Suspicion of Guilt (2 page)

Larry flipped through the onionskin pages of the deposition. "Are we ready for trial?"

"Absolutely."

"What are we asking for in the complaint?" "Four hundred thousand." His thin face went into a grimace. "Ouch." Gail said, "They've got a counterclaim for two-fifty. Beltran could wind up eating it." "What about fees?"

"We bill our own. We've collected about fifteen thousand so far, with maybe another two outstanding. We're ahead on the cost deposit. I don't think it's worth the risk of a trial."

"So you believe it's a decent offer."

"I'd grab it before they change their mind."

"All right." He took off his glasses. "You know the situation better than I do. Just make sure the client approves."

Clients were often the last to admit they had a lousy case, particularly if they had paid a law firm thousands of dollars in fees. On the eve of trial, adrenaline pumping, they would die for principle.

"I've already explained it to him," she said. "He understands."

"Good." Larry swung around to check the clock. "Uh-oh. I forgot to call Dee-Dee. We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight."

"Larry—"

He stopped, waiting for her to go on. She took a breath. 'Trans-State Bank. I understand they're not happy with their bond broker." His creased brow said he hadn't heard of this. "They lost close to eight million on some muni bonds in Illinois, a real dog of a deal. They say fraud was involved. If it's going to wind up in litigation, I'd like to take it on."

"Oh, that." He folded his glasses, came back across his Oriental rug. "Yes, someone mentioned Trans-State in the last management meeting. And you want to do this case?"

"Why not? I've worked for them before. They know me. But they're Paul's client. Would it be better if you talked to him?"

Paul Robineau represented banks, but he didn't do litigation. He and Gail rarely spoke, except on business. He was the firm's managing partner and grandnephew of a founding member. She couldn't imagine dropping by his vast office upstairs and casually asking for a multimillion-dollar case.

Larry was mulling it over, his eyes fixed somewhere past the windows. "You want me to talk to Paul for you?"

"Would you mind?" She noticed her hands had gone weak.

"Mmmn. We're going to have federal banks, out-of-state counsel, claims and counterclaims all over the place. I assumed Paul would give it to one of the senior attorneys. Jack, for instance. What about a spot as co-counsel?"

Jack Warner ran the litigation department. Not hard to work with, but he would take all the credit.

"No. Give me the staff. With Beltran settled, I've got the time." After a moment, she said, "I need this case, Larry." When his forehead creased again, she said, "Forget talking to Paul. You don't have to. Knowing Paul, he'd probably think I was going behind his back."

He looked at her reproachfully. "Gail. Are we friends or not?"

"I don't like to ask for favors, so I won't. Just—" She managed a smile. "Well, maybe this once. I could work the hell out of a case like this, Larry. You know I could."

He nodded. "You'd do a fine job. You've had some ... personal crises, but they're behind you now."

"Yes. Absolutely."

"All right. I'll ask Paul about it. Lead counsel on Trans-State."

She wanted to hug him, but didn't. "Larry, you're a peach. But don't tell him it was my idea. Oh, that sounds gutless, doesn't it? Tell him whatever you want to."

"I'll say I thought of it."

She went to gather up the Beltran file. "Better call Dee-Dee. It's getting late."

"Yes. I will." He was looking at her closely. "Are you all right?"

"Of course."

"If you need anything—" He touched her arm.

"Larry. I'm fine. Really." She waited for him to nod. "If Paul says no, I'll take your suggestion and talk to Jack Warner, okay?"

"You sure?"

She laughed. "Yes. Enough already."

No one was in the corridor outside her office, and the room itself was dim. It faced north, and the sun had dropped behind the adjacent building. Gail stood just inside the doorway for a while, replaying her conversation with Larry Black.

"Stupid," she finally muttered, and flipped on the light. Miriam had left a few messages on her desk. There was a note:
Have taken the Acosta Realty motions home with me, will work on them. Hasta mahana!
And then a loopy letter M and a happy face, which made Gail smile.

She shuffled through the messages. A client wanting his deposition reset. A witness returning her call.

Nearly eight years at this law firm. She might have been a partner already, except for... personal crises. Larry's polite term, which didn't quite catch the reality of death and divorce falling like double hammer blows.

Her sister Renee had not just
died.
She was slashed and left to bleed to death, and Gail had been accused of murder. One hell of an inconvenience for Hartwell Black. They took away her major cases for the duration. Not a judgment about her work, of course. Only a PR move, to keep the clients from getting nervous until she was exonerated.

It might not have been so bad if Dave hadn't walked out two weeks before that. She woke up one bright Saturday morning and he said it was over. He couldn't explain why, except that half his life was gone and he couldn't breathe. And anyway, they weren't suited to each other, never had been. But she would be all right, he was sure of it. She was the strong one. And Karen would be better off, not hearing her parents yelling at each other. And so Gail's marriage had bled to death too, and it was somehow her fault. Now Karen was in therapy and Dave was giving tennis lessons to tanned, fortyish wives of corporate executives on vacation in St. Thomas or St. Croix or wherever.

Personal crises. Larry Black didn't know how close she had come to losing it. Nobody knew. It was funny now. That time she had looked through the windshield of her car and realized she was in Key Largo, for God's sake. Or couldn't remember her daughter's name. Or sat on the floor of her closet for over an hour, unable to decide what to wear.

A waste of time thinking about it now. Gail flipped through the next few messages.
Dry cleaning ready. Hearing on Thursday canceled.
At the last piece of pink paper she stopped. Miriam had decorated its border with little red hearts, arrows shot through them.
Anthony Q. Call when you can.

Dropping the other messages on her desk, she reached for the telephone and dialed. The answering machine picked up.
"Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana.
This is the office of Ferrer and Quintana.
Al sonido electronico, deje su mensaje—"

"Drat." She switched lines and punched his home number. After four rings his voice told her in English, then Spanish to leave a message. She laughed aloud. "Anthony, where are you? Is this all I get, a phone call? Would you like to know how long it's been since we've seen each other?
Two weeks.
Call me after I'm in bed tonight,
querido,
and we'll make heavy breathing noises." She made a kiss into the phone, then hung up.

In a neat row on her desk were the files Miriam had set out for her to take home. Gail crammed them into her briefcase, then threw her time sheet in as well. She had been too busy to record her activities today, how many hours and tenths of hours spent on this pleading or that telephone call. She would have to reconstruct the day and invent what she could not remember.

As soon as Gail pulled into the garage, the jalousie door to the kitchen swung open. Phyllis must have heard the engine, and now waited on the second step with her arms folded just under her wide bosom. Phyllis Farrington, close to seventy, came in every afternoon, weekends if needed. Arthritis in her knees kept her from doing much housework. That didn't matter; Phyllis had a way of making Karen toe the line. Gail had told her she didn't have to wear a uniform, but Phyllis said it made her feel more professional. She wore pink today; her apron had a design of wild roses.

Gail hit the button on her dash to send the automatic door down, then got out of her car, maneuvering past a stack of cardboard boxes and assorted junk taking up half the space in the double garage. "Phyllis, I'm sorry it took me so long to get home. I had to stop for gas or I'd have stalled out halfway here."

She came down a step. "Don't go in yet. I got to tell you about Karen. The school called this afternoon, said they couldn't get you. She had herself a fight on the bus with a boy named Javier, laid him out cold."

"Oh, my God.
Why?"

"He was teasing her, she said. She punched him in the stomach and he fell down and hit his head on a seat." "Is he okay?"

"The boy's all right. He woke up before they called Fire-Rescue, or else your baby would be in big trouble. They want you to go by there in the morning and talk to the principal."

Biscayne Academy was one of the best private schools in Dade County. It cost $12,000 a year in tuition, fees, books, field trips, and assorted amenities. There were no metal detectors at the door or drugs in the lockers. The students were individually tutored. They raised money for the children of Bosnia and sang songs about the Earth. And Karen had just beaten the crap out of another fourth grader.

Gail could feel the tension creeping up from her shoulders. "I should call Dr. Feldman tomorrow."

Phyllis snorted. "Dr. Feldman. Baby come out of her appointment last week, don't say two words. We get home, she say she's the child of a divorce, and that's why she can't clean up her room. I want to shake him by his skinny neck,"

A corner of Gail's briefcase nudged a can of tennis balls, and it hit the floor. The lid came off and three yellow balls rolled in different directions.

"When you going to get this stuff out of here?" Phyllis said.

"Dave said he'd take care of it by the end of the month."

"Uh-huh."

He had sailed out of Miami in July in a forty-foot sloop, leaving in the garage what wouldn't fit in the sailboat—boxes of winter clothes, a small boat trailer, tools, golf clubs, a machine to string tennis racquets, odds and ends of furniture.

"He's got a free storage shed is what he's got. You ought to give him one week to get hisself up here and find a warehouse, or you'll call Goodwill."

Gail picked up two of the balls and tossed them into a box. "I can't do that. It would be like getting rid of Dave completely, and Karen needs to feel his presence in some way. She already blames me that he left."

"Dr. Feldman tell you that?"

"Phyllis—" Gail pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead. "I can't talk about this right now."

"You better think about it, though."

"I will."

Phyllis opened the door and they went up the steps into the kitchen, Gail following Phyllis's heavy white shoes. She dropped her briefcase and purse on the kitchen counter. A piece of paper was lying there.

"What's that?"

"Roof man came by."

Gail picked up the estimate. "Twenty-five hundred dollars? For three leaks?"

"He can fix it, but he won't give you no guarantee. Says you need a new roof."

"Oh, great. Did he tell you how much?"

Phyllis pursed her lips. "About twenty thousand. That's with the same red barrel tile. Less for asphalt shingles."

"Asphalt shingles? The neighbors would kill me."

"Man's a thief." Phyllis checked her watch and untied her apron. "I got to go. The association's having a meeting tonight." Phyllis belonged to a homeowners' association in Coconut Grove. Not the chic part of the Grove, with its boutiques and sidewalk cafes, but the older black Grove, settled around the turn of the century when Phyllis Farrington's grandfather came over from the Bahamas to help build Miami.

She stashed her neatly folded apron in her big purse. "We got a crack house we want to get bulldozed. We'll go on down to City Hall with picket signs if we have to, get on the news. We won't have that trash around, no thank you."

"Go get 'em, Phyllis." Gail poured some ice water from the refrigerator and opened the cabinet for aspirin. "Where is our little angel?"

"In her room. I said go do your homework. She had her bath already. Supper too." Phyllis started toward the front door, then looked back at Gail, keys in her hand. "There's leftovers in the microwave. You don't eat, you're gonna make yourself sick, you hear?"

"Thanks, Phyllis."

She let herself out and locked the door behind her. Gail found Karen at her desk. When she came in, Karen slid a
Cracked
magazine under her math book.

"Doing your homework?"

"Yes." She flipped a page and twirled her pencil.

"Really. Can I see?"

"When I'm finished." Karen bounced her canvas sneakers on me legs of the chair. The toes were wearing through and the laces were gone.

Gail sat on the end of Karen's bed, which was covered with a faded dinosaur quilt. "I heard about your fight with Javier."

One shoulder rose.

"You want to tell me about it?"

Karen spun to face her, long brown hair swinging. "Javier is a major geek. All the girls hate him."

"And that's a reason to punch him out?"

She narrowed her eyes. "He said I have no boobs and I'll never have any."

"But you can't go around hitting people you don't like. Let Mrs. Johnson deal with Javier."

"She won't do anything. She only talks to him, and he laughs behind her back. Butthead."

“They want us to see the principal about this, you know."

"I hate that school," Karen said tightly. "I wish you didn't make me go there."

"It's a great school."

"It sucks."

Gail's voice rose. "Don't you dare use that kind of language in Mr. Alliston's office. You'll be a perfect lady. If he says to apologize to Javier, then you will, and nicely."

Karen picked at a small mole on her arm. Her hair hung over her face, and the light from the desk lamp shone through it.

"Did you hear me?"

"I'm not sorry," she mumbled. "I hate boys. They're all buttheads. Especially Javier. His dad is on a stupid
telenovela.
Javier is always saying how his dad is so-o-o famous."