Everywhere That Mary Went

by Lisa Scottoline

  “No. That’s Stephanie Furst. This one said she met you after your Bitterman argument. She wants you to call back.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her. She thinks Bitter Man hates women. Absurd. He hates everybody.” I hand Brent back the messages.

  “Did you see the car again last night?”

  “No.”

  “We’re on a roll,” he says, relieved. He looks good, in a soft rayon shirt.

  “New shirt?”

  He looks down at it like a little kid. “Jack gave it to me. You like?”

  “It’s nice. Something about it looks familiar. Let me think. I got it! It’s black!”

  “Shows how much you know. It’s midnight. And yesterday was more of a charcoal.”

  “Right.”

  “Get out of my face. I’ve got filing to do. Now, git!”

  “Be that way. I’m going down to see Judy.”

  “But you have a deposition, remember? Tiziani will be here in an hour.”

  “Oh, shit! Shit. Shit. Shit.” With all that’s going on, the dep slipped my mind completely.

  “You prepared him last week, didn’t you?”

  “Right. I gotta go. I’ll be back in time.” I hand him the messages.

  “Did you think any more about the police?” he asks, but I’m off, down Stalling’s internal stairwell to Judy’s floor.

  Judy’s office is like a bird’s nest. The desk is littered with bits of paper, the bookshelves stuffed with messy books and files. Photos are everywhere. On the wall, there’s Kurt, two black Labradors, and Judy’s huge family. The Carriers are California’s answer to the Von Trapps. They grin from various craggy summits, with heavy ropes, clips, and pulleys hanging from harnesses around their waists. The first time I saw these pictures, I thought the entire family worked for the telephone company.

  “Anybody home?”

  “Behind the desk,” Judy calls out. I find her sitting on the floor in front of an array of trial exhibits. She looks up at me and smiles wearily. “I remember you. I knew you before I became consumed by the price of computer chips in Osaka.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “The Mitsuko appeal. You know, the trial that Martin lost last month. The antitrust case.”

  “The zillion-dollar antitrust case.”

  She giggles in a naughty way. “I heard that the morning after he lost the trial, the litigation partners dumped a pile of dirty socks in the middle of his desk.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Smell defeat! Smell defeat!” She laughs, then her smile fades. “What’s the matter, you don’t think that’s funny?”

  “It’s funny.”

  “You didn’t laugh.”

  I tell her about my dinner with Ned, which I refuse to call a date, and also that he didn’t own up to his meeting with Berkowitz. We talk again about the phone calls and the note. She says she suspects Ned because he’s so ambitious, or maybe Martin, because he lost the case for Mitsuko and I replaced him on Harbison’s. Then I remind her of how Delia was fuming at me, and Judy rakes a large hand through a hank of chopped-off hair.

  “It could be anyone,” she says.

  “That’s comforting.”

  “Look. Kurt’s sleeping at his studio tonight. Why don’t you stay at my house?”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be safe, genius.”

  “I have to be able to live in my own apartment, don’t I? What am I going to do, spend the rest of my life at your house?”

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing. You can cook.”

  “Oh, sure, we’d be great roommates. I’d give us one week before we killed each other.”

  She looks hurt. “You always say that, I don’t know why. Stay with me for a while. Just until you get your number changed.”

  “Nah, I’ll be okay.”

  She shakes her head. “So stubborn.”

  “I appreciate it, though. I do.”

  “At least answer the phone. I want to be able to reach you.”

  “You can’t. Brent’s going to unlist the number, and I don’t have the new one yet.”

  “They won’t do it by tonight. I think it takes a day. I’ll call you tonight with a signal. I’ll let it ring twice and then call right back.”

  I agree, and promise to buy her two big cookies for her trouble the next time we go to lunch.

  “Wow!” she says.

  9

  “Tiziani got here early,” Brent says, when I get back upstairs. “I set him up in Conference Room F with coffee and sandwiches for lunch.”

  “Aren’t you the perfect host.”

  Brent winks. “He’s hot.”

  “I thought you were a one-man man.”

  He gives me a playful shove and I take off.

  Nick Tiziani is the personnel manager at Blake’s, a national food manufacturer. He fired his female assistant because she dressed funny. That’s the truth, and even though it’s a lousy reason to fire someone, it’s lawful. However, he also told her to stop dressing like a man and bought her a subscription to Vogue. He says he was trying to help; she says it was sex discrimination. A lot depends on how well he tells his story at this dep.

  “Mary! Come sta?” Tiziani says, when he sees me.

  “Bene. Grazie, Nick.”

  He shakes my hand warmly. A suave guy, Nick always smells better than I do. He’s dressed head to toe in Gucci, which is part of the reason he’s getting sued down to his silk boxers. Clothes are very important to Nick; he’s a big proponent of form over substance. The day his funky assistant came in wearing camouflage pants was the last straw, especially because Blake’s CEO was visiting from headquarters. Nick fired her on the spot. She’s lucky he didn’t kill her.

  I review the incident with him and teach him the defense witness mantra: Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Nick nods pleasantly as I speak, which proves he’s not listening to a word I say.

  “Nick, you’re with me on this, right?”

  “Sure, Mary. Piece a cake.”

  “It’s not that easy. You’ve never been deposed before.”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “Harder than you think. Everything you say is recorded and is admissible in court. They’ll use it to rough you up on cross, throw your own words back at you.”

  “You make it so complicated. It’s business, that’s all. Her lawyer is a businessman. I am a businessman.” He touches a manicured finger to a custom shirt. “I’ll explain it to him, we’ll see eye to eye. Come to terms.”

  “Nick. Believe me, this guy is the enemy. He’s not going to see it your way. His job is to see it any way but your way. Say as little as possible. Remember: Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He fidgets in his chair. “Hey, did you hear this one? What’s the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”

  “One is a scum-sucking bottom dweller and the other is a fish.”

  “You’re no fun,” he says, pouting.

  The deposition is at the offices of Masterson, Moss & Dunbar — an away game. Masterson, Moss is another reason the case is dangerous. A hot-shit firm like that would ordinarily never represent a noncorporate plaintiff, but this plaintiff is the daughter of one of its sharky securities partners. As such, she rates one of the fairest-haired boys, Bob Maher. Maher’s on every Young Republicans committee in the tristate area and is more of a sexist than Nick will ever be. But it’s not Maher’s prick that’s in the mousetrap. Not this time, anyway.

  Nick and I sit in the reception area at Masterson, which is the oldest law firm in Philadelphia and the largest, at almost three hundred and fifty lawyers. I think of it as the Father firm in the holy trinity because it’s so traditional. Somebody has to wave the flag of old-line Philadelphia, and Masterson has preempted the field. The decor is early men’s club, with bronze sconces and heavy club chairs everyw
here. Maps of the city in colonial times adorn its wainscoted walls, wafer-thin oriental carpets blanket its hardwood floors. The place looks like Ralph Lauren heaven. Nick eats it up.

  “Classy,” he says.

  “Prehistoric,” I reply.

  Soon we’re met by Maher himself. A strapping Yale grad, Maher flashes Nick a training-table All-Ivy grin and leads us to a large conference room, which has a glass wall overlooking one of the firm’s corridors. He pours Nick a hot cup of fresh coffee and introduces him to the luscious female court reporter, Ginny, no last name. Ginny tells Nick she loves his tie. Nick tells Ginny he loves her scarf. They both laugh. Everything’s so chummy, I feel like the new neighbor at a swingers party. I decide that Maher’s a fine practitioner of the Seduce-the-Shit-Out-of-’Em approach to deposition taking, and Nick’s too turned on to catch on.

  Maher begins the questioning with softballs about Nick’s personnel history. Nick describes one promotion after another with a braggadocio indigenous to Italian men. I let it run and watch the lawyers scuttle back and forth outside the glass wall. Oblivious to the promenade is a tall, dignified lawyer with wavy silver hair. Legs crossed, he sits in a Windsor chair reading The Wall Street Journal. I recognize this as a typical dominance display by an alpha wolf in a corporate law firm. Berkowitz does it too, with less finesse.

  “Mr. Tiziani… may I call you Nick?” Maher asks.

  “Just don’t call me late to dinner.”

  Maher laughs at this joke, ha-ha-ha, as if he’s never heard it before. I glance up at the silver wolf. He’s looking into the conference room over the top of the wide newspaper. That’s unusual. Why would he watch a dep unless he had a specific interest in it? Then it clicks. He must be the plaintiff’s father.

  “Tell me, Nick, what is your current title at Blake’s?”

  “I’m Vice President of Personnel. I got the promotion a year ago. A year ago in September. As vice president, I report directly to Chicago. It’s a dotted-line relationship with the CEO, as opposed to a straight line. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with organizational charts, Bob, and I’d be happy to explain—”

  I touch Nick’s sleeve gently. “Nick, why don’t we just let Bob ask his questions? It’ll save time.” Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object.

  “Oh, sure, Mary. No problem,” he replies helpfully. The man hasn’t a clue.

  The plaintiff’s father turns a page of the Journal but continues to watch us over its top.

  “Thank you, Nick,” says Maher. “I’ll ask you about that later. Now, as Vice President of Personnel, are you familiar with the federal laws prohibiting sex discrimination in the work-place?”

  I ignore the plaintiff’s father and lean over. Things are heating up and I want to be in Nick’s line of vision during the questioning. Maybe it’ll remind him that this is a deposition, not group sex.

  “Let the record reflect that defense counsel is blocking my view of the witness,” Maher says sharply.

  Ginny’s fingers move steadily on the black keys of her machine. Everything we say will be on the record. If you can imagine it in black-and-white type like a script, you can fabricate the reality:

  “Pardon me. What did you say, Bob?”

  “I said you’re obstructing my view of the witness.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Bob.”

  “I can’t see him when you do that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s something about the way you’re sitting.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Move away from the witness.”

  “How’s this, Bob?” I don’t move.

  “Not good enough. More to the right.”

  “This is silly, Bob. Let the record reflect my agreement with counsel for plaintiff that the witness can stay for only three hours today. If we spend much more time discussing my posture, we won’t be out of here until seven.”

  Maher quiets with a scowl.

  Nick remembers that he’s The Witness, not just-call-me-Nick.

  And I sit back and meet the gaze of the lawyer outside, who’s plainly glaring at me now over the Journal. The eyes of an outraged father. Even from a distance, they seem to drill into me.

  “Nick, did there come a time when you met the plaintiff, Donna Reilly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you form an impression of her at the time?”

  “Objection,” I say.

  “Why?” Maher demands.

  “What’s the relevance of his impression of her? And the question is ambiguous. His impression of what?”

  “You know full well that relevance isn’t a proper objection during deposition. Besides, if the witness thinks the question is unclear, he can say so.”

  “I’m preserving my objection. And you’re right, Bob. If the witness doesn’t understand the question, he can say so.” I kick Nick in his Gucci loafer.

  “I don’t understand the question,” Nick says.

  Suddenly, there’s a violent movement outside the conference room. The plaintiff’s father has leapt to his feet and thrown the newspaper onto the Kirman. Holy shit. He must have seen me kick Nick’s shin, because he looks outraged. Like a football coach when the ref doesn’t call clipping.

  “All right, Nick, I’ll rephrase the question,” Maher says, unaware of the scene unfolding behind him.

  The lawyer rushes toward the conference room door. My mouth goes dry. What’s he going to do, report me to the Disciplinary Board? There’s not one of us who hasn’t done it — not one.

  “Who’s that?” Nick asks, pointing through the glass at the charging lawyer.

  Maher turns around just as the door bursts open. “Hello, sir!” He pops up but forgets to grin.

  The lawyer ignores him. He’s taller than I thought, and his patrician features are limned with tiny wrinkles. Anger tinges his face. He looks too angry to report me; he looks angry enough to hit me. He struggles to maintain civility. “I’m loath to interrupt these proceedings, but I thought it an opportune time to meet the opposition. Hello, Miss DiNunzio.” He extends a large hand over the conference table.

  I’m not sure if he wants to deck me or shake hands. It turns out to be something in between; he squeezes my hand like a used tube of toothpaste.

  “That’s quite a grip.” I withdraw my hand.

  He nods curtly. “Court tennis.”

  “Right.” Whatever that is.

  “You seem to be having some trouble with your chair, Miss DiNunzio. If it’s uncomfortable for you, I can have another brought in.” He smiles, but it looks like it’s held in place with a mortician’s wire.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “If you feel uncomfortable again, feel free to alert young Bob. I’m certain he’ll do whatever he can to make you more comfortable. Isn’t that right, Bob.” It’s a command, not a question. The lawyer nods at Maher, who looks confused.

  “After all,” he continues, “the Masterson firm has always been a great friend to the Stalling firm, and I hear only the best about you, Miss DiNunzio. I understand you’re a very fine litigator.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re in my son’s class at Stalling, aren’t you?”

  “Your son?”

  “Yes. My son. Ned Waters.”

  10

  “I’m Nathaniel Waters. You may know that I manage this firm.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Not the plaintiff’s father, Ned’s father!

  “I’ve seen us grow from one hundred lawyers, to one-fifty, to the full complement. I oversaw the opening of our London office. Now we’re going to be the first Philadelphia firm in Moscow. Masterson maintains a tradition of excellence, Miss DiNunzio, and of unimpeachable ethics. I’m sure Stalling does the same.” He peers at me directly, a menacing version of Ned’s green-eyed gaze.

  “Of course.” No matter what he says, I know he’s kicked the Nicks of th
e world under the table. You don’t get where he is without some very pointy shoes. Even if they are made in England.

  “Then we’re in agreement. I shan’t keep you further. It was fine to have met you. Give my regards to Ned, will you. Carry on.” He turns on his heel and strides stiffly out the door.

  Maher relaxes visibly, and our eyes meet. For a brief moment, we’re cubs in the same pack. We become enemies again when Maher takes his seat and the questions begin. “Nick, let me make the question so clear even your lawyer will understand it. The first time you saw Ms. Reilly, did you form an impression of her wearing apparel?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “I thought she dressed like a slob.”

  Good for you, Nicky. I almost cheer. For the rest of the deposition, which stretches until the end of the day, I channel the anxiety created by Ned’s father into constant objections. Nick cues off me and we work as a team, with him telling his side of the story forcefully and credibly. By the end of the dep, Maher may think that Nick is a stickler about clothes, but he’ll be hard pressed to prove he discriminates against women. As we leave Masterson, I congratulate Nick, who tells me I did “a man’s job.”

  I stop short. “Nick, you want some free legal advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that. You got away with it this time, but you might not the next. You know what I mean, Nick? What goes around, comes around.”

  A hurt look crosses his neat features. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, Mary.”

  “Good.”

  We part company, awkwardly. I thread my way through the crowded street, slightly dazed, wondering why I’ve just insulted a major client.

  It’s about time, says the voice, then disappears.

  People pour out of office buildings — women with melting makeup, men with unlit cigarettes. They jolt me aside to join the human traffic on the narrow sidewalks, which flows around street vendors like corpuscles through a hardened artery. It’s the end of the workday in this weary city, and it occurs to me that I’d better let the rush-hour crowds carry me home before it gets dark, and the car appears.