“No. The guys in the water with their boards were some ways off. They saw Steve catch a wave, but they just assumed he rode it in. No one saw him go under.”
“How hard for you. Your husband and one of his best friends within months of each other.”
“Yes.” She ignored the tears in her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her cry, but it couldn’t be helped. Mark squeezed her hand again, and she gave him the tight little survivor’s smile that she had perfected since her husband’s death.
“Do you surf?”
“No. Tom and Steve tried to teach me not long after Tom and I were married, but my knee wouldn’t cooperate. Tom went out with Steve more than with Paul because of Paul’s hours at Warrick.”
Mark nodded. “Makes sense.” He turned to the hovering waiter. “No, we don’t need to see the desert menu. We’ll have the Molten Pistachio and Chocolate Lava Cake with two forks. And coffee. Decaf or caf?”
“Caffeine, please.”
Mark smiled. “It will keep you up all night.”
“That’s okay. I’m in trial tomorrow on a murder case, and I have to go over the witness’s police statement tonight so I can impeach him on the stand tomorrow.”
He looked at her with renewed respect. “Murder one?”
“Murder one with gang special circumstances. Life without parole if convicted.”
“Wow. Heavy lifting.”
“I’m used to it. I’ve been a public defender for seventeen years.”
“Who are you defending?”
“A real jerk. Javier Andre Lopez, twenty-eight years old. A Crip since age thirteen. He has a rap sheet as long as both of your arms.”
“Who did he kill?”
“A rival Blood who was in the wrong place at the wrong time in Barrio Logan. The DA offered him a 25-year-to-life deal which meant he might be able to live outside of prison in his lifetime, but he turned it down.”
“And so he’s going to get convicted?”
“Without any doubt. The prosecutor has already tainted the jury with how bad gangs are. And there is surveillance video of my client’s car at the murder scene with the shooter’s hand out of the front passenger seat window and a tattoo on his forearm that matches Javier’s.”
“Wow, you’ve got nothing to work with.”
“I know. But the client doesn’t. He keeps bringing motions to get me relieved as defense counsel because I’m not trying to ‘beat the case’ for him. The trial judge tells him I’m doing all I can every time we go into chambers to listen to him complain.”
“You’ve tried a lot of cases, I take it.”
She smiled. “More than you, for sure.”
He laughed. “True. Ours settle. Especially when defendants see Hugh’s name on the complaint.”
“Paul told me that.”
“Then maybe Wycliffe will fold, too,” Mark smiled.
“Somehow I doubt that. Rick Peyton said Myrabin is one of Wycliffe’s biggest moneymakers.”
“Then they’ll fight hard to keep anyone from saying it’s not safe.”
Dessert, a puddle of melted chocolate sprinkled with pistachio ice cream, arrived with two forks. They were silent as they ate.
Finally Kathryn sighed, “You finish it. I’ve never been so full.”
Mark laughed. “Okay.” And he scooped the last bite into his mouth.
“I had better go,” she said. “Trial preparation for tomorrow. And I bet your wife is wondering where you are.”
He signaled for the check and laughed. “My ex-wife could care less where I am. I would bet my life on that. Jan and I were college sweethearts. Married, made it through law school, and then came out here so I could work for Hugh. She got sick of my hours and of living in California and went back to Charleston.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Then you’re lucky. Paul’s ex uses his hours to keep him from seeing his five-year-old daughter, Jodie.”
“Jan would have done that if we’d had children. Glad I dodged that bullet. Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to meet someone like Rachel.”
“Rachel?”
“My fiancée. She was a paralegal in the corporate section when we met, so she understands everything about my career: my hours, my travel, and client dinners like this one.”
“Everything?” She suppressed a tiny hiccup of disappointment that this had turned out to be a strictly professional dinner after all. She had had the impression that he had used the get-acquainted-with-the-new client excuse for personal reasons. Wrong.
“Yes, everything.”
* * *
They went out into the damp dark. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with moisture. Mark swung his BMW into the light traffic, but didn’t head for Kathryn’s office.
He turned and smiled at her. “Just a short detour.”
Within minutes, he pulled over and parked in a no-parking zone in front of Petco Park. He gave her the mischievous grin he’d greeted her with when she’d gotten off the elevator as he opened the driver’s door. “Come on.”
“But won’t you get a ticket, parked here?”
“We’ll only be a minute. I’ll take the risk. Come on.”
She wondered about Rachel waiting at home as she followed him to a door that said “Employees Only.” He produced a key and motioned for her to follow him inside.
They went up flights and flights of stairs until they came out on the top deck, overlooking the dark stadium. A full moon had broken through the clouds, and the silver light made the rows and rows of seats into magical ghosts in the dark.
Mark smiled and motioned for her to join him at the rail. “I love to come here. I have a key because I’ve done some work for the Padres.”
Kathryn said nothing as she stared over the park.
“I wanted to play baseball when I was a kid. Made it to the team in college. Never got beyond that.”
She nodded, still staring down at the thousands of empty seats. She felt the tear form in her left eye and did nothing to stop it when it trickled down her cheek.
His face went from beaming to contrite. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Bad memories?”
She shook her head. “No, good ones. Tom and I came to games a lot. And Steve often went with us. Paul and Carolyn not as much.”
“Carolyn the ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“What was Tom like?”
She smiled. “Special. Really special. He had the biggest heart in the world, and he would listen for hours if someone needed comfort. He was six feet tall, and he stayed in great shape so he could surf. He tried to go every day, but sometimes work got in the way. He loved everything about the ocean, the waves, the sea creatures, and what he called the broken-hearted cries of the gulls. He had big hands and long graceful fingers, and his smile lit up a room. He was fair and decent and a good lawyer, and everyone loved Tom.”
“You said he influenced you to become a public defender. Why did he choose that job?”
Kathryn looked out over the empty seats and focused on the moon shining through the rain clouds. “I always give the official explanation: he wanted to ‘make a difference.’”
“What is the unofficial explanation?”
“Steve got into some trouble when he was fourteen. His father left when he was a baby, and his mother struggled to work and take care of Steve and his sister, Amanda. Steve needed money, and he started selling drugs. At first, it was just marijuana, but he and Paul and Tom went to school with kids from rich families. Steve figured out cocaine would bring him a bigger profit.”
“Did he use drugs?”
Kathryn gave him an ironic smile. “No, of course not. He wanted to compete in surfing competitions. Selling drugs was pure financial gain for Steve and nothing else.”
“So I gather he got caught?”
“He did. He sold to an undercover female cop who looked like a high school student and got arrested. The court sustained a juvenile wardship petition, and
he should have had some sort of custody time, but his public defender managed to get him on probation instead. But it wasn’t just what his lawyer did for him in court. Gary Johnson became a sort of father-figure to Steve. He inspired him to improve his grades and eventually to get that scholarship to Stanford. Gary’s kindness to Steve was Tom’s inspiration to join the public defender’s office.”
Mark was silent for a few minutes. The moon slipped behind the ragged remnant of rain-cloud. Finally he said, “When I went to work for Hugh, I was hoping I’d be able to do something to make a difference in people’s lives.”
“And have you made a difference?”
“I’m not sure. Have you?”
“Not as much as I thought I would when Tom talked me into becoming a public defender. I’m tired of the ingratitude of guilty people.”
“So do you regret your decision?”
“Not when Tom was alive. Now the job seems meaningless. What about you? Do you regret your decision to work for Hugh?”
“No. I admire Hugh, and he’s one of the best plaintiff’s attorneys around. I’ve learned a lot from him. But he’s vindictive. If you cross him, you are going to pay a big price.”
“Paul said I wouldn’t like him.”
Mark shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Hugh is complicated. He keeps Corporate America honest even if sometimes he goes too far with his personal grudges.”
“I just want him to make sure Wycliffe doesn’t get away with what they did to Tom. And to me.”
“He will.”
* * *
Thursday, February 27, 2014, Crown Manor, Coronado, California
When Hugh’s phone rang at midnight, he assumed it was Patrick. His brother had been on a trip to China with Marty Fischer for the past two weeks, and Hugh had missed talking to him. He was due back today.
But it wasn’t Patrick. It was Mark Kelly.
“You’re calling late.”
“Sorry. I had to pay my dues when I got home. Rachel didn’t like the idea of me taking our new, very attractive client to dinner alone.”
“You told her I made you?”
“Yes, but that excuse isn’t very persuasive since Rachel works at the firm and knows all about you and Logan. She figures you wouldn’t hesitate to encourage me to follow in your footsteps.”
“Kathryn’s a client. That’s different. We don’t date our clients.”
“I explained that to her. Look, it doesn’t matter. She’s returned to planning our blowout wedding in November. I called to tell you I couldn’t shake Kathryn’s story. Tom was exemplary in every way, and they were very happily married.”
“H-m-m. I don’t buy that.”
“Well, I can only report what I saw and heard. She didn’t look as if she was lying.”
“My gut says otherwise.”
“I think you’re too skeptical, Hugh. Maybe marriage didn’t work out to be happily ever after for you or me, but who’s to say Kathryn and Tom Andrews didn’t have what we all wish for?”
“So you think I’m just being a big cynic?”
“Based on what I saw and heard tonight.”
“Well, keep your eyes and ears open. I still think there’s a lot more to this story than she’s telling.”
“I will. Look, I have to go. I’m getting the evil eye from Rachel. See you at the office, tomorrow. Good night, Hugh.”
MOTION FOR SUMMARY
JUDGMENT
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, April 7, 2014, Edward J. Schwartz Federal Courthouse, U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, San Diego, 9:00 a.m.
It was odd to sit on the plaintiff’s side of the courtroom, Kathryn thought. She had spent her career at the defendant’s table where Robert McLaren now sat with Annette Fry, a senior associate at King and White, and Emma Talbert, an in-house attorney for Wycliffe. Hugh, who now occupied the lead counsel’s chair at her table, and Mark Kelly, in the chair between her and Hugh’s, had introduced her to opposing counsel while they waited for the judge to take the bench. As the introductions progressed, she had had to remind herself this was civil law. While she might nod to the deputy district attorney as they took their places each morning for trial, introducing her shackled client was unthinkable.
Patty E. Fox had called her last Monday to say Wycliffe had wasted no time in filing a motion for summary judgment.
“They’re trying to knock this out of the water without providing any documents in discovery. That means there’s something in their files they don’t want us to see. Hugh and Mark are going to argue the motion. Hugh wants you there, if you want to be.”
Of course I do, Kathryn thought. I want to hear their sleazy excuse for murdering my husband.
She’d decided on her off-price Calvin Klein suit that morning, realizing she’d have to haunt the outlet stores more often in the coming months to have a wardrobe that would show herself worthy of being a Goldstein, Miller client.
The clerk announced the entrance of the judge, and Elizabeth Weiner, an attractive brunette in her late forties, took the bench in her impressive black robes and looked down at the parties.
“We are here this morning on a motion for summary judgment,” she observed. “Mr. McLaren, you’re the moving party. I’ll hear from you first.”
As Kathryn watched five-foot-five, supremely cocky, gray-eminence Robert McLaren assume the podium, she wondered how wise it was to appear before a federal civil servant in several thousand dollars worth of navy sartorial splendor. On the other hand, Hugh and Mark had pulled from the back of their closets the kind of low-budget gray suit that Tom would have worn, had he been there that day.
“I don’t have much to add, Your Honor, beyond what we’ve laid out in our moving papers. We are sorry for Mrs. Andrews’ loss, but Myrabin had nothing to do with her husband’s death. I have attached the FDA data on Myrabin. There have been no reported deaths.”
Judge Weiner turned over a few pages of Wycliffe’s motion thoughtfully. Then she looked at Hugh. “I expect you’ve got something to say about this, Mr. Mahoney.”
“I do, Your Honor.”
Bob McLaren went back to his seat, allowing Hugh to take the podium.
“Your Honor, this motion is untimely. Wycliffe has failed to answer even one interrogatory or turn over even one document in discovery. And as you can see in our opposition, we have affidavits from Dr. Bruce Meyers, who prescribed Myrabin for Tom Andrews, and from Dr. Richard Peyton, an internationally recognized medical expert, stating the known risks of Myrabin. Facts are in dispute here, Your Honor; and with the full discovery that we’re entitled to, I have no doubt that a jury will find in favor of Mrs. Andrews.”
Judge Weiner gave Hugh an ironic smile. “You’re a bit far down the road, Mr. Mahoney, but I agree you’ve shown facts in dispute, and Wycliffe must turn over discovery to the plaintiff. Motion for summary judgment denied.”
* * *
Wednesday, April 9, 2014, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
At eight p.m. Kathryn and Paul settled comfortably on the sofa in her living room after supper. He had been out of town almost constantly since they’d met at P & J’s in January. He’d called on Monday, anxious for news about the case and anxious to see her.
The cozy aroma of chicken roasted in olive oil and oregano blended with the cool night breeze blowing through the open window. Paul poured two glasses of the Napa merlot he had brought and handed one to Kathryn.
He lifted his glass. “Congratulations on your first victory in Tom’s case.”
She returned the gesture, but her smile quickly melted. “I think it’s going to be a long, hard slog.”
He nodded. “Yeah, probably. They brought that motion way too early, before they’d even produced any documents in discovery. There’s something in their files they don’t want you to see. They’ll fight even harder next time to avoid turning it over.”
“That’s what Hugh said. And Mark.”
“Mark Kelly? Is he on your cas
e?”
“He’s going to try it because juries don’t like Hugh. Or so Hugh says.”
“At least he’s honest. Mark’s a good trial attorney. And an attractive guy.” He didn’t look happy about the latter.
Kathryn frowned. She’d avoided Mark since their dinner at Bice because the next morning she’d felt used in a way she couldn’t explain. To her relief, he seemed to be avoiding her, too. Patty E. Fox always called with news about the case. Despite her Brahmin pretensions, Patty was struggling to keep up with the responsibilities of being a young Goldstein, Miller partner and the mother of two children under four. Kathryn had grown to like her for it. Patty was far more human than her clothes, her pretentious middle initial, and her Brahmin accent advertised.
“Mark’s very engaged to a firm paralegal. No interest in him here.”
Paul smiled. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
Kathryn drank her wine and stared at Tom’s trophy case.
Paul followed her eyes to the display of his friend’s medals. He reached out and took Kathryn’s free hand gently. “Do you think there’ll ever be a chance for us, or will he always be in the way?”
Her eyes remained fixed on the case. “I don’t know. I wish I knew, but I don’t. I still wake up and find his side of the bed empty and think he’s out surfing with you and Steve. I can’t tell you how it hurts when I’m fully awake, and I know he’s not coming back.”
Paul kept her hand in his. “I know what you mean. I keep thinking I’ll call Tom and Steve to catch a few waves. And then I remember they’re both gone.”
“It’s coming up on two years. When do you think we’ll get used to being without them?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said.
The silence stretched on between them until Kathryn removed her hand from his and asked, “Do you ever see Shannon?”
He frowned, and she could tell the question surprised him and made him uncomfortable. “Not often. She’s moved to Coronado and opened a surf school for kids. She calls from time to time and begs me to put Jodie in it. And she wants to surf with me.”
“And do you surf with her?”
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 5
