She turned the wheel and moved her little car as far to the right as she could, knowing that if the Suburban hit her at its current speed, it would send her into the water. She pushed the accelerator as hard as she could, and the Mini, ever ready to race, took off.
It hummed along contentedly at a hundred miles an hour as it tore along the bridge’s curved mid-section. Kathryn gave thanks for the Cooper’s stability as she rounded the last turn and headed onto the mainland.
Suddenly she heard a crash behind her and looked in her rear-view mirror. The top-heavy Suburban had flipped over as it sped into the bridge’s last curve, apparently trying to catch up with her. It rolled uncontrollably across the empty lanes, no longer a threat.
Her heart began to slow as she merged onto the 5-North and headed for home. Had she been the victim of a drunk driver’s road rage? Or had the Suburban been sent to kill her?
* * *
Friday May 9, 2014, Crown Manor, Coronado, California
Jose swung the big black Mercedes into the circular drive at midnight, got out, and opened Hugh’s door. Jose, who had lost his job as a cab driver when Uber’s entry into the market forced his employer to downsize, had been hired by Mark Kelly a month ago to make sure Hugh and his scotch no longer got behind the wheel of Hugh’s Mercedes at the end of the day. Hugh had bowed to Mark’s judgment to avoid the DUI bullet he had been dodging for years.
“Thanks,” Hugh smiled as he swayed up the front walk. Too much good scotch at Fred Akers’ informal fund raising reception for Hal Edwards had done its damage. Of course, Hal, as the sitting President of the United States, was being coy in public about his plans to run for a second term. But through the junior Senator from California, Hal had privately let all his big donors know that he wanted to be in the White House for four more years. He had made a video appearance to tell them how much he needed and appreciated their support. Remaining in Washington had prevented press speculation about his plans for a re-election bid.
Unsteadily, Hugh wound his way up to his bedroom on the second floor, threw off his clothes, and donned his old-man pajamas. Was it his imagination, or was his paunch starting to decrease? He’d told his personal trainer to push him harder in hopes his Alfred-Hitchcock silhouette might melt away.
As he brushed his teeth, he considered his faux pas of the evening: he’d taken Logan to the reception instead of Buffy. Fred had raised his eyebrows slightly when Hugh introduced her as an associate attorney at the firm. And Hugh could see why. Although she’d managed to wear a black dress, as Hugh had requested, the plunging neckline and figure-hugging curves still shouted “Mistress” instead of “Professional Colleague” to everyone in the room.
He’d made a mistake. Nowadays, he rarely made a mistake. But today he undoubtedly had. He’d looked like the foolish old man he was in a room full of people whom he wanted to respect him.
Besides, he wanted the affair with Logan to end. He’d been sending her all the hints that usually worked, but she seemed oblivious. He knew the time was coming when he’d have to be direct. Or at least as direct as his position would allow him to be.
Kathryn. His mind went to her constantly even in the midst of deposing CEO’s with millions of attorneys’ fees at stake. Gymnastics had given her that graceful dancer’s body that he could not forget. He’d been jealous when Mark had recounted the details of their dinner at Bice. And he could tell Mark was developing feelings for her, too, despite the diamond on Rachael Roberts’ left hand. But Kathryn was a client, and therefore as remote as the stars for them both. The firm’s reputation had taken a hit tonight because of his bad judgment. But dating young associates was forgivable; having an affair with a client was not.
“Hugh? Are you awake?” Buffy rapped softly on his door.
“Yes, come on in.” His guilt over his evening and his thoughts about Kathryn tightened his gut. He felt the way he had in the early days of his marriage, when he’d been dependant upon Buffy’s money, when pleasing her at all costs had been his objective.
She slipped into the room, thin and regal in a red embroidered Chinese robe. Her light brown hair was loose around her shoulders, instead of up the way she wore it in the daytime. It gave her an air of youth and innocence, and Hugh hated himself as he thought of Logan in her tight, black, fuck-me dress.
“You’re back late. Did you go to Fred’s reception for Hal?”
“Yes. I thought you might be bored.”
“So you took Logan.”
Hugh sighed and moved toward the simple white couch and chairs in the sitting area of his bedroom. “It sounds as if you want to talk. Let’s sit down. Scotch?”
“No, thanks.” Buffy folded herself gracefully onto one end of the couch. Hugh poured himself another drink and took the chair opposite.
She frowned at the glass in his hand. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“You mean ‘haven’t I had enough?’”
“To put it bluntly, you’re drinking too much, Hugh.”
“Agreed. But that’s not something I want to talk about tonight. Is that why you came?”
“No. It’s your affairs. I haven’t said anything. We’ve always had our own lives, and it’s suited us. But we’ve made appearances together when it mattered. Until tonight.”
“I know. And I regret what I did. It was a mistake.”
“I think you should stop stringing these girls along,” Buffy said. “Even though they are well-educated, they are still young and vulnerable. They’re Erin and Elise’s age.”
He winced when she mentioned their daughters. “You’re right. I’ve been thinking for some time that I need to end things with Logan.”
Buffy shrugged. “And not start anything with someone else.”
His well-practiced poker face slipped, and he could tell she was pleased that she’d surprised him. He struggled to banish all emotion. “There isn’t anyone else.”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that. Don’t forget I saw you with the new client at dinner. I almost didn’t go upstairs when I was supposed to because I didn’t want to leave you alone with her.”
Hugh caught his breath, suddenly terrified that someone at the office might have seen the same thing. “I–”
“Don’t make excuses. We’ve known each other too long. Besides, when you tire of one mistress, there’s always another waiting in the wings.”
“Okay, look. I admit I’m attracted to her. I have a weakness for beautiful women. She’s a beautiful woman. But she’s a client, Buffy. You know what that means.”
“I know what it means. I’m reminding you in case you’ve forgotten.”
He sighed and took a long pull of scotch. “Look, I admit I was indiscreet tonight. I’m going to put an end to Logan. And there won’t be any more.”
She smiled. “I wish I could believe you.”
I wish you could, too, he told himself.
They were silent for a few minutes, Hugh drinking scotch he didn’t need, and Buffy gazing at the priceless Persian rug. Finally she said, “What if we did something together?”
“Sure. How about a cruise in August?”
“No, I don’t mean a vacation. You’re well-connected politically. How about running for Fred’s seat? Hal’s going to give him a cabinet appointment next term.”
Buffy had never been this full of surprises. “How do you know that?”
“You forget that Edith and I go back a long way.”
Hal’s wife. Of course. He’d been an idiot to forget all the charity balls and silent auctions those two had planned.
Before he could say anything, she went on, “She was actually the one who suggested it.”
“So you were complaining to her about me and Logan.” He felt chastised.
“I’m not going to tell you what I discuss with my friends. But running for Fred’s seat was Edith’s idea, and I like it. Hal would endorse you.”
He studied her in the low light in her magnificent red robes. She looked li
ke an empress. She was still a stunning woman at fifty-five. He had the consummate political wife sitting across from him.
“I’ll give it some thought, Buffy. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave law. But I’ll give it some thought.”
After she left, he rolled into bed and thought about Kathryn until he fell into an uneasy, drunken sleep.
Buffy went to her own room and reminded herself to call Edith tomorrow and thank her for the suggestion to hire the firm of private investigators she used to keep tabs on her own husband, the President of the United States. According to Edith, they were better than the Secret Service. Over the years of her marriage, Hugh’s wandering ways had tempted Buffy to track him, but she’d always decided against it. But then she’d seen him with Kathryn Andrews. This was different. This was truly dangerous. Edith had been exactly right: the time had come to keep herself fully informed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, May 10, 2014, 1845 Ocean Place
Kathryn woke late. Her head ached, and she remembered she’d drunk some more wine after she’d gotten home to calm her nerves. When she closed her eyes, she could see the black Suburban positioning itself to ram her off the bridge. Thank God her quick reflexes and the Cooper’s ability to outrun the top-heavy truck had prevented that.
She pulled on her robe and went to the kitchen to make coffee. She started the kettle boiling while she ground the beans. Tom had preferred coffee from an automatic drip pot. And truth to tell, it had been fine for her, too. But she’d taken to making it with a French press, so she wouldn’t think about Tom standing at the pot waiting to catch the first drips in his mug. No one had loved good coffee more than Tom.
For a few minutes, the concentration of grinding and boiling and brewing kept her mind off of last night. But when her mug was full of equal parts half-and-half and chocolaty, medium roast coffee, her thoughts defaulted once more to the terror on the bridge.
She carried her cup into their study and sat down at her own smaller desk across from Tom’s. She sipped her coffee as she studied his big oak desk. She still hadn’t had the courage to go through all the drawers. She realized she was kidding herself if she thought she was anywhere close to accepting Tom’s loss. But wasn’t that why she had sued Wycliffe? To give herself the opportunity to wallow in her grief and rage, so she had no chance to move on and start a new life with someone else.
She flipped open her laptop on her own desk and entered her office’s private database which could access new police reports before they were available to the public. She found the one for the accident: a 2013 Suburban rolled over on the Coronado Bay Bridge at approximately twenty-two hundred hours. She shivered as she realized the whole episode had not been a figment of her imagination. Someone had come close to killing her. But the report offered no clue as to who that someone was. When the police found the vehicle, it had been empty. How had anyone managed to climb out of that wreck and escape on foot from the middle of the bay bridge? It didn’t make any sense.
She closed her computer and realized her coffee had gotten cold. She felt frightened and small and very alone. She wanted to tell someone what had happened. But who?
She looked over at Tom’s empty desk and said out loud, “Someone who disappeared tried to kill me last night. Who should I tell?”
Paul.
“Why Paul?” she asked the empty air. “Paul slept with Shannon. Did you? Did you sleep with Shannon?”
But her only answers were silence and brilliant, early-morning May sunshine streaming in through the blinds.
Kathryn got up, went into her bedroom, and slipped on a pair of shorts and a baggy t-shirt. She slid into her beach sandals and walked the few blocks to the ocean, thinking all the while about Tom and Steve and Paul. And Shannon. She made her way across the soft sand until she came to the hard-packed surface at the water’s edge. She slipped off her sandals and waded in. Even on a May morning, it was like ice around her ankles.
She looked out at the horizon, shielding her eyes from the bright sun with her hand. She watched the black wet-suited surfers as they floated on the waves, waiting to catch the next big curl. Her heart seemed to swell and burst as she stared out at them. And slowly it dawned on her: she couldn’t put Tom and their marriage behind her as long as she was living in their house and doing their job and sleeping in their bed. Changing a coffee pot was just a useless gesture. Paul was the only person she could call. But with Paul, came Shannon. Just as it once had been with Tom. Tom was dead, but she was still trapped in the nightmare triangle Shannon had so expertly created in her life. A child. If she and Tom had had a child, Shannon would have had to stay away. Tom would have made her. He would never have turned his back on his child.
* * *
December 31, 2010, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Another year of trying, and nothing but disappointment to show for it. Kathryn had not felt like going out on New Year’s Eve. She and Tom had met at the fertility clinic that afternoon to learn that their third in vitro attempt had failed. The year 2010 had been devoted to shots, out-of-control hormones, and surgical procedures, yet Kathryn was not pregnant. And now, on the very last day of the year, they discovered they were out of options.
“After three tries, we suggest adoption,” Dr. Lee, a small bespeckled Filipino, told them.
They drove home in silence until Tom said, “Do you still want to have dinner at George’s At the Cove tonight?”
If they didn’t give a party themselves, they had a tradition of splurging on New Year’s Eve. It was part of the routine of being a childless couple.
“No, not tonight.”
“Can I do anything to make you feel better?”
“Help me find another fertility clinic where we can try again.”
“But you heard Dr. Lee. Three times is the maximum. Those shots and hormones are powerful. They take a toll on your body, Kathryn.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care.” He said it so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
“What did you say?”
“I said I care. I don’t want them to put any more of those injections into you. And I don’t want you sedated again for those egg harvesting procedures. Your body wasn’t built for that kind of punishment. And besides, sweetheart, we’ve used up every penny of our savings. We can’t afford another in vitro even if someone out there is willing to do it for us.”
Kathryn sighed. “Promise me to keep trying!”
“But I hate all that counting and temperature-taking stuff.”
“It’s all we have left.”
DISCOVERY,
THE FIRST MOTION
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday, May 19, 2014, Edward J. Schwartz Federal Courthouse, U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, San Diego, 9:00 a.m.
Judge Weiner listened attentively as Hugh explained how Wycliffe had handed over thousands of documents about Myrabin with most of the critical clinical test data missing. As Her Honor listened, her gentle brown eyes strayed from Hugh’s face to Kathryn’s. Was she trying to size up the genuineness of her grief, Kathryn wondered; or was she just curious about a woman who had the courage to take on a company as big as Wycliffe? In the end, she’d convinced herself the incident on the bridge had been a random act of road rage, and she’d told no one.
When Hugh finished, Robert McLaren took the podium, once again dressed in thousands of dollars worth of sartorial splendor. Kathryn wondered if he was relying on his full head of gray hair to establish his credibility as a gray eminence who had earned enough victories in the courtroom to command respect for his pricey clothes.
“Your Honor–”
And that was as far as he got. “Tell me, Mr. McLaren, does Wycliffe believe that its data on the clinical trials of Myrabin are irrelevant to Mrs. Andrews’ claims?” Judge Weiner’s eyes had gone from gentle to hard.
“Well, no, Your Honor.” Whatever smooth presentation he had planned evaporated.
“Then
why are we here this morning, Mr. McLaren? Why haven’t you provided these documents in discovery?”
“I was about to explain that, Your Honor. They’re proprietary. They are full of Wycliffe’s trade secrets. And since the FDA’s data shows there have been no deaths from Myrabin, there is no compelling reason to jeopardize those trade secrets by turning them over to the plaintiff.”
Kathryn enjoyed watching the judge flame into anger. “That’s ridiculous, Mr. McLaren. Mrs. Andrews alleges that Myrabin killed her husband. She has a right to see the clinical trial data from Wycliffe. Are you telling me that you never thought of turning over that data with an agreement that the plaintiff would not disclose the material?”
“I–we–” Paul had told her McLaren charged clients eight hundred dollars an hour. Kathryn wondered how anyone could pay that rate for stammering in court.
But Emma Talbert, Wycliffe’s in-house attorney, was quick to protect her client and her investment in pricey outside counsel. “Your Honor, if I might add something?”
“Please, Ms. Talbert. I’m at a loss to understand Wycliffe’s decision to block discovery. I’m considering sanctions. Very expensive sanctions.”
Standing at counsel table to bail out her hired gun, Emma looked very credible in her regulation Ann Taylor navy suit and tightly wound bun. “Your Honor, the documents not only contain trade secrets, they are protected by attorney-client privilege.”
Judge Weiner frowned. “Really, Ms. Talbot? What sort of legal advice was your client seeking when it submitted scientific documents to its in-house attorneys? Are you a research scientist as well as an attorney?”
“Uh, no, Your Honor. But the documents were sent to us for review.”
“Review is not legal advice, Ms. Talbot. It sounds to me as if your client is trying to misuse attorney-client privilege to avoid providing discovery to the plaintiff. I am ordering the documents turned over immediately. If Wycliffe thinks any portions are actually trade secrets, I will entertain a further motion. But for now, as far as I can see on this record, nothing here is privileged and all of it must be turned over to the plaintiff’s attorneys. Today.”
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 9
