Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

  Gail wished she had told Anthony to meet her somewhere else, a restaurant with a booth in the back, a dark one. She wanted to sit next to him and lean against his arm.

  A waiter with a tray backed out of the partners' private dining room, and for a second Gail could see rosewood paneling and a flash of crystal on white linen tablecloths. As a guest there herself, it had occurred to her that hanging out too long at these altitudes could make you think you owned the city— you and people like you. Maybe it was true.

  This morning the power of the luncheon club had reached into the courtroom. The judge was a fiftyish blonde whose husband was an executive at First Union Bank. The other lawyer was a partner in a small firm in North Miami, a Ms. Rosenbloom—a smart woman, but struggling to make it, clothes showing some wear. Maybe the kind of lawyer Gail would be if she ever left Hartwell Black and tried it on her own. Ms. Rosenbloom was arguing against the admission of evidence in an insurance case. Gail had points on the other side, and cited cases one of the law clerks had found in the firm's research computers with CD-ROM laser disks, crosschecked through Westlaw, with the latest appellate court decisions attached. At some point Miriam came in quietly and sat in the last row of benches. She curled her fingers over the back of the next bench, chin on her hands.

  The case might have gone either way on the law, but Gail could have bet, before the judge opened her mouth, how she would rule. Later in the elevator Gail explained it to Miriam: It was theatrics, in a way. You know the moves, the tone of voice; you hint you might appeal if the judge rules against you. And it didn't hurt that this particular judge belonged to Temple Beth Am, from which Hartwell Black regularly purchased a large block of tickets for the annual concert series.

  She and Ms. Rosenbloom had shaken hands, being polite. Ms. Rosenbloom wasn't the kind to ride the case for the fees, telling her client when they lost, Look, juries are unpredictable, I told you. Gail wondered about putting Ms. Rosenbloom on the rack when it came time to settle. How tough would she be with her? How big a set of cojones?

  Walking back to the office, Miriam showed Gail what she had copied from Althea Norris Tillett's file in the probate division. There were only a few documents so far, plus a copy of the will. No inventory yet, and when it was filed, they would need the judge's signature to see it. Gail noticed that Alan Weissman had not signed all the papers. One had been signed by his partner, Lauren Sontag. She and Gail had served together in the Dade County Bar, had spoken on seminars at the state conference. Gail had meant to call Lauren to wish her luck in her run for the circuit court bench. What would she say now? Good luck, Lauren. So tell me, did Alan help forge Althea Tillett's will?

  Gail felt a hand on her back and looked up from her empty wineglass. Anthony. He bent to brush her right cheek with his lips, and she breathed in the light scent of his cologne. "I am so incredibly glad to see you," she whispered.

  Anthony kissed her on the mouth. "I've missed you too." He propped a furled umbrella against the wall. The shoulders of his deep-green, double-breasted suit were spattered with raindrops. Tall and slender, he moved like a cross between a tango dancer and a Spanish duke. The gray was just beginning to show in his rich brown hair. Sometimes she had to look away from him; his dark eyes were that intense.

  Gail said, "Lunch is my treat today, quid pro quo for your legal expertise, although I think I'm getting the better of the bargain." She caught the waiter's attention and asked for another glass of chardonnay—the first had just begun to ease her headache.

  Anthony ordered mineral water and lime, then leaned back in his chair, looking at her. She had undone the top two buttons of her blouse. His eyes climbed to her face. "Where have you been? Two weeks. Gail, no one's schedule is that impossible." Adulthood in Miami had softened his Spanish accent.

  "I don't suppose you want to come over tonight? I'm helping Karen do her science fair project."

  He faked a sigh of regret. "Oh, what fun. Unfortunately, I have a meeting to go to."

  No surprise. Whenever he came to her house, it was only to pick her up. He would sit in the living room tapping his long fingers on the arm of the sofa, Karen would stay in her room with the door shut. He had conspicuously made no comment about the pile of Dave's things in the garage.

  Gail said, "Just don't disappear completely." Anthony gave her a slow smile that made her insides feel like the elevator cable had snapped. She leaned across the table. "Do that again and I might forget there are fifty other people in here."

  "So." He flipped back the napkin from the basket of rolls. "What is this case we are supposed to discuss that entitles me to lunch at the Hartwell Club?"

  Gail said, "An allegedly forged will in a multimillion-dollar estate. I'm not sure yet how multi. The decedent is Althea Norris Tillett, lately of North Bay Road, Miami Beach. She was a widow, a friend of my mother's, as it happens. She died in a fall down her stairs about three weeks ago."

  "That's too bad." Anthony broke open a roll, still warm enough to steam. Under spotless white cuffs he had a lizard-strap watch on one wrist and a link bracelet on the other. "Who is your client?"

  "Patrick Norris, her nephew. He claims that her late husband's children—a brother and sister—forged the will. They get the house and Mrs. Tillett's art collection and Patrick gets a quarter of a million dollars. Unless the will is a fake, then he collects everything, ten million dollars, maybe more."

  "So naturally he wants to hire an attorney. What does he do?"

  "He counsels at a drug rehab center. Works as a carpenter. I'm not sure what else. Patrick and I knew each other in law school, but he quit after two years. He said it was warping his moral judgment."

  "What that usually means—" Anthony shifted the bread basket to find the butter. "—is that he was going to flunk out.”

  Gail shook her head. "You don't know Patrick. He said law school in the mid-Eighties was like getting an M.B.A. He didn't care about making money."

  Anthony buttered his roll. "He cares about his aunt's estate, no?"

  "He says if he wins, he's going to build a model community in the inner city."

  "Que santo."

  "Not a saint. But he is untouched, in a way. His values are different from most people's."

  "Evidently. Tell me about the stepchildren."

  "Rudy and Monica Tillett. Twins. You might know the names if you were into the South Beach scene. According to Patrick, Rudy organizes activities for European tourists while they're in South Florida. Exotic diversions, and I don't mean a tour bus to Disney World. Rudy also designs parties for nightclubs. He did a jungle theme with everybody half naked and carrying spears, and an outer space Cage Aux Folles party. Monica is an artist, so she and Rudy often work together. I don't know how good she is. Anyway, they own a gallery on Lincoln Road. That's why they got creative with the will. They wanted Mrs. Tillett's art collection. Also her house, which they grew up in."

  The waiter came back with wine and a green bottle of mineral water, which he poured into a stemmed glass. They ordered lunch, and when the waiter was gone, Gail reached into her purse for a copy of the will, asked Anthony to read it, and sipped her wine while he did so.

  One elbow on the table, he slowly turned the pages. "If this is a forgery, it's damned convincing."

  "Isn't it, though?"

  "Where was this found? In a safe deposit box? Her lawyer's office? It could make a difference."

  "True, but Patrick doesn't know. His stepcousins wouldn't talk to him about it." Gail explained why Patrick thought it was a forgery: the signature, the odd bequest of $250,000 from a woman who had never written a will in that way before. She explained the prior wills, how Althea Tillett had hoped to separate Patrick from his radical politics.

  Anthony smiled a little at that. Gail could imagine what he was thinking of: family and politics. His father was still in Cuba, a hero of the revolution, blind now and growing old. His maternal grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa, once a banker in Havana, had made a second fortune here.
Anthony stayed out of politics but refused to denounce his family in Cuba; the ones in Miami pretended not to notice his occasional trips to the island. Gail wondered how he did it, walking that narrow line, pulled by both sides, keeping his balance. Quite a trick.

  He asked, "What about these other signatures? Are they supposedly forged too? Witnesses, notary?"

  "Patrick thinks they were in on it with the Tilletts."

  The waiter returned with a tray. Gail ate her fruit salad and watched Anthony read. His grilled yellowtail sat untouched in front of him. A minute later he said, "Perhaps Patrick wants a good settlement. He'll go away if they give him a million dollars."

  "Not Patrick. He truly believes someone forged his aunt's will. He wouldn't ask me to do this otherwise."

  "Claro que no. Pardon me." Anthony lifted a bite of fish to his mouth, then made a little noise of satisfaction, a nimbly growl in the back of his throat.

  "I love it when you do that," she said.

  He looked at her, smiled, and leaned closer, speaking nearly at a whisper. "On the way here I thought, Oh, lunch at the Hartwell Club. How tiresome. Except that I would see you, of course. I thought of calling you from my car. Gail, meet me at the Hotel Intercontinental. But then I would take you upstairs."

  "And miss lunch?" Gail left her shoe on the floor and slid her toes up the inside of his calf. "I'd have you instead." He clamped his knees on her foot.

  "You for dessert."

  "Tell me yes, we can go now."

  "Yes, yes."

  He put his napkin on the table. "Let's get out of here."

  "Are you crazy? I have a client coming at one o'clock."

  "Say you're in conference." Under the table his hand skimmed over her instep, around her ankle, as far up her calf as he could reach.

  "Don't do that." She tugged and looked to see if anyone was watching.

  "Half an hour, touching you. It's worth it."

  She pulled her foot away, then laughed. "If I thought you were serious—"

  "Your face is red."

  "I'm sure it is." She put her shoe back on. His eyes moved upward, to a place behind her. At the same moment she heard Larry Black's voice saying her name.

  She turned. "Hi, Larry."

  He nodded and smiled, then his attention went to Anthony. "Larry Black. We met at the Bar conference in Tampa in July."

  Gail became aware of another man. Late forties, a custom-tailored suit and a fifty-dollar haircut. He smiled broadly. And excellent dentistry. She had seen him before. Theater openings. Or the opera. She couldn't remember.

  "Yes, of course," Anthony said. The men shook hands. Althea Tillett's will lay facedown on the table. Anthony didn't invite them to pull up chairs—his way of saying he didn't want to be disturbed.

  The second man's hand went out. "Tony, good to see you. I said to Larry, look who's here. Got to go over and say hi." The man's voice was a rich bass. He could have announced golden oldies on a wee-hours AM station.

  Larry said, "Gail, this is Howard Odell. He's in business in the area. Gail Connor's an associate in our litigation department."

  "Gail." Howard Odell gave her a subtle wink when she said hello. Part of his routine with women, no doubt. Like a tic. Somebody ought to tell him, she thought.

  Odell braced one hand on the back of Anthony's chair, the other on the table. Some chitchat about the economics in downtown Miami these days. A comment to Gail to make sure she didn't feel left out. Odell said he'd like to get together, how about lunch next, week at his club. Anthony said he would check his schedule. Howard Odell gave him his card, then smiled at Gail. "I'll let you get back to this lovely lady." Wink.

  When the two men were out of earshot, she said, "I remember now. The last time I saw Howard Odell, he was in a tux, with the CEO of a cruise line and a bunch of society types."

  "What do you downtown attorneys call it? A schmoozer."

  Gail saw the door to the partners' room close. "You were being seduced."

  "Not me," Anthony said. "He wants one of my grandfather's restaurants."

  "And? Ernesto doesn't want to sell it?"

  "Ernesto doesn't care for Mr. Odell's friends."

  "What friends?"

  "One of whom I represented."

  "You're kidding. An upstanding businessman like that, consorting with criminals?"

  "Gail, you don't become wicked simply by knowing people who have been accused of crimes. What would I be, if that were true?"

  "Even wickeder than you are." She made an air kiss.

  Smiling, Anthony picked up Odell's card and folded it in half. He started to drop it tented in the ashtray.

  "No, let me see that." He gave it to her and she unfolded it, a cream-colored card with the name G. Howard Odell embossed in gold

  Anthony went back to his lunch. "Do you want his investment advice?'

  "No. Look at the address. The same address on Brickell Avenue as the Easton Charitable Trust."

  He tapped the will. "Althea Tillett's residuary beneficiary."

  "Exactly." Gail flipped the card between her fingers. "I wonder what G. Howard Odell does for the Easton Trust. Tell me more about him."

  "I don't know much. We met through my grandfather. When one of Odell's acquaintances—a Cuban—was arrested, he told him to call me."

  "Arrested for what?"

  "So inquisitive."

  "And you're such a tease. What difference does it make if you tell me? Do I know him?" Anthony rarely talked about his clients.

  "No. He owns a dry cleaning business in Hialeah, and he was arrested for selling pornography out the back."

  "And you represented this man?" Gail asked.

  "It's what I do. I defend people accused of crimes."

  "Pornographers? Okay, okay. The First and Sixth amendments to the U.S. Constitution. You've told me." She nudged his leg under the table. "You wouldn't be half as much fun if you were a real estate lawyer."

  "It's why you love me."

  "Was he guilty?"

  "Who? The dry cleaner?"

  "Yes, Anthony. The dry cleaner."

  "Guilty? Not officially. The judge granted my motion to dismiss. The police improperly searched the premises." Smiling, he lifted his glass. "Fourth amendment."

  Gail had once asked Anthony Quintana why he practiced criminal law, where almost everyone was guilty as charged. He had told her there was no more guilt in criminal law than in civil practice. Civil practice was taken up with lawyers who didn't like to associate with semiliterate persons of another social class. Anthony said he didn't mind this. His clients could come from the most sordid conditions; at least they weren't hypocrites. In civil practice, he said, both lawyers and clients claim perfect innocence.

  She tucked Howard Odell's business card into her purse. "Howard isn't going to like me very much when I tell him Patrick is going to get the money meant for the Easton Trust. Speaking of which—" She tapped the will Anthony had left upside down on the table. "You still have to earn your lunch."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Not much. Tell me how to go about investigating a case like this. Felonies are your territory. I could use one of the P.I.'s we hire for insurance defense work, but who pays? The firm isn't going to authorize an advance, not on these facts. Not with this list of well-connected beneficiaries."

  "Start with your mother," Anthony said. "She and Althea Tillett were friends. Maybe they discussed her will."

  "I'd thought of that."

  "And talk to the witnesses. You said you knew them."

  "Could you recommend an investigator, if I need one?"

  "Yes, several."

  "Another question. If Patrick is right that the will was forged, what about the people who did it? What would they be charged with? Grand theft? Fraud? What would the State Attorney's Office do to them?"

  "Probably nothing."

  "Nothing?" Gail asked, hardly believing this. "Why? Because of who they are?"

  "No, because the State
Attorney doesn't usually care about civil matters. Who is the victim? Patrick Norris? They have their hands full prosecuting thieves who carry guns." He added wryly. "My clients."

  "But I could use threat of prosecution to make them nervous."

  "Be careful." Anthony folded the will and handed it to her. "You could get burned."

  "I don't see how, just by asking a few questions." She put the will back into her purse. "Maybe Althea Tillett did sign this, all witnessed and notarized right in Alan Weissman's conference room. Patrick can accept that, if it's the truth. I owe him my best shot at finding out."

  Anthony frowned slightly. "You owe him? Why?"

  "Because ... he's a friend. Or because of what he represents."

  "Which is?"

  Gail thought for a minute. "I'd say commitment. Patrick might be a little extreme at times, but at least he knows where he stands. I admire him for that. I always have. In law school, he made me ask myself, What am I really doing with my life? What's the purpose? You know—typical first-year law school idealism. When you are dying to do something great and wonderful. But then you graduate and go into practice. You find out what a muddle the law really is. You're just there to push and shove, and whoever can push harder wins. The times where you've really got something to fight for are so rare."

  Anthony looked at her for a while, then said, "Whenever you have a client, you have something to fight for."

  "Of course. But why? Because you get paid? Or—as Patrick might say—for a greater good?"

  'Ten million dollars is pretty good." Anthony picked up his fork and cut a piece of asparagus. "I've learned one thing: It's not wise to represent friends. Send him to someone else."

  "No. He wants me. And frankly, I need a case like this."

  Anthony gave a short laugh. "This is the last thing you need."

  "I'd appreciate your not telling me how to run my own law practice. Please?" She smiled.

  "Ah-ha." He patted his mouth with his napkin. "And you expect Hartwell Black will take this case?"

  "Yes, if I find evidence of forgery. If we can prove—"

  "Gail, they won't let you. They can't. How would it look, trying to break a will where a woman left most of her estate to charity? Very bad. And here's another point. Patrick Norris, from what you tell me, is a socialist, and in Miami—"