Morton’s next feeling was one of wry amusement. There won’t be any problem catching the next flight, which will give me two or three hours reprieve. Big deal! Sitting back down in the waiting room, he unstrapped his watch and reset it by the airport clock, while at the same time telling himself not to trust his erratic timepiece. He toyed with the idea of alerting Isobel to his later arrival, then decided to let her stew. Finally, slouching back in the chair, he tried for the hundredth time to think of some way around the disaster awaiting him at Kona Airport.
***
Morton Dyer was not someone anyone would remember. Five-nine, blond-brown hair, faded blue eyes, in his thirties–—but as likely to pass for ten years older or ten years younger–—carrying a few extra pounds around his middle; he was only a face in the crowd he’d been observing a short half-hour earlier.
There had been nothing outstanding about Morton until his senior year at college, and it was none of his doing the year had suddenly made him stand out. A piece of faulty radar equipment and a chance microburst at the Denver airport had combined to slam Aunt Caroline’s Lear Jet into the ground, just yards from the runway, and Aunt Caroline’s tidy little fortune had gone to her only living relative. Mourning her not at all, since he’d hardly known her, Morton had marveled at how a plane crash could have so thoroughly changed his life. Probate, creditors, inheritance taxes and the ever-present attorneys whittled the sum down to more manageable proportions, but the word got around abut how Morton was no longer just an undergraduate working his way through the University of Chicago. Following the good fortune came Charlotte Beaudoin, very soon to become Charlotte Dyer.
Morton never asked himself if the popular Charlie had been motivated by his newfound wealth, and it would perhaps have been unfair to think her interest in him was totally monetary. It would have been quite unthinkable, however, to assume Charlie would have been smitten by a Morton Dyer with an unpromising future and an even less promising bank account. The June of their graduation they married, and the Beaudoin parents, along with Charlie’s sister, welcomed their new son-in-law and pitched in to help with the daunting task of spending the newly-acquired fortune.
It had been Charlie’s idea to move to Hawai’i, but Morton’s to go to work for Hawai’i Harvest. Shortly after their arrival they built themselves a luxury home just outside of Kailua-Kona.
At first, Charlie had bridled at the thought of living out in the “boonies,” as she put it, but a readily available company plane and the short flight to Honolulu mollified her—especially when she learned it was fashionable to live on one of the Neighbor Islands rather than on Oahu. And Morton surprised himself by finding he enjoyed working more than playing, and he had some talent to contribute to the rapidly-expanding macnut processing company.
The five years of his employment went amazingly well. His efforts were rewarded by promotions, if not by any major increases in salary. His job involved frequent trips to the Mainland, keeping him away from home during most of his waking and sleeping hours, an arrangement which pleased Charlie no less than him and which undoubtedly helped to perpetuate their marriage. But there were two dark clouds on his horizon, clouds which he largely ignored but occasionally glimpsed from the corner of his eye. Only within the last year had they grown sufficiently to demand other than passing attention. The more ominous one was his dwindling bank account. Some investments had turned sour, but the chief factor responsible for his rapidly diminishing affluence was Charlie’s insatiable capacity for spending.
The other cloud seemed less ominous…until it became obvious it had a velvety black lining. As though trying to exceed Charlie’s gift for spending money, Joe Demos and his wife Zoe, owners of Hawai’i Harvest, were gradually sapping the company’s strength. Profits, plowed back into the business in earlier years, now went for a luxurious second home in Honolulu, a private yacht, a world tour, and clothes and jewelry for Zoe who drove Charlie into a frenzy of emulation.
Briefly and blindingly, a ray of sunshine flashed through the cloud now hovering over the company. A generous state legislature and an equally pliable governor, ignoring the follies of Hawai’i Harvest’s management, and accepting the flimsy explanation that cheaper imported nuts from Madagascar were the major source of the company’s difficulties, granted an overly-generous short-term, low-interest loan to the failing enterprise. A minimum of safeguards accompanied the contribution. This sudden infusion of dollars had prompted Charlie to pressure Morton into exploiting Hawai’i Harvest’s wealth, and it was the gross mismanagement of the company which made the exploitation possible. While the company floated on its new-found riches, improved its credit status, came up with a rush of new orders as a result of an impromptu advertising campaign. It also became even more careless about its expenditures, and Morton began a systematic tapping of this windfall.
It was merely a matter of working up invoices for non-existent companies with post office boxes scattered across the US, Canada and Mexico, and then to simply harvest the bounty on his frequent trips to the Mainland. It was even simpler to stamp “delivered” on the carelessly handled invoices in the Hawai’i Harvest business office. Knowing how slipshod the firm’s bookkeeping was, Morton had almost convinced himself the phony sales would never be discovered. He hadn’t counted on Isobel.
Sitting silently, brooding over the events of the past six months, Morton could see no solution, no way out of the morass Hawai’i Harvest’s sudden prosperity had tempted him into. He only half heard the announcement over the speaker system. Its repetition finally penetrated.
“Friends and relatives of passengers on Transnational 475 to Los Angeles, please come to the first class lounge.”
***
Later, when Morton was to look back on the two hours following the announcement at the airport, he was amazed at his own swift decision. His feelings had been a rapid succession of disbelief, shock, relief and, finally, wonderment. A faulty watch, a flooded lavatory, and his own recurrent constipation had made the difference between life and death. The next thought was it would have been so much better had he been on the plane. A few seconds of terror and then oblivion would have been a small price to pay to avoid the disaster, the disgrace, the impoverishment and the inevitable prison sentence awaiting him in Hawai’i.
The decision emerging from the jumble of thoughts and emotions arrived by fits and starts. They may think I was on the plane. So what? They’ll have a record of who got on it. But, hell! There’s always confusion about who got on and who didn’t whenever there’s an air crash. Nowadays, with all the ticket exchanges, there’s really no way of knowing who’s on board and who isn’t. After all the checking and rechecking before entering the departure area, no one so much as asked for ID when boarding.
It then occurred to him how Morton Dyer could almost certainly be listed among the deceased now scattered across the muddy floor of New York Harbor along with countless bits and pieces of debris from the downed aircraft.
Returning to the exit and viewing the remnants of the celebration left behind by the partygoers; Morton slipped the boarding pass under the door leading out to the tarmac at the spot where the ticket taker had dropped his handful. He was almost certain the cleaner would find it in the morning. As he turned to leave the empty waiting room, Morton felt more than relief.
There’d be grief over his passing, at least for the record. And he’d be free of Hawai’i Harvest, free of the threat of prison and—best of all—free of Charlie. She’d show up for whatever ceremony would be held for the families of the victims. And she’d even fake a few tears. But, for her, Morton’s passing would mean a free trip to New York, elaborate plans for spending the money she would receive from his generous insurance policy, and an opportunity to sample the exclusive shops along 5th Avenue.
***
It would have been barely getting light on a clear morning. In the fog and drizzle, it was difficult to make out the activities on the riverbank, even with the floodlights. In spite of
the growing body of police, the curiosity seekers had already begun to push against the yellow warning tapes. Upriver, some had crowded toward the edge to get a better view of the boats out looking for survivors—or bodies. Morton joined the group.
Having already transferred the large amount of cash he always carried to his pocket, he unobtrusively slipped his wallet—with driver’s license, credit cards and all of his other identification—into the water. If it were found…so much the better. If not, it really didn’t matter. He checked his pocket to make sure the key to the all-important deposit box—the one not even Charlie knew about—was safe. Then, watching the wallet drift off toward the searchers and disappear into the mist, Morton Dyer finally felt completely free.
THE TAPE
All in all, Sheila Ray considered the previous day to have been a very satisfactory one. She had handled the deposition of one of the country’s top CEOs, Kelvin Mundt, with consummate skill—had done it all with sugary sweetness. Agreed to depose him in his own conference room. Never raised her voice. Never badgered him. Naturally, he had been well rehearsed. But all the “don’t knows” and “don’t recalls” would come back to haunt him, and he knew it.
Felix Immanuel, Mundt’s top attorney, had to stretch to find grounds for the few objections he raised, and had to settle for earning his exorbitant fees mainly by occasionally calling his enraged client out of the room for meaningless consultations—or simply to give him a chance to calm down. Most of the time Felix sat there looking unhappy, though Sheila caught an occasional gleam in his eye, which convinced her he appreciated her talent at interrogation. The sad part, from her viewpoint, was how the whole matter was a penny-ante contract dispute, with her client motivated by spite and Mundt by sheer rage because his former board chairman had the temerity to turn on him.
The very fact Mundt wanted so badly to win the suit worked against him, and made it much more difficult for Felix—and much easier for Sheila, who was now virtually certain she would win. But the money judgment would be small and the case would not look like much on her record. Unfortunately, record was what counted so far as she was concerned.
Late in the afternoon, she was still savoring the prior day’s success when the secretary she shared with the other associates announced a potential client, a Tanya Kosich. As a lowly associate in the firm of Jesperson, Loward and Goetz, Sheila didn’t rate the luxury of demanding “appointments only,” especially now that Jesperson et al. had begun advertising a half-hour free initial consultation—anytime. Sheila stood up and went to the door, just as the secretary was showing in the newcomer—a tall slender woman, probably in her early twenties, who could have been quite attractive if she had made an effort. Her appearance included dark hair tied up in a silly bun, no make-up, unbecoming glasses and a flowery dress which almost succeeded in hiding her shapely figure and well-endowed bosom.
There was something vaguely familiar about the prospective client. But before Sheila could search her memory, the visitor, clutching her purse on her lap and needlessly pulling down the hem of her unstylishly long dress—immediately launched into a breathless explanation for her visit. “My boss has been harassing me, and I know you can do something about it. I read about you and what you did in the Vonsacker case and, when I saw you yesterday, I decided I had to do something.”
Yesterday…of course! Sheila remembered. Mundt’s front office had been alive with employees, and now she recalled seeing the Kosich woman. Had even spoken to her briefly at the water cooler; innocuous comments about the weather. It was amazing she should have forgotten her so soon—though perhaps not so amazing considering the woman’s unprepossessing appearance.
“Could her “boss” be Mundt? No way. Sheila couldn’t be so lucky. But he was, and she was!
“Mr. Mundt has been after me for months. He uses every excuse to have me in his office for dictation. But we all know no one needs to use live dictation anymore. And then he starts making lewd remarks.”
Sheila’s elation vanished. A closed door. The two of them alone in Mundt’s office. No witnesses. A standard “he says, she says” situation. Felix Immanuel, or even the lowest ranking of Mundt’s coterie of lawyers, would tear this woman apart on the stand.
Sheila only half listened to the continuing litany of complaints against Mundt. She checked her watch, figuring she could call the half-hour prematurely. A change in Kosich’s tone caught her attention. “I decided I had to do something. So I went into his office early this morning and hid this tape recorder there.” As she spoke she reached into her purse, took out a palm-sized recorder and placed it on the desk. Sheila forgot the time and sat up straight, recognizing the gadget for what it was—a voice activated, state-of-the-art piece of electronics.
Kosich tapped the small play button. Five minutes into the tape, Sheila knew she had a go—knew this was the big break she’d been looking for ever since she’d won the harassment case against Vonsacker.
Dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Kosich reached over with her other hand and pressed the stop button. “I can’t listen to any more,” she said.
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Sheila replied.
***
Sheila Ray had hated law school with a passion. For her, it was only a means—a very painful means—to an end. Tedious cases, hours of memorization, droning lectures on abstruse points of law she knew she would never concern herself with—these would have bored her to tears had she been prone to crying. She groaned through Future Interests, gritted her teeth at Civil Procedure and mercifully managed to sleep through Legal Ethics. She took notes and was attentive only in those classes directly dealing with trial matters.
Other than that, Sheila did the bare minimum, scraped by in most of her courses, and was counting the days until she could move on to legal practice—practice involving courtroom appearances where she knew her good looks, fast thinking and verbal agility would pay off handsomely.
Long before her final year she was planning her future. Research into job possibilities, talk with other students, exploratory letters to possible employers finally convinced her the truism, “It ain’t what you know, it’s who you know,” was the key to her future. And the “who you know,” appeared in the guise of a one-semester Adjunct Professor of Law.
Herman Goetz immediately struck Sheila as the ideal target. With a wife and five children safely tucked away at their distant home and visited only during weekends, the gangling, balding attorney had evenings to burn, evenings whose loneliness was soon alleviated by an eager student who showed every sign of worshipping at Goetz’s knee—and going beyond worship for him.
It was a carefully cultivated affair, at least on Sheila’s part. She moved slowly but inexorably. Eventually Goetz found himself promising—without realizing he was being blackmailed—that not only would Sheila Ray receive an appointment as associate with Jesperson, Loward and Goetz immediately on passing the bar, but she would also escape the tedious scutwork typically assigned to new hires.
The pillow talk did more than launch her on her career; it also gave her a plethora of information about her future colleagues. Goetz more than made up for his all-too-conventional and perfunctory sexual performances by his finely-tuned propensity for endless gossip.
“I’m sure Jim Jesperson and Becky Loward were an item when they first went into practice together. The flame seems to have pretty much died, from what I can make out. Looks like Jim hung up his spurs long ago, and he’s now spending more and more time at home. He’s also doing less and less trial work. But, as managing partner, he’s still the decision-maker—though he does depend a lot on consensus.”
“Doesn’t Becky do any trial work?”
“No. She has a slight stutter which becomes very pronounced when she gets excited. Her forte is research and a really astonishing grasp of the law. I’m sure you’ll like her even though she comes across as being a bit straitlaced. Jim calls her ‘our conscience.’“
From the sounds of the descript
ion, Sheila doubted very much she would like Becky Loward, but it did seem as though there would be no competition from that quarter for court appearances. So much the better.
The formal and informal structure gradually emerged as Goetz waxed eloquent about his job, his colleagues, his subordinates and the law. Handling only civil cases, Jesperson et al. had established a reputation for integrity the partners zealously maintained. Their forte had been corporation law, but times were bringing about changes.
“We need fresh blood. Young, eager attorneys like yourself. Affirmative action, civil rights, sexual harassment and environmental cases are flooding the dockets. We have to keep up with the times, and with Jim going into semi-retirement, and Becky unwilling to play the barrister, I’m being overwhelmed. I really shouldn’t have taken this appointment as Adjunct Professor, but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.” He sighed, rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling before adding, “I hope you don’t mind trial work, because you may have to do a lot of it.”
Sheila didn’t mind at all.
The end of their affair was perfect from Sheila’s viewpoint, and almost so from Goetz’s. Lisa Goetz was as much as her husband could handle, and Herman found himself terminating the physical part of the relationship with the seemingly heartbroken Sheila even before she joined the firm. With a sigh of relief, she turned to more important matters.
Expect the Unexpected Page 42
