Accidental Lawyer_A humorous peak into Baltimore's legal community, with a thread of mystery

by Kim Hamilton

  “Kari, you’re making me nervous. Please stop singing, sit down, and put the call through to my desk.”

  “Don’t you be acting like you’re all calm and collected about this call. This is a big deal. We’ve been working on this.”

  I turned again toward my desk and did a little two-step with a twirl.

  “Oh, girl, we gotta work on your dance moves.”

  I took a deep calming breath and picked up the phone. “Hi, Mark.” Be cool. Keep it short and simple. Don’t seem too anxious, but don’t seem uninterested.

  “Hey. Did you get the slug slime off your foot?”

  “I was kind of hoping we could forget about that little scene. I like to think of myself as a pretty tough lady.”

  “Too late. I’ve seen the real you. Are you free Saturday night?

  “I am. What did you have in mind?”

  “I thought we could either have dinner downtown or go see the Orioles’ game. They’re playing the Yankees.”

  “Is this my first test?”

  “Test?”

  “Yeah. You want to know if I’m the kind of girl who wants to dress up and be wined and dined or a girl who would prefer to throw on a T-shirt and shorts and eat peanuts and ballpark dogs at Camden yards in the sweltering August heat.”

  “Great, I’ll make the reservation. Should we go for seafood or Italian?”

  “No way. I want to go to the game.”

  “Really?”

  “As long as I can bring my giant, orange foam finger.”

  “It’s a date then. Let’s get there early and have dinner at Dempsey’s. How about I pick you up at five?”

  “You remember where I live?”

  “Next to that crazy Italian lady who faked a fire so I could rescue you from slugs.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I called Franco and told him I was ready to discuss the settlement of Tony’s claim. He told me to meet him at Aldo’s Italian Bistro at two o’clock.

  Aldo’s was located in the heart of Baltimore’s Little Italy, a cozy community and cultural icon of Baltimore located east of Baltimore Harbor. Many of the tiny row houses were still owned by the families of immigrants who settled there a century ago. Aldo’s offered vintage Italian mob style dining as depicted in the movie classics. Checkered table cloths, dim lighting, and booths with tall walls for private conversations. A handful of patrons occupied the front booths while a few more sat at the bar. They were all men, most of them staring up at a flat screen tuned to ESPN. I tore the bartender’s attention away from the screen and told him I was there to meet Franco Giovanni. He directed me to a rear booth.

  Franco sat alone in a booth reading the New York Times. I recognized Elvis and Paulie, his bodyguards. They were playing cards in an adjacent booth. All three wore dark suits, collared shirts, and ties. Franco’s had a tailored fit and the sheen of quality silk. Diamond-studded cuff links peaked out at the sleeves. Elvis and Paulie dropped their cards as I approached and reached into their waistbands. Their eyes darted from me to Franco and back to me. Franco waved a hand at them, indicating I was not a threat. They relaxed and resumed their card play, clearly unaware of the mace and rape whistle in my messenger bag.

  When I reached the table, Franco stood and gestured for me to take the seat opposite him.

  “Thank you for meeting me.”

  With slow and deliberate movements, he folded his newspaper and pushed it up against the wall of the booth then raised his stern eyes to meet mine. Leaning across the table with a tight -set jaw, he said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Ignoring his menacing tone, I held his gaze until I realized I wasn’t breathing. I looked away, pretending to be interested in what Elvis and Paulie were doing.

  Franco drained whatever was in the glass in front of him and signaled to a waitress. “You want anything?” He asked me.

  Since I’d lost about a pint of bodily fluids through my sweat glands on the walk from the parking lot to the door, I asked for a glass of water. He ordered more iced tea for himself and his men.

  I pulled a notepad and pen from my messenger bag. “We need to talk business.”

  “I tried to talk business at the hospital, but you were not so agreeable. I made you a good offer, you refused.” He shrugged.

  “I didn’t refuse. I asked for more time to see how extensive my client’s injuries were, a. And you agreed to that. You said to contact you when I knew where things stood. So, here I am.”

  The waitress returned with a pitcher of iced tea for the men and a tall glass of ice water with a slice of lemon on the rim for me. I took a few greedy gulps and sat the glass in front of me. I removed the lemon wedge from the rim, held it over the glass, and squeezed it. Lemon juice squirted into my right eyeball.

  “Oh shit.” I shut my eyes tight and dug the palm of my hand into my eye socket. The lemon juice burned like fire on my cornea. There was no maintaining composure. I rocked back and forth in the booth, waiting for the sting to go away. When I opened my good eye, I noticed Franco passing me a dry napkin.

  “Here, take this,” he said. “Paulie, go get another glass of water—no lemon, no ice.”

  Paulie returned with a glass of water. I dipped the napkin in it and dabbed my eye, squeezing extra water in it to dilute the citrus. I was all too aware of how pathetic I looked. Soon the acid burning reduced to a mere discomfort. The napkin I used was covered with a black smudge. My mascara. It must be all over my face. Franco noticed it, too. He passed me another napkin.

  I took the napkin and held my head high, refusing to let my optical distress make me appear weak.

  He sat back in the booth, smug and confident. “I realized after our last chat that I made matters far too easy for you by throwing money on the table without much consideration. My offer was too generous. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. I blame nicotine withdrawal. I’ve been cigarette-free for seven days now.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “I know it’s not easy. My dad’s trying to quit.”

  “He should get hypnotized. I know a guy.”

  “You got hypnotized?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Because hypnosis leaves you vulnerable and susceptible to suggestion.”

  “Right. That’s why it works.”

  “So how do you know the hypnotist didn’t say something like ‘you will no longer desire to smoke, and by the way give me your offshore account numbers and passwords?’”

  His eyes registered concern. “I never thought of that.” He looked over at Elvis.

  “Give me a piece.”

  My adrenaline shot up. A gun? Why was he asking for a gun?

  Elvis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver sheet of plastic that looked like a pack of Chiclets. He popped one out and handed it across the aisle to Franco.

  “Nicotine gum.” He commenced aggressive chewing. “This hypnotist thing has me worried.”

  “I was using an extreme example. That guy wouldn’t mess with your money. You’re Franco Giovanni for Christ’s sake.”

  His cell phone rang. He looked at the display and stiffened. “I gotta take this.” He scooted out of the booth. “Hi, Mama,” I heard him whisper as he stepped toward the back of the room, cupping his free hand over the phone.

  Elvis and Paulie shared a subtle, knowing snicker. Franco paused near the restrooms as he spoke to his mother. She seemed to be doing most of the talking. His head hung low, shoulders slumping. I could hear him repeat, “I know,” “Okay,” and, finally, “Love you, too.”

  As he returned to the table, he resumed his authoritative posture and tone. “Now back to our business. Like I was saying, I was too easy on you. I want you to prove your case. Prove to me that your client didn’t fall because his jeans were too tight and he took too big a step.”

  The security detail chuckled.

  I realized Franco was amused by me. Business must be slow for him, so he was messing with the rookie ambulance chaser. Well, fine
then. If he wants me to prove my case, I’ll prove my case. No problem. I’m a lawyer. That’s what lawyers do.

  “Fine. You want me to document the obvious? You got it.”

  “And you must get me this proof in three days, or I pretend we never met.”

  As he looked at me, his focus lingered on my right eye, the eye that had suffered the citrus assault moments earlier. “You may want to give that a good flush with water when you get back to your office. And when you see Dawson, thank him for me.”

  “Thank Dawson? For what?”

  “For killing Harvey Metzger. He saved me the trouble.” He gave me a crooked smile. He was baiting me, but I wasn’t having it.

  “So it’s true. You had invested with Harvey, too? How do I know you didn’t whack him?”

  “You don’t.”

  I winced. He smiled at my discomfort.

  I said goodbye to Franco, then to Elvis and Paulie who looked up into my right eye and cringed. Maintaining outward calm, I glided out the door. As soon as I hit the sun, my right eye burned in protest. I closed it tight and tore a path to my car guided by my one good eye. My Accord was a furnace inside. I started the engine to get the air conditioning going, then took a look in the rearview mirror. I gasped. Mascara had dried in streaky black strands down my right cheek. My eyeball was pink and the skin around my eye was splotchy red. That was one potent lemon.

  I dug out my sunglasses to shield my bad eye from the sun and mask my hideous appearance while I drove the few blocks back to the office. I had been so distracted by the lemon incident that the fact that Tony’s claim was in jeopardy was slow to take hold. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, Tony would have taken the fifteen grand last week and this would all be money in the bank. In hindsight, I realized I’d rejected it without even discussing it with him. How the hell was I going to find evidence to prove that the water was on the floor and that management knew about it? And I only had three days.

  I parked behind our building and took another look in the mirror. Staring back at my good eye, I said to myself, “You will find that evidence. You will get Tony his fifteen thousand dollars.”

  Kari sat behind her desk. She looked at me with alarm when she saw my eye. “Did Franco do that to you? I knew I should have gone with you. That son of a bitch!”

  “No, he didn’t do it. I did. It was an accident. I squirted lemon juice into my eye.”

  “Lemon juice. It looks like you got maced.”

  I excused myself and spent some time in the bathroom flushing my eye, reapplying my makeup, and mustering up my self-confidence and dignity. I returned to Kari’s desk. “I need your help.”

  “Sure. What’s up?” Kari asked.

  After detailing my conversation with Franco, Kari hopped on board ready to help me hunt down a witness. “No problem. We need to head to Brenner’s and snoop around a bit. There’s got to be a worker there who knew the tank was leaking. Let’s go talk to the guy at the fish counter.”

  We walked out the front door right into a wall of heat and humidity that melted the foundation on my face. Sweat beads formed in their usual spot on my hairline. By the time we reached the corner, I could feel a trickle of sweat drizzle down my cleavage. Well, where my cleavage would be if I had one. I looked at Kari, whose skin was dry as a bone.

  “How come you never sweat?”

  “I come from a long line of no-sweaters. It’s in the genes. Doesn’t mean I’m not hot, though. I’m hotter than a hot dog.”

  We reached Brenner’s and welcomed the cool air inside. I noticed that there were now warning signs posted and orange caution cones placed at the ends of each aisle, even though there was no specific reason to be cautious. Franco had a ready-made defense for the next lawyer who tried to sue him.

  “Let’s see if they replaced the lobster tank,” I said.

  We cut through the middle aisle and headed back to the fish department. I was pleased to see that a new lobster tank had been installed. This one was about the same size but was housed in a deep cherry wood base. The tank was not glass, but some kind of transparent material that was an inch thick. It sat in shallow housing that would catch any drainage or condensation that might otherwise puddle on the floor. In the clear, fresh water, the lobsters looked happy—for now anyway. A wooden sign at the top of the tank had gold, engraved lettering: Please Ask for Assistance. Do Not Touch the Tank.

  “Looks like you made this place a lot safer for the customers, Jess.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. I supposed she was right. I just hoped I hadn’t pissed off a mob guy in the process.

  A tall, skinny guy wearing a white smock stood behind the fish counter. His left side faced us as he worked on something in the sink. I pulled Kari by the arm and we ducked into aisle number ten.

  “We haven’t rehearsed what we’re going to say.”

  “Whatta’ya mean rehearse? You’re a lawyer. Ask lawyerly questions.”

  I sighed. I wasn’t one to wing it, but how hard could it be, right? I mustered my resolve and strolled up to the counter. The fish guy turned to me. He was younger than I expected, probably a freshman in college. He had pale skin, narrow eyes, and thin, pursed lips. He looked like a fish. His name tag read “Ben.”

  “Hi, Ben. I’m Jessica Snow, and this is my associate Kari Cruz. We want to ask you about the lobster tank. I see you’ve installed a new one.”

  His hands stopped working but remained in the sink as he eyed both of us. “I know who you are. Your face is on the bus I take to get to work every morning. You’re that lawyer. I bet you represent that guy who fell here. I can’t talk to you about it.”

  I couldn’t let him off the hook so easily. “We want to know if the old lobster tank was leaking that day, or if it had a history of leaking.”

  He looked down into the sink. “I said, I ain’t talking to you.”

  “I’d like to try some fish,” Kari said. “I’m a customer now. You have to talk to me.”

  “I have to talk to you about fish. Just fish. Now, what do you want?”

  “I want to know if the old lobster tank had a leaking problem.”

  His pale face reddened and the veins in his neck pulsed. He glanced behind him, then over our heads, reached into the sink, and pulled out a slimy gray creature with a round top and long tentacles. He shoved it in Kari’s face. “How about some octopus? It’s on special.”

  The flailing tentacles slapped Kari’s cheeks. She shrieked and tore down the paper products aisle. I followed close behind. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and ripped the package open.

  “I got slimed.” She rubbed the paper towels around her face and spat a few times. “He slimed me with a giant squid. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  When Kari finished cleaning the goo off her face, I took what was left of the roll of paper towels to the register to pay for them. The cashier looked at the opened roll and said, “Guess you had a paper-towel emergency.”

  “You bet it was an emergency,” Kari said. “Fish face back there shoved a giant squid in my face.”

  “You mean, Ben? Ben’s strung a little tight. Takes his job very seriously.”

  I looked at her name tag. It read, “Karen.”

  “Karen, we noticed that there’s a new lobster tank back in the fish department. What was wrong with the old one? Was it leaking?”

  The smile faded and recognition registered in her eyes. She paused as if considering something and said, in a loud voice, “I know who you are. I can’t talk to you.” Then she lowered her chin and whispered, “You should talk to Roger. Roger brings the fresh lobsters every other day. How’s Tony?”

  So Karen knew Tony and wanted to help, but was being silenced. Franco must have called a staff meeting and threatened to throw them into the harbor if they talked to me.

  “Tony’s doing better. When do you expect another lobster delivery?”

  “Tomorrow morning around six.”

  I whispered my appreciation, then Kari and I left with the
paper towels and a new lead. “This is our chance. We’ll get here early and stake out the back alley.”

  “Five forty-five? A.M.? I don’t do mornings, not that early,” Kari said.

  “You have to come with me. I need your support.”

  She harrumphed. “You better bring doughnuts. And coffee.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The streets of Baltimore were calm and quiet at five-thirty in the morning. Commuters were waking up to their alarms and getting ready to hit the roadways for their daily battle with traffic, and the local workers were still snug in bed. It was quiet and peaceful. I noticed a few lights on in places that serve breakfast and a handful of folks walking along the open sidewalks, perhaps on their way home after a long night. As the next two hours rolled by, the streets would become increasingly congested, people would grow more irritated, and the sun would pop up to blanket it all with the burden of its heat.

  Kari and I arranged to meet in the law firm parking lot and take my Accord to our stakeout. I was armed with doughnuts, bananas, coffee, and a wicked determination to nail down this witness.

  Kari lowered herself into my car. “Don’t look at me.”

  She pulled a small, zippered cloth bag from her purse, threw the purse in the back seat, lowered the sun visor to access the mirror, and commenced the art of vehicular makeup application. “You can go ahead and drive.”

  By the time we drove the two blocks to Brenner’s and parked in their rear alley, Kari had applied a foundation, face powder, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and two coats of mascara. She was looking and acting more like herself.

  “I figure I can have three doughnuts for every banana I eat. That way the good balances out the bad.” She was on her second banana when a refrigerated truck with an image of a giant sea bass and the words “Manny’s Seafood” in bold red letters rolled in.