by Kim Hamilton
I knew it didn’t matter what he believed or what I believed. If it remained in dispute, it would come down to the question of what a jury would believe. I didn’t have the time for a jury trial and neither did Sharlyn. She needed to move on with her life and leave Darnell behind.
“You know I have to take his word for it until I see evidence otherwise.”
“Keep the file open. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I went out to tell Kari what had happened. “That man is a menace. Why can’t he go to jail peacefully and leave Sharlyn alone?”
“He wants to bargain.”
“In other words”—Kari said—“he’ll do the right thing if she does the wrong thing.”
“Exactly.”
We held silent over this troubling turn of events until Kari changed the subject. “So how was your weekend?”
My face lit up. “Mark asked me out.”
“The firefighter?”
“Yup.” I gave her the details about Mrs. Bianco’s imagined electrical fire.
“Electrical fire, huh? She’s a clever one, that Mrs. B.”
Moments later, Sharlyn showed up for our meeting with Chip Woodward. She wore a conservative pale blue dress and carried an umbrella.
“Is it raining yet?” Kari asked. “I heard we were supposed to get another thunderstorm. Channel 23 even posted tornado warnings.”
“Not yet, but the sky is getting black and the wind’s picking up,” Sharlyn said.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m nervous about this interview, Should I be nervous?”
“No. You have to answer his questions truthfully, that’s all. You’ve done nothing wrong. Hooking up with the wrong guy is not a crime.”
Kari looked up from her desk. “I sure hope not, or lock me up and throw away the key.”
There was a loud clap of thunder. We turned toward the front windows as if it would break through the glass.
“Sharlyn, I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s temporary though. I’m sure things will turn around.”
“What is it?”
“Darnell’s changed his story about the accident.”
I explained what Art had told me and that it meant the insurance company has to deny his claim unless there is evidence contradicting Darnell’s version, or unless he changes his story back to the truth.
“But how can they believe anything he says? He’s trying to screw me over for breaking up with him. It’s obvious he’s lying.”
“You and I both know that. But if he holds his position, we will have to file suit and let a jury decide.”
“I don’t have that kind of time. I need that money to get my own apartment.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not giving up on this,” I assured her.
Chip Woodward came through the door. He stood tall and slender in a slim cut Daniel-Craig-as-James-Bond suit. The memory of my earlier crush tapped me on the shoulder and said, I’m still here.
“It’s coming down hard.” He closed his dripping umbrella and settled his warm brown eyes on mine. “Hi, Jess,” he said, moving toward me. I wondered, was this a huggable moment? We’d spent some time pouring over notes in our study group, but it was more like parallel playing, and we hadn’t seen each other in a while. What was appropriate? A long embrace, a quick hug, a meaningful handshake? I didn’t know the answer, but I was alert to the clue when he presented it. He put his umbrella down and reached out his right hand. “So good to see you.” Okay, so no hug. I’d get over it.
I took his hand. It was damp from the rain. He had soft skin, but a strong grip. I held it a few seconds longer than I would a complete stranger as a homage to our past and said, “Good to see you, too.”
I introduced Kari and Sharlyn before directing him toward the conference room. Kari asked if she could get us anything to drink. Everyone declined, and Kari returned to her desk.
Chip had a tall, muscular build from which his tailored suit hung perfectly. A platinum Tissot watch peeked out from under his cuff as he hoisted a black leather briefcase onto the conference table. I knew his salary as a public servant couldn’t pay for these niceties. Chip came from money. His father had local political influence and was one of the developers who benefited from the renaissance of the city’s Inner Harbor.
Sharlyn and I sat down while Chip remained standing, going through his briefcase. “How long have you been working for Dawson Garner?” he asked.
“About six months now.”
“How’s it going? Do you like this kind of work?”
Once again, I couldn’t decipher his tone. Was he putting me down? I wasn’t sure. I decided not to get defensive.
“It’s been kind of a whirlwind. I’ve learned a lot while flying by the seat of my pants. In six months, I’ve closed about three-dozen files and was top earner here for the last two months. So, yeah. I do like it here.” The easy truth of this statement shocked and confused me. It was true. I was falling into step as a personal injury lawyer. The more my confidence rose, the more I liked the job. So why, I wondered, was I excited about my interview with Wagner & Beam?
“How about you?” How’s the State’s Attorney’s office treating you?”
“Not bad. I’ve put a lot of reprobates away and made several important connections. I plan to run for office someday. I figured this is a good place to start.”
His tone hinted at arrogance. He thought this job was beneath him, a necessary step up the ladder.
“Sounds like a good plan,” I said.
As we spoke, he pulled out a tape recorder, a manila file, a yellow legal pad, and a fountain pen. He closed the clasps on the briefcase, used both hands to relay it from the table to the floor, then seated himself in the chair.
“So how does this work?” I asked.
“It’s simple. I’m going to turn on the recorder and ask Ms. Monroe for her permission to record this session. Then I’ll ask questions to determine whether or not Sharlyn knows anything that might help put Darnell Black away.”
Chip managed to put Sharlyn at ease with his relaxed manner, but my brain was telling me not to let my guard down with this guy. Warning sensors sounded at the mention of recording the meeting. I couldn’t let personal feelings cloud my judgment.
“I’m not comfortable with having this meeting recorded,” I said. “Sharlyn’s here voluntarily as a courtesy to your office. She’ll answer your questions, but until we know what she has that might help you, we’re off the record.”
“I understand.” He gave me a I-didn’t-think-I’d-get-away-with-it-but-had-to-try smile and returned the tape recorder to his briefcase.
Nice try.
Chip began by asking Sharlyn for her full name, address, age, and occupation. He jotted all this down like it was new information. Then he got into what Sharlyn knew about Darnell.
“How long have you known Darnell Black?”
“About eight months. I moved in about four months ago because my lease ran up and it was a free place to stay.” Her head was down and her hands were taking the top of a pen on and off. I knew she was not proud of her association with him. “We come from a neighborhood where Darnell has power and respect. He always had money. Lots of money. He was good to me most of the time, took care of me when I needed taking care of. But now I see that his lifestyle is not what I want.” She looked at me. “I know I can do better. Jess helped me get a job, so things are looking up for me.” I received an approving nod from Chip. His gaze lingered like he was trying to figure me out.
The interview went on to reveal that Sharlyn had seen Darnell take possession of shoe-sized boxes that contained small zipper-lock baggies. She watched as money changed hands in exchange for those little baggies. “But I never helped him. I never approved. I stayed in the kitchen if it happened at home, or stayed in the car if it happened somewhere else.” Her tone became a bit defensive. Chip noticed it, too.
“Don’t worry. I’m not after you. I need to know if we can count on y
ou to testify against him.”
She stiffened and gave me a scared look, but I saw determination on her face. “I’ll help you. I moved out a couple of days ago. I don’t want nothing more to do with him.”
“Okay then,” Chip said. “I’ll have a subpoena issued for you this afternoon.”
Chip must have noticed the concern on her face.
“Don’t worry. It’s a formality to secure your testimony and let the other side know you’ll be testifying for the State.”
“So, Darnell will know?” Sharlyn asked.
“His attorney will get a copy of the subpoena and will contact Darnell.”
Sharlyn squared her shoulders. “That oughta piss him off.”
I knew it wasn’t relevant to the criminal case pending against Darnell, but I had to tell Chip about the civil claim Sharlyn had against her ex-boyfriend, and the bunk he was pulling.
“Darnell’s messing with Sharlyn’s civil claim against him. We almost had it settled when Darnell changed his story about how the accident happened. Now the insurance company is denying her claim. She was counting on that money to get started building her new life.”
Chip was packing his briefcase. “The man’s a piece of work. It will be my pleasure to put him behind bars. But I’m not sure how I can help with the civil end.”
“If he pleas out, can’t it be part of the plea deal that he also admits to the accident?”
“I don’t see how.” His tone was arrogant and dismissive. Here he was asking for Sharlyn’s help and not even pretending to be interested in helping her. My law-school crush was dimming.
As we filed out of the conference room, the front door slammed open. Delroy and his friend, Ronald, walked in holding up a young man who was dragging his leg behind him, at an impossible angle.
“I got another one for you, Jess,” Delroy said, as though I was collecting the wounded from the streets of Baltimore. I needed to help this guy, but my first, shameless concern was to let Chip know that we don’t make a habit of hauling in clients this way.
Kari sprang into action first. “Delroy, get him to the couch. I’ll call an ambulance.”
Once the man was seated, I addressed Delroy. “Why did you bring him here? Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“It happened two blocks from here. I figured you’d know what to do. Besides, Stuart Milligan’s runner works that corner. I didn’t want him getting this case when I could give it to you.”
I was mortified to have Chip hear those words. This was textbook ambulance chasing. It walked the fine line between being an ethical attorney and being a scumbag. I felt like a scumbag.
I admonished Delroy, channeling my mother’s strident tone. “Next time call an ambulance. His medical needs come first.” I raised my voice. “They always come first.”
Delroy shrunk from my verbal assault. “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the best thing by him. You always help people, so I figured...” He let his words trail off and I felt like a heel.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I know you were trying to help.”
The injured man had not uttered a word or a moan since he arrived. He sat motionless, yet he seemed to be following the conversation with his eyes. He was studying Kari while she spoke to the 911 operator.
I turned to Chip. “Sorry. Our business is done, right?”
“Yes. Go do what you have to do. I’ll touch base with you later.” He looked down at the injured man. “Hope it’s not too bad, buddy.”
While we waited for the ambulance, I learned that the injured man was named Maurice Townsend. He was crossing St. Paul Street in the crosswalk with the crossing light when a woman driving an Audi SUV turned right on red and knocked him to the asphalt. Delroy saw it happen and got the driver’s name and tag number before scooping Maurice up and dragging him and his dangling leg to my office. Now wasn’t the time, but Delroy and I were going to need to talk about personal injury protocol. Maurice mustered the strength to pull his cell phone from his cargo shorts and asked us to call his girlfriend.
She arrived at the same time the paramedics walked in. She looked at Maurice, then at me and said, “You’re that lawyer lady, right?”
I nodded.
“How much you think we gonna get out of this?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sal brought over lunch from Sabatino’s. He must be flush with all the commercial production work we’d been giving him. Over pasta and salad, we hammered out the details of the thirty-second toilet-explosion spot. Sal took the lead. “We need to keep it short and factual. Because the issue involves a toilet, the image can make people uncomfortable. It will conjure up pictures of people flying through their bathrooms with their pants down. To some that’s a comical image.” He paused while we chuckled. “But to those who have been injured, it’s embarrassing. So we set out the facts about the faulty toilets and we detail our contact information. Also, we squeeze in a word about the recall and suggest that people check their toilet’s manufacturer before their own toilets explode.”
“Sound’s kind of boring,” Dawson said.
“It is, but it will be effective. Trust me. You may even get a tax break because we can claim it as a public-service announcement. I suggest we put Jess’s name up there, as well as one of you two. That way we have both genders covered. A woman with a lacerated backside is not going to want to talk to either of you,” Sal said, pointing at Dawson and Marty. “And a young man with a punctured penis is not going to want to talk to you,” he said, pointing to me.
“So no live shots of me?” I asked.
“No. We can use the stock photos we have on hand and add some new graphics. Do you have any photos of the exploded toilets?”
“I’ve got photos from my one client, and I’m hoping to sign up a second. Either way, I would have to get their permission.”
“Get me whatever you can as soon as possible. We want this in production by the end of today and on the air tomorrow.”
I had to hustle. There was a lot to do before my interview with Wagner & Beam later this afternoon.
First, I called Marshall and asked if we could use the images of his bathroom in the commercial. He consulted Lucy, then gave me the verbal okay. I needed it in writing to protect us from the remote possibility that Marshall would deny his consent and come back to sue us later, but time was of the essence. I emailed Sal the photos so he could get them in production, then I worked on drafting the consent form. The short and practical version would be, “I, Marshall Ball, give Dawson Garner & Associates permission to use images of my bathroom, post-explosion, in their future commercials and all visual media.” Period. But the law doesn’t make things so simple. You have to throw in some fancy words such as irrevocable, inclusive, fiduciary, and in perpetuity, to construct a tangled and verbose document that no one understands, yet attorneys pretend they do.
I did my best to use the proper language to protect DGA within the constructs of two long, torturous paragraphs. I titled it “Consent to Utilize Specific Photographs in all Visual Media.” Even the title was a snooze fest. I printed out two blank consent forms and stuck them in my bag to have at the ready next time I saw Marshall.
#
As I drove north on York Road to Towson for the interview with Amanda Chamberlain, the sun fell behind a bank of dark clouds that moved in from the west. It was four thirty in the afternoon, prime time for a typical Baltimore summer thunderstorm. It wouldn’t last long but would dump a heap of water and bring crazy winds, upsetting the balance of things before it moved off. This storm had an attitude. It skipped the telltale warning sprinkles and went straight to large buckets of water slapping my windshield.
Several things happened at the same time. I flipped my windshield wiper control to maximum, saw brake lights ahead, slammed on mine, heard the screeching of tires, and then silence. A couple of seconds went by before the impact to my rear bumper propelled my car forward, missing the sedan in front of me by an inch. It was impossible to see. The
irritating cadence of the windshield wipers combined with the pounding of the rain made me anxious. Since traffic had stopped, I turned the windshield wipers off and took a deep breath. What now?
I knew that information needed to be exchanged. However, I decided it would be dangerous to exit the car at this point. Not to mention the water hazard to my hair, my tailor-fitted power suit, and opened toed, three-inch strappy heels. I couldn’t show up for my interview like I had just climbed out of a pool. It seemed reasonable to wait until Mother Nature decided to stop dumping vats of water on our cars. These things don’t last long. It would be a matter of minutes before I could get the necessary information from the driver who rear-ended me.
In the midst of my rational justification for staying put, the car behind me started to reverse. I could feel his bumper disconnect from mine. The bastard was trying to pull a hit-and-run. Oh no, not on me. I was a professional!
With complete disregard for the rain or my dignity, I leaped from the car and started banging on his driver’s side window. He didn’t bother turning his head in my direction, but I could see his devilish smile. He raised the middle finger of his left hand and kept backing up. After clearing my car, he shifted to forward and started pulling away. He wouldn’t get anywhere fast. The other northbound lane of traffic was stopped for a red light. I ran back to my car and grabbed my cell phone, grateful it had a waterproof case. I caught up to him and started taking pictures of his car, being sure to capture the license plate number. He was still stuck at the light, so I stepped up to his driver’s side again and snapped a few shots of his wretched face laughing at me.
Then the light turned green and he pulled off. I was left standing wet and foolish in the middle of York Road. Traffic maneuvered around me, but not in a nice way. There was some horn blowing and verbal abuse as I returned to my car. My rear bumper had tolerated the impact. The accident had left a small dent not worthy of the indignity I had suffered.
Mother Nature had downsized the pummeling to a moderate rain. I found a metered spot one block up and sat in the car to contemplate my options. My clothes were soaked, my hair was matted to my head, and I had an interview in thirty minutes. I could cancel the interview, but I didn’t want to risk losing this opportunity. I could present myself as is and share my witty story about the hit-and-run driver who escaped my grasp. I decided to use the bathroom in the lobby of The Towers to assess my appearance and then make a decision. The Towers is an upscale office building with ample indoor parking. Before entering, I noticed that the rain had given way to the sun, making a mockery of my recent ordeal.
