Lovers and Lawyers

by Lia Matera

  “I worked with Laura on that case,” he explained.

  As the defense investigator, he’d have done a thorough background check of the prosecution’s witnesses. He’d have given Di Palma details of my protest-era arrests and my two ghastly months of jail time. God knew Di Palma had gotten her money’s worth, rattling my “criminal record” like a saber, using it to hack away at my credibility.

  But, as lawyers love to say, that’s why she got the big bucks.

  Arkelett slipped my card into his pocket, and rose. He left without another word.

  Maryanne said, “We’ll try to reach Laura for you, of course.”

  Then she rose, too, resolutely shaking my hand good-bye.

  Arkelett stopped me in the hall outside the suite of offices.

  “Look,” he said, “I want to ask a favor. I’d like to see Castle’s will. Maybe ask your client a couple of questions.” He frowned. “Because Laura … it wouldn’t be like her to screw up. Not on a client matter, anyway.”

  “What would the will tell you?” And why didn’t he just phone Di Palma, wherever she was?

  “If you still have the envelope, the date and place it was mailed.”

  “I could call you with the information.”

  “I want to look at it myself. In case there’s anything else.”

  Was he expecting blood? A coded scrawl? Juan had made this all seem strange enough. Having a man in a business suit get weird about it was even spookier.

  “Some things you need to look at the original,” he insisted. “I’d just like to make my own assessment. Take a few minutes of your client’s time?” He tilted his head as if to figure me out.

  “I don’t know—he’s a little high-strung.” I couldn’t resist asking: “Is there a problem? Some reason you’re not waiting for Ms. Di Palma?”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Laura had to go deal with a … a sick cousin.” Judging by his face, there was a hell of a lot more to it than that. “And well, we’re not sure exactly where that took her. I don’t mean to say it’s a big deal—she’ll be back soon enough. But in the meantime, guaranteed, she’d want me to check this out.”

  Check out the postmark on Juan Gomez’s envelope? No, however Arkelett might try to soft-pedal it, he wanted to know where Di Palma had gone. I backed toward the elevator. Should I help him? If Di Palma wanted him to know her whereabouts, she’d have told him herself.

  “I can maybe help your client out,” Arkelett persisted. “If he’s who I think he is.” He looked nonplused. “Maybe I can help him get his head on straight.”

  “My client’s afraid,” I admitted. “Afraid of Castle. He warned me about him several times. And he expressed some concern about Ms. Di Palma, too. So I don’t know how he’d feel about seeing you.”

  Sandy Arkelett leaned closer. I could smell Old Spice on his lean cheeks. “If he wants you present, that’s fine. No cost to him—I’ll pay you for the hour, okay?”

  “I’ll see what I can set up.” For a fee, I supposed I could fit it into my schedule.

  When he opened his door, I said, “How are you, Juan? I’m sorry I’m a little early.”

  As I stepped in, he glanced outside, his grizzled brows rising. I looked over my shoulder. Sandy Arkelett had just pulled up to the curb.

  Juan clutched his sweatshirt as if to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. And I didn’t blame him. Just as Arkelett had investigated me when I’d been a witness against Di Palma’s client, he’d doubtless investigated every aspect of Juan’s life before Castle’s trial. I wondered how Juan would react if Arkelett alluded to any of it.

  I closed the door.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I reminded him. “Or, if you like, we can speak to Mr. Arkelett in my office. You don’t have to invite him into your home.”

  “No.” Juan’s tone was more stoic than his face. “No, I understand what it is to love someone. Someone who’s gone.” I’d told him Di Palma was apparently off on some private errand. I’d told him I thought Arkelett was trying to find out exactly where it had taken her. Now Juan had filled in the reason: Arkelett was in love with Di Palma. Maybe Juan was just guessing, but it fit, it made sense.

  I looked around the gargoyle-protected room. It was somber with the curtains closed, lighted only with votive candles and a dim table lamp. He must not read much, not in this gloom. But there was no television in sight, either. Did he spend his days praying to the gargoyles leering in flickering candle shadows? “You’ve met Sandy Arkelett?”

  Juan nodded. “He’s by her side all the time. He puts himself between her and Castle. You can see that he understands more about Castle than she does. You can see it on his face.”

  I was a little taken aback. He couldn’t have spent much time with Castle and his lawyer. Even his use of the present tense was disconcerting. He seemed to expect me to share some memory or vision.

  Sandy Arkelett sighed deeply when Juan opened the door to him. It was a moment before he muttered, “Thanks for seeing me.” The worry lines on his long face deepened, lending his words a somber sincerity. “Mind if I come in?”

  I admired his thirties-movies silhouette, long and slim in a slightly baggy suit. Even his light brown hair was combed back like Gary Cooper’s or Jimmy Stewart’s. Di Palma was lucky.

  “I was just asking my client if he felt comfortable doing this,” I told him.

  Juan was flattened against the door, staring at Arkelett. The detective said, “I won’t take but ten minutes of your time, Mr. um …” He eyed Juan so intently he seemed to be leaning toward him. “Is it Gomez?”

  Juan edged away.

  “I know I bring up some hard memories. So I’ll make it real short,” Arkelett repeated. “But it was a long drive down here. I’d appreciate ten minutes.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I have nothing against you. I just—”

  Arkelett stepped quickly inside. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I guess … would it be easiest to start with the will?” He glanced at me.

  “Do you mind showing Mr. Arkelett the will?”

  Juan caught his lower lip between his teeth. He walked to the white box on the white table. Arkelett looked around, his pale brows pinched. I watched Juan put on rubber gloves to open the box and handle the manila envelope inside it.

  He brought it to me. Arkelett stepped up behind me, positioned to look over my shoulder.

  The envelope was postmarked Hillsdale, CA. Central California, maybe Northern? Like most San Franciscans—former San Franciscans—I’d rarely bestirred myself to explore the outback.

  I turned, handing Arkelett the envelope. It had been mailed on the sixteenth. Today was the Twenty-second.

  Juan reached past me, touching his fingertips to Arkelett’s elbow. “Sit down,” he said. “On the white pine chair. That’s the best one for this. Do you want gloves?”

  “No need.” Arkelett chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at the postmark.

  “Where’s Hillsdale?” I asked him.

  “North.” It seemed to take him extra effort to look away from the word. Then his head lurched as if he were overcompensating. “Below the Oregon border on the coast. Laura’s hometown. She started the trip there.”

  “So she did send it.” So much for blaming a paralegal. Juan hovered near the envelope, latex gloves poised to retrieve it. “Why does it have my address—my address with his name? How does she know my address?”

  Arkelett said, “The firm has it on file.”

  “My address?” Juan blinked. “But how? Why?”

  “You haven’t been in contact with Laura lately?”

  “No. As a discipline, I try not to think about it. About him. I would never call his lawyer. Never.”

  Juan was so shaken by the idea that he turned away, touching his hand to the snarling cheek of a candlelit gargoyle. Arke
lett watched him.

  When Juan turned back, Arkelett continued, “Except for the will, Laura hasn’t been in touch with you?”

  “Only through Castle. He’s very much in touch with me. But not in the way you mean.” Juan gestured toward the envelope. “This would be very crude for him. So blunt that at first I thought it was meant as an insult. But I begin to see the layers on top of layers.”

  “I expect I’ve stirred up a lot of worries, coming down here like this.” Arkelett seemed to be memorizing every millimeter of the envelope. “But I’m just …” He glanced at me again. “Just seeing for myself the office made a mistake, that’s all.” He extracted the will.

  Juan took a stumbling backward step, staring as if Arkelett had shaken out an appendage of Castle’s. “I will go, go and … leave you for a moment.”

  He started pushing open the door to another room. Then he turned back to us, trotting to the whitewashed chair and scooting it behind Arkelett, virtually forcing him to sit. He left as if chased out.

  Arkelett hunched over the will, giving it his full attention. I stood behind the chair, reading over his shoulder. Arkelett turned to me. “You don’t know much about Castle’s trial?”

  “Only what Mr. Gomez told me.”

  He seemed on the verge of saying something difficult. Then, with a shake of the head, “I’m not clear enough on client confidentiality to know how much I can say now.” As Di Palma’s associate, he was obligated to keep her client matters confidential. “I don’t know if Castle’s acquittal changes anything. Especially these days, with civil suits getting filed after not-guilty criminal verdicts.”

  Was he about to admit Castle’s guilt? I’d already gathered as much. But he was right, the double-jeopardy rule protected Castle only from criminal reprosecution. It offered no immunity from a civil suit. So it wouldn’t do for Arkelett to confirm Castle’s guilt. Nevertheless, I was silent, hoping he’d say more.

  With a shrug, he continued, “You should read the court documents.” A half smile. “And take a look at the arrest report and booking sheet.”

  Castle must have priors I should know about. Or maybe something in the records supported Juan’s fears. Everyone was so damn odd about Castle. I was ready to invest in a few gargoyles myself.

  Juan returned then. Arkelett slipped the will back into its envelope.

  “Thanks for your time.” Arkelett stood slowly. “And thank you, Ms. Jansson. I’m a hundred percent sure Laura’s going to phone you first thing when she gets back.”

  “You’d better find your Ms. Di Palma soon,” Juan advised.

  Arkelett stopped moving.

  “She never understood what Castle is,” Juan continued. “She was like a woman with dust thrown in her eyes. When he can blind a woman, he can take her away from anyone. Like he took Becky away from me. He can make her do anything.”

  Arkelett’s face drained of color. “Can you elaborate on that?”

  Juan shrugged.

  “Are you saying she’s in some kind of physical danger?”

  “Mental danger, spiritual danger.” Juan’s eyes glittered.

  Arkelett watched him for a moment. “Laura knew what and who she was dealing with—it’s not a matter of dust in her eyes. But a lawyer’s got to do everything she can for her client. You understand that, don’t you? That it was Laura’s job to win an acquittal? That’s not to say it’s necessarily the best result, not even for Castle. Maybe sometimes it’s better to put someone away where he can get treatment, even punishment. But from the point of view of the lawyer, she’s obliged to go for the gold. That’s her pact with the client. Whether it’s right in the long run … that’s for the client to decide, that’s for God to know. Laura did her job, that’s all. You do understand that?”

  Juan stared at his gargoyles. “Yes.” His voice was a whisper. “But maybe Becky doesn’t understand.”

  Arkelett handed me the will and walked out.

  Until Juan mentioned them, I don’t suppose I’d ever thought about prophetic dreams. But that night, I believed I’d had one.

  I dreamed I was sitting in Assistant District Attorney Patrick Toben’s no-frills office. Toben was the only local ADA I knew. I’d recently tried a case against him.

  In my dream, Toben, dapper and well-groomed as in life, wore a gargoyle print tie. “I called you,” he said, “because your business card was found at the crime scene.”

  At that, I awakened suddenly and fully, convinced Juan Gomez was about to be killed by Sean Castle. My dark bedroom seemed thick with shapes, lurking like Castle’s curse. I’ll kill you by inches, Juan. You’ll see it coming for miles, so don’t look back.

  I sat up, clicking on a lamp. My new place smelled of carpet shampoo and fresh paint. The walls were bare and the corners piled high with boxes. I could hear the clang of metal pulleys on masts at the nearby yacht harbor.

  I crawled out of bed, clammy with fear. I pulled a jacket over the sweats I’d slept in, and I slipped into my moccasins. I started toward the door.

  I stopped with my hand on the knob. I was still half-asleep, showing a dreamlike lack of impulse control. What excuse did I have for awakening Juan Gomez at this time of night? He was scared enough without having me appear on his doorstep to relate a nightmare.

  I took a deep breath. I’d gotten sucked into Juan’s world of dreams and curses, complete with medieval gargoyles to protect the sleeping. But I knew better than to elevate mere worries into voodoo, misgivings into prophecies. Sean Castle could manipulate Juan only because Juan had done the psychological and emotional spadework for him. Juan himself had created the pursued cowering man Castle had vowed to make of him.

  Juan said Castle would harm me, too, if he became aware of me. But I could see Juan had it backward. Castle could undermine me only if I became aware of him, only if I let myself dread what he might do to me. Only if I frightened myself enough to awaken a client in the middle of the night.

  I returned to bed and huddled there, trying hard not to imagine gargoyles, claws outstretched, in the shadows beyond the lamplight.

  I hugged myself against the seacoast chill, thinking about the tale Juan had told, replaying his words in my mind.

  Sharing his horror, however briefly, moved me beyond smug pity. And it scared me how much that seemed to change his story. Minutes before, I’d been proud of myself for breaking the chain of Juan’s superstition. Now I feared the situation was much more complicated than that. How had Juan put it? I want to wish it could be so simple.

  I thought about Sandy Arkelett’s reaction to Juan, his worries about revealing a client confidence, his advice that I read the court records and look at the booking sheet. I considered the fact that Arkelett recognized my name many years after my testimony but hadn’t recognized Juan’s after only a year.

  Once again, I jumped out of bed.

  I cruised slowly past Juan’s house, disquieted to see orbs of candlelight through his sagging curtains. It was nearly four in the morning. I’d hoped for the consolation of finding the place peaceful and dark.

  I pulled up to the curb. I’d already promised myself: no debate. If Juan seemed to be stirring, I’d knock no matter how foolish I felt. Maybe I had this figured wrong—unlike Di Palma, I made mistakes with disgusting frequency. Even if I was right, it was slim reason to bother Juan in the middle of the night.

  But I just couldn’t stop worrying about my dream. Your card was found at the crime scene, Assistant DA Toben had said.

  Maybe it was a blessing not to be as perfect as Di Palma—I was used to apologizing. If I’d worried for nothing, fine, I would simply admit to being an idiot.

  I looked over my shoulder as I approached the house. I’d feel like a flake persuading his neighbors I was no prowler.

  When I knocked at the door, it opened slightly. Juan had left it unlocked, virtually ajar. Fear crawled up my sp
ine. A man with gargoyles on every horizontal surface wouldn’t leave his door open. Not unless he’d given up on protecting himself from Sean Castle. Not unless he’d tired of waiting in agonized dread.

  I pushed my way in. “Juan?”

  I almost stumbled over an object near the threshold. It was a gargoyle, shattered into lumps and shards of plaster as if dashed against the wall.

  Only a few candles glowed, leaving most of the room in shadow. Whitewashed furniture picked up flickers of color from glass votives. There was barely enough light to make out the remains of other gargoyles, their pieces strewn as if in a berserk frenzy. Their cracked demon faces, portions of curling claws, and remnants of reptilian wings covered the floor like macabre carnage.

  For a moment, I let myself believe that the large shadow in the corner was another gargoyle, still intact. But I approached it with a knot rising up my throat. I knew it was Juan Gomez, sprawled dead on the floor.

  My business card, I noticed, was lying in a pool of blood beside his hand.

  Sean Castle had smashed all the gargoyles. Then he’d slashed Juan’s wrists with the jagged slivers of plaster. Or perhaps Juan, sure Castle was coming for him, had beaten him to the punch.

  Exsanguination was listed as the cause of death. Suicide was presumed, despite the fact that Castle’s fingerprints were all over the house.

  I spent the rest of the night with the police. Then I went to the office of Assistant District Attorney Patrick Toben. Toben had prosecuted Sean Castle. Now he had the paperwork for this case.

  It was only right that he should. My client, I had come to realize, wasn’t Juan Gomez, after all. He was Sean Castle.

  “Yeah, Sean Castle killed Becky Walker, all right.” Toben ran a hand over his neat ginger hair. “Walker was living with Castle in his cabin. We think she freaked out over something he did—probably showing multiple personalities. So he got self-protective and blew her head off. From what you just told me, I guess there was a Juan Gomez inside him watching the whole thing happen. Whatever. By the time we caught up to Castle, he’d ditched the clothes he’d been wearing, gotten rid of the weapon, everything. We just didn’t have enough for a conviction. That’s how Di Palma played it. You ever seen her in court? Well, then you know. She’s good.”