Suspicion of Guilt (15 page)

A light breeze came through the jalousie windows open on three sides of the long room. Shadows of leaves moved on the screens, and birds chirped in the branches. The radio on Madame Debrosse's porch was playing a song in French.

Patrick put on a tea kettle while Gail told him what she had found out from the document examiner. She told him about her conversations with Jessica Simms and Irving Adler. She told him that the estate was bigger than he had thought, perhaps more than fifteen million dollars. And then she instructed him to keep all this to himself and not to talk about the case with anyone.

When the tea was ready he poured it into three mismatched cups. Eric sniffed his and asked for sugar, but Patrick only had raw honey. Patrick removed his heavy sandals and gracefully sank cross-legged onto the rug. Gail took off her pumps, sat on one of the floor pillows, and arranged her skirt.

Eric looked at them for a moment, then awkwardly sat on the floor as well. His suit coat pulled over his shoulders, and he couldn't seem to decide where to put his feet.

Gail sipped her tea. "Coming into this neighborhood is like entering a different country. I know so little about its customs and realities."

Patrick smiled at her. "It isn't so different. We all want the same things in life. Dignity. Honest work. A safe, clean place for the children to grow up."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I hope you succeed here, Patrick."

Eric pulled Gail's briefcase closer. "We ought to get started. I don't want to leave my car too long."

She reluctantly put down her cup. "I suppose we should."

Patrick said, "You asked me not to talk about the case. Why?"

"Because publicity might harm our chances for a settlement," she said. "Some prominent people have done some bad things. If this hits the news, they'll fight to the death." She took a folder out of her briefcase. "What I hope to do is gather enough evidence to prove forgery before we even file the case."

"Wouldn't publicity force them to settle?"

"Very doubtful."

Patrick thought about that. "I'm not certain I agree."

"Just don't risk it, all right?"

"How much would they pay in a settlement?" he asked.

"It depends. We weigh the chances of success against the possibility of failure. We consider the time involved. If the other side drags it to the appellate court, a resolution could take two or three years. And meanwhile you're incurring costs and attorneys' fees." She held the folder in her hands for a while. "I have to consider that as well. Fees. If we lose—not that I expect to, but if it happens—I don't want your money to have been used up."

Patrick nodded at the folder. "Show me what you've got there. The fee agreement."

She opened it and withdrew two documents. 'This four-page form is a contract of representation, one copy for you, one for the firm. The other is a promissory note and assignment of your bequest to Hartwell Black and Robineau." Patrick held out his hand. Gail said, "The firm won't take the case except on a contingency basis. Ten percent if we settle, fifteen for a trial, twenty after an appeal. We're going to advance the costs, twenty thousand to start."

He pushed his glasses up a little farther on his nose and slowly turned the pages. Finally he raised his eyes. "This isn't what we agreed to."

"We didn't have an agreement. And believe me, that's the best I could get for you."

He laid the papers down. "I can't sign this. It's theft."

She felt Eric looking at her, wondering what she was going to do next. She said, "Patrick, you didn't want just me. You wanted Hartwell Black. No other firm with our reputation and resources is going to do it for less. Most would charge you more." When he said nothing, she added, "If we can't come to an agreement, I can't take the case."

Patrick sat impassively. "Say we settle—just suppose that we do—for ten million. Say it takes you a hundred hours. At ten percent, that's ten thousand dollars per hour in attorneys' fees. And that's not theft?"

"Who says we'll settle at all? Nobody knows. And nobody knows how many hours we'll have in this. A thousand. Five thousand. I hope for a settlement, but we could go to trial. You could get nothing."

"Let's put this on a sliding scale. Or make it an hourly rate," he said. "We're talking about money that's supposed to go to people who need it a hell of a lot more than your Flagler Street legal machine does."

Gail wasn't going to whine about her struggle to get this far. "Sorry. If you want to hire someone else, I won't argue. And no charge for what I've done so far."

He drew his hand down over his beard, then laughed. "I feel like I've been sucker-punched."

"Oh, Patrick. That was never my intention. You should know that."

He stood up, walking barefoot to the window, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. Under the sounds of traffic and birds and Madame Debrosse's radio, a shrill warble from up the block threaded its way into the room. Probably a police siren.

Patrick turned around. "You going to win this case for me?"

"I'll try to." She laughed a little. "Patrick, you don't know how hard I'm going to try to win this case."

"I don't want to go anywhere else," he said.

She felt the relief flood through her, but only nodded. "Sit down, then. We'll sign these."

Eric tilted his head and rose to his knees. "Shh-shh! What is that?" She heard the siren, still whooping. He leaped to the window, then slammed his hand on the sill. "God damn!"

"Eric, what—"

"Shit! My goddamn car! The fuckers got my Lexus!" He hurtled out the door and his footsteps thudded down the wooden stairs. He must have picked out the cry of his car alarm like a mother could hear the wail of her own child in a crowded playground.

Gail said, "He gave a guy twenty dollars to watch it."

Patrick drew a little breath through his teeth. 'That could be construed as an insult."

"I feel awful. We should have taken a cab."

"They probably just got the radio." He sat down cross-legged again and signed the note and two copies of the contract, one of which he folded into neat thirds and tossed onto his desk.

When he turned around he smiled at her. "Don't feel guilty. Maybe he'll learn something. I mean, if you live for things, what have you got, right?"

She nodded. "Not a popular sentiment around my law firm, but I guess it works."

"Are you okay there? Really?"

"Sure." She took a sip of her tea. "Well, yes and no. I like being a lawyer. But it's so difficult. Most people don't know what lawyers have to deal with. I try to do a good job."

"I know you do."

"If I could just ... get to a certain point. Then it would be all right. I'd have more control over what I do. Make my own choices."

"Then you're where you have to be," he said. "You can't get to that unless you go through this."

She laughed. "And if I weren't at Hartwell Black, you couldn't drive me batty with your case, could you?"

He scooted over and kissed her cheek, and for a second the beard tickled her skin. "I've meant to do that. Do you mind?"

She smiled, shook her head.

"It's good to see you again, buddy."

"You too," she said.

"Hey, you're blushing," he said.

"Am not."

"Are too." He looked at her awhile. "I'm not hitting on you, Gail. Honest." "I know."

"Bet you've got a boyfriend."

She laughed. "Boyfriend. What a word. Yes, I do, actually."

"Good. No? Not so good?"

"Very good. I think. But—it's hard. You know. After Dave. And there's Karen to consider."

He squeezed her shoulder. "Whatever is meant to happen, will."

"That was never
your
philosophy," she said. "You always told me that nothing happens in human history that is not willed into being."

Patrick laughed. "I said that? When? In my impatient youth?"

"Oh, I see. Politics is one thing, love another." Gail shook the wrinkles out of her skirt. "I should go see if Eric is all right."

Patrick picked up Eric's untouched cup of tea. Gail carried hers to the table where the kettle sat on a green and white pot holder of the sort children weave in kindergarten.

"Patrick." When he looked at her, she said, "The document examiner mentioned something that made me curious. Have the police been asking about your aunt's death? Beyond the routine questions, I mean."

He stroked his beard. "What did he say to make you wonder that?"

"Well, that it's a big estate. And she died alone. You can imagine. I looked at the death certificate. It doesn't say 'accidental.' It says 'pending.' Meaning pending further investigation."

"Yes," Patrick said.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, the Miami Beach P.D. came around asking questions."

"When?"

"Two weeks ago. Last week. And yesterday."

"Why?"

Patrick sighed. "Who knows? Cops." He set his and Eric's cups on the table. "They said her neck was broken before she fell. So who did it? There weren't any signs of a break-in. She would have opened the door to me. Plus we had a big fight a week before she died."

"Oh, Patrick."

"They're cretins. They've got nothing better to do."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"So you could tell me you didn't want to get involved?" They looked at each other. She said, "I wouldn't have done that."

He pointed all the cup handles in one direction. "I didn't think you'd let me get screwed on the fees either."

"Damn it, Patrick."

He smiled, not looking at her. "I guess you had to. It comes with the territory. Now you see why I got out of law school."

She crossed the room to put on her shoes. "And you talk to me about getting sucker-punched." She spun around. "Let me understand this. The Miami Beach Police suspect you of
murder?"

"I don't know. Me, Rudy, the gardener. They ask questions. I tell them to go away. They do. Then they forget what I told them and they come back. Repeat."

Gail leaned against the table. "Did something happen to her, Patrick? Is it true?"

"I hope not. For somebody to do that—I don't want to think about it." He nodded toward his desk, where the contract lay tilted on the open book. "You want the agreement back?"

"No. I'm your attorney now, Patrick." But how, she wondered, would she explain a murder investigation to the partners of Hartwell Black and Robineau?

Chapter Ten

Larry Black called Gail to his office the next afternoon. They sat on the striped satin divan under the windows. His secretary brought in a tray with coffee and miniature pastries, and placed it on an antique cherry-wood table.

He stirred his coffee. "Alan Weissman phoned me yesterday." When Gail looked at him, surprised, he said, "I suggested that you were the person to speak to, but I think he felt more at ease talking to me. We worked together on the Hurricane Andrew rebuilding committee, and he knows I was acquainted with Althea. He wants a meeting to resolve this matter before it gets out of hand, as he put it.""'

Gail poured cream into her cup. "He can resolve it by admitting the will was forged. What did he say?"

"We talked only in general terms," Larry said. "I did propose a time for the meeting. Next Wednesday at ten o'clock, his office on the Beach. Can you make it?"

"I'll clear my schedule. You know, if we're going to talk to Weissman, we need to get together and go over the details."

Monday or Tuesday was impossible; Larry had meetings both days. "What about this weekend?" he asked. "Come over Saturday and stay for dinner. Karen can play with Trisha." Larry's younger daughter was in Karen's class at Biscayne Academy. He added, "Dee-Dee hasn't seen you for months. She was complaining about that yesterday, in fact."

How did they do it? Gail often wondered. If Larry ever told her he and Dee-Dee were splitting up, Gail would throttle him. That, or lose all hope that marriage could work.

It had been two days since she had left a message on Anthony's machine at home. He might be busy, but not that busy. If he had anything in mind for Saturday night, it was too late now.

Gail smiled. "I'd love to come over. Thanks."

Larry uncrossed his legs and set his coffee on the table. "Oh. I have something for you." He went to his desk and lifted papers. "By the time I realized you might not have seen it, I had to go through my recycling bin at home. Althea Tillett's stepdaughter Monica is showing her work. Look." He handed her a page from the
Herald,
and his forefinger indicated the place.

It was from the weekend section, a preview of gallery openings. Gail scanned the announcement.
Eros and Metaphor, sculptures and abstracts by Monica Tillett; Tillett Gallery, 833 Lincoln Road, Miami Beach. Reception 7-9 P.M.
Friday, October 4.
She looked up. "What is that supposed to mean? Eros and Metaphor?"

"It's tomorrow. Go find out."

She folded the page. "I might do that. Thanks. I hope they don't slam the door in my face."

Larry sat down again, adjusting the knee of his trousers. "Gail, it wasn't a criticism of you that I opposed the Norris case. I do understand about your wanting to help him, but I have the entire law firm to think about. Our long-term interests."

"I know," she said. "You're too much a friend for me to take it personally."

"Well, then. Tell me what you need. Perhaps we could assign a paralegal to the case?"

Grace in defeat. She smiled at him. "No, Miriam is enough for now. Maybe I'll ask for a raise for her, though. And how's this? Eric Ramsay volunteered to help out. I'm going to share him with corporate and tax."

"I admire your patience."

"Okay, maybe he's immature, but he's smart, and he wants to learn." Gail added, "Besides, I felt sorry for him. His dad's a factory worker back in Ohio, and he's sending his kid sister through college."

"A factory worker? His father
manages
a factory that makes engine parts. I believe that's right. Our Mr. Ramsay seems to have embellished the facts."

"Maybe he's warming up for trial law already," Gail said. Then she shrugged. "He was desperate, Larry."