"I hope," Gail said, nodding at Acker's fat briefcase, "that you've brought the documents I asked for."
"Wendell says they don't exist, and he gave you what he has."
Without moving her lips Gail murmured, "Do you really believe that, Marvin?"
"Sure. I never doubt a client's word—unless he stops paying my bills."
Wendell Sweet was staring at his wife. His black hair glimmered in the dim light of the hall, and his little red lips were pursed like he'd been sucking a lime. Jamie stared back at him. Her freckles stood out on her bloodless face. Gail grabbed her by the elbow and escorted her inside.
The hearing was held in chambers, a narrow room with windows looking west, the Everglades a hazy green line in the distance. The style was bureaucratic moderne—bookcases and plaques, long table with chairs along either side, judge's desk at one end. The court reporter set up her machine, and Gail put Wendell's documents in the center of the table, a stack less than a half inch thick. With only ten minutes allotted, she quickly stated her case: The court had ordered Wendell to produce, he hadn't, and now he should get slapped for his contemptuous disregard.
The judge, who was about to go on the bench in another case, took his robe off a hanger behind the door. "How do you know, Ms. Connor, that he didn't give you everything? Maybe this is it."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wendell Sweet smirk behind the fist supporting his chin. "Mr. Sweet has done business as a consultant to oil companies in the southern Caribbean for fifteen years. To give me fifty pages is ludicrous. It's insulting to the intelligence of the court."
The judge chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder."
Marvin Acker laughed, showing he could appreciate a joke. Then he grew serious. "Judge, most of Mr. Sweet's business is done on a handshake basis. He gave Ms. Connor what he has. Anything else would be in the custody of the companies he worked for."
Astonished and appalled, Gail could feel the case lurch out of her grasp. "Does Mr. Sweet expect us to believe that he has no records?"
The judge looked at his watch. "I don't know how you expect to prove what Mr. Sweet did or did not turn over, and frankly, Ms. Connor, there's not much I can do about it."
"Judge, it was clearly stated in our last hearing— by you—that Mr. Sweet was to produce all records. Everything. Look. Here's a copy of your order. And now he's telling us that he doesn't have copies because they're in the custody of persons whose names we don't even know."
"Well, file a motion to compel Mr. Sweet to divulge the names." The judge zipped up the front of his robe. "When you have the names, have them served with a subpoena."
"Most of them are out of the country!" Gail lowered her voice. "I hope that the court is not going to allow Mr. Sweet to play these games."
"Don't get mad at me, Ms. Connor. I don't make the rules. Excuse me, folks. Gotta run."
Marvin Acker stood up. "Is there an order, Judge?"
"I'm ruling that the respondent, Mr. Sweet, is in substantial compliance."
"And you'll reconsider the alimony and child support at the next hearing. You said you would, Your Honor, if Mr. Sweet doesn't have the means to pay."
"If I said it, then sure, we'll reconsider." With a swirl of black robe he was gone.
Gail's hands were clammy with perspiration. She wanted to scream at the judge, You should be thrown off the bench. This is outrageous!
Wendell smiled, not bothering to hide it. He leaned across the table and patted Jamie's arm. "Hey, honey. Tough luck."
"Get your slimy hand offa me." Her fluffy red hair was like fire around her face.
Acker pushed his heavy frame out of the armchair. "Come on, Wendell, let's leave before the ladies throw a hissy fit."
Gail smiled through clenched teeth. "Marvin, you are very close to the line."
"Well, ya win some, ya lose some."
"We're not going to lose this one. Count on it."
The court reporter snapped her machine back into its case. "Ms. Connor? Would you like a transcript?"
"I'll let you know." She turned to Jamie Sweet. "I swear to you, Jamie, it isn't supposed to go this way. I want to file an appeal. Honestly, this is so wrong."
"Wendell don't make it easy. Never has." Jamie slung her heavy purse over her shoulder and straightened the hem of her jacket. "Don't appeal it. I want to get this over with."
Gail gritted her teeth as she and Jamie Sweet rode down in a packed elevator. Anthony had promised her he would talk to Harry Lasko. Had promised. By Friday. On Monday. Next week. Sorry, Gail, he's out of town. I'm in trial. I'll call him in the morning. Bonboncita.
The polished chrome doors of the elevator opened, disgorging passengers into the echoing lobby of the family courts building. Outside, the sun glared brightly. Squinting, Gail reached for her sunglasses. Wind snapped the flags on the plaza.
"Jamie, listen. When you go home, search the remotest corner of your mind about Wendell's activities. Who he talked to, who his associates were. Try to remember who you met in the islands. If we can find just one or two people willing to testify at trial, we could nail him."
When she got no response from the woman beside her, Gail stopped walking. "Jamie? Come on, you can't give up. Did you see the way he was gloating?"
Jamie bit down on her lips to keep them from trembling, and Gail realized she was at the point of tears. "If you want to keep on fighting him, go ahead, but I can't pay you. I'm done."
Standing close, Gail tucked her arm through Jamie's. "What do you want? Just tell me. Never mind the fees. What would you like to do?"
"Oh, Lord. If it was just me, I'd say, Wendell, you horse's ass, give me what you want, and if you give me nothing, that's all right. But he shouldn't do the children that way. He's thinking of his own self more than what they need, and that's wrong. So I guess I'd like to keep going."
"Yes. Good." Gail nodded. "We'll start preparing for your trial. You don't need to worry about it. Okay?" She squeezed Jamie's hand and felt the fingers close tightly around hers.
"I feel so tired. And I can't stand seein' Wendell look at me like I was dirt on his shoe."
"Do you care what he thinks?"
"You know, it's funny, but I do. I still do. Just weak-minded, I guess." She laughed. "I keep thinking how he used to be."
"But the bad side was there too. And it's not going to go away."
"I'm just a prisoner of love." She laughed. "I had a lot of men, I guess you know that, but Wendell . . . Oh, my. You are the queen of Egypt and I am your slave. He'd say shit like that. I'll get over him, like I got over drinkin'. Give up a bad habit, you sure miss it, though. I might find me a nice guy one of these days, somebody who won't do me like Wendell. But I don't know if anybody's gonna touch me in my heart like he did either."
At the bottom of the escalator to the Metrorail station, Gail put her arm around her. "You'll be fine, Jamie. You'll be great."
"I keep hoping. Thank you, Gail."
Sunlight glinted on the escalator, and Jamie rose slowly, a beautiful woman with freckles and milk white skin, her red hair blowing around her face like a flag. Gail waved, but Jamie didn't notice.
The parking garage was a block away, and by the time Gail reached it, she had taken off her jacket, letting the air get to her sleeveless linen shirt, although the breeze was nearly useless in this heat. She took the elevator up to the fourth level and automatically glanced around before getting off. Nearing her rental car, she shifted her briefcase to reach the keys in her shoulder bag.
Because she had been careful she did not expect to hear footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Wendell Sweet. Her heart seemed to squeeze the blood through her chest in one massive surge.
She pulled in a breath. "What do you want?"
"Well, hi." A lopsided smirk lifted one side of his little red mouth. His collar was open, and his tie was loose. He had stowed the coat to his thousand-dollar business suit somewhere. In his car, Gail realized. They had parked in the
same garage, and he had spotted her, probably by chance. His face glowed with rage, and his eyes danced with it. "I would like to ask you a question, Miz Lawyer. What kind of satisfaction do you get out of destroying a marriage? Does it make you feel powerful? Are you a man hater? Is that it?"
Gail was calculating the amount of time it would take to run to her car, turn the key in the lock, open her door, get inside ...
Her voice was level and calm. "Your marriage was over before Jamie hired me. If you want someone to blame, start with yourself." Keeping an eye on Wendell Sweet, Gail walked toward her car.
He followed, closing the gap. "You ought to be ashamed, brainwashing my wife. Jamie and I love each other. That must be hard for a dried-up dyke like you to comprehend."
"Stay away from me." She backed toward the door. "I'll scream."
"Oh, my goodness. Would I hurt you, even though— yes, let's admit it—you probably need your jaw fractured?" He stood by the rear door, trapping her between her car and the one in the next space.
The key rattled against the lock, then slid in. "Touch me, you're dead. My fiancé would come after you without a second thought."
His mouth made an O of feigned alarm. "Quintana? I don't think so. He knows better."
Gail gripped the door handle but did not turn it. "What do you mean?"
"There's information I possess. Are we curious? I'll make you a little bargain. You advise my wife to drop this, I won't take Quintana down. Deal?"
"What are you talking about?" Gail demanded.
"Why don't you ask him?" Wendell Sweet blew her a kiss, a moist smack off the tips of his fingers, then turned and walked away.
FIFTEEN
Greeting Gail by name, the receptionist at Ferrer & Quintana told her that Anthony had just called. He wanted to let Ms. Connor know that he was running late but would arrive shortly. Would she care to wait in the conference room? No, the lobby will do, Gail told her. Would Ms. Connor like something to drink while she waited? Tea would be lovely, thanks.
She found a seat on a long sofa that curved to follow a wall of glass blocks. The outside light made a wavery grid on the silver-flecked granite floor. The monotones of the lobby were relieved by a series of abstract paintings that looked like bright tropical plants.
Gail sipped her tea while thumbing through a news magazine, and only by chance looked up and saw a gray suit and a pair of black glasses. Hector Mesa. He was noiselessly crossing the polished floor, and his image moved with him, upside down. Spots of light from the ceiling fell on his shoulders as he passed under them. The man and his double glanced at Gail but did not stop. He punched a code on a panel of the interior door. It opened, then swung shut behind him. She had not known he could come and go as he pleased.
How would it be, Gail wondered, to have a guard dog like Mesa? One who did not question. Who might say, if he were ever asked, that it would be impertinent to demand explanations.
Her teacup was empty when Anthony came in. There was an immediate smile, and he held out his arm, waiting. His jacket was a light wool and silk tweed, brown flecked with cream. Gold flashed at his cuffs. She had still not become accustomed to the sight of him when he smiled at her across a room. Her breath would stop.
He kissed her cheek. "¿Cómo andas, amor?"
He took her to his office, where Gail told him that she had just lost her motion for contempt in the Sweet case.
"Lost? What happened? Sit down and tell me." He gestured toward the sofa, a leather sectional. Deep, boxy chairs faced an atrium, where sunlight danced on water burbling down ferny rocks. His desk was in a corner, curving into the room, lit by pinpoint halogen lights on thin wires.
Gail was too restless to sit. "The judge said that fifty pages of documents was substantial compliance. An insane ruling, but we'd lose the appeal. At the next hearing, Wendell Sweet will ask for a reduction in alimony and child support because he can't pay. On what he gave me, I can't prove otherwise. I was hoping that you might come through for me and talk to Harry Lasko, which you promised to do last week."
"Sweetheart, sit down. Please." When she remained standing, he said, "I spoke to Harry this morning."
"Finally."
"You're right to be upset, but this was the first opportunity Harry and I had to talk."
Gail leaned on the arm of a chair. "What did he say? Can he give me any information about Wendell's offshore assets?"
"I asked him. Harry and Wendell made some profits from the sale of the Eagle Beach casino, as you know, but Harry has no idea what Wendell did with his share. It was over a year ago, so he could have spent it or lost it in a bad investment. Harry suspects he still has a considerable amount, but he doesn't know where."
"Can we assume they didn't report their profits to the IRS?"
After a moment Anthony nodded. "They bought the casino using a complicated trust agreement and a corporation registered in Grand Cayman. There is an argument to be made that the income wasn't subject to U.S. tax laws, but it's questionable whether a jury would buy it. I've been talking to the prosecutors. They might agree to a sentence of seven years on the current indictment, but if they find out about Eagle Beach, Harry could die in prison. You see why I've been so careful."
She looked at him awhile, then walked over to the glass door, which led to the atrium. Dappled light fell across philodendron and ferns, and she could hear the muffled splash of water on rocks. "After the hearing I accidentally ran across Wendell Sweet in the parking garage. He offered me a deal. If I stop brainwashing his wife, he won't divulge certain information about you." She turned to look at Anthony. "What does he mean?"
A slight frown of confusion passed over his face. "Information? About me? I have no idea."
"He said he could take you down." Gail leaned a shoulder on the door frame and watched the fountain. "On the way over here I realized how little I know about what you do—aside from practicing criminal defense law, and the investments you rarely mention. I saw Hector Mesa come in. What does he do here?"
"He's a courier, Gail. He goes to the bank for us. Sometimes he acts as a bodyguard for our high-profile clients. There is nothing sinister about it." Anthony spread his arms wide. "What do you want to know? Ask."
"All right. What was Wendell talking about?"
"He was handing you a plate of bullshit."
"Were you doing business with Harry and Wendell?"
His brows lifted. "Is that what you think?"
"I don't know, Anthony. Were you?"
He seemed amazed that she would ask such a thing. "Absolutely not."
"I have a right to know," she said. "I would rather hear it now than find out after we're married." Anxiety stirred in her chest, and she took a breath. "I would never tell anyone else. Not ever. We have to trust each other."
His eyes stayed on her for a long moment. "Yes, we do. When I say I don't know what Wendell Sweet was talking about, that is exactly what I mean. Why do you question it?"
"Please don't be angry."
"Sweetheart, I'm not. Not at you, certainly. Listen to me. How can I disprove what he said? He said nothing. A vague allegation to . . . what? Was he specific?"
"No."
"Come on, you see what Sweet is after. He wants his divorce case settled on his terms, and he's trying to scare you. I have never spoken to Wendell Sweet, never met him. If he would care to elucidate on what 'taking me down' refers to, then I could answer. Until then I do not know. I can't even guess." Anthony took her hands and squeezed them for emphasis. "Gail?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. This case is getting to me."
"Yes, I would agree with that." He pulled her closer and softly kissed her lips. She let herself lean against him, inhaling a scent of cologne, light but distinctly male. He said, "Why don't you to go to bed early tonight?"
"Do I look awful?"
"A little tired, that's all. Come with me." He led her away from the glass doors and across his office. "I want you to try something." He swiveled his black
leather desk chair and held out his arm. "Sit here."
She laughed. "Why?"
When she was seated, he tilted the chair back. She clutched the arms. "Not a bad fit," he said. "Gail, I have a proposal for you." He sat on the edge of the desk with both feet on the floor. "I've already discussed it with Raul. We want you to join Ferrer and Quintana."
Her mouth opened. She said, "You mean ... a partnership?"
He hesitated. "No, not.. . right away. You'd be an associate, and then we'd see. What you have, Gail, are the old Miami Anglo contacts that we lack here. Raul does real estate and business. I'm in criminal defense. You're an expert in commercial litigation, eight years with one of Miami's oldest and best law firms. We have associates in a number of Other fields, but none with what you would bring to it. It would be perfect." He smiled, creases deepening along either side of his mouth. "Well?"
"Anthony, I . . . What about my office? Miriam and Lynn?"
"Bring them with you. I know you wanted your own business, but this is crazy. You're barely getting by. You think I don't see what's going on?" He reached out and lifted her face. "You're working so hard. Look at you. The shadows under your eyes. I hate to see you like this, cielo."
Gail kissed his palm. "Since when is fatigue a qualification?"
"No, that's my ulterior motive," he said. "What qualifies you is that you're a damned good lawyer. This isn't charity. We could use you here. We need what you know and who you know. Put in as many hours as you want. Take more time to be with Karen. You see? There's another reason to do it."
Gail thought of the report that Charlene Marks had shown her. Time with Karen. Dr. Fischman had noted how little she had of it. Rocking back in the chair, Gail swung it around, her gaze passing over the ultramodern lights in the ceiling, the glass-fronted bookcases, the atrium, the leather chairs around a granite-topped table. There were two partners, seven associates, three paralegals, a dozen support staff, a library, two conference rooms. . . . "This is all very seductive," she said. "One could become accustomed to this, I suppose. But"—she spun the chair faster, lifting her feet— "would we get on each other's nerves, working in the same office? You and I are independent creatures, more so than most."
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 21
