Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  At the office, the Strong case ate up more and more of her time as the prelim approached, and yet she coasted through the difficult juggling act required to keep her caseload balanced. The fee from Mrs. Geiger’s case stabilized her wildly swinging finances, and Jim had also paid his monthly bill.

  The question at the preliminary hearing would be whether there was enough evidence to hold Jim for trial, and Collier didn’t have to show much. He would meet his burden of going forward using Doc Clauson and the fiber findings even without Heidi’s statement, unless she put on a defense that offered a compelling innocent explanation.

  She thought she could do that. She had Tony Ramirez, and Ginger, and a geologist named Tim Seisz from the University of Nevada all getting ready to testify. Tim had already called to tell her he thought the patterns on the skin in the autopsy photos were as likely to be natural as man-made.

  She wanted a dismissal badly. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might be able to pull it off. She knew from experience how Collier would put on his case. He would build it fact by fact, just like he played Monopoly, until he had staked a claim to just about the whole board. But he wouldn’t have the big blue properties, those would be hers, and she would try to take him there, to where her big hotels waited to bankrupt him.

  She repeated the names of her hotels to herself. Gene Malavoy. Marianne Strong.

  She would have made a lousy prosecutor, but she was perfectly suited for the defense attorney’s role of spoiler.

  She thought these thoughts during the day, but her mind kept sliding away from the fact that she and Collier were in a critically important competition—surrealistic, as though Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield had been secret lovers who fought for the championship and then went home to each other. Would Tyson have given Holyfield a little squeeze and said, sorry about the earlobe, baby; you know it’s all part of the game?

  Collier was acting as a co-counsel with Barbara Banning on a robbery and assault case at the moment, and Nina would glimpse him coming and going in the courthouse hall, or see him talking in a knot of people on the pathway to his office. Always, their eyes met, and she would see in those eyes his swift, violent embrace.

  Twice, she had to talk to him on the phone. She pretended—he pretended—they stayed within their roles, models of professionalism. But when she hung up she would pace around the office like a dingo in heat, the timbre of his voice bringing her right back to his bed in her thoughts. How should she treat him at the prelim?

  About ten days after Jim’s arrest, on Friday night, Nina left work early. At the house, they had a quick dinner. She packed herself and Bob into coats and mittens.

  ‘‘Where are we going?’’ Bob asked as they started up the road to Paradise.

  ‘‘Ever heard of the Festival of Lights?’’ asked Nina, who had not, until she met Marianne. She wanted to do something with Bob before he left, but as usual she had more than one purpose. She wanted to have another look at Marianne, maybe catch her off guard. Marianne had told Tony she didn’t want to talk to him.

  ‘‘The Festival of Lights? Uh uh.’’

  ‘‘It’s a snowboard exhibition,’’ said Nina.

  ‘‘All right! Like the one at Sierra-at-Tahoe?’’

  ‘‘Um. I don’t know. What do they do there?’’

  ‘‘It’s in March. The G-Shock North American Championships. It’s part of a three-event tour that starts in Colorado next month.’’

  ‘‘And how do you know that?’’

  ‘‘Taylor. He’s getting a snowboard for Christmas. He’s gonna let me borrow it. Unless I get really lucky and Santa brings me one.’’ He gave Nina a hopeful look.

  ‘‘I think this is more like . . . a fun local event than a competition.’’ She pulled out a brochure she had picked up at the grocery store and handed it to him.

  Bob sat back against the seat to read it, twisting his muffler. Flipping it over he read out loud, ‘‘ ‘Featuring multiple disciplines, including big-air, snowboard cross, and half-pipe.’ ’’

  ‘‘They’re doing all that tonight?’’

  ‘‘It says so right here!’’

  ‘‘So what is a half-pipe?’’

  ‘‘You have this machine called a Pipe Dragon that chisels out a U-shaped launching pad. It really cuts. People can make a lot of money riding, y’know,’’ Bob said, studying the pictures.

  ‘‘Oh?’’ said Nina. ‘‘How is that?’’

  ‘‘They give out prizes. Over three hundred thousand dollars for all the events at the G-Shock. Taylor wants to go professional. We’re gonna learn switchstance frontside three sixty’s. By the end of this winter, we’ll be whompin’.’’

  ‘‘Is that so.’’

  The parking lot brimmed with cars. They parked at the far end and used flashlights to guide the way until the lighting picked up as they approached the lodge.

  ‘‘Oh, this is great,’’ Nina said. Soft yellow bulbs looped in tree limbs shimmered like candles. On both sides of a slope near the lodge, grandstands had been set up. White spotlights lit a ramp on one side. Already, people dressed as colorfully as tropical birds swooped and spilled down the slope.

  Up high in the bleachers, they found a good vantage point. Piped-in music began playing, the slopes cleared, and a woman announcer sputtered through the loudspeakers, announcing names and events.

  First, a series of young men did stunts off the ramp, which resembled the kind pro ski jumpers used. However, there were no tight tucks and long graceful rides for these guys. According to Bob, who talked continually in his excitement, they landed fakie, took hits, and rode goofy foot, in addition to fly swatting, getting good air and patting the dog, which involved stooping down to touch the ground with one hand. One spectacular fall rated a terse whistle from Bob and an epitaph. ‘‘He spanked off too soon. Ooh. Egg beater time.’’

  Marianne showed up in the second group, and it was clear that these people were far more experienced than the preceding performers. There were no more egg beaters churning up snow in this bunch. Even Bob held his tongue to behold the stars of the snow.

  Marianne went last, taking three runs, each one individual, each one more death-defying than the last. Her body shot the board through the half-pipe, and in a tightly choreographed series featuring controlled acts of wizardry, she danced like a fairy just slightly above the snow, all the way down the hill. After the final run, she kicked up powder just inches shy of the grandstands, gave a wave, and shot off into the night, while the crowd cheered wildly, standing to give her the biggest applause of the evening.

  ‘‘What an athlete,’’ said Nina, standing and stretching, thinking she was such a powerful young woman, agile, fast . . .

  ‘‘Bob, stay here for a minute.’’ She climbed down the bleachers and set off through the snow to the crowd of people who had gathered around Marianne. But the crowd was already dissipating, and Marianne had slipped away. The announcer was saying good night and the people in the stands were beginning the long hike back to the parking lot.

  Then Nina saw her arguing with someone in the darkness under the farthest grandstand, still holding her helmet, feet apart, her free hand making swift downward stabs in the air. Who was with her? She let a chattering group sweep her close and then stopped at the other end. It was freezing and dark under there, slats of light shining through the gaps in the seats.

  ‘‘Tais-toi!’’ They were speaking French, practically shouting, which didn’t matter as no one else was around. Nina lurked behind them, trying to remember her high school French in the torrent of words. Marianne’s companion was so tall he was stooping a little. Nina could see the outline of a long angular face, long hair. In spite of his size he sounded like a teenager.

  She heard the word ‘‘Jim.’’ She could only pick up a word here and there. The young man was accusing Marianne of something having to do with Jim and kept saying, ‘‘It’s mine, too! For when we go back to France!’’

  Suddenly Marianne put her
hands up on his chest and pushed him, actually knocking him backward a step or two. ‘‘Shut up!’’ she said again, switching to English. ‘‘You’re only here because of me! Look at the trouble you’ve caused! You’re drunk right now! Don’t lie about it, I know! Why should I go back with you? Go into business with you? Hah! Listen, I’m in charge now!’’

  For a moment the boy just stood where he’d been pushed.

  ‘‘No, Jean—look, I’m sorry,’’ Marianne said, putting her arms up. His head jutted forward on his neck, and although Nina couldn’t see his face, she read blind rage in the way his fists came up.

  ‘‘No!’’ Marianne cried. He jumped at her and started pummeling her, socking her in the body like a little kid might go at his mother. She was so small compared to him that his body blocked all view of her.

  Nina started to run forward, but then the boy emitted a sharp cry and jumped away, clutching his arm.

  ‘‘You cut me!’’ he yelped.

  Marianne slipped something into her pocket. Nina hung back again, hardly breathing. While the boy took off his parka and examined his arm, Marianne calmly began dusting herself off.

  ‘‘Let me see that,’’ she said. ‘‘Idiot.’’ She took his arm and their voices lowered to a murmur and switched back to French. His voice had taken on a whimpering tone, while Marianne’s tone had become soothing.

  The show was over. Nina edged away and went looking for Bob.

  The boy was Gene Malavoy, she was sure of that. He wanted to ‘‘go into business’’ with Marianne, but he seemed a lot closer to Marianne than a prospective business partner.

  Tony could find out more. Nina waved at Bob and walked toward the lights. For some reason, she was smiling, shaking her head.

  It was Marianne, the way she had treated the boy. She was definitely the boss. Like Mrs. Geiger, she was as tough as rawhide when it came to defending herself.

  Nina’s moment of amusement faded away. They were violent, impulsive, dangerous people, both of them, and they had powerful reasons for wanting control of Alex’s shares in the resort.

  ‘‘Let’s go,’’ she told Bob. She put her arm around him and they walked past the groups of laughing, carefree people toward the Bronco.

  Sandy came in late on Monday with a self-satisfied look on her face, carrying a paper bag with a lot of envelopes in it. Clearly, something good had happened.

  ‘‘So what’s new?’’ Nina said. She was in the conference room, pouring freshly foamed milk into the soup bowl she called a coffee cup, getting buzzed for a deposition in a medical malpractice case that was scheduled for nine A.M. Her mind wasn’t on it. She was still mulling over the significance of the argument she had overheard at the Festival of Lights. She had already called Tony.

  Sandy continued the ritual of putting away her coat, pulling out her chair with the lumbar pillow just so, and descending as slowly as a bathysphere into it.

  ‘‘I’ve been wondering about Joseph,’’ said Nina.

  ‘‘Were you now?’’

  ‘‘You said you used to live with him.’’ These promptings had yielded no information in the past, but today Sandy seemed ready to talk.

  ‘‘I was married to him. For fifteen years.’’

  ‘‘Is—he—Wish’s father?’’

  ‘‘Yep.’’

  ‘‘What happened?’’

  ‘‘Irreconcilable differences,’’ said Sandy. There was something wickedly satirical about Sandy’s use of this vague legal phrase used as the grounds for almost all divorces in California. It was her way of answering, none of your business.

  ‘‘So you’re moving in together?’’

  ‘‘Uh huh.’’ Sandy turned on the computer. ‘‘You checked the answering machine yet?’’ she said, keeping her eyes on the blue screen with its smiling apple.

  ‘‘Sure did. So how’s it going? Your relationship?’’

  ‘‘The depo still on?’’

  ‘‘Yes, the depo’s on.’’

  ‘‘Because I put the file on your desk.’’

  ‘‘That’s fine. What about Joseph?’’

  ‘‘What about him?’’

  ‘‘My question exactly.’’

  Now the CD player went on. A few tentative guitar chords, the Rio audience yelling, ‘‘Mas forte!’’ Louder! Botelho went into his first samba number for the ten-thousandth time, and then . . .

  ‘‘Ah,’’ Sandy said. She began to sing along with the music. ‘‘Love takes its rhythm from the sea, seeking and leaving eternally.’’ Her voice sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, but Nina appreciated the sentiment.

  ‘‘It’s love, huh?’’

  ‘‘It better be. Since we were moving back in together, we decided we might as well get married next week. Again.’’

  ‘‘Well! Congratulations!’’ Nina said when she had found her tongue.

  Sandy reached in the bag and handed her one of the envelopes. ‘‘You can come if you want,’’ she said. Inside, a white card announced the wedding of Sandy and Joseph at a home near Markleeville on Thanksgiving Day. It was such a plain little card, plain and simple and really quite dignified, like Sandy.

  Nina felt herself getting all choked up. Sandy was getting married—to Wish’s father—it was all so romantic . . .

  ‘‘Look, I’m not gonna quit,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘So get hold of yourself.’’

  ‘‘Well, that’s great. Great news. I’d love to come. Oh, shoot. Bob will be in Germany.’’

  ‘‘Bring along the boyfriend if you want.’’

  ‘‘Can I help with anything? You know, the arrangements?’’

  ‘‘Just show up.’’

  ‘‘I really wish you—and Joseph—all the best, Sandy.’’

  ‘‘He’s a good old man. He’ll do me fine. Now we better get to work.’’

  Only when the day was over, and Sandy was turning off the lights as they headed out into yet another snowfall, did Nina think to ask, ‘‘Why did you decide to get married on Thanksgiving, Sandy?’’

  ‘‘We thought it would be about right. It’s a big Native American holiday, after all,’’ Sandy said.

  ‘‘Hmm . . . I never thought about Thanksgiving that way.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah. It marks a very special day in Native American history. Remember, the Pilgrims were starving, so the Indians gave them seed and taught them how to plant. So at harvest time the Pilgrims had plenty of food and survived the winter.’’

  ‘‘I remember. From fourth grade.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. The Indians still talk about the day of the big feast. We even have our own name for it. We call it the Hey You Guys Day.’’

  ‘‘I never knew that.’’

  ‘‘Mmm-hmm . . . The Indians came, bearing gifts, and they sat down with the Puritans and everybody ate plenty of corn and turkey, and after dinner the Puritan governor belched and took another pull on the peace pipe and turned to Chief Massasoit and said—’’ Sandy paused.

  ‘‘What? He thanked them? What?’’

  ‘‘He said, ‘Hey you guys, you can get started clearing the table now.’ ’’

  15

  ‘‘I DID A thorough examination the first time around. Went to the site, performed the autopsy, spoke with the defendant about what happened. Looked like an accident to me.’’

  Doc Clauson’s testimony so far had more holes in it than a Moscow theater curtain. He had shown up at the courthouse visibly nervous in his trademark red bow tie and Nina had caught him smoking in the sun outside the courthouse. Collier was questioning him right now, trying to explain away that first report that called Alex’s death an accident.

  To the left of the witness box, Judge Flaherty took notes, pinched his pouchy cheeks thoughtfully, and stared out into space, communing with the spirits. He would decide in the next day or two if the charges against Jim would stand.

  ‘‘And then what happened?’’ In his navy jacket and gray pants, Collier had the look and resolute attitude of a military man on
a mission, like a true officer of the court. He had come in early like Nina and set up his files, stopping only to say Hi with utter impersonality, never letting so much as a change in the rhythm of his breathing indicate that he felt any different about her than any other defense attorney.

  Due to the sunny weather, the conviction that she had a defense, or the dreamless sleep of the night before, Nina felt less nervous than usual herself. She felt more like predator than prey, reckless, almost high spirited.

  ‘‘I received additional information,’’ Clauson was answering.

  ‘‘Go on.’’

  ‘‘A statement by the defendant’s wife.’’

  Jim, sitting beside Nina, nudged her. She nudged back, saying, ‘‘Objection,’’ at the same time. ‘‘The contents of any such statement are hearsay and inadmissible.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t asked him the contents yet, Judge,’’ Collier protested.

  ‘‘You will,’’ Nina said.

  ‘‘As a matter of fact, I would like to put the statement in evidence, Judge, so we might as well argue it,’’ Collier went on. He handed Nina and the judge’s clerk copies of Heidi Strong’s statement.

  ‘‘If the Court reads the statement, since the Court is deciding the facts without a jury, the damage is done,’’ Nina said. ‘‘The information has entered the judicial, uh, sphere. Therefore, I request that the Court decide the defense’s objection without reading the statement.’’

  ‘‘Now how can I do that, counsel?’’ Judge Flaherty said.

  ‘‘I will stipulate that a statement was made to the South Lake Tahoe police on or about October 24th, that the statement was made by Heidi Strong, and that it deals with an alleged conversation between Heidi Strong and her husband, the defendant herein. Under the rules of evidence, Your Honor, Doc Clauson can’t testify about her statements. It’s hearsay.’’

  ‘‘As to the hearsay argument, Judge, this statement can still come in because of the exception which applies if the witness is unavailable.’’ Collier handed out more paperwork. ‘‘This is a declaration prepared by the investigator assigned to work with me on the Strong matter, Sean Voorhies, indicating that the witness appears to have fled the jurisdiction. Basically, she has disappeared.’’