Invasion of Privacy

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  "Uncle Matt, Grandpa in Monterey ... but I didn’t die. I’m right here, and I’m going to be fine."

  "What about my real father? Would they have called him, and would he have come and got me?"

  She pulled him to her, saying again, "I’m here."

  But he wrenched himself out of her arms, jumped up and ran over to a pine tree and started hitting it, yelling, "I’ll kill him next time! Messing with my hat!" Snow sifted down from the branches, turning him into a comical snowman. But she did not laugh. She let him spend his fury. Finally, he came back and sat with her on an icy patch of sand right at the water’s edge.

  They talked for a long time, looking out across Lake Tahoe and into a night so clear, Nina could see the lights of Incline Village and King’s Beach on the northwest shores, twenty-six miles away. A huge inland sea, deep, impersonal, full of secrets, the lake showed its personality in colors and moods, exerting invisible influences on its neighbors. Now black and impenetrable, its still surface slicked like wet tar, it called like a dangerous road to those outside on a winter’s night like this. A few foolhardy adventurers bobbed in distant boats. A few stayed safe, their yellow lights close in, beaming out of the boat harbor at the Tahoe Keys.

  Paul arrived as Matt had begun unpacking his goodies. Nina got up to greet him and let herself be enveloped. Bigger than ever in his overcoat, his breath warmed her frosty cheek. He shook snowflakes off his sand-colored hair, kissed her, and held out a large shopping bag bunched at the top and tied with a red ribbon.

  "For me?"

  "Found it today in a store window. I thought of you," Paul said.

  "Should I open it now?"

  "Let’s wait until we get back to Matt’s."

  They all sat down and demolished big bowls of hot stew in about five minutes. The kids ate everything, without picking out onions or carrots for a change, starved and flushed from all the running around. Later, when the red thermos was empty, Matt got up to make camper’s coffee, boiling water in a pan over the flaming stove, and tossing grounds in to steep and settle. He filled the adults’ mugs and refreshed the kids’ hot chocolates.

  "So how was court today?" Paul said.

  "He lunged. I parried, and attacked from the side. He stepped back, and I thought I had him, but then his henchmen poured boiling oil over my head. I released the lions, and they made short work of him," Nina said. "My head is bloody, but unbowed."

  "I feel that way sometimes after a day home with the kids," Andrea said.

  "What kind of case is it?"

  "My client made a film about a girl who’s been missing from the Tahoe area for a long time. The parents and friends didn’t like the way she portrayed them in the film, and decided they wanted to stop her from distributing it. They couldn’t sue her for libel, because she didn’t lie about anything, so they sued her for invasion of privacy."

  "That’s a quaint notion," Paul said. "As if anybody has any of that in this day and age."

  "The trouble is, I think I’m on the wrong side, Paul. She couldn’t care less about the feelings of the people involved. Plus, there’s the way she looked at me today."

  "How did she look at you?" he asked.

  "Like ... she hates me. I’m used to looking for hidden motivations, you know, figuring people out as quickly as possible. Most people are pretty simple. But she’s buried deep. She’s an angry woman, and I definitely got the impression she’s turning some of that anger my way for some reason I can’t figure out. Suddenly, it’s not business between us. It’s personal."

  "Creepy," said Andrea. "Why the sudden interest?"

  Nina shrugged, and sipped from her mug.

  "What happened to the missing girl?" Paul asked. "The one in her film. Does she say?"

  "No. Tamara Sweet had some problems at home. The Tahoe police listed her as a missing person, because there’s never been any sign of an abduction or anything criminal."

  "How long since anyone has heard from her?"

  "Twelve years."

  "That’s a long time," Paul said. He was an ex—homicide detective. Nina knew what he was thinking.

  "I think that what really led to this lawsuit is my client’s idea that the girl was murdered. Not only that, she tries to link up her disappearance with three other disappearances of young women around the lake over the past decade."

  "Does she have any hard evidence?"

  "No. She insinuates, you know, Paul? And it’s hard on the parents."

  "She’ll get more exposure that way," Andrea said. "She’s just sensationalizing it so she can cash in."

  Nina said, "I’m afraid you’re right."

  Matt had been tossing wood on the fire, listening. He turned and said, "Paul, can’t you talk some sense into my sister? She’s just out of the hospital, and she’s getting mixed up in a bunch of unsolved killings—"

  "I am not, Matt! It’s just a civil case."

  "Here we go again," Matt said.

  "Matt, I’ve already decided I’m getting out of the case," said Nina.

  "We ought to be getting back," Andrea said.

  But Matt wasn’t ready to leave. "Nina, I moved up here to be left alone to raise my family," he went on. "That’s all I want out of life. Peace for my family. You and Andrea both have jobs that invite all the weirdos of the world to your doorsteps. Fine. Maybe you can’t avoid what’s out there, and maybe you shouldn’t," he said, "even if it’s a choice that makes me very uncomfortable. But I can live with it if I know that, having decided on a risky business, you use common sense. If you see trouble coming, you run."

  "I do what I can to stay safe, Matt, short of stopping the world," said Nina.

  "If that woman looks like she hates you, she probably does," Matt said.

  "I’ll be careful," Nina said.

  "When are you going to get rid of her?"

  "As soon as I can," said Nina. "I promise."

  Matt flipped the blackened logs with tongs, setting loose searing heat and loud crackles as the wood split into pieces.

  "I guess none of us are really over the shooting, Nina," Andrea said a little apologetically, to fill the conversational void that followed Matt’s speech. She held out a stick. "So, Paul, you want the last marshmallow?"

  Back at the house, the kids were tossed into hot baths, and came out flushed pink and bundled in pajamas. In the living room, by a cozy fire, Nina opened up her present from Paul, a stuffed bear with brown glassy eyes and a soft round head, a black nose and a tiny sewn-on mouth. She held it up, and Brianna made a rush for it, but Paul said, "Press on his chest."

  Oh, no. A talking bear. She pressed her thumbs into the bear’s chest. In a slow, plaintive, strangely familiar-sounding voice, it said, "Waiting ... waiting ... I’m just sitting over here in the corner waiting for you...."

  They all burst into laughter. The bear’s expression was so lonely yet expectant, and its tone was so lugubrious. Nina let Brianna press it a few more times, then she sat down on the couch with it.

  "Do you like it?" Paul said. He was standing, looking down at her. She nodded.

  "The voice is so ... unusual. They did a great job."

  "It’s a recording bear," Paul said. "You get to put your own voice on it."

  "You mean it’s you?" Andrea said. She headed for the kitchen, holding her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

  "I’m just trying to open up a dialogue," Paul said. "Press the bear whenever you want to know what’s on my mind."

  "Well. Thanks, Paul," Nina said. She walked him out to the porch.

  "Let’s go skiing tomorrow," he said. "I’m staying at Caesars until tomorrow night."

  "Skiing?"

  "You have a clean bill of health. I’ll make sure you don’t go off any cliffs."

  "Sometime soon. I have too much to do this weekend."

  "And tonight?"

  "I’m sorry," she said. "I can’t come tonight."

  He leaned in for a long kiss, closing his eyes and holding her clo
se. "Call me," he said.

  "I will."

  3

  UNWRITTEN RULES OF LEGAL PRACTICE:

  Rule 1: It’s always worse than you ever dreamed possible.

  Rule 2: The other guy lies and takes advantage.

  Rule 3: You never get a break.

  Taylor Nordholm’s mother, on the other end of the phone early Monday morning, was a reminder that there is another world outside law.

  "No concussion, not even a headache. We made him stay in bed, but he didn’t really need to. He said he tried to take Bob’s baseball cap. I hope Bob isn’t in trouble."

  "I’ll be talking with the principal this morning," Nina said, relieved.

  "Boys start getting a little crazy, testing each other and all that. The end of the latency period, and look out, adolescence is just around the corner. I’m a marriage counselor, and I can tell you, unless it gets to be a habit, your son’s not turning into a delinquent. Tell you what—I’ll talk to Taylor about inviting Bob over. Make ’em smoke the peace pipe, figuratively of course."

  "You are really being nice about this."

  "Taylor says you’re new in Tahoe. We ought to get together, have coffee or something. Sometimes the mornings really drag. Are you working?"

  "I’m a lawyer in town. That sounds good."

  A short silence on the other end suggested Mrs. Nordholm had met with the likes of her before. Nina couldn’t blame her for being a little nervous. She had already been turning over arguments to make to the principal that centered on the dastardly attack on Bobby by Mrs. Nordholm’s son.

  "Well, good luck with Mrs. Polk," Mrs. Nordholm said, apparently deciding to forgive Nina for her profession. And to repay her kindness, Nina decided to rethink her approach to the principal.

  She took two minutes for a hot shower, clean hair, pants, and a green blazer. In the kitchen she fed Bobby soft-boiled eggs and lingered with the kids over a favorite comic.

  Outside she had to wear sunglasses to prevent being blinded by the bright, fresh snow. Sports utility vehicles loaded with skis crowded the streets, filled with the beaming faces of those who had not yet broken a limb.

  Starting at nine o’clock sharp, sitting on a very small chair at the John Muir Elementary School, Nina waited. Thirty minutes later she was invited into the principal’s office, feeling naked without her briefcase.

  Mrs. Polk, a large, dark-haired woman with expensively chic tortoiseshell glasses, pointed to a chair. She didn’t go around behind her desk, but sat down with Nina at a small table stacked with Central American artifacts and toys.

  "I talked to Bob’s teacher on Friday," said Mrs. Polk. "He’s a bright child."

  "Mrs. Nordholm said Taylor was not hurt badly."

  "Taylor’s back at school. It was just a scratch. I talked to him this morning. He and Bob came into my office and apologized to each other."

  "It’s the first time Bobby’s ever been involved in an incident like this. I don’t see a major problem."

  Mrs. Polk removed her glasses and set them on the table. She wore no makeup, but her eyes had a piercing, tell-the-truth quality that must have served her well. "Oh, but he does have a problem," she said. "He’s alternately depressed and angry. He’s been acting out in the classroom. He’s had three notes sent home in the past two months."

  "Three notes?"

  The principal walked over to her desk, picked up some papers, and handed them to Nina. "Haven’t you seen these?"

  Whistling in class, must stop disruptive behavior. Shouting on playground, got in a pushing match. Failure to make up homework after absences. She had seen none of the notes, though her initials had been scrawled boldly at the bottom.

  "Oh, sure, those notes," Nina said carefully.

  "And six absences since Christmas. Does he have any health problems we should know about, Mrs. Reilly?"

  "Ms," Nina corrected automatically. "No, just the normal stuff. Minor colds and so forth." Six absences! As far as she knew, Bobby hadn’t missed a day.

  "You did sign the absence slips?" It was just the same as twenty-five years ago, when Nina had been sent to the principal, who beneath her genteel manner was the executioner, and she’d better make up a story fast....

  "Naturally. What do you think, Bobby forged them?" she said, looking Mrs. Polk right in the eye.

  "You’ll forgive me for asking, Ms. Reilly. But are there any problems at home that could be upsetting your son? For example, marital problems. A child of eleven knows more than you might think, and does tend to hear things, sometimes misinterpret things—"

  "Bobby’s had his share of changes. I’ve just been through a divorce," Nina said. "And we moved to Tahoe only last spring. And my work does take time away from him. And I was injured recently and ended up in the hospital. But he’s such a little trooper about everything—"

  "Does Bob see his father regularly?"

  "Bobby doesn’t have a father," Nina said.

  Mrs. Polk didn’t seem put off by Nina’s tone. She was a lot tougher than Nina had first thought.

  "Even though the parents don’t get along, the child still has a father," she said.

  "My ex-husband was not Bobby’s father," Nina said.

  "An earlier relationship? Bob knows this?"

  "He knows Jack—my ex-husband—is not his father. The previous relationship did not work out, and all contact with the father was cut off before Bobby was born."

  "You have never talked with him about his father?"

  "That’s a part of my life I don’t discuss with anyone."

  Mrs. Polk shook her head, opening her mouth to say something Nina did not want to hear, some sympathetic-sounding observation that would haunt Nina at night. Nina leaned forward to cut her off. "Look, Mrs. Polk. I can see your concern about Bobby’s welfare. I’ll talk to him, keep closer watch. I’m sure he’ll shape up."

  "He knows his father is a taboo subject. That’s probably difficult for a boy his age."

  Damn, she had got to Nina after all. Her words cut deep.

  "Think about opening up with your son."

  "I’ll deal with it as I see fit," Nina said, getting up, letting Mrs. Polk know the meeting was over. "Are you going to take any further action against Bobby?"

  "Not if you are willing to try to help, and his behavior improves."

  "Then thank you very much. I’m sorry, but I have an appointment and I have to go."

  Mrs. Polk stood up, shook her hand. "It’s good to meet you, Ms. Reilly. I’m sorry you are in such a hurry."

  "Mrs. Polk ..."

  "Yes, Ms. Reilly?"

  "I’m doing the best I can. My son is by far the most important thing in the world to me." Having said that, she hurried out, past the secretary, out the doors, and onto the empty schoolgrounds. Somewhere around here Bobby had a science class. She really should get more involved with the school. She would make it a point. And she would have a talk with Bobby, tonight.

  Right now, she was late to a deposition.

  That evening she had to go to a city council meeting to protest on behalf of a client whose home building plans had been rejected. When she finally arrived back at the house, the lights were out and everyone had gone to bed.

  The next day she drove Bobby to school and said she would talk to him when she got home. She stayed in the Bronco, watching him, until he was inside his classroom.

  Then she went on to her court appearance, a motion to compel discovery of information from a large accounting firm she was suing. The hearing examiner waffled; opposing counsel made fine points in that long-winded, obsequious, slightly grating style that made judges cranky; Nina waxed indignant. She won the right to some answers and lost the right to others. They would be back in court in two more months, squabbling again. The insurance company for the business had adopted a tried-and-true strategy: paper her into babbling idiocy and her client into bankruptcy.

  Her chance to talk to her son finally came at six-thirty. Under a darkening late-winter sky she pick
ed Bobby up at home and took him to a coffee shop by the Greyhound station, just across from the Stateline movie theater. They ordered burgers and fries.

  He sat across from her, fiddling with the straws he had taken from the dispenser, wearing a dark blue sweatshirt with a skateboard logo on the back. At Christmas this year he had asked for a skateboard, a hockey stick, and clothes, and had known just what brands he wanted.

  "Remember, we always take our hat off inside," she said. "And quit shooting the paper off the straws. I need to talk to you."

  He took off his baseball cap, laying it carefully on the table. Now she could see him better. The bulky clothes and black cap he wore protected him from unwelcome scrutiny. He had no room of his own and no place to himself. Maybe his hat furnished his only privacy.

  "It’s about school. I talked to Mrs. Polk. She showed me some notes from school that you never brought to me."

  He hung his head, hands still playing with the straws.

  "I couldn’t believe it, Bobby. You put my initials on the bottom and turned the notes in, didn’t you?"

  No answer.

  The cross-examiner in her was roused. She would get to the bottom of this. "Answer me."

  His face tightened in a way she had never seen before. It was as though the adult he could become, an unhappy adult trying to hold himself together, peered out at her. Suddenly overcome by compassion, she wanted to comfort him. Why had she brought him to this public place?

  Because they had no place of their own. The waitress brought them plates of food, and Nina handed Bobby the ketchup. "Go on," she said. "Speak up now. Tell me where you went."

  "I went ..."

  She sat still, tense.

  "Up to the ski lodge at Heavenly."

  "The big lodge by the parking lot?"

  He wouldn’t look at her. "Yes."

  "You went all by yourself?"

  "Yeah. Except once ... I took Troy."

  Nina groaned. "Why?"

  "What do you care, Mom? You’re so busy."

  "Come on. I’m really worried about you." She put her hand out and held his, gently touching the top of it with her fingers, trying to make a connection.