The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  “And you did the right thing,” says Susan.

  “I didn’t because I thought the law protected people who were in the right.” Jonah ignores her. “But obviously it doesn’t.”

  “That’s not true,” says Susan.

  “Then why aren’t you over there, at Suade’s office, pounding her head against a rock right now to find out where Mandy is?”

  “Because that’s not how the law works.”

  “The law doesn’t work. That’s the problem,” says Jonah. “I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go over there and wring that bitch’s neck. I’d find out,” he says, “if I had to . . .”

  “Jonah!”

  “Kill her.” He’s looking directly at me as he says the words, an expression that only lends emphasis. “The last thing she’d ever tell anybody on this planet is where Mandy is. There are ways to get information,” he says. “Maybe I hired the wrong people.

  “Why the hell don’t you go after her?” Jonah looks at Brower, who shrugs a shoulder—as if to say, “Don’t look at me. I’m only the hired help.” Then to Susan.

  “We’ve tried. Believe me.”

  “What have you tried? Talking to her?” He gestures toward me, the last fool to converse with Suade.

  Jonah’s been chomping on a dry cigar, now he lights it. “Hope you don’t mind?” he asks after the fact.

  I shake my head. It’s the only satisfaction he’s likely to get here. At the moment he could probably burn the place down and I would be the last to object.

  He reaches into the breast pocket of his shirt, now a rusty hue of dried fish blood, and comes out with a handful of cigars, each in its own small aluminum cylinder.

  “Would you like one?” He starts to hand them around.

  I shake my head.

  He offers one to Harry, who takes it, then to Brower, who looks, raises an eyebrow, and smiles, then puts it in his pocket. Save it for later. Jonah is not of the generation who would think to offer such a thing to Susan, but now she is looking, and finally he does. She takes it and puts it in her purse, probably planning to use its fiery end on my ass tonight in order to refresh my recollection of details from my meeting with Suade. I am in for the third degree.

  Harry lights up and pretty soon my office looks like some alderman’s pit of public corruption; a blue haze everywhere.

  “There’s one thing I am wondering.” I direct this to Susan.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve established that Jonah never came to your department in the original custody case. What does your department know about Jessica’s criminal allegations against Jonah?”

  “What do you mean?” says Susan.

  “Did you investigate them?” I’m shopping for information.

  “The DA would have done that,” says Susan.

  “But I’ll bet your little form in there”—I’m pointing to Brower’s folder, now closed and back in his lap—“would tell us if the investigation is closed. For lack of evidence, say.”

  She looks at Brower.

  “We can’t discuss that,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Criminal investigations, pending or closed, are confidential, unless charges are brought,” says Brower.

  “So you did investigate the charges?”

  “Can’t say,” he says. “We would like to help you, but that’s off-limits.”

  “So my client lives under a permanent cloud. Suade goes before the cameras, and he can’t even obtain information from the county as to whether he’s been cleared?”

  Brower looks at Susan, who is a stone idol, then turns back to me.

  “That’s the way it is,” he says. “There’s nothing we can do about it.” It is now clear why Susan brought her conscience to the meeting. Alone in this room she knows she would have difficulty not disclosing what she knows about this, at least to me. With Brower present she is safe, for now.

  “So where do we go from here?” she says.

  “Looks like Jonah goes to the public pillory. Where you and your department end up, I’m not sure. I guess we’ll have to wait for the news conference.”

  “I’d like to know why nobody can do anything when this woman came to my house and literally threatened to kidnap my granddaughter?” says Jonah.

  “When did she do that?” asks Susan.

  “Few weeks ago. When my daughter came back late from visitation.”

  “You never told me this.” Susan looks at me.

  “Suade will deny it,” I tell her. “She may admit she was there, but as for the words, she will deny that they were ever intended as a threat.”

  “What did she say, exactly?” says Susan.

  “That unless I gave Mandy back to my daughter, I would lose her. Bold as brass she stood there in my kitchen and told me I was about to lose my granddaughter.”

  Susan looks at Brower. “What do you think?”

  “How soon before the child went missing?” he asks.

  “Few days. Maybe a week.”

  “It could be useful,” he says. “It could show agency, that she acted as an agent in the abduction. At least it’s arguable.”

  “You said she didn’t deny being there,” says Jonah. “When you met with Suade.”

  “We didn’t debate the subject. Didn’t get into the details. But she didn’t deny it.”

  “There.” Jonah looks at Susan as if having won the point.

  “Admitting she was at your house for a conversation and proving that she was part of an abduction are two different things,” I remind him.

  “Still, we could use an affidavit,” says Susan. “Would you be willing to come to my office and provide a statement under oath?”

  “Absolutely,” says Jonah. “My wife, too, if you need her.”

  “Your wife heard Suade make the statement?”

  He nods.

  “Gets better and better,” says Brower.

  “Her lawyers will shred it,” I tell them. “Two grandparents whose granddaughter is abducted by her mother. Suade’s lawyers will paint Jonah and Mary as being mad at the world. Ready to make wild accusations against anyone who happened to be standing around. And you have no real evidence.”

  “If it were anybody else standing in that house making threats, maybe,” says Susan. “But the courts know about Suade. We take the affidavit to Family Law,” says Susan, “and ask the court for an order to show cause why Suade shouldn’t be held in contempt if she doesn’t tell where the child is.”

  “You forget Suade’s already got a lawsuit pending against the county for abuse of process. There’s no way a judge is going to take the chance without solid, slam-dunk evidence of her involvement.”

  “I don’t like the idea of a client going down to her office alone.” Harry’s talking about Susan’s office.

  “Then you come with us.” She calls his bluff. “Protect his rights.”

  “Fine by me,” he says.

  I can see blood all over the county carpets.

  “What about you?” Harry looks at me.

  “I’ve got a meeting. I’m not sure this is such a great idea. If it doesn’t work, it only serves to strengthen Suade’s hand.”

  “How so?” says Susan.

  “It’ll make it more difficult to pursue her later if better evidence develops. If we try to take her back into court later, it’s going to look like harassment.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?” Susan looks at me.

  Reluctantly I shake my head.

  “When can we do it?” says Jonah.

  “Right now. Can you come down to my office?”

  “Before he signs any affidavit I want to see it,” I tell Susan.

  She agrees.

  Brow
er has another appointment. He looks at his watch. He’s already late. Susan snagged Brower on the run on his pager, so he came here separately. Harry has some phone calls to return.

  “I can take Mr. Hale down to the office in my car,” says Susan. “Get everything set up.”

  “No talking till I get there,” says Harry. He pulls Jonah aside and whispers something into his ear, no doubt telling Jonah not to say a thing until he gets there. Harry signals me, subtle palms-down, like it’s all cool. Nothing to worry about.

  I’m not so sure.

  “Good.” Susan’s all smiles. “Then it’s settled.”

  Brower’s out of his chair. Jonah’s halfway to the door, the seat of his pants still covered with muck from the docks.

  Susan’s got a hand on his shoulder, talking in his ear. “We’ll get an order to show cause, I’ll get my press people working. We’ll take the edge off of Suade’s press conference. Hit her with contempt and take that smile off her face.”

  “Not unless I miss my guess,” I say.

  Susan turns to look at me.

  “That one thrives on threats.”

  SEVEN

  * * *

  Harry makes his phone calls while Jonah and Susan head downtown, for her office.

  Susan is inspired by nothing but contempt for Suade, another reason for concern on my part.

  Five minutes later I’m behind the wheel in Lena bouncing over the Coronado Bridge and north on I-5. I drop off the freeway and work my way down toward the airport. At the intersection of Pacific Highway I am stopped at a light. I can hear the screaming engines of a jet and see its large tail assembly over the steel baffles that line the fence as the plane revs for takeoff, the vibration rattling the teeth in my head.

  The light changes and I move through the intersection away from the noise now descending down the runway. I head toward Harbor Drive. In the distance I can see Harbor Island with its high-rise hotels.

  Rumbling at speed toward Rosecrans, I merge with traffic, go a few more blocks, catch the light, and do a left, heading out onto Shelter Island.

  A forest of aluminum masts and steel-cabled riggings, this is the world of sailing and regattas, the place where the America’s Cup last touched U.S. soil.

  A few blocks down I stop and back into a tight space at the curb, just enough room for half of a car, or a stub-backed Jeep. I look over at the slip of paper pinned under my coffee cup on the seat next to me, and then back to the sign over the street on the other side—Red Sails Inn. I’d scrawled the name in pencil a few days before, after making a half dozen phone calls.

  With open windows there is nothing to lock, so I step out, slam the half door, and make my way across the street around a few slow-moving vehicles.

  The Red Sails Inn is a landmark, a restaurant and bar that has been a San Diego fixture since before Lindbergh came to town to pick up the Spirit of St. Louis. The restaurant moved from its original digs near the waterfront out to Shelter Island when that landfill was created back in the sixties, so once again, it is nestled by a sea of boats. There are large boats and small boats, all tied up in slips out back. Some of these could easily be classed as yachts. These are generally defined as a large hole in the water into which one pours money. Fortunately, I have never had the inclination to find out. What I know is that these gleaming, white palaces of floating Fiberglass look expensive.

  There are a few pedestrians ambling along the street: a guy window-shopping pricey property through the glass front of a real estate office, a delivery truck offloading supplies—signs of commercial life in the afternoon.

  I open the door and enter the Red Sails, lifting the dark glasses from my eyes so that I can see. I’ve landed here at the meal hour, and the place is crowded. There are a few locals sitting on bar stools and a line forming for tables in the dining room. The bartender is mixing drinks and taking orders, talking to another man in a sport coat and open collar who has the look of management about him.

  In another minute, the man in the sport coat escorts two couples in front of me to their table and comes back. “Smoking or nonsmoking?” he says.

  “Actually, I’m looking for Joaquin Murphy.”

  The guy looks around and doesn’t see him. “Murph was expecting you?”

  “Supposed to meet me here for lunch.”

  “Jimmie. Have you seen Murph this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  “My guess is he’s out back. On the Money Pit.”

  I give him a blind stare.

  “His boat.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lemme see if I can get ahold of him. What’s your name?”

  I give him a business card from my pocket.

  The guy disappears behind the bar and a second later he’s on the phone, talking to somebody. I can see his lips moving. It’s a quick conversation and he hangs up.

  “He got busy with some chores. Forgot the time. He’ll be over in a minute. Go ahead and sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

  It’s a little early, so I order a Virgin Mary. “Easy on the Tabasco,” I tell him.

  I sit and study the decor. It’s rustic contemporary, lots of wood on the interior, tables set with sturdy wooden chairs in the lounge. The restaurant is to the rear, where a large wall of windows and a sliding glass door frame a deck for outdoor dining. This merges with the dock and the slips beyond. Outside, umbrellaed tables are full of people extending the lunch hour, enjoying the bobbing masts and cool breezes off the harbor.

  A waitress returns with my drink. Just then I see a figure moving like a comet leaving a tail, dropping socks and then a shoe as he hops between tables out on the deck. He still has one shoe in his hand when he reaches the sliding door.

  He is short and stubby, more than a little overweight, in Bermuda shorts that reach halfway to his ankles so that he has the look of a comic pirate. He wears a wrinkled polo shirt that does little to disguise his bulging Buddha belly. From the look of his tousled dark hair, I judge he has only moments before pulled it over his head.

  As he comes through the sliding door he leans against the frame. Still fighting with the one wayward shoe, he surveys the people inside. It takes him only a second to figure I’m the one he’s looking for. By the time he makes it to my table, the only thing amiss is the shoelaces dragging in his wake.

  “Mr. Madriani.” His smile struggles to be disarming, and instead he comes off looking like an elf who slept with Santa’s wife on Christmas Eve. His teeth are a little uneven, flashing white set against a deep tan and an even darker five-o’clock shadow. “Sorry,” he says. “I got tied up.”

  “So I gathered. Name’s Paul.” I offer my hand and he shakes it, a firm grip.

  “Joaquin Murphy,” he says. “You can call me Murph. Everybody else does.”

  “Murph it is. Have a seat.”

  He’s a bucket of sweat.

  “I thought we’d go to my place. Out back,” he says. “Little more privacy there.”

  “Whatever. Can I get you something to drink?”

  The waitress has now joined us.

  “Corona,” he says. “And Rosie, make it to go.” He has one foot on the chair next to mine trying to tie his shoelace. There are smudges of grease and oil on his forearms, and his fingernails look as if he has been using them to plow the back forty.

  “Been waiting long?”

  “No.”

  He notices me looking at his arms.

  “You own a boat, you get like this,” he says. “I was workin’ on a bilge pump. Time got away from me. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Ever owned one? A boat?”

  “I’ve missed that pleasure,” I tell him.

  “Unless you’re handy, into maintenance, you don’t want one. Either do it yourself, or pay through the nose. When it’s floating, mainte
nance isn’t something you can let go. Not like a house. Spring a leak in your plumbing at home, you get a little dry rot. Do it on a boat, and you find yourself at the bottom of the slip.” He’s now wiping grease off the back of one of his hands with one of the linen napkins from the table.

  The waitress arrives. He takes the chilled bottle of beer from the girl. We order sandwiches. “They’ll deliver,” he says. I peel off some bills from my money clip and we walk.

  I follow Murphy, drinks in hand, out the back through the sliding door, across the deck and down the dock. He is three slips down, in the direction of the boatyard, which I can now see jutting out into the marina, some sparks flying from an arc welder in the shadows.

  He grabs a line to balance himself as he walks cleanly under the bowsprit of a large sailboat, twin masted. If I had to guess, I’d say at least forty feet.

  I have to duck to join him.

  The Money Pit is larger than I’d imagined, a wood hull, shiplap, a vintage vessel. In the stern I can see a large teak wheel in the cockpit under a green canvas bimini. The boat is painted Kelly green with dark trim and a teak deck. It is meticulously outfitted, brass fittings and neatly coiled white sheets, lines to work the sails. The brightwork gleams so that I can nearly see my image in the marine varnish.

  “My office,” says Murph.

  “Investigations must pay well.”

  “That, some investments, and a rich uncle,” he says. “This is mostly the uncle.” He takes a sip from the bottle as we stand on the dock and admire.

  “She was built in the early thirties for some bootlegger. When I found her, she was in bad shape. Fortunately, there wasn’t enough metal to justify the salvage yard. The only reason she survived,” he says.

  “Labor of love,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful.”

  “She is gorgeous, even if I say so myself.” He talks as if the boat were alive, then leads me up the gangway onto the deck and along the side of the house that juts up in the center of the boat like a miniature cottage with a pitched roof. This has six round portholes running the length to provide light down into what I imagine is the salon and cabins below.