Lying with Strangers

by James Grippando

“How’s our article coming?” he asked as he poured a cup of coffee.

  “Fine,” she said. “Little computer mishap on Sunday but nothing major.”

  “I’m sure you’ll sort it out.” He started for the door, then stopped. “By the way, if this phase of your research turns out half as good as the last one, I was planning to credit you as a coauthor.”

  “That would be an honor. Thanks.”

  He left as quickly as he’d come. She was about to head out herself when the lounge phone rang, startling her. She answered on the third ring, only to hear that mechanically disguised voice again.

  “Where’s my money?”

  Peyton shuddered, not sure that she could pull off Kevin’s plan.

  “How did you know I was at this phone?”

  “Same way I got pictures of Gary Varne undressing you.”

  That strengthened her resolve. Like Kevin had said, who but Gary himself would have those pictures?

  “Do you have the money?” he said.

  She stretched the cord as far as it would go to check the entire lounge to make sure that no one else was in the room, such as an exhausted resident flopped on the couch or passed out by the computers. All clear. “I was hoping we could talk about this.”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “My husband knows about…the incident. I told him.”

  There was silence on the line. “That must have been grand. What did you tell him? It was all a mistake. That you don’t have any feelings for Gary?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then it doesn’t look good for poor Gary Varne, does it? My price is the same. Ten thousand.”

  “I don’t think I can pay.”

  “You’ll pay. Or I’ll kill him.”

  He sounded like he meant it. Peyton felt herself wavering, but she tried to be firm. “Please—”

  “Please what? If Gary doesn’t mean anything to you, you got nothing to worry about. You don’t care if he dies, you don’t care if he lives. You don’t care what happens to him.”

  Her voice shook. “What is going on?”

  “You tell me. Who are you lying to, bitch? Me? Your husband. Or yourself? Have the money by midnight. And cut the crap. This is what you get for lying with strangers. You didn’t know you cared.”

  The line clicked, and the caller was gone.

  34

  PRIVACY WAS HARD TO COME BY IN THE HOSPITAL, BUT THE ON-CALL suites worked in a pinch. They were windowless rooms (hardly suites) for residents who might somehow manage twenty or thirty minutes of sleep on their on-call night, complete with bunk beds, a small shower that always seemed to have plenty of ice-cold water, and a telephone. Peyton ducked inside, closed the door, and dialed Kevin at the firm. He answered his own line, which startled her a little. She’d expected his secretary.

  “It’s me,” she said. “He called again.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. Somehow he knew I was standing right next to the phone in the hospital lounge. It rang, and I answered. It’s creepy the way he tracked me down.”

  “Don’t let him scare you.”

  “How can I not be scared? He’s obviously watching me.”

  “He’s just playing games with you. Did you tell him that I know everything?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t care. He still wants ten thousand in ransom.”

  “What a crock. I hope you were firm with him.”

  “I was.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Have the money by midnight or he’s going to kill Gary.”

  “If that’s the way he wants it, let the fool kill himself.”

  “Kevin,” she said reprovingly.

  “I’m not serious. And neither is he. He’s not going to kill himself.”

  “That’s the part I don’t understand. How can you be so sure it’s him?”

  “It’s obvious. If you’re objective.”

  “How can you be objective? You’re the one…”

  “Who was cheated on?” he said, finishing the thought for her.

  “Who thinks he was cheated on. Damn it, the fact that you won’t accept my innocence only confirms what I’m saying. Neither one of us can possibly be objective about this. We shouldn’t be making decisions that could literally be a matter of life and death.”

  “It’s a charade. Gary Varne is jerking us both around.”

  “All right, assume he is. That doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

  “He’s just a loser. Period.”

  “Death row is full of losers, and that doesn’t make the victims any less dead.”

  “All he wants is money.”

  “I’m not sure he knows what he wants. This last phone call, he said something that makes me wonder if he’s even all there. He said, ‘This is what you get for lying with strangers.’ Obviously he thinks that I slept with Gary, just like you do.”

  “What’s your point?” he said, a little defensive.

  “I’m not sure it makes sense. Gary wasn’t a stranger.”

  “He is, in the sense that he isn’t your husband.”

  “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

  “What else could it mean?”

  “That I was with someone I only thought I knew. But I really don’t know him.”

  “Well, that’s probably true. How well do we really know the people we work with? Gary could have a dark side. Maybe he even has some kind of split-personality disorder. Schizophrenia.”

  “Schizophrenia and multiple personalities are two different things. And true cases of multiples are extremely rare. Even more rare in men than women.”

  “Which only proves my point. Gary is no Sybil, or whoever that woman was with the sixteen personalities. He’s a lowlife blackmailer who has decided that if he can’t have my wife he’ll destroy her. We’re not paying him.”

  “I’m not saying we should. But I wish you’d reconsider going to the police.”

  “No. I still say this is a private matter, and we should keep it private. Your friend Gary doesn’t have the nerve to see this through, especially now that he knows we’re standing together on this.”

  “I’m still scared.”

  “Don’t be. If he calls back and keeps pushing for the money, we’ll call the police. Trust me on this. My bet is that he’s just going to drop it.”

  “And if he does drop it, what then? We just drop it, too?”

  “Absolutely. With your own string of bad luck at the hospital, you should be just as eager as I am to keep this quiet.”

  Interesting. Gary had told her the same thing after her computer had disappeared. “All right, we’ll wait,” she said. “But if I so much as get a call and a hang-up, even if I just think it’s him, we call the police.”

  “I can live with that,” said Kevin.

  Hope I can, too, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She just said goodbye, hung up, and checked the clock. Almost 2:00 P.M. Ten more hours until he called back—or not.

  Either way, it was going to be a long day.

  35

  IRA KAUFMAN WAS TRUE TO FORM. HE’D GIVEN KEVIN A DEADLINE OF Friday to make a decision about his novel. By Thursday afternoon he’d already filed the complaint and hauled Kevin into court for an emergency hearing. Typical Ira.

  The hearing was scheduled for 4:00 P.M., less than an hour after Kevin was served with his subpoena. With it came his official notice of termination. Kevin hadn’t even notified his agent or publisher of the threatened litigation. He hadn’t hired a lawyer himself to defend himself. By default he would have to be his own lawyer.

  Kevin was still reading the complaint and motion as he rode the elevator and hurried down the busy hall to Judge Cosgrove’s chambers. He was the last to arrive. Ira was seated on the battered Naugahyde couch in the waiting room, the lone representative of Marston & Wheeler. Ira was a client for a change. Beside him was the gray-haired and distinguished Irving Beckle, the retired chairman of the firm’s litigation department. No longer for
mally associated with the firm, he was its lawyer today. When it came to defending the firm’s honor, there could have been no better choice than bringing Beckle out of retirement. He was of the old school of lawyering, a throwback to the days when a handshake had meaning and advertising was for department stores. It didn’t hurt, either, that his daughter and Judge Cosgrove were once sorority sisters at Cornell.

  “Mr. Beckle,” Judge Cosgrove said with a warm smile as she greeted him at the door. “What a pleasure to see you again. Please do come in.”

  That surely wasn’t the norm, the judge rising to meet a lawyer. Usually it was a secretary leading a trail of obsequious lawyers before Her Honor. “Kevin Stokes,” said Kevin, introducing himself.

  Her smile faded. “Have a seat, Mr. Stokes.”

  The hearing would be held in chambers, rather than the courtroom, which wasn’t unusual when a judge intended to hear only argument from counsel with no live testimony from witnesses. There was no stone-faced bailiff, no high mahogany bench from which the judge presided. The intimacy of a proceeding in chambers, however, did not connote informality. The judge wore the same black robe, and lawyers were just as respectful as in open court. Her carved antique desk was at the far end of the chambers, positioned so that her back was to the tall, arched window. A table extended from the front of her desk to create a T-shaped seating arrangement. The lawyers sat on opposite sides of the table, the plaintiff to the judge’s left, the defendant to the right. The court reporter was off to the side near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the judge said. “We’re here for an emergency hearing in the case of Marston and Wheeler LLP versus Kevin Stokes. The plaintiff seeks a temporary restraining order that will prevent the defendant from disseminating any further copies of his unpublished manuscript.”

  “That’s correct,” said Beckle. “At this point in time, we have sued only Mr. Stokes, since he has distributed unpublished copies of his script to a local bookstore called Booklovers’. On Monday we intend to file suit in New York to prevent his publisher from printing and disseminating the published work.”

  “All right,” said the judge. “At the plaintiff’s request, this hearing is being conducted in camera, out of the public eye, because Mr. Stokes’s novel allegedly discloses confidential information about clients of the law firm of Marston and Wheeler. It therefore violates the attorney-client privilege. An interesting theory. Mr. Beckle, proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. This is not your typical First Amendment freedom of speech case. As an associate attorney at Marston and Wheeler, Mr. Stokes had access to confidential information that was protected by the attorney-client privilege. No client of our law firm has agreed to waive the privilege so that Mr. Stokes can include information about them in his novel.”

  The judge asked, “But doesn’t every novel contain the printed disclaimer that it’s a work of fiction?”

  “That doesn’t work in this case,” said Beckle. “By way of example, suppose that Marston and Wheeler represented Coca-Cola. Suppose further that in the course of that representation Mr. Stokes became privy to the secret formula for Coca-Cola. Would he then be free to write a novel about the largest soft drink manufacturer in the world, disclose the secret formula, and protect himself from liability simply by changing the name of the company? No one could seriously contend he has the right to do that.”

  “That would be an easy case,” the judge agreed.

  “This case is just as easy. Although Mr. Stokes’s novel is not technically about a law firm, he has chosen to set his story in a major Boston law firm that resembles Marston and Wheeler in every way but the name. Through his novel Mr. Stokes reveals intricate details about our clients that should not be disclosed in this malicious and thinly veiled work of fiction.”

  The judge leaned back in her chair, thinking. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Stokes?”

  “First, let me say that this entire hearing is unfair. Mr. Kaufman told me that I would have until tomorrow to make a decision about the book before filing his complaint.”

  “Did you intend to burn your book if he gave you until tomorrow?”

  “Honestly, no.”

  “Then stop bellyaching and get to the argument.”

  He glanced at Ira, who seemed awfully smug. It was time to drop the gloves. “Judge, all this talk about breach of attorney-client privilege is nonsense. I wrote a work of fiction about a married woman who is the managing partner of a major Boston law firm. She also happens to be sleeping with one of her associates. Her secret lover is kidnapped, which leaves her three alternatives. She can go public with her infidelity and call the police, which would ruin her marriage and probably get her fired. She can pay the ransom and hope the press and her husband never find out about it. Or she can simply deny the guy was ever her lover, tell the kidnapper to pound sand, and let him fend for himself.”

  “Intriguing,” said the judge. “Can’t wait for the movie.”

  “Your Honor,” said Beckle, groaning.

  “Sorry. Continue, Mr. Stokes.”

  “Let’s face it. What Mr. Beckle—Check that, what Mr. Kaufman doesn’t like is the fact that the head of the law firm in my novel is married and slept with a young lawyer who was hoping to make partner. That is what’s driving this motion.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” barked Kaufman.

  “Judge, let the book go to print. If Mr. Kaufman really thinks that certain plot points running through my novel are not fiction and all I did was change the sex of the managing partner, he has a remedy. He can sue me for portraying him as the kind of lawyer who would sleep with ambitious young associates. And then I’ll assert the best defense available in any defamation lawsuit. Truth.”

  “Oh, that’s outrageous!” Beckle shouted, rising.

  “Mr. Stokes, please,” said the judge. “I realize that this hearing is being held in private and that lawyers enjoy immunity for things they say in a judicial proceeding, but let’s be discreet about levying accusations like these.”

  “I stand by everything I just said,” said Kevin.

  Beckle said, “And that’s exactly why we need this court’s assistance. This young man has no self-restraint.”

  Kevin locked eyes with the judge, speaking without words.

  Beckle slipped a sheet of paper before the judge. “For the court’s convenience, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing an order to reflect Your Honor’s ruling. If you would sign right here.”

  “I haven’t ruled.” She was still looking at Kevin as she spoke. He sensed a breakthrough.

  Beckle said, “Of course you haven’t. Please take a minute to read it over.”

  “I’ll be honest, Mr. Beckle. I read a good chunk of Mr. Stokes’s book over the lunch break. I also read your motion and affidavit setting forth all of the alleged breaches of the attorney-client privilege, which frankly proved to be a lot less engrossing than Mr. Stokes’s writing. You may say and even believe that his novel is about your law firm, its clients, and its lawyers, but I just don’t see it. He set the story in a law firm because he’s a lawyer and he’s following the old adage of ‘write what you know.’ But he could have put it in a bank, a university, or even a hospital. This novel is about a beautiful, successful woman who cheats on her husband and then ends up having to deal with her lover’s kidnapper. Period.”

  “Judge, if you’d like us to brief these issues further, we’re more than happy to do so.”

  “I don’t need more to read. I’ll think more about this over the weekend, but that’s my leaning at this point.”

  Ira spoke up. “Your Honor, we were hoping to have your ruling in hand when we went into court against the publisher in New York on Monday morning.”

  “Really? Well, you just might be glad you don’t have my ruling by Monday morning.” She flashed a foreboding look, then rose and shook Mr. Beckle’s hand. “Sir, as always, a pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” he sai
d with a wan smile. He looked as if he’d bet the farm on the fallen Goliath—and lost.

  “Now, if you will all excuse me, I have a pretrial conference in two minutes.” She started toward the side door that led to her courtroom, then stopped and looked at Kevin. “Good luck with your writing career,” she said in a pleasant tone, then left her chambers.

  The lawyers stood mute on opposite sides of the table. Kevin leaned forward, palms flat on the table, and spoke in a tone suitable for a funeral. “I believe this is traditionally the moment when the plaintiff wants to talk settlement. Unfortunately for you, this defendant’s not listening.”

  He restrained himself on the way out of the judge’s chambers, but the instant he reached the hallway he let out a hoot that echoed all the way to the lobby. He hoped with all his heart that Ira and old man Beckle had heard it.

  36

  IT WAS HALF-PAST MIDNIGHT, AND THE PHONE WAS STILL SILENT. PEYTON was seated on the living room couch; Kevin, in the easy chair. The television screen was black. A brass lamp glowed on the end table. They hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken since the clock on the mantel chimed a dozen times. All they could do was wait.

  “I told you he wouldn’t call back,” said Kevin.

  “He didn’t say he would call at midnight. He just told me to have the money by then.”

  “He’s a scumbag.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re right. I really don’t. Which is why I’m so scared.”

  Kevin gulped down some coffee, then winced at the bitterness. “You did the right thing by telling him you wouldn’t pay. He won’t be back.”

  “Or maybe he will be back, angrier than before. Maybe even violent. I know we agreed not to call the police if he didn’t call back, but maybe we should anyway.”

  “That’s exactly the wrong reaction.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like the stories you see on the news, where the woman goes into court and gets a restraining order against her ex-lover. Two hours later, the guy shows up at her house, kills her, and kills himself.”