Chapter 9
“You were too soft on her,” Grady grumbled when we broke for afternoon recess. “You should have come down a lot harder, made her squirm.”
“As I explained before, what we’re trying to do at this point is lock in her testimony. We can discredit it later, at trial.”
He snorted in disgust. “If you’d nailed her today, we wouldn’t have to go to trial.”
“It’s your word against hers. That’s something for a jury to decide, not the hearing judge.”
Grady shoved a hand into his pocket and jingled his keys. The tension he’d kept in check all morning had exploded now that we were no longer in the courtroom.
“You didn’t even touch on the outfit she was wearing that night,” he said. “I told you the skirt was skintight, and that little crop top was so flimsy she might as well not have been wearing anything.”
I looked at him in disgust. “You’re out of touch with the times if you think the she-was-asking-for-it defense still works.”
“Well, she was.” He caught my expression. “Not asking to be raped, but asking for a good time. Her story is nothing but a pack of lies.”
“Except that you did have sex with her.” It angered me that Grady took no responsibility for his role in setting events in motion.
Grady’s expression was tight. “I told you, I don’t want to go down that road.”
“So what do we say about the bruises on her arm?”
“I was not the cause of those bruises, okay?” His voice was low and urgent. “I had nothing to do with that. Or the scrape on her cheek.”
“What about the raised voices the neighbor heard?”
He shrugged. “Lots of people raise their voices. She’s out to get me for some reason. That’s what you should have focused on.
My mouth tasted bitter. “If you’d been home with your wife, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You trying to rub my nose in it?”
“I’m just trying to interject a little reality.”
Grady sighed heavily. “Believe it or not, I know all too well what’s real.” He shoved a hand into his pocket and was silent a moment. “You really think it will go to trial?”
I nodded. I’d explained at the outset that the judge wasn’t a trier of fact.
“I can’t have this shit dragging on. I’ve got a business to run. A public offering in the works. A wife who is facing chemo and God knows what else. I don’t want my name dragged through the mud on every goddamn front page and news hour for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m afraid that’s something you don’t have a lot of control over at this point.”
He stepped closer. “That’s why you needed to pulverize her in there.”
I turned away in disgust. “I’ve got to run to the ladies’ room,” I told him.
“Fine.” His tone was as clipped as mine. “I have some phone calls to make. I’ll meet you back here when court reconvenes.” Grady turned to go.
“Don’t forget to call Nina. I know she’s waiting to hear how it’s going.”
He looked at me with reproach. “I don’t think she needs more bad news.”
It was clear he considered the bad news my fault.
<><><>
I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the women’s rest room and was glad to find it empty. After a day of being constantly onstage, even a moment’s solitude was welcome.
I used the facilities, washed the afternoon’s buildup of grime from my hands, and began to repair the damage to my makeup.
I was dabbing a blush of color on my cheeks when the door opened and Deirdre Nichols entered.
“Hi.” She gave a self-conscious laugh.
I nodded in response. “I’ll be through here in a minute.” I figured Deirdre might be in need of some solitude herself. I’ve always found these rest room encounters somewhat awkward.
She didn’t seem at all surprised to find me there, however. She glanced at the stalls, making sure we were alone. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, rubbing her hands over her upper arms as though to warm herself.
“I can t”—
“If you’re busy, maybe later.” She reached into her purse and pulled out one of those multipurpose calendar and address books.
I shook my head. “I meant, it’s not a good idea. Not without your attorney present.”
“You mean Madeleine Rivera?”
I nodded.
“She’s not really my attorney.”
“Not technically, but she’s working on your behalf.”
Her expression was skeptical. “Madeleine is part of the problem.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a party to this. Both legally and ethically, talking to Deirdre was only asking for trouble. “You shouldn’t be talking to me in any case,” I told her.
Deirdre didn’t appear particularly interested in what she should or shouldn’t be doing. She sucked on her bottom lip a moment, studying me. “Madeleine says that you’ll say bad things about me at the trial. That you’ll try to make me look like a tramp, like someone who deserves what she got. She says you’ll bring up all kinds of embarrassing stuff about me and say that I’m lying.”
“It’s my job to discredit your testimony.” I didn’t tell her that the dirt I could bring in was limited by law. “It’s your word against my client’s.”
“Aren’t you interested in what really happened?”
Curious as hell, but that wasn’t my role as attorney. I shook my head. “Not really.”
She frowned. “You seemed nice in there. Even when you were trying to make it look as though I wasn’t really raped. You seemed like a real person, not just a lawyer. Like someone who had feelings. I thought you cared about the truth.”
“Ms. Nichols, you need to remember that we’ve been assigned roles here. Personal qualities have nothing to do with it.” I turned back to the mirror and finished applying my lipstick.
“Madeleine doesn’t care either. She’s taken over. She tells me how to dress, how to wear my hair, how to sit, what to say, and what not to say. All she wants is to win. It’s like a game for her.”
“Madeleine has got a job to do. But ultimately, she wants the same thing you do.”
“All I want is some respect.”
I recapped my lipstick.
“I’m a person too, you know. Not just something to be used and then discarded.”
“Of course you are,” I said, turning so that I was no longer addressing the mirror. I could understand Deirdre’s frustration. Legal proceedings were driven by their own rules, which sometimes seemed very far removed from the emotionally charged event that triggered them.
Deirdre hugged her arms tighter across her chest. “I feel like I’ve been violated twice. Once by Grady Barrett and once by Madeleine Rivera.”
“Have you tried telling that to Madeleine?”
Deirdre shook her head. “I know she’s trying to help me. The police would never have done a thing if she hadn’t given them a push.”
Advising the complaining witness wasn’t my role, but I couldn’t help myself. “There are victims’ advocates, you know. Rape counseling services, support groups. They’re available to you without cost.”
“Madeleine told me about them.” Deirdre leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment. Her lashes were long and soft, like brushstrokes against her creamy complexion. “The press will be covering the trial, won’t they?”
“Probably. I doubt there will be cameras in the courtroom, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Deirdre pursed her lips in thought.
“Besides,” I added, “you talked to news reporters the other day with no problem.” It came out with a nastier edge than I’d intended.
Deirdre brushed at the skirt of her jumper. “I know I shouldn’t have. It’s just that I was angry.”
Her tone was apologetic, as if Madeleine had chastised her for telling her story before the camera. That surprised m
e. It wasn’t a bad move in terms of strategy. And Madeleine had never been one to shy away from the press.
“I take it Madeleine wasn’t happy about the exposure.”
“No, it was . . . something else.” Deirdre sighed and tapped her heel against the ceramic tile at the base of the wall. “I don’t know whether I want to go ahead with this,” she said, her voice thin and thoughtful.
I held my breath. Looked away. Kept my expression impassive. Never let it be said that I tried to influence a witness. But inside I was delirious at the prospect that she might withdraw her complaint.
“I’ve got my daughter to consider,” Deirdre said. “Among other things.”
I dropped the lipstick into my purse.
“There’s bound to be talk. Adrianna is smart. She’ll pick up on it.”
“You have to do what you think is right,” I told her. I hoped the gods were watching, because I figured I’d earned a few bonus points for good conduct in the face of temptation.
“I don’t know what to do,” Deirdre lamented.
I glanced toward heaven and bit my tongue.
“I don’t like to be treated like dirt. I’m a person too.” It was the second time she’d used the phrase in less than five minutes.
I nodded.
“Men think they own the world.”
No argument there.
She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I really didn’t know,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t know he was Emily’s father, didn’t know he had a lot of money and a big important job.”
I didn’t say anything.
Deirdre began crying softly, with the look of an injured child. “You think I’m lying about the whole thing, don’t you?”
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with what I think.”
“Just because he’s rich and educated and wears designer suits—and I’m some dumb receptionist with bouncy hair and big tits, it doesn’t mean he’s right and I’m wrong.”
There was something in her voice I couldn’t ignore—a touch of real misery mixed with hurt and anger. “No,” I said gently, “it doesn’t.”
She slouched against the bathroom wall. “I want him to know it was wrong to treat me the way he did. I want him to know how much it hurt.” The words were capped with a pathetic whimper. “I’m a person, too. I have feelings.”
“I think you need to talk with Madeleine Rivera,” I told her.
Deirdre nodded but made no move toward the door. I decided to skip the fresh mascara and leave. Whatever else the encounter had accomplished, it left me feeling oddly protective of a woman whose testimony I was supposed to tear to shreds.
I wondered, in passing, if that had been her intent.
Chapter 10
The cocktail waitress leaned low across the table so that her ample cleavage was not only at eye level but bountifully displayed. I was fascinated, but neither Grady nor Marc took notice. They were too deeply entrenched in some fine point of quarterly earnings and SEC filings.
The bar was noisy with Friday-night revelry. If you wanted to be heard, you had two choices—yell or huddle close to your companions. Marc and Grady were huddling. They weren’t excluding me, but I’d grown tired of sitting forward in my chair and straining to hear. Instead, I sipped my wine leisurely and waited for them to finish.
Grady lifted the skewered onion from his martini and bit into it. Despite the intensity of the discussion, which I gathered focused on some less-than-favorable financial report, he was more relaxed than I’d seen him in the last few days.
The outcome of the hearing had come as no surprise. Judge Riley had issued a holding order Tuesday morning. We would proceed to trial.
I’d tried to prepare Grady for it, but the news had shaken him all the same. He’d been short with me then, and even more irritable later that afternoon when I’d tried to lay out the main issues of the case. His mood in the intervening days hadn’t improved. But this evening he’d greeted me warmly, interrupting his conversation with Marc to include me, albeit only briefly.
My glass of wine was half empty when they paused again.
Marc offered me a smile that was both apologetic and conspiratorial. “Sorry to monopolize your client, Kali. I know you two were planning to go over pretrial strategy, but there were a couple of things that needed Grady’s attention right away.”
A perfect segue to my reason for being here. “How badly has the rape charge hurt the offering?” I asked.
“It hasn’t helped,” Marc said. “That’s for sure. But it’s too early to tell if there’s permanent damage.”
Grady snorted in disgust. “That’s bullshit. There’s always nervousness about an initial offering, especially in a volatile business like ours. This goddamn rape charge spells nothing but trouble. It’s going to send the price into the toilet.”
“If it’s any help,” I offered, “I think we stand a good chance of beating it at trial.”
“It will be too late by then. Besides, good chance is far from a certainty.”
I nodded. “True. But remember, the prelim was different. There, it wasn’t a matter of assessing credibility or weighing the evidence. The judge was only looking to see if there was any basis for taking the case to trial. It’s a fairly low standard.”
“You can say that again.” Grady made no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice.
I ignored it. “The big issue is going to be what defense we go with. I think consent is by far our best bet.”
Grady shook his head. “I told you, that’s not an option.”
“Nina might understand—”
“It’s . . . not . .. an . . . option.” He gave each word equal emphasis. “What part of that don’t you understand?”
“You think the jury’s going to believe that you simply gave Deirdre Nichols a ride home and that she made the rest of it up out of thin air?”
Grady leaned back in his chair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Let’s not get bogged down in technicalities just yet.”
I was about to point out that defense strategy was hardly a technicality, but before I got the words out, I was momentarily blinded by the flash of a strobe. I blinked, and saw only green and blue.
Marc was on his feet in an instant. “What the hell . . .” He yanked the photographer’s collar and brought his face close. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, buddy?”
The young man was shorter than Marc and had to stand on tiptoe to keep his balance. A strand of straight blond hair fell across his forehead. He tried to brush it aside, but Marc batted his hand away.
“Hey, calm down,” the young man said. He was probably in his late twenties, but there was a bright-eyed boyishness about him that made him appear younger. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Marc was breathing fast and hard, his eyes glazed with anger.
“I’m a reporter,” the man said with a remarkably good-natured smile. “I’ve been researching a piece on the ComTec offering. When I saw you all sitting here, I thought I’d get a couple of informal shots.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“Marc, what’s the problem?” It had taken me a minute to sort out what had happened.
Marc ignored me. He grabbed the camera with his free hand, releasing the young man, who looked startled and increasingly nervous.
“That’s an expensive camera,” he said warily.
“You think I give a shit?” Marc’s eyes were cold, his expression hard. It was a look I’d not seen before.
Grady put a calming hand on Marc’s shoulder, but Marc had already popped the back of the camera and unwound the roll of film, exposing it to light.
“What are you doing?” Fury strained the man’s voice. “I’ve got practically a whole roll of pictures on there. A week’s worth of work.”
Marc handed the camera back, shoving it into the man’s midsection. “Next time, ask first.”
“This is a public place, you know. It’s not like I
was taking shots through your bedroom window. And I would have asked if you’d given me the chance.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Marc—” I tried again, but he paid no attention.
The man rubbed his neck where a large red welt was taking shape. “I sell my stuff to respectable papers. We’re not talking National Enquirer or anything.”
“You ought to consider it,” Marc said, straightening the sleeves of his jacket. “You’d fit right in.”
The young man’s face darkened with indignation. “You’re a real prick, you know that?”
The bartender stepped between them, his sheer bulk providing a buffer. “What’s the trouble here?”
“It’s taken care of,” Marc said affably.
The bartender looked to the young man for confirmation.
“I guess it’s okay,” he said after a moment. He turned and handed Grady his business card. “Maybe we could talk sometime—without the shark. You could probably use a little positive publicity.” With a glare at Marc, he left.
“Jeez,” I said when the man was gone. “Don’t you think you overreacted a bit?”
Marc grinned, not quite sheepishly but close. “Maybe a little.”
Grady drained what was left of his martini. “What got into you? You’re supposed to keep me out of trouble, not create it.”
“I kept your photo out of the paper, didn’t I?”
“One lousy photo,” I said. “They must have plenty of others in the archives.”
“Publicity photos. There’s a difference.”
“What’s so damaging about Grady’s having a drink with his lawyers? This offering isn’t based on the claim that Grady’s a teetotaler, is it?”
Marc sucked his cheek, looking more amused than chastised. “I’ll apologize, how’s that?” He took the card from Grady’s grasp. “Byron Spencer. God, with a name like that, the guy should have been a poet. Maybe journalist is the closest he could get.”
“The sooner you apologize, the better,” I said. “And try to sound sincere.”
“Am I ever anything but?”
Motion to Dismiss (A Kali O'Brien Legal Mystery) Page 6
