Power Lawyer 2

by Dave Daren

  “All right,” Judge Luca said as he cast a wary glance at Bertoch’s team. “I understand we’ve lost a witness in this case.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I replied. “Joseph Kurzak was killed in a car accident.”

  “This was in-house counsel,” Luca mused as he reviewed his notes. “Mr. Creed, you’re asking for an extension.”

  “Yes, your honor,” I said. “We need to rework some pieces of the case.”

  “You have his deposition transcript, don’t you?” the judge asked.

  “We do, but it’s not complete,” I explained.

  “Not complete?” the judge inquired.

  “Mr. Kurzak became ill during the deposition and was unable to complete it,” Bertoch interceded. “We had planned to schedule a continuation, but then, the accident.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Kurzak had critical information, and I need to access the evidence to support his claims.”

  “What other evidence could there be?” Bertoch asked with raised eyebrows. “And what claims are you talking about? Mr. Kurzak made no claims.”

  I took a deep breath and steeled myself. This was the part that I had been dreading, and I’d spent most of the morning testing various approaches on Sofia.

  “I spoke to Mr. Kurzak after the deposition,” I admitted.

  “What?” Bertoch exploded. He looked stunned at first, but then as the possible ramifications sank in, his features settled on something closer to glee.

  “I knew you were trouble,” Judge Luca sighed. “You better have a good explanation for why you ignored my order, Mr. Creed.”

  “Mr. Kurzak called me that night, sir,” I replied. “During the first phone call, I told him I wouldn’t speak to him without counsel, and then I hung up.”

  “The first phone call,” Bertoch said in amazement.

  “He kept calling my number until I finally answered,” I continued. “He then insisted that he wanted to speak to me, without counsel.”

  “And was he already drunk?” Bertoch demanded.

  “Mr. Bertoch,” Judge Luca chided. “This is your client’s employee we’re talking about.”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Bertoch quickly replied, “But it goes to capacity. If Mr. Kurzak was noticeably drunk even to someone talking on the phone with him, then he didn’t have the capacity to say whether he wanted counsel.”

  “This isn’t a criminal trial,” the judge reminded everyone.

  “Your honor,” Bertoch started to protest.

  “Nonetheless,” the judge said, “You have a point.”

  “He had been drinking before he called,” I admitted. “And it sounded like he was drinking during the call.”

  “His statements can’t be admitted,” Bertoch declared.

  “You seem to have this court confused with the criminal courts down the hall,” Judge Luca warned. “You don’t even know what was said.”

  “I’ve put together a summary,” I said as all eyes turned towards me.

  “You don’t have a recording?” the judge asked.

  “I do not,” I confirmed.

  “Hearsay,” Bertoch growled.

  “He’s dead,” I reminded Bertoch. “And I was the other party to the conversation.”

  “You’re the attorney, Mr. Creed,” the judge pointed out. “You can hardly call yourself to the stand.”

  Bertoch and I exchanged angry glares while the judge shuffled through a few more papers. A cell phone rang, and one of the Ramsey bunch stepped back into the hall.

  “All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” the judge announced. “Mr. Creed, you’ll provide myself and Mr. Bertoch with a report on your conversation with Mr. Kurzak. I want this to be as close to word-for-word as possible. I’ll decide then whether to grant the extension.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said with a sigh of relief.

  “I’m letting you off the hook this time, Mr. Creed,” the judge warned, “But don’t give me any more reasons to have you arrested for contempt.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  The judge pointed towards the door, and we quickly made our exit. Bertoch was on his phone as soon as the door to the judge’s chamber shut behind us. He gave me a quick glance, before tucking himself into a corner, back turned towards me. The rest of the Ramsey staff formed a neat little wall between us. I shrugged and headed for the elevators.

  I needed evidence that would support at least some of Kurzak’s claims, and I had to find it before the yakuza had a chance to destroy it. The judge had unwittingly given me some extra time by insisting on seeing a copy of the transcript, so Bertoch wouldn’t be able to pass along what exactly Kurzak had told me for a least a few more days.

  The key was the poison that had killed Arturo, I decided. Kurzak had been in charge of making him sick, which meant that he had to have a supply of the drug somewhere. Unfortunately, his wife wasn’t likely to let me inside to pick through Kurzak’s belongings, and I was banned from ArDex property. I also wasn’t sure what I was looking for, besides a vial with powder. That’s assuming Kurzak had kept it in the vial.

  I would still have to show that the drug had been used on Arturo. If we were truly desperate, we would have to consider exhuming Arturo and conducting a drug test. The problem was that many poisons don’t leave any trace after the victim has been dead for a little while so there may not be any drugs left to find. I had to figure out how Kurzak administered the drug, and hope that I could find it before the yakuza did.

  I realized that there was one person who would know exactly how it had been done. It was risky, but it was also the only real shot I had at this. I tossed everything in the passenger seat of the car and headed back to the hills.

  It was a longer trip this time around, but I still managed to make it back to the house on Green Oak Drive before lunch. I pulled into the driveway and pressed the buzzer. There was no response, so I tried again.

  “Yes?” a very faint voice asked. I couldn’t tell for sure if it was male or female.

  “My name is Vincent Creed,” I said. “I’m an attorney. I’m looking for Masao and Keiko Daigo. I have some questions about Mrs. Daigo’s brother, Hoshu Asaki.”

  There was another long pause, and the voice replied, “There is no one here by that name.”

  “I know the Daigo’s live here,” I asserted. “And it’s very important that I speak to them. I need to know more about the illness Mr. Daigo experienced before the move to California. I know someone who may have had a similar sickness.”

  There was another long pause, and then a quick exchange in Japanese. I heard the speaker click off and swore in frustration. I pressed the buzzer a third time.

  “Please,” I begged before the voice could say anything. “At least two people are already dead, and if you don’t help me, that number could go a lot higher. I just want to save some good people who haven’t done anything to deserve such a fate.”

  There was no response, but the speaker was still on. I could hear someone breathing on the other end. Finally, someone uttered something in Japanese. There was a buzzing sound, and the gate slowly swung open. I pulled forward, onto a twisting, tree-lined drive. The plant life was heavy along here, almost forest-like. The house, when it appeared, seemed to loom up out of the depths.

  I parked the Honda behind a mud-splattered Jeep. The front door was already open, and a plump Hispanic woman dressed in pink scrubs waited for me. I wondered if she was part of our unofficial spy network, but she gave no sign that she recognized my name.

  She led me into a dark room on the far side of the house. One wall was nothing but glass windows with a pair of french doors in the center. There was a lovely view of a small, carefully manicured garden. I spotted a pond and a traditional Japanese lantern as well, and a tidy path that no doubt led to a teahouse. It was bright and sunny outside, with butterflies fluttering among the flowers, yet somehow none of that light seemed to penetrate this room.<
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  A shoji opened silently, giving me a glimpse of another gloomy room beyond this one. A man and a woman stepped through together and walked slowly to the center of the room. They looked like a matched set; they were nearly the same height and had the same pointed features. The matching brown outfits only emphasized the creepy twin effect.

  “Mr. Creed,” the Hispanic woman announced.

  “Thank you, Marisol,” the man replied.

  Marisol turned and left, and I was alone with the Daigos. For a moment, no one spoke. I heard the ticking of a clock somewhere, and a bird in the garden.

  “I am Masao Daigo,” the man finally said. “And this is my wife, Keiko. You said you wanted to discuss my illness.”

  I saw Keiko flinch at that, even in this dreary, unlit room. Masao placed a hand on her shoulder, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

  “I believe you can help me,” I replied. “I believe what happened to you has happened here.”

  Keiko said something in Japanese, and I heard the fear in her voice. Masao squeezed her shoulder, and she fell silent.

  “Perhaps some tea,” Masao suggested. “In the garden.”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said.

  “We have nothing else to do today,” he replied. “And the garden is private.”

  That made me glance around the room, but Masao said nothing more. I nodded, and he took Keiko gently by the arm. The husband and wife moved like an elderly couple, though I knew that they were still relatively young. They shuffled towards the french doors, and I followed in their wake.

  It was a relief to be outside. The garden felt full of life in a way that the house had not. Masao led the way around a small hedge, to a shady spot under a massive oak. A bistro-style table sat there, along with four matching chairs. Masao held the chair for his wife, then sat down next to her. I followed his lead, taking a spot in the shade. Marisol appeared a moment later, and Masao gave her instructions for the tea service.

  “You took a risk coming here, Mr. Creed,” Masao said.

  “I just wanted to ask you some questions,” I replied.

  “Yes, about my illness,” he mimicked, a ghostly smile on his lips. “Tell me about this case that is so similar to mine.”

  “An older man,” I replied. “He had similar symptoms: gradual loss of strength, difficulty breathing, twitching.”

  “Those are very generic symptoms, Mr. Creed,” Masao pointed out. “They could describe any number of problems. Why do you think our cases are related?”

  “Two things,” I said. “First, neither one of you ever received a correct diagnosis.”

  “Sadly, that is not uncommon,” Masao replied.

  “And second,” I continued, “You both had issues with Hoshu Asaki.”

  Keiko made a small mewling sound, and Masao grasped her hand. Minutes passed, the birdsong the only conversation to be heard. Marisol returned, bearing a tray. She carefully placed the tea service in front of us and then left after shooting a concerned look towards Keiko.

  Masao performed the ritual, warming each cup with hot water first, then emptying it and refilling it with a fragrant tea. I wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but somehow, the delicate flavors of jasmine and orange seemed appropriate for this place. Slugging back my usual coffee would have felt insulting.

  “Hoshu Asaki,” Masao said after he’d taken a long sip of his tea. I noticed that his hand shook as he held the cup. “You are either very brave or very stupid.”

  “And what were you?” I asked.

  “I thought I was brave,” Masao replied. He held his hand up so I could see the tremor. “I was, in fact, very stupid.”

  “I know the outline of your story,” I commented. “I know you called him a thug in the newspapers and said that people like him should be arrested. Do you mind telling me what happened after that?”

  “We do not discuss these things,” Keiko interrupted. She was staring at her husband with a look that I couldn’t quite understand.

  “Perhaps it is time we did,” he said softly. “There is nothing else for him to take. We are locked away in this house, afraid of our own shadows.”

  “He is my brother,” Keiko cried.

  “He has not been a brother for a very long time,” Masao replied. “In your heart, you know that.”

  Keiko stood up and tottered away from the table. I thought Masao would follow, but he remained in his seat, a look of infinite sadness upon his face.

  “I rowed in college,” Masao began. “I was an excellent athlete, in superb health. I had the world before me, and I believed I could conquer it. When I met Keiko, I knew that I wanted to share that life with her. Being in her presence made me ecstatic; leaving her made me depressed down to my bones.”

  “When did you get married?” I asked.

  “A year after graduation,” Masao replied. “My family was reluctant about the match, and I could not sway their opinion. I knew Keiko had a brother, though we had never met. She spoke little about him, only to say that he was a successful businessman. When he said he would carry the cost of the wedding, and that it would be one worthy of the Daigo name, I was amazed, but grateful.”

  “It was quite the affair,” I said.

  “Yes, even my family was impressed,” Masao sighed. “We were happy.”

  “When did that change?” I asked.

  “There were little signs, all along,” Masao replied. “It’s very easy to ignore what you do not wish to see. But then there comes that moment when you can no longer deny the truth. For me, it was during the second year of marriage. Hoshu was a frequent dinner guest of ours, nearly every Saturday. One night, he arrived with an unexpected guest. Neither of us knew the man, but we treated him well. The man never spoke, and Hoshu never gave his name. Conversation was awkward that night. Hoshu kept talking about the story of Shita-Kiri Suzume. Do you know it?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “It’s a very old story, about a man who rescues a sparrow,” Masao explained. “For his kindness, he is repaid with a great treasure. His wife, who was cruel to the sparrow, is killed when she goes looking for more treasure. It is a parable about honor and friendship versus greed and cruelty.”

  “An odd dinner topic,” I commented.

  “Hoshu and his guest left early,” Masao continued. “Keiko was upset the rest of the night, but she refused to tell me why. A few days passed, and then I saw a news report of a body found floating in the harbor. I didn’t pay much attention until they displayed a picture of the man. It was the same man who had been Hoshu’s guest, and the police estimate for his time of death put it not long after he left our home.”

  “He brought his murder victim to your house for dinner just before he killed him?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Keiko knew,” Masao sighed. “Hoshu had done this before to her. It was the discussion about the story, you see. In Hoshu’s mind, the man had been given everything by Asaki, and then betrayed him for a false treasure.”

  I couldn’t wrap my mind around the story Masao had just told. And what of Keiko, to have this happen not once, but twice? Perhaps there were other times as well, when she was expected to serve as a hostess for someone her brother was about to kill.

  “Keiko and I fought frequently after that,” Masao continued. “I refused to allow Hoshu in our house, but Keiko said that it would be worse if we didn’t. I suggested that we flee somewhere far away, but she said that Hoshu had tentacles everywhere. Around and around we went, and I found that happiness had fled my home. And then, a miracle happened. The government began to challenge the yakuza, and several of their leaders were taken into custody. I was certain that Hoshu would be gone from our lives once and for all.”

  “So you gave the interview,” I guessed.

  “Yes, I did,” Masao said with a small smile. “I don’t regret it, not really. It was intoxicating, to finally denounce the man in public without fear of reprisal.”

  “What changed?”
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  “They had nothing on Hoshu,” Masao replied bitterly. “Any evidence they did have, simply vanished. As did the witnesses. Many yakuza were destroyed, but not Hoshu.”

  “And you became sick,” I finished.

  “It started small,” he said. “Tremors I couldn’t explain. Pounding headaches that seemed to come out of nowhere. My doctors conducted many tests, and offered many medications, but nothing worked. I tried more traditional medicines as well, but the results were no better.”

  “Did you suspect Hoshu?” I asked.

  “You would think that I would,” he replied sadly, “but in some ways, I was still naïve. Keiko knew, though. She was the one that approached Hoshu and asked the price for the cure.”

  “A public apology,” I said.

  “I refused at first, but Keiko begged me to do it,” Masao agreed. “She promised that if I did this thing, Hoshu would not only provide me with the cure, but we would move far from Japan.”

  “So you issued the apology, and he told you the cure,” I mused.

  “There is no cure,” Masao said. “But he did stop feeding me the poison, so that my symptoms grew no worse.”

  I thought about the darkened rooms in the house, and the strange, shuffling gait of Masao.

  “You still have migraines,” I guessed. “And problems standing.”

  “Eventually, I will die of respiratory failure,” Masao said. “Hoshu was quite happy to tell me that.”

  “Do you know what he poisoned you with, and how he did it?” I asked hopefully.

  “Hoshu has never said, but I believe I know,” Masao replied. “The poison is a derivative of strychnine. It has the same effects, but it can be more carefully controlled. I am living proof that you can make your victim’s agony drag on for years. As to the how, that took longer to understand, but I think the first few doses were in my food. Once I became ill, and my appetite dropped, I suspect he added it to my medications.”

  “During those Saturday visits,” I suggested.

  “That is my belief,” he said. “He didn’t come by as often once I became ill, but just often enough to poison whatever drugs I was taking.”