Every winter, before they lost interest, the Strickland descendants had converged on the ranch, clearing the underbrush and fixing whatever was broken, with beer and barbecue to follow. The last cookout Gail attended took place around Christmas before she was due to graduate from the university. Hardly anyone had shown up—a cousin and his wife and kids; Irene and Renee; herself and Dave, engaged to be married in the spring. Ben was there, of course, with his wife, Shirley, who would die of cancer within the year, though no one knew it then. Their two sons had already moved north. Ben wore old jeans and cowboy boots. His hair was still dark brown, just beginning to go gray.
Renee told Gail she wouldn't have come at all, except that Irene wanted to show her off a little, now that Renee had made it through two semesters at Miami-Dade Community College. Renee laughed. Big deal. Not like Miss Perfect with a three-point-eight at the U of fucking Florida. She tugged the beer out of Dave's hand when no one else was watching and tilted it back, hanging onto his shoulder. She wiped her mouth. Guess what? Ben's getting me a car. I'm not supposed to know.
After lunch Irene brought out a chocolate cake with "Congratulations" on it and Ben and Shirley gave Renee a set of car keys. Six months later, the car—a used Plymouth sedan Renee had hated at first sight—would spin out on 1-75 and slam into a retaining wall at three in the morning. The highway patrol would say it was a miracle Renee walked away from it.
But on that afternoon at the ranch, Renee squealed and jumped up and down like a little girl. As the paper plates of cake were being passed around the long wooden table, Gail casually made her announcement. Rather than accept a position in management training at Southeast Bank, she would go to law school. Follow in Ben's footsteps and eventually make as much of a contribution to the community as he had made.
Ben nodded, evidently pleased. The cousins said how brave she was. Dave stared. Renee hardly spoke to her the rest of the afternoon.
For years Gail had remembered the last cookout at the ranch with a pleasantly fuzzy sense of nostalgia. Now the scene replayed itself more clearly. She had chosen her path that day, pushed along by the worst of motives.
Eight
As soon as she sat down at her desk, Gail buzzed Miriam.
"Has Anthony Quintana shown up yet?"
"Where did you come from?" Miriam asked.
"The back way. Is he here?"
"Yes, they called me from the lobby a couple minutes ago. I'll go get him."
"No, wait." Gail pulled the Darden file to the center of her desk. "I want to make a phone call first."
Gail hit the button for an outside line and dialed Charlene Marks's number. If kisses on the cheek and flirtatious repartee in the courthouse corridor had meant anything, Charlene knew Anthony Quintana well enough to give Gail some answers.
To her relief, Charlene was actually in her office.
"No, dear, I do not have a cot at the courthouse," Charlene said with a deep chuckle. "What's doing?"
"Anthony Quintana," Gail said. "I have a question."
"Yes, he's single."
Gail laughed. "Not that question. I wonder if you could tell me what he does besides practice law. Is he connected to any businesses owned by Ernesto Pedrosa? That's his grandfather."
When she had first taken on Darden v. Pedrosa, Gail had made a few inquiries to find out who the players were. Ernesto Pedrosa was eighty-two years old, a refugee from the Cuban revolution, and about as rich as anyone could reasonably get in Miami. Along with his wife, Digna, and a few other Pedrosas who held minor shares, Ernesto owned not only Pedrosa Development but a Chevrolet dealership, a McDonald's on Calle Ocho, a strip shopping center in Hialeah, two office buildings, several hundred acres of land, and a good chunk of four banks, which he himself—a former banker in Havana—had founded. Carlos Pedrosa's name appeared on the list as manager of Pedrosa Development. Gail hadn't seen the name Anthony Luis Quintana Pedrosa anywhere. But if he had a stake in the company, she wanted to find out.
There was a long silence over the phone, then Charlene said, "I know who Ernesto Pedrosa is, sure."
"Well?" There was something Charlene wasn't saying. "Come on, Charlene. What?"
"I can't get into it. I handled Tony's divorce."
"Really," Gail said. She knew Charlene couldn't ethically talk about a client's liabilities and assets. "When was that?"
"Oh . . . about three years ago, I guess. Why do you want to know all this, anyway?"
"I have a case with him—Nancy Darden is suing Pedrosa Development, remember?"
Charlene took a moment, then said, "Oh, yeah. Our esteemed Senator Hartwell's own little princess." Gail heard a sigh over the line. She could imagine Charlene pacing back and forth with the phone clamped under her square jaw. "Well, I can tell you that Anthony Quintana is not connected to any of Ernesto's operations, including the development company. His ex-wife didn't want to believe it, but there it is."
Gail thought about that. "Why? Anthony's his grandson."
"They had some kind of falling out years ago. Ernesto is supposedly grooming his other grandson to take over. I forget his name." "Carlos Pedrosa?"
"Correct. Anyway, whatever Tony has, he made on his own, no thanks to abuelito. Ernesto's a real pissant."
Gail remembered what Ben had told her: Ernesto Pedrosa had been heavily involved in anti-Castro activities. She asked, "You don't know anything about Anthony Quintana's politics, do you?"
"Not really. I never asked."
"One more thing. Somebody suggested to me that Carlos might not be doing so well."
"Hard to believe, with Ernesto's money behind him. But you never know these days." Charlene asked, "What does Tony have to say about all this?"
"I'll ask him. Is he going to play straight with me?"
"I've never caught him in a lie, if that's what you mean." There was a pause, then Charlene added, "On the other hand, he won't necessarily tell you more than he has to."
After Gail hung up she kept her hand on the phone for a second, thinking, then yanked open a desk drawer. She kept spare makeup and a mirror inside. For any other attorney she would not have touched up her mascara but decided to be on the safe side. Cuban men were an unknown quantity.
Gail was slowly turning pages in the Darden file when she heard movement at the door to her office. She looked up.
Miriam was behind Anthony Quintana, ushering him in. Catching Gail's eye, Miriam put both hands to her own cheeks and pretended to swoon. He did look particularly well turned out, Gail thought. Dark hair gleaming. Double-breasted suit the tan of café con leche. And his shiny black briefcase with the gold clasps. When he turned to nod at Miriam, her face snapped into its usual friendly smile.
Gail frowned at her.
"Shall I close the door?" Miriam asked sweetly.
"Please." Gail rose from her chair and extended her hand across the desk. "Anthony, I'm glad to see you again." She had worn her high heels today, putting her at eye level. "Won't you have a seat?"
He smiled apologetically, still standing. "Could we talk downstairs? I noticed a coffee shop in the lobby. I had two hearings this morning and missed lunch completely. I'm famished."
On her desk was the file, with lists of construction costs she had wanted to refer to, and the contract, and revisions to the contract. She wondered how it would look spread out on the lunch counter while she perched on one of the red-covered stools.
"Leave it here," Anthony said. "I have a memo pad if we want to make notes." He dropped his briefcase into a chair.
"Well, I suppose we could do that." She glanced at his briefcase. "What is that made of?"
"This? Snakeskin. A client gave it to me." Anthony ran his fingers over the surface, then picked it up and held it out to Gail. "The last I saw of him before he jumped bail and went back to Panama. I would have preferred the rest of my fee."
The skin was surprisingly slick. Gail drew her hand back. "Tsk-tsk. I've trained my clients never to jump bail," she said.
He looked at her, amused. "Another reason I should do more civil practice."
She reached for the doorknob but he was already there, and held the door for her. "Thanks," she said. She was used to opening her own doors. Her nose quivered as she brushed past him. That cologne again.
There was no one else in the elevator. He touched the button for the lobby, then settled back against the side wall, arms spread, hands resting on the brass railing, looking at her. His jacket was open far enough to show a bit of suspender at his belt line, the same brown-and-green swirly pattern as his pocket handkerchief.
Gail glanced at the floor indicator, where the numbers were counting down in digital blue. The finer points of her argument could wait until they had ordered coffee, but they might as well go over the status of the proceedings now. She had the advantage, talking to a criminal attorney about a civil case.
She turned and opened her mouth to speak.
"How is your mother?" he asked.
"My mother?" She looked at him for a moment, then remembered Latins considered it polite to begin with inquiries about health or family before coming to the subject at hand.
"You're kind to ask about her," Gail replied. "I suppose she's as well as could be expected at this point."
He nodded. "And you?" His brown eyes were wide open, fixed on her, curious.
"We're both trying to adjust. Thank you." Gail could not imagine that his concern amounted to anything more than good manners. But she should reciprocate.
"Your parents are in Miami?" she asked.
"My mother was. She died two years ago." Then he added, "My father is still in Cuba. A small town outside Camagüey City called Cascorro." The rrrr flowed off his tongue.
Gail wondered why Quintana senior had stayed in Cuba. And if Anthony had ever been back to see him. Other questions it was none of her business asking occurred to her. She asked an innocuous one. "When did you arrive in Miami?"
"In sixty-five. I was—let's see—nearly thirteen. Speaking only Spanish, of course." He laughed. "But I could also carry on a basic conversation in Russian."
"Can you still?"
"¡Alaba' o! In my grandfather's house it was the first thing I forgot."
The elevator opened and they walked into the tiled lobby. Through the glass doors leading out onto Flagler Street Gail could see a small patch of blue sky over the department store across the street.
She said, "Here's the truth about the coffee shop in this building. They charge eight bucks for a sandwich and the waitresses are surly."
"They couldn't ruin soup."
"Yes, they could. Come on, there's a good place on Biscayne. It won't be crowded at this hour." Besides, there would be a table between them. She could not imagine sitting elbow to elbow at a lunch counter.
Anthony followed her across the lobby. "Is this what you do to weaken your opponents?"
"If you faint I'll carry you."
She bumped into his arm as he reached to push open the door. "Thank you," she said, going through first. She blinked in the sunlight. They turned left, walking eastward toward the bay. Anthony put himself between Gail and the street. Such manners.
"I am curious about something," Gail said. "What ever happened to George Sanchez?"
"He still works for Ferrer and Quintana."
"But not on this case."
"George is primarily a title examiner and real estate attorney. I'm better at trial work."
It had occurred to Gail, speaking to Charlene earlier, why Anthony might have taken Darden v. Pedrosa from George Sanchez. Estranged from his grandfather for too long, he could be using the case to get back in. If that were true, he would be more likely to settle than to risk a loss in court.
Gail said, "I suppose it's convenient for your grandfather to have a family member handling the case."
Anthony nodded. "That too." He stopped walking and touched her arm. "Excuse me a minute."
There was an umbrella cart under a clump of palm trees, a white box with two small wheels in front and bicycle tires behind, pushed by a black man in a yellow tank top. A stenciled sign on the side said "Jamaican Meat Pies." Anthony Quintana was pulling out his wallet.
He turned to Gail. "I know this man. He used to sell these in front of the Justice Building. Would you like one?"
The Jamaican—if he was Jamaican—grinned at her, a mouthful of white teeth under an orange Miami Hurricanes cap. ''What kind you want, pretty lady?''
"Not for me, thank you."
"No?" Anthony shrugged. "One only. Hot." He held out his dollar and the Jamaican gave him a semicircular piece of pastry with fluted edges, wrapped in white paper. Anthony pulled a napkin out of a metal dispenser wired to the cart.
He started walking again—slower than necessary, she thought. He said, "Have you talked to your clients?"
"Yes. Have you talked to yours?"
"Of course." The meat pie was poised at his lips. He made a little sigh of pleasure. "Riquísimo. No one else makes them like this." He bit into it, eyes half closing, leaning forward a little so nothing would drop on his suit. The pungent smell of ground beef and spices filled Gail's nose. He wiped the napkin across his mouth.
Gail fastened her eyes on the square, reddish tiles in the sidewalk.
"What do the Dardens want to do with this case?" he asked.
"They want a reasonable settlement," she said. "But let's wait until we sit down to talk about it."
"Why?" He took another bite, folding back the paper. "I can be as reasonable standing up as sitting down."
She let herself look at him a moment longer, suddenly realizing what he was doing. Anthony Quintana was flirting with her. Not overtly, just enough to distract her attention.
"All right," she said. "We won't talk about who did what to whom. The question is, what's likely to happen in a trial? Neither of us is going to come out unscathed, obviously. But Pedrosa is not in the stronger position, not on the facts, and not with Judge Coakley. Your motion for recusal won't fly. He'll stay on this case like a pit bull."
Anthony shook out his napkin and wiped his mouth again, then tossed the napkin into a trash basket. "And if we have a jury?"
"Go for it." She smiled at him. "You told me you're a real whiz with juries. But here are two things to consider. One, you've still got Coakley on the bench. And two, I probably know my way around a civil courtroom better than you do."
He stopped walking and the crowd parted, moving past them on the sidewalk. The sun cut across his face, casting shadows, making his skin glow as if polished. "Then perhaps we should say to hell with settlement and go to trial, yes? What do you think?"
What she thought was that he would not have used that tone of voice with a male attorney. She leveled her gaze at him. "Fine. Go to trial. If you're sure you really want to take that chance."
"Would you cut me into little pieces?" Anthony gave her a slow smile. "What would it be like, I wonder, to fight in court with you?"
Before she could think of a tart response, he shook his head and began to walk. "No, I don't have the time," he said. "Civil cases last too long and I lack the patience for them." His hands accented his words as he spoke. "In criminal law, at least, the issues are clearer and your cases are over quickly, most of them. Even the murder cases rarely take more than a year."
"You told me you were going to give that up," she said.
"Did I? No, I did not mean give it up entirely. I like my criminal practice." "Are you good at it?"
"Yes. I generally win the cases that should be won and arrange suitable pleas for the rest of them."
"But your clients. Murderers, rapists, drug dealers—"
"They are not always guilty—not of what the state charges them with. Not even the murderer who pulls the trigger."
"Why not? The victim is dead"
"Gail, I am surprised." He looked at her, enjoying this. "What is the motive? Momentary rage or cold premeditation? If I persuade the jury it was the former, I save my client's neck. An
d besides, who can draw a clean line between guilt and innocence? Even in a criminal trial the result is often only a guess. In life, everyone is guilty of something."
"That's rather cynical."
"Not at all. Look at your clients, the bankers and businessmen—do you always believe the purity of their motives?"
She had to laugh a little at that. "Mr. Quintana, you are representing the businessman in this case, not I. He's the big developer who doesn't care if the construction is shoddy as long as he makes a profit. How innocent do you think Carlos Pedrosa is going to appear to Judge Coakley? Or to a jury of other home owners?"
Anthony slowed his steps, his face lighting up as if her argument were a Jamaican meat pie and he were going to finish it off. "Well. . . Ms. Connor . . . when I introduce into evidence each one of the seventy-three change orders requested—no, demanded—by your clients, then the jury may get a more accurate picture."
They rounded the corner at Biscayne Boulevard. A gust of wind flattened Gail's skirt, then swirled it to her thighs. She pushed it back down, then noticed Anthony Quintana's eyes lifting from her legs.
She kept her skirt gathered in one hand. "Then I suggest we go ahead with the depositions next week. I'm particularly eager to meet Carlos."
"But you have met him, no?" Another gust of wind opened Anthony's jacket. His tie remained securely in place, pinned by a gold tie tack.
"No," she said. "I certainly would have remembered."
"He came to the visitation for Renee."
"Carlos Pedrosa?"
"Yes, just before I arrived."
Gail frowned. "I saw a man in the parking lot. You spoke to him. He was driving a silver Mercedes. About thirty, with a beard?"
"That was Carlos."
"I thought he was a client of yours."
Anthony laughed. "You should tell him that."
"Sorry," Gail said.
"Does it surprise you he was there?"
"I suppose not, if he and Renee knew each other. You were there." She walked for a while, remembering Carlos Pedrosa swinging his keys around his forefinger in the parking lot, grinning at her. She wondered how well he had known Renee.
Suspicion of Innocence Page 12
