. You know our good old American immigration policy. Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses—as long as they aren't too poor and huddled."

Eric had been looking at the chickens. He moved closer to Patrick. "What are they for, voodoo sacrifice?"

Patrick smiled patiently. "For eggs."

His apartment was built over a single-car garage. He led them up some wooden stairs and unlocked a metal-plated door. Inside, carpentry tools were neatly arranged along the back wall. A pair of laced boots sat by the door to a small bathroom. The kitchen consisted of a table, a refrigerator, and a two-burner hot plate. A woven cotton rug of Mexican design indicated the living area: single bed with a thin brown blanket, big pillows on the floor, one wooden chair, and a desk over which bare pine shelves sagged with the weight of books. Philosophy, history, economics, a few volumes of poetry. Gail remembered that once Patrick had read poetry aloud to her. Open on his desk was a book by Noam Chomsky. Not poetry. There was no television. No telephone. No ashtrays or empty beer cans. No sign of a woman's presence.