by Jan Moran
The attorney droned on, asking questions, laying the foundation, and probing to discover additional information.
Zelda had prepared her for these questions. Scarlett recalled her advice and kept her answers succinct and on topic, reserving her energy.
“Did you ever feel physically threatened by anyone who worked for Marsh & Gold?”
“Yes.” Scarlett braced herself against a surge of emotional memories. Zelda sat beside her, making notes.
“Who?”
“Lucan Blackstone.” Here we go. Scarlett paced her breath, remaining calm. Zelda had warned her; the questions would become increasingly detailed.
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
The attorney made a check mark on his yellow notepad. Lucan rolled his eyes and shook his impeccable silver-haired head, leaned over to the attorney, and whispered in his ear. The attorney made a note.
Zelda had alerted her about such actions, too. Scarlett understood that Lucan’s behavior was meant to torment her into withdrawing the action against the firm, or to make errors in deposition to shred her claim at trial. It was part of the defense strategy.
“And when did this occur the first time?”
Scarlett gave the date. She stared at Lucan. She would not be intimidated, though her recollections were painful. The attack in the garage, the terror at the Ritz.
“And where did this occur?”
“On the corporate airplane in route from London to Los Angeles.” Another look.
“Was anyone else on board the plane?”
“Yes.”
“State their names.”
Scarlett gave the full names of David, Fleur, the pilot, and the flight attendant, Lavender.
“Was anyone present in the cabin with you when the incident occurred?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“David and Lavender.” The questioning continued in excruciating detail. The attorney asked where each person was, what they saw, how Lucan approached her, where his left hand was, where his right hand was, how she responded, and every other detail imaginable. As Lucan made faces, opening his mouth in surprise at her comments, Scarlett struggled to keep her cool.
Zelda scrawled a note. Will Lavender corroborate your account?
Scarlett nodded, took a breath, and continued. Perspiration gathered around her torso.
“And did you enjoy his attention?”
“No.” What nerve. However, Scarlett knew it was part of the attorney’s job to discover details, make her flustered, and hope she’d slip up or contradict herself.
“How were you dressed?”
“Business suit.”
“Describe it.”
The questioning continued until lunch, when they took a short break. Most depositions might only take a few hours, but Zelda had prepared her for a long, arduous process.
Zelda was right. By the time they broke for the evening, they had barely scratched the surface of her employment history, and were only halfway through Lucan’s attack on the airplane.
The following day, the parties took their places again, and the opposing counsel began.
“Tell me why you stayed on at the Ritz Hotel in Madrid after Lucan left.”
“Because he told me to.”
“Any witness to the conversation?”
“David Baylor.” Scarlett looked at David, who averted his gaze.
“And what is his position?”
“Partner.” Scarlett wanted to scream at the slow, deliberate pace, but she maintained a calm demeanor. The questions continued.
Lucan scratched a note on his pad and swung it around so his attorney could read it. The lawyer nodded, and ran his hand over his bald spot. He cleared his throat and began to ask questions about the sniper incident.
Scarlett blinked. She could still hear gunshots in her ears and feel the fear that seized her chest. She remembered thinking she would die alone, but when Johnny arrived outside her door, his presence gave her the strength to get through it. Just thinking about it increased her heart rate.
Scarlett took a swig of water from a bottle. As she relived the terrifying ordeal though the lawyer’s questions, her throat tightened.
“Ms. Sandoval. Did you attempt to buy illegal drugs in Madrid?”
Where did that come from? Scarlett’s lips parted in astonishment.
“Objection.” Zelda cut in, stated her objection, and the opposing counsel restated the question. Zelda strenuously objected again. Scarlett sat quietly, listening to the heated exchange, while the court reporter recorded every word. The record could be referenced in trial. The whole process was exhausting.
By Friday afternoon, Scarlett was worn out. She and Zelda waited at the elevator to leave the building.
“A week of deposition questioning is unusually long,” Zelda said. “They’re trying to wear us down. But you did a good job. These cases are tough on plaintiffs. The deposition is often as troubling as when incidents initially occurred.”
Scarlett nodded. She hadn’t slept well all week, reliving events in her mind. Johnny had taken good care of her, bringing dinner home and drawing hot baths, but between working at the Polo Lounge and making plans for the new Bow-Tie, he was working nonstop, too. After last weekend, she’d put Carla out of her mind. She hoped he hadn’t seen her.
“Zelda, I forgot to mention something. My mother has been receiving calls from a man who won’t identify himself. She won’t give him my phone number. Should she?”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
“None.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. With a subtle swoosh, the cage began its descent.
Zelda leaned against the wood paneled interior. “You don’t think it’s a salesperson?”
“No, he seems to know too much about me. But my mother is very protective, and she refuses to give out information. Especially after the incident at the Ritz Hotel.”
“I don’t blame her.” Zelda thought for a moment. “If the calls occur at a certain time, try to be there and take the call. It won’t hurt to listen.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” She could go to her mother’s tonight. Johnny was working the Friday night shift at the Polo Lounge.
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped out. Zelda said, “Scarlett, try to get some rest this weekend.”
“I plan to burn off some anger at a 10k walk tomorrow.”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll be reviewing your notes.” Zelda grinned. “Because next week I’m going to nail Lucan at his deposition.”
Scarlett got into her car, steered out of the garage, and started in the direction of her mother’s home. The Friday afternoon traffic was snarled on the I405 highway, so she opted for Wilshire Boulevard. However, the usual half hour trip still took more than an hour on rain slicked streets.
As she stopped and started in heavy traffic, her thoughts drifted to Spain, and the serene Andalusian countryside. The memory of the wind in her face and the sun on her shoulders was awfully appealing right now. Someday she’d like to return and learn the proper way to ride a horse.
No longer did she want to spend her days cooped up inside tall office buildings. She was ready for a change. Where were the husband and family she thought she’d have by now?
“Hola, Mamá,” she called, as she let herself into her mother’s condominium.
“Hola, nena. How was your day?” Isabel emerged from the kitchen. From the delicious aromas wafting through the house, she’d clearly been preparing more of her Spanish dishes.
“Don’t ask.” Scarlett moved a half-knitted yellow baby blanket from an overstuffed chair and sank into it.
“My poor child. I wish you didn’t have to go through this.” Isabel wiped her hands on her apron. “Stay there, I have something for you.” She returned with a plate of hot empanadas.
“These smell delicious,” Scarlett said. She picked up a folded pastry pouch, which had just come out of the deep fryer, and bit
into it. “Delicious. Pork, yes?”
“That’s right. With oregano and roasted red piquillo peppers. I was on the phone with Lance earlier today, and I was telling him about these. He’s planning quite the menu. He asked me to make some for him. Do you think these are good enough to serve at Bow-Tie?”
“Absolutely. No one serves empanadas like these in restaurants. At least, not in Beverly Hills.” Scarlett licked her fingers and smiled at her mother. She’d had no idea Isabel would embrace the restaurant as she had.
Excitement lit Isabel’s face. “I’ve always cooked by memory, but now I’m writing down recipes for Lance. Guess what? He asked if I’d like to cook part-time at the restaurant.”
Scarlett couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Her mother, a restaurant cook? “Is that something you want to do, Mamá?”
Isabel put a hand on her hip. “You’re not the only one in the family with talents.” She gestured toward her knitting. “How many more baby blankets can I make? Besides, I’m not that old, nena.”
Scarlett shook her head in amazement. Yet her mother looked happy and engaged, more so than she’d seen her in years. “Then I think working will be a good thing for you.”
Isabel perched on the arm of the sofa. “It’s been a long time since your papa and Franco died. I let you take care of me because it was easy, and you were so good at it. I kept telling myself that grandbabies would be coming soon, but now I know my attitude must have put tremendous pressure on you.”
“It’s not for my lack of wanting, too, Mamá.”
“I know. Love happens when it happens. And if grandbabies never come, I want you to know that’s all right, too. Not that I wouldn’t adore them, mind you. But it’s time I did something other than knit and watch television. My brain was turning to mush.”
Scarlett had to laugh. “I’ll be honest, this was the last thing I expected to hear from you, but I’m happy for you.”
Isabel stood and placed her arm around Scarlett’s shoulder. “When you lost your job, it made me reconsider my life. I want you to have the ability to make choices that are good for you, not because you feel you have to support me. At least, not yet.” She mussed Scarlett’s hair with love. “I’ve got to get back to my cooking now.”
Her mother’s revelation did take some of the pressure off, but Scarlett knew she’d still have to support Isabel when she was older. She’d accepted that long ago.
“I’ll join you in the kitchen,” Scarlett said, rising from her chair. As she did, the phone next to her rang. “I’ll get it.” She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“I’m calling for Scarlett Sandoval.”
Scarlett pressed a hand to her chest. Was this the man who’d been trying to reach her? “Who’s calling please?”
“Is this Ms. Sandoval?”
“That depends on who you are.”
The man was quiet for a moment. “This isn’t Mrs. Isabel Sandoval, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
The man on the other end of the line drew a breath. “If this is Scarlett Sandoval, I want you to know I’ve been trying to reach you for some time. This is Finnegan Smith, with the United States Securities and Exchange Commission.”
The SEC. Just who she wanted to speak to. “Yes, how might I help you?” she said pleasantly.
“We’re investigating some stock trades made by Lucan Blackstone and other partners at your former place of employment. Do you have a moment to speak?”
Scarlett couldn’t be happier. “I’d be delighted, but I’d rather speak to you with my attorney present.”
“That’s fine. Tell me when, and where.”
Scarlett gave him Zelda’s office address. When she hung up the phone, a smile crept across her face. She might be out of a job, but Lucan Blackstone was about to get his just dues.
“Over here, Scarlett.” Verena was waving to her near the starting line.
“I had no idea there’d be so many people here.” Scarlett peeled the backing off her entry number label and stuck it to her sleeveless racer back shirt. She’d brushed her hair into a ponytail and laced up her best walking shoes. After a spending a week in an office building in depositions, she was itching to tackle the beach course.
The weather had been rainy all week, but this morning the sun had finally burst through the clouds over Santa Monica. The waves were good, too, so morning surfers in wetsuits dotted the water, floating on their boards and catching waves when they could.
“There’s Dahlia and Fianna.” Verena waved again. “And Penelope and Elena.”
They greeted each other with laughter and hugs. The atmosphere was cheerful, and Scarlett appreciated the positive energy around her. She and her friends stretched before the walk began. They passed around the sunscreen and opened bottles of water. They listened to the announcer and her instructions, and then the two-hour walk commenced.
Scarlett fell in rhythm with Verena, and they quickly worked up to a brisk pace. Behind them, Penelope and Dahlia matched their speed, followed by Fianna and Elena. Scarlett looked back and waved at her friends, pleased to see them all here.
“How was your week?” Verena set her digital meter to measure her number of footsteps.
“Tough,” Scarlett replied. “The deposition lasted all week. But there was an interesting development last night. Seems the SEC is looking into potential insider trading at Marsh & Gold, by none other than my old boss, Lucan.” She grimaced. Couldn’t happen to a more appropriate person.
“I have no doubt he’ll get what’s coming to him,” Verena said, pumping her arms. “But what about you? Have you given any more thought to your future?”
“I’d like to start my own practice. But I’m afraid I might have trouble attracting clients because of my termination. I really need to support myself again soon, Verena.”
Penelope jogged up to join them, her long legs covering the short distance in just a few strides. “Did I hear you say you’re starting your own practice?”
“Hi, Penelope.” Scarlett nodded. “As soon as everything settles down.” Her eyes travelled up to Penelope’s ruby-colored hair. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your new henna red hair this morning.”
“And next week, I’ll be raven-haired.” Penelope ruffled her short style. “Say, ever since I heard about Fleur reneging on the agreement with High Gloss Cosmetics, I’ve been thinking about it. My last cosmetics endorsement expired a few months ago, but I didn’t know if it would be a conflict for you to bring me into the picture. Now that you’ve left Marsh & Gold, do you think Olga Kaminsky would be interested in me for the gig? If so, I’d love for you to negotiate the deal.”
Scarlett grinned. “I think you’d be absolutely perfect as the new High Gloss spokesperson. And now, there’s no conflict. I’ll be happy to make the call.”
Verena winked at her. “See? I told you clients would come running once you hung out your shingle.”
“Do you have an office?” Penelope asked.
“Are you kidding? I haven’t even had a chance to replace my mobile phone yet.” Scarlett thought about everything she’d need to do if—no, when—she went into business for herself. Buy a new phone and laptop, set up email, have business cards printed. Get clients. Correction. Get more clients. As of now, she was in business.
Scarlett picked up her pace. The brisk morning breeze felt good on her face.
“Hey, did I hear you say you’re representing Penelope?” Fianna hurried along beside Scarlett. Her flaming red hair was pinned up in a messy bun that looked cute on her. “I’d still like you to look over my licensing agreement. Verena read it, but I’d really like your input. I have a large retailer interested in my line, and a couple of manufacturers interested in producing branded items for me.”
“Why Fianna, that’s fantastic. I promise I’ll look at it this time,” Scarlett said.
“I’ve been working hard, Scarlett. I know my little line wasn’t large enough for your old law firm, but I’d still like you
r help.”
“I appreciate your understanding, Fianna. I was worried you were still upset with me over that.”
“Two clients,” Verena said, casting a grin her way.
“Not only us,” Fianna said, growing excited. “Elena was just telling me she wants to trademark her jewelry line, too. Nordstrom is interested in it.” She motioned to Elena to join them.
“Three clients.” Verena poked Scarlett in the ribs.
“Wow, is this what you call kismet?” Scarlett asked her.
“You bet it is,” Verena answered. “We good ol’ girls stick together. Because sometimes, you have to make your own kismet.”
18
ON MONDAY MORNING after Johnny left for work, Scarlett visited her bank on Wilshire Boulevard. Despite having limited funds in her savings account, she stepped out on faith and withdrew money to buy a new phone and laptop, and ordered business cards that read, Scarlett Sandoval, Esquire. Intellectual Property Attorney.
Two hours later, Scarlett was officially in business. She emerged from the store feeling incredibly happy, with a vision of racing into the middle of Rodeo Drive, throwing up her hat, and spinning around, just like actress Marlo Thomas did in the old reruns of That Girl her mother used to watch on television.
She smiled to herself at the silly thought. But she had no hat, traffic was heavy, and then she’d need a good personal injury attorney, so she decided against it.
Instead, she drove back to Johnny’s apartment. Unlike her sparely furnished townhouse, his apartment had such an inviting atmosphere she never wanted to leave. Built over four garages, the spacious residential apartment was level with surrounding trees, so she could watch and listen to birds nesting in flowering boughs outside the windows.
His furniture was covered in sturdy white cotton and colorful paintings lined the walls. Johnny told her Lance had painted many of them and needed a place to store them. Johnny’s guitar was in a case in back of the sofa. Late at night, he’d starting taking it out and strumming for her. He hadn’t played since Franco had died.
