by Amanda Brown
“Serena, listen. I’m all the way up here in this hellhole. I came here for Warner. I might as well give it the old college try.”
“Will you please come home if he doesn’t come to his senses soon, Elle? Please? This is getting ridiculous.”
Elle sighed. “I’ll come home. Serena, I just took exams. I mean, I totally studied. I worked harder than I’ve ever worked before. I’ll finish this year, okay? Just trust me on this one. This interview is my last chance, and I’m giving it everything I’ve got.” Elle cradled the phone in her shoulder and walked across the room to her closet.
“Well,” Serena reconsidered, “I’ll set up my crystals for you, then. Direct some good karma your way.”
“You fruitcake,” Elle laughed affectionately. “Thanks.”
Serena squealed and splashed her Jacuzzi companion. “It’s not voodoo, you geek. Naaathan! Elle, I’ll catch up with you later, sweetie. Love you!”
“Miss you, Serena. Later.” Elle clicked the phone off and reached into her closet to pick out an interview suit.
“I’ve got to look perfect tomorrow.” She flung open her closet doors and began frantically searching for the perfect outfit. She paused at a navy Armani. Holding the suit up in front of her body, she glanced at Underdog’s reflection behind her in the three-way mirror. “Navy?” The dog curled unenthusiastically on the floor. Elle swore she saw him yawn.
“You’re right. Boring. Sarah would wear navy.” She pulled out a cheerful Chanel whose gold buttons twinkled. “Better,” she smiled. “Think pink, Underdog,” she said. Underdog breathed a contented sigh.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Josette had accommodated yet another last-minute appointment, and Elle strode in to meet Christopher Miles confident, rosy, and polished to the tips of her fingers. “Ingenue,” the Italian-suited defense attorney said to her, grinning, as he sat behind a Formica table in the law lounge and watched Elle’s legs cross under her narrow pink skirt.
Not to be outdone, Elle spoke back in French. “Comme il faut! As it should be.”
He had his own reasons for calling her in, which were trivial. “Mon petit bijou”—he smiled smoothly—“I imagined you less…sophisticated.”
She scowled. “Indeed.”
“Elle,” he explained, still smiling, “I see a lot of résumés. Never a pink one.”
“Stands out?” she said.
He nodded.
“It’s my life there, on that page.” She pointed at the résumé where it lay on the desk. “How much can you say on a page?”
“Engraved?”
“Why not? You engrave a new shipment of stationery every time your address changes, and don’t think twice about it. And then people Xerox…Xerox!” she said, grimacing. “Their résumé, the one piece of paper that must be right!” She paused, wondering if she should be talking about stationery.
“Engraved, rose-colored résumés…almost a medieval script. You could send one to the House of Windsor. If the royals were hiring sociopolitical jewelry-design majors, with awards in—”
Christopher stopped in midsentence.
“Elle, under Honors and Awards”—the lawyer leaned across the table and turned the blush paper sideways so they could both read it; Elle peered cautiously at her life-on-a-page—“you have here: Homecoming Queen, ’00; Greek Goddess, ’99…”
She smiled and traced the honors with her fingernail as he read. “President, Delta Gamma sorority, USC; Chair, Intersorority Council, USC; Spokesmodel, Perfect Tan skin products, Los Angeles.” The lawyer paused. “Spokesmodel?”
Elle shrugged. “Well, as for the awards, I took some off, you know, the older crowns. Princess of this and that. Those are the most recent.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this résumé. I had to meet you, Elle.”
“Here I am, then. Let’s talk about the job you’re going to offer me, shall we?”
“Of course,” he said, half mocking her. “What do you know about this project?”
What Elle knew she didn’t want to say. She knew, thanks to Eugenia, that Christopher Miles, a Stanford Law graduate, was a famous defense attorney, and he had a quid pro quo going with the top law schools. When he had a big case, he would provide the school with name recognition and press.
In turn, the students would provide him with limitless free research for academic credit and trial experience that would help them in later interviews.
Christopher Miles would be trying Brooke Vandermark’s case in San Francisco, and when he had turned to Stanford Law for research assistants, Dean Haus had welcomed him warmly. Over forty students had become rivals for one of the four spots on the lawyer’s defense team. If Dean Haus had rolled out anything but a red carpet, the halls of Stanford would soon be bloody anyway.
It was said that students weren’t above telling lies about the last student they saw interviewing. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but the woman you just spoke to is a manic depressive. One day without her lithium and you don’t know what could happen. I think this case might be too much for her.” Treachery started early in the ambitious.
Elle’s interest in the job was manifold.
“I’m interested in criminal-defense work,” Elle lied. “You’re defending a woman who is said to have killed her husband. That’s all I know. What else can you tell me?” she asked, sitting back in her chair.
“Brooke Vandermark,” he began after a lengthy pause, “twenty-three, sixth wife of Heyworth Vandermark, who was in failing health at seventy-four. Heart condition. It didn’t matter, though. He was shot at very close range. His health goes to motive…Brooke had just married him. Multimillionaire. His will left everything to his wife.”
Elle raised her eyebrows and leaned forward. “Blonde?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Please,” she said with an inviting wave of her manicured hand, “please continue.”
“Brooke’s been charged with the murder. There’s not a lot of physical evidence: no scuffle and no murder weapon.”
“What happened to the gun?”
The lawyer shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. The police never found it. But an eyewitness saw Brooke at the scene.”
“Eyewitness?”
Christopher nodded gravely. “Heyworth’s daughter, his only child, walked in on the gory aftermath. She was in the house…the estate…and when she came downstairs she caught Brooke covered with her father’s blood, bent over his body, trying to move it. She took Brooke completely by surprise.”
Elle drew in her breath, cringing. “What happened then?”
“The daughter says Brooke pleaded with her, but she ran into the kitchen to call the police. Brooke chased after her, begging her to stop. When the police arrived, Brooke had fainted in the kitchen. The gun was not on the scene, and the police didn’t find it in a search of the house and the grounds. So there’s no evidence to dispute the eyewitness’s testimony. Brooke’s fingerprints were all over Heyworth’s body, his blood was all over her, and she has no alibi.” After a moment the lawyer shook his head with exasperation. “Well, no alibi that holds, anyway.”
“What’s her alibi?”
“She’s a difficult one, this Brooke. When I interviewed her, she told me she was at a group meeting. A support group for Home Shopping Network addicts. Shopper Stoppers Anonymous.”
“How sad!” Elle said.
“See, according to Brooke, there were a good fifteen other people who spent all afternoon with her. However, she refuses to name them because that would reveal their addiction. So her ‘anonymous’ alibi is as good as no alibi at all.”
“Well if I, God forbid, went to a ‘Shopper Stoppers’ meeting, I sure wouldn’t want the world to know.”
Christopher Miles tapped his pen again, appearing agitated. “Well, the group members have nothing to fear. Brooke says the same thing. Apparently there are all sorts of executives, reputable types, you name it, who have this…problem. She won
’t breathe a word about who was at this meeting.”
“Of course not,” Elle stated with conviction.
“Everyone says it’s an open-and-shut case, Elle. The murder, I mean. The prosecution faces an even greater immediate challenge though. That’s what I’m working on right now, and that’s what I need my defense team to help me with.” He drummed his fat black Montblanc pen against his legal pad.
“Worse than that?” Elle marveled. Brooke’s lot sounded bad enough with the murder charge.
“Heyworth’s daughter has already presented his will for probate. Under California law, what’s known as the Slayer Statute, a will beneficiary cannot take a legacy if that beneficiary caused the death of the donor.”
“So if Brooke killed him, she’s cut out.”
“Right,” he said, and smiled.
“Why is that worse? Losing the money…that’s pretty bad, but I’d be worried about going to jail.” Elle shuddered at the thought.
“Worse from a legal standpoint. The burden of proof in a criminal prosecution is, as you know, beyond a reasonable doubt. The burden of proof in a civil case, the burden for will probate, is lower.”
“Preponderance,” Elle finished. Thanks to her Secret Angel for the Civil Procedure outline.
“Preponderance,” he repeated. “More likely than not. The plaintiff, Chutney, need only show that it is more likely than not that Brooke is guilty of the murder for purposes of defeating her gift…cutting her out of the will.”
“Who is Chutney?” Elle asked, eyes innocently careful to conceal that she already knew who Chutney Vandermark was. A Delta Gamma who, according to Margot, had a terrible nose job and was probably named after a spice.
“Oh, sorry. Chutney Vandermark. That’s his daughter, who, by the way, is a year older than Brooke.”
“Blonde?” Elle asked the lawyer.
“I’m sorry?” Christopher Miles asked, puzzled.
“Is Chutney blonde?” Elle couldn’t remember, and anyway, that could change.
“Uh, no. No. Why?” He looked at the pink homecoming queen with curiosity.
Elle knew where her sympathies lay. Smiling, she announced: “Then I am perfect for this job.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Elle beamed. “It’s my ambition. That’s why I’m in law school,” she proclaimed momentously. “One day in Legal Ethics…John…he’s very judgmental. He started this thing…” Elle got sidetracked for a moment, the enthusiasm of her public-service vision taking center stage.
“Go on,” Christopher encouraged with interest.
“We had to describe, you know, our idea of a public-service project in the law. So this girl Rebel, she has something for Native American alcoholics, and Cari…well, she just wants to send all men to the gas chamber.” Elle paused.
“When my turn came around I told the class that I was going to found the BLDF. The Blonde Legal Defense Fund. My professor read my essay to the class.”
Christopher Miles burst out laughing.
“Come on…I’m serious,” Elle frowned. “There’s a lot of antiblonde prejudice in the professional world. Believe me, I know. Not the jokes. I mean, that’s just envy, you know? Not actionable. But I was thinking about it. Look at the world’s blonde role models. Can you name a blonde president?”
He paused. “I guess not.”
“Dan Quayle. He’s the closest we’ve gotten. And look what happened to him!”
“So the Blonde Legal Defense Fund…”
“Will stand up for blondes everywhere!” Elle finished. “Public service! Starting with Brooke Vandermark.”
Christopher Miles smiled. There had been a time when he was at Stanford and had plans to fight the system, long before he accepted that all of his clients were guilty.
Elle, a minute before effusive with the reformist zeal of youth, suddenly halted and then spoke gravely, as if telling a secret. “Anyway, Brooke didn’t do it. She didn’t kill Heyworth Vandermark.”
He paused, surveying Elle with care, but skeptically. “Oh? How convenient. Do you also know who did it?”
“Chutney did it,” Elle declared, already on the side of wholesome blonde innocence.
“His daughter? What makes you so sure, Elle?” The lawyer squinted at her. It was odd to accuse the victim’s own daughter, and though Elle sounded certain, she didn’t know any facts.
“Chutney did it,” Elle said again.
“I’ve told you very little about Brooke,” he said, his voice a calm contrast to her impulsiveness. “And I really couldn’t tell you much of anything about Chutney. Neither of them has been deposed. Perhaps it would restrain your enthusiasm to know that witnesses are coming out of the woodwork already to testify against Brooke when the murder charge goes to trial after probate.”
Elle sat sullenly without responding.
“Chutney has already given statements to the police that are very damaging. I have no doubt that she will testify against Brooke. Brooke’s personal trainer, the gardener, the maid, and the interior designer, among others, are all pointing at Brooke as the murderer.”
Elle didn’t speak, but she looked offended. She folded her arms and glared as if the charges were against her personally.
“Remember, Elle,” the lawyer pointed out, more to restate the facts to himself than to debate the matter, “Chutney is the man’s daughter. She is his blood. Brooke only married Heyworth Vandermark about a year ago, and it’s pretty clear she did it for the money.”
“See, you take the wrong inference from that,” Elle protested. “A woman my age who marries a man that old on the hope that he doesn’t write her out of his will and leave it all to his daughter anyway, that’s a woman who’s willing to work for her money. That man had been married almost as many times as Larry King, for God’s sake! He knew how to file divorce papers. But he kept Brooke around. That’s honest work, hard work: keeping a rich man happy. Anyone who marries for money ends up earning it.”
Christopher looked at Elle, tapped his pen, and then scribbled something on his legal pad. Now he realized that, weird as it sounded, the girl had an inkling of a defense theory. It was more than he had heard in twenty interviews during which law students had tried to sell their legal ambitions like brokers peddling tax-deferred annuities.
“And what about Chutney?”
“Well,” Elle said, “I only know a little of the facts. But from what you’ve told me, it’s got to be Brooke or Chutney. Brooke, I tell you, was making honest money putting up with a testy old dinosaur who married and divorced on a whim. Chutney, though, the late-in-life kid: those kind think they’re entitled. They never see their parents struggle, or grow up. They just see this old lump between them and their inheritance, breathing its last intolerable breaths.”
“God, Elle, that’s pretty cynical.”
“I am from L.A.,” she said, and smiled. “Have you been to California Cafe? If you’d like to test my theory, let’s talk about it over dinner.”
“Shall we invite the other interviewing students?” the lawyer teased.
Elle glared at him. “I have this phobia. I can’t eat in company greater than two.”
“You should get that checked out. Why don’t I meet you there, say at five-thirty?”
“Why don’t you pick me up, say at six?” Elle scribbled her address and phone number on a finely lined pink sheet of paper. “Call if you get lost.” Elle crossed her fingers and turned to leave the room.
“It’s casual,” she called back from the doorway, impatient to change out of her suit.
The heat of the day was suspended in a sultry dusk, and the terrace tables at California Cafe, only recently open for outside dining, were lively with the appreciative buzz of shoppers enjoying the early hint of spring after Palo Alto’s rainy winter. Not a few garment bags lay slung over chair backs. Elle saw a Neiman Marcus bag draped across the back of a chair at the table of a lone woman who was attacking her taco salad with too much enthusiasm.
> She might have met Christopher here, instead of driving over with him, Elle thought to herself, if only she had remembered that Lancome was doing Hydradermie facials at Neiman’s. A Belgian aesthetician who had pioneered the use of mild electric currents to rejuvenate the eye and neck area was visiting the store until the week’s end. The postcard that announced this event was the one piece of unsolicited mail she had received this month that escaped an instant trashing. It was never too early to exfoliate, Elle believed.
Maybe another time, she thought. Elle folded her sunglasses and slipped them into their case, blinking with an anxious smile. She noticed soft glints of gray that streaked Christopher Miles’s dark hair about the temples. She wondered if he had been divorced, thought it likely as a matter of odds, but at the same time instinctively doubted it. He was exceedingly graceful; his gaze rested easily wherever he turned it; the air about him was that of a man who belonged. He was successful, welcome, and unhurried. He had the maturity of calm knowledge without the vinegar of hard experience. Elle had never dated an older man who did not fancy himself a young one. She did not realize until the waiter approached that she had been staring into his steady hazel eyes.
Her eyes flashed when she became conscious of herself. She looked down abruptly and busied her hands in the folds of the silk sarong that skirted her bare legs. She clicked her left heel in and out of her mule with apprehension. She felt entirely inappropriate.
Christopher’s sleeves were rolled back and his collar was unbuttoned at the neck under a loosened Hermès tie whose print featured rabbits being pulled out of top hats. He hadn’t had time to change from his suit, however. Elle remembered suggesting California Cafe specifically for its casual atmosphere, but Christopher, in his professional formality, had missed the hint. The restaurant was in the Stanford Shopping Center, for God’s sake, in a mall. Nobody wore suits in malls, she insisted to herself, gulping when she noticed the table of happy-hour revelers who might have been tax accountants, bankers, or lawyers…pinstriped to the last. Well, nobody should be wearing suits, Elle decided. If she knew anything, she knew what to wear to the mall.
