Legally Blonde

by Amanda Brown

  Elle’s heart leaped. “Magnifique.” She smiled. “You won’t regret it.” She felt impulsively like making a pitch for Warner, but decided not to push her luck. Either way, she was a winner. If he got the job, she’d finally get some time with him. If he didn’t, she thought impishly, who would be the “serious” lawyer then?

  Christopher leaned back in his chair, folding his hands and squinting thoughtfully. “I’d like you to meet Brooke soon. She’s moving up to San Francisco to be closer to my office, and to get away from L.A., from the memories.”

  “And the rumors,” Elle added.

  The lawyer nodded. “Keep up on those rumors, Elle. Rest assured I’ll be mining your brain constantly between now and the trial date.”

  Elle gazed gratefully at Christopher Miles. She had never heard herself and her brain mentioned together in a sentence without a punch line.

  Chapter Thirty

  Eugenia called when she returned early from her visit home and promised Elle she had significant news that she must relay in person. Though Elle was impatient to tell Eugenia more about Christopher Miles on the phone, she accepted her friend’s congratulations and agreed to meet her on Stanford’s main campus with Underdog in tow.

  She hung up the phone, threw on one of Warner’s old sweatshirts, and put Underdog’s collar on, all the while wondering what the news could be.

  Underdog ran to meet Eugenia. Elle didn’t recognize her friend at first. She was wearing a ribbed white mock turtleneck sweater of a beautiful cashmere. The contrast made her blue-black bob resplendent. Her nose was chapped with a fading ski tan.

  “Warholesque!” Eugenia said, and winked.

  Elle gripped Eugenia in an excited hug. “You look gorgeous,” she said. “Very Liv Tyler.” Eugenia blushed happily. Though Elle would rather she had highlighted her ash-blonde hair, she had to admit that against Eugenia’s flawless ivory complexion and her blue eyes, her newly black hair was stunning. Elle had thought many times about bringing Eugenia under the masterful painting hand of Che-Che at Savoir-Vivre, but she knew Eugenia labored under the debt of heavy student loans and avoided putting her friend in an uncomfortable position. She had found a good colorist, wherever she had gone. “You look gorgeous!” Elle repeated. “Did you get it done while you were home?”

  “I did!”

  “What gave you the nerve to do it?”

  “I went to Vermont knowing that I was going to break up with Kenneth, and I wanted to look my best.”

  Elle grinned at her steely friend with admiration. “Better to drop the ax than to suffer it, I guess.”

  “He wanted us to get married,” Eugenia said with disgust.

  “Eugenia!” Elle felt the melancholy that usually afflicted her with any mention of someone else’s marriage. “Why don’t you want to marry him? He was your college sweetheart!”

  “Elle,” Eugenia chided, amused with her friend’s sensitive naïveté, “we went to Yale, remember? Nobody has a college sweetheart at Yale. People don’t even date. They just go out drinking in groups and sleep together at night because it’s freezing cold.”

  “Gross.” Elle wrinkled her nose, finding a new reason for distaste with the Ivy League.

  “He told me I broke his heart,” Eugenia said with pride, “and I told him it was never mine to break.”

  “Saucy,” Elle said. “I thought you missed him.”

  “No, but MCI sure will.” Eugenia shrugged. “I guess now he’s neither friend nor family. No more long-distance love for me. I can’t believe I spent so much time on the phone with him in the first place. All he talked about was college and our college friends. He’s boring, Elle.”

  “We’ll have to get you out on the scene,” Elle began, but she halted with the quick recollection that she had no social life in Palo Alto. “If you don’t mind the trip to L.A.,” she said.

  “That’s the other thing I need to tell you,” Eugenia said. She was smiling. “Come here.” She motioned to the bench of a picnic table and sat down across from Elle, gathering Underdog in her arms. “My favorite laptop,” she said, stroking the dog’s ears.

  “Underdog missed you!”

  “Remember the writer I told you about? The one that I met at the Slack and White Ball? The one who kept calling me?”

  “Coerte,” Elle said, intentionally drawing his name out in an affected manner. “It would be hard to forget, since you haven’t stopped talking about him since.”

  “Changed names aside, he seems really cool. I’ve talked to him a lot, and now that I’m Kenneth-free, I’m going out with him tonight.”

  “That’s great! Where are you guys going? A poetry reading or something?”

  “No, you’re gonna like the name of the restaurant he picked. The Elite Cafe. Maybe he’s more for you!”

  “Well, I can’t wait to meet him, but I’m going to be pretty booked up with this internship. I was going to ask you about Nexis, that on-line thing.” Elle looked embarrassed.

  Eugenia arched a surprised eyebrow.

  “Really,” Elle continued, “I want to read all of the articles about the case. I don’t want to miss a word. I’m going to help Brooke Vandermark.”

  “We can go over to the law library and I’ll show you now,” Eugenia offered, but her tone was hesitant and insincere.

  “Not on your life,” Elle said. “Here.” She patted the picnic bench. “Put out your hand.”

  Wondering what her hand had to do with Nexis, Eugenia removed her hand from Underdog’s head and placed it on the table with an open palm.

  “Flip it over,” Elle directed, fishing in her overstuffed bag. “There, Cotton Candy. I jumped the gun a bit on summer nail polish, but it’ll flatter your skin tone. And pastels are all the rage this season.”

  “No way!” Eugenia drew her hand back to the appreciative Underdog. “The only pastel I’ll wear will be the horrible bridesmaid dress you pick out when you marry Warner.”

  “Then you’ll be wearing red-black for a while. I’ve got a bottle of Urban Decay Gash at my condo. Fashion is rich with alternatives.”

  “If you’re as much help to Brooke as you are to me, she’ll skate,” Eugenia said. “Look, today I’m newly single and about to be manicured, with a gorgeous dinner companion for tonight. Not bad for a struggling law student.”

  “Struggling? I wouldn’t have made it through exams if it weren’t for you, forgetful,” Elle said. “Let’s hit the Woods Salon.”

  “The Woods Salon. It’s got a nice ring,” Eugenia said.

  “Sarah’s got the nice ring!” Elle said quickly, clipping Underdog’s leash onto his collar.

  Eugenia paused, folding her arms across her chest and gazing at the academic village that housed such diverse dreams. Warner was so pitifully ordinary. “If I were you”—she looked past Elle as she spoke—“nothing in the world could make me trade places with Sarah Knottingham.”

  Elle followed Eugenia’s stare to the buildings around the empty park where they stood. “Eugenia, a month ago I would have given anything to be just like Sarah.”

  “And now?”

  Elle sat back down on the bench and dropped her chin into her hands without speaking. After a moment, she lifted her head and tapped her fingernails briskly on the wooden table. She drew a deep breath. “Now I’ve finished exams, and I studied my heart out, and when I took my first breath clear of that dungeon, I felt like I had passed. I’ve got an internship that’s worth more to me than a week in Aspen with Serena. Now I’ve got somebody with her fortune and her freedom in the balance and an opportunity to help her. And I’m working for a respected lawyer who listens to what I think, and spends a whole dinner keeping his hands to himself.” Elle halted, surprised by her own words. “I’ve got a lot ahead of me,” she said.

  Eugenia nodded her head quietly, then broke into a grin. “I’ve just got a date ahead of me and I’m pretty excited.”

  “You’ll have to tell me every detail tomorrow,” Elle said. “I’ve forgotten w
hat a date is like. I’ll be at home, picking out my outfit for tomorrow’s meeting with Christopher Miles.”

  Nervous and excited to see Christopher Miles again, Elle was the first to arrive the next morning. When Warner took the seat next to her, Elle blushed nervously, her heart pounding with excitement.

  “Warner!” she said. “I’m so glad to see you.” She gave him what he used to call her “megawatt” smile, glad she had chosen to wear her red cashmere twinset. Marie Claire was right, red was a “confidence color.”

  Sarah was Brooks Brothered from head to toe in a navy knee-length skirt-and-jacket ensemble worn with an ivory-colored high-necked silk blouse and sensible navy heels. Padding like a dog behind Warner, she entered the room, pulled a chair close to him, and linked her arm into his with a nod in Elle’s direction.

  “Sarah,” Elle said curtly.

  Cari Zellwether entered next wearing a black wool double-breasted blazer with huge square shoulder pads over a severe knee-length dress. Her short straight hair was parted at the side and pulled tightly back at the nape of her neck with a plain rubber band. After a brusque general hello, she sat and opened a huge black briefcase from which she pulled out a casebook. Placing it in her lap, she began scanning the highlighted pages with a busy air.

  Elle shifted uncomfortably. The February issue of Harper’s Bazaar had a retrospective on Bergdorf Goodman ball gowns through the ages. To keep up appearances, Elle left the magazine in her bag, removing a pink legal pad instead. She clicked her heel against the tiny chair leg, feigning inattention to the chummy conversation between Sarah and Warner.

  Until Christopher Miles arrived, the couple noisily compared class schedules, Cari scribbled notes in her casebook, and Elle counted the lines on her legal pad with a vacant stare.

  The lawyer swept across the tiny interview room, offering apologies for keeping them waiting and shaking hands with the four students in turn.

  “You’ve all been notified that there are no more interviews,” Christopher said, “so relax. You’ve made it.” Elle traced a design on her paper to avoid staring at Warner, whose hand Sarah was clasping excitedly.

  The lawyer continued with enthusiasm. “Out of the forty or so applicants I interviewed, I’ve chosen the four of you to work with me on this case. None of you have gotten your first semester grades back, so you might be wondering why you were selected. We’re in confidence, so permit me to tell you exactly why.”

  Christopher surveyed the room. “Cari, your particular interest is criminal law, and I see that you’ve worked in some clinics. This will be good experience for you if Brooke is brought up on murder charges, which I think will happen soon.

  “Sarah, I went to law school with your father. If you’ve got half of his work ethic, you could try this case yourself.

  “Warner, your father and I go all the way back to prep school. And I didn’t want to get accused of working with only beautiful women!”

  Warner and Christopher snickered together, Cari scowled, and Sarah smiled sweetly, glad to be called “beautiful.”

  “And Elle…”

  Everyone, including Elle, looked curiously at Christopher Miles. She wondered if he’d mention their dinner, which she knew Sarah and Cari, at least, would regard with suspicion. To her relief, he spoke in innocent generalities.

  “You said something to me in your interview that reminded me of an axiom by Oliver Wendell Holmes…one that I have always considered to be the bedrock of my criminal defense practice. Justice Holmes said, wisely, ‘To look at the law you must look at it as a bad man.’”

  Cari cleared her throat so Christopher would add “or woman,” but the lawyer didn’t notice her protest. “Do you recall what you said about my client, Elle?”

  “She didn’t do it,” Elle said nervously. “I told you that.”

  Christopher nodded. “You said you felt sorry for Brooke and you asked me if she was a blonde.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and Cari looked angrily at Christopher Miles, who she thought was flirting with Elle.

  “She is.” Elle smiled. “I knew she was. I could tell. Any twenty-three-year-old married to a seventy-four-year-old with a heart condition is a blonde, I guarantee it.”

  Christopher Miles grinned broadly.

  “Elle, I have a feeling you will be able to identify with my client. Maybe you will understand her…predicament. I’d like you to sit in on the next deposition in the case so you can meet Brooke yourself. It’s next week.”

  The lawyer pulled a file from his soft-sided camel-colored leather briefcase.

  “I have some research questions that I’d like the rest of you to get started on,” Christopher said, laying several papers in a thin pile on the table. “We’re on a tight schedule, so don’t waste a minute. Elle, call my secretary, Mia, on Monday for the deposition schedule.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  If it weren’t for that interview, Elle thought, gazing exhausted at the clock on the classroom wall, there is no way I’d be sitting here at this hour of the morning. What a waste of my only elective.

  Maybe it was his eyes, or maybe his tone, which shifted from gentle to firm without being intimidating. Probably the eyes, Elle laughed to herself. The eyes have it. She trusted Christopher Miles and believed him that she could help on Brooke’s case.

  She thought she understood Brooke and Chutney. At the very least, she knew where they came from. Chutney was far from the only girl in Los Angeles with a stepmother younger than she was. Elle was familiar with the way these people lived, and Christopher, at least, seemed to take her perspective seriously. She laughed at the irony: it was the first time she had considered that Sarah’s narrow, field-hockey world put her at a disadvantage. Elle could tap the Los Angeles rumor mills with a phone call. She could find out the name of Brooke’s gardener, every ingredient of her grazing diet, every step of her aerobics regime. Could Sarah do that?

  Elle watched glumly as Professor Gilbreath walked from the board up the stairs to the back of the classroom. Her hopes were momentarily raised, thinking that he might be leaving.

  The gaunt professor pulled the door closed with more force than appeared natural for his frame. Turning to the class, he began his first-day intimidation routine.

  “This door shuts promptly at nine. If it opens again before nine-fifty, it will be because I open it. Not you. No late arrivals; no excuses. If any of your friends are considering adding into this class, please pass the word along to them.”

  Elle doubted anybody who was not already present would decide on a whim to take a class about dead people at nine o’clock in the morning. Especially with Professor Gilbreath, the Grim Reaper of black humor. Elle would need her afternoons free for the internship, so she was stuck waking up to “Death with Gilbreath.”

  Satisfied that the door was secure, the scarecrow walked back to the podium. “Welcome.” Indicating the door, he explained, “I don’t like my monologue to be interrupted.”

  Who does he think he is, Jay Leno? Elle wondered.

  “This class is about two things,” Gilbreath began. “Death, number one. Death.” He paused, surveying the room’s quiet audience. “Number two is money. This class is about death and money.”

  Professor Gilbreath smiled. A brave laugh erupted somewhere behind Elle, which she guessed was probably Michael’s. He would surely tell his diabolical sweetheart Cari to sign up for Death with Gilbreath. Elle suspected this class was going to turn into a bad replay of The Munsters.

  “First, let’s talk about money.”

  Elle did not join the excited laughs of a scattering of would-be ambulance chasers. The humor of greed was pretty well worn, considering that every class, from the spills and bills of Torts to the kills and bills of Criminal Law, could boast the same theme.

  “There are three ways to make money,” continued Professor Pallbearer. “You can earn it, inherit it, or marry it. I’ve done all three. If you’re a wills lawyer, you can earn it whenever other people inherit
it.”

  Better off marrying it, Elle mused wistfully.

  “A wills lawyer sees people at their ugliest. The cases you will read in this class all concern the two things that awaken abhorrent qualities lying buried within the human spirit. Those two things, class, are…”

  “Death and money,” several students answered promptly.

  “Very good. Now”—the professor smiled—“we can talk about death. This class will be your easiest class, because it is based entirely on a single rule.”

  Furious keyboard pecking subsided as students prepared to capture the Rule.

  “Dead people can’t own money.”

  Elle remembered Warner’s grandmother and wished that she could take her whole infernal fortune to her grave.

  Professor Gilbreath stepped back from the podium. “That rule is the heart and soul of the law of wills. Dead people can’t own money.” The room was silent as he gathered papers casually and turned to leave. “That’s all I have for today.”

  The blunt professor walked to the door. “Any questions?”

  Nobody dared.

  “Very good. See you tomorrow at nine, then.”

  Elle glanced at the wall clock, which read 9:11. She had prejudged Gilbreath. This could turn out to be her favorite class.

  Elle decided to make a rare morning appearance in both Wills and Property this morning in case Christopher asked her about law school on the way to Los Angeles.

  She was uncomfortable having skipped Property class all week, concerned that a property-law issue might be important in the buzzards’ fight to dish out the Vandermark estate. When she got to Property class she seated herself in the safest back corner of the room.

  All four feet eleven of Whitman Hightower, Barrister, disappeared behind the podium. “He should have stayed at Oxford,” Elle muttered. In his first lecture, Hightower had directed the class to refer to him as Barrister, his proper title as a counselor admitted to the King’s Court of Exchequer.