The Circle Game
By
Tanya Nichols
Published in 2018 by Alternative Book Press
Copyright 2018 © Tanya Nichols
Cover by CL Smith
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
There is no cry of pain without, at its end, an echo of joy.
--Ramón de Campoamor
For Darby Jay
One
2005
An angry heat burned from deep inside, flushing Bernie’s neck and cheeks to crimson, blotching her pale skin like a sudden attack of poison oak. She didn’t need a mirror to know what she looked like. She knew what happened when her rosacea kicked in. Normally, her pale skin would simply flush to a warm pink across her cheeks and nose, but too much heat, too much stress, or too much alcohol ignited the rosy pink to a flaming red. It was a weakness, a gambler’s tell.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. One of her therapists suggested controlled breathing to manage stressful situations. But even a thick layer of concealer and pressed powder failed to dim the harshest flush, the type she could feel breaking through as the elevator groaned its way downward. Gripping her briefcase tighter, Bernie focused on slow, steady breathing as she studied the profile of Stuart Reilly, opposing counsel and well-known courtroom bully.
One by one the illuminated numbers above the scratched and dingy chrome doors ticked off their steady descent, five . . . four . . . three, gears grinding and creaking at an endless job. Bernie watched the flashing lights, praying there would be no stops along the way. The sooner she could get out of the cranky elevator, the better. Reilly’s curled lip made it clear what the next few months would involve. Trial would be vicious, not only for her, but for Carlos. And it was Carlos she had to worry about, not her blotchy skin.
Finally, as the number two light flashed on and off, a quick exit just a floor away, Bernie responded to an earlier jab in court. “I’m perfectly aware of the mediation process, Mr. Reilly. I was simply suggesting you prepare your clients to bring some serious cash to the table.”
The doors parted and she stepped out quickly, rushing ahead of any snappy comeback. Timing is everything, and a courtroom elevator was not the place to battle; it was simply a place to flex a little of her own muscle.
The corners of Bernie’s mouth slipped into an uncontrollable grin as she pushed through the double glass doors and out into the mid-morning sunlight. This really was the best case she ever had. Stuart Reilly might have a dozen associates to jump at his bark, a big, fancy office stuffed with eager law clerks and secretaries, and the bench stacked with his former partners, but they were no match for a cute little six-year-old boy when it came to winning over a jury. Carlos’s parents were dead and Reilly’s rich client was to blame—simple stuff for any jury to understand. And she, better than perhaps anyone, knew the hell Carlos was going through. She couldn’t give him back his mom and dad, but she would make sure he was well compensated, that he would have a chance at a future.
A whisper of clouds stretched across a fading lavender sky and a light breeze offered a bit of hope from a relentless summer that had stretched into October. Fresno was famous for summers that burned like hell itself and dreary winters of dense fog that shrouded the valley in a blind mist. This was one of those rare in-between days, the type of day that must have lured those first settlers to stop and begin planting crops and building homes.
Courthouse Park was a scattered patchwork of cool shade and deep shadows where grey squirrels darted across the grass and up the mottled branches of the meandering magnolias, Chinese elms, and tall pines. A constant parade of deputies in and around the courthouse made it a safe playground for the kids whose parents fought inside, battling over couches and televisions, weekend visitation and child support. Bernie quickly strolled through the park, ignoring the napping winos stretched out on the grass, past benches filled with bored civil servants and frightened jurors munching on bagels and muffins from the coffee cart that stood in the breezeway, all under a perfect sky above.
As soon as she rounded the corner of the courthouse annex, Bernie stopped to peel off her suit jacket. Temperatures might escape the century mark for a change, but it was still too hot for the professional outfits court demanded. She preferred loose pants and blouses that flowed about her like watercolors. After discovering a small import boutique in Berkeley, Bernie had filled her closet with exotic-sounding colors: coral sea, lavender mist, and iced geranium, all in soft cottons, fine silk, and washed linen. But she did not dare wear those flowing ensembles to court. Not anymore. Not if she wanted to be taken seriously.
Once upon a time, Bernie had appeared in court in her favorite celery linen suit, thoroughly wrinkled after a five-minute car ride, and the judge asked her if she had been up all night working or if she had merely slept in her clothes. And when she wore a flowing teal blue and purple floral suit, the same crusty judge asked her if there was a luau going on in the breeze-way that he didn’t know about. Everyone laughed, even her, but she never wore anything that wrinkled instantly or flowed softly into court again. All public appearances featured her in only the most conventional and professional attire of tailored suits, serious navy blue or black with the occasional basic beige or charcoal for variety. Some of the newer young female attorneys came traipsing into court in short skirts with bare legs and strappy sandals, but she knew it wouldn’t last.
Juries and judges in this conservative town look at more than evidence; they consider everything from a prosecutor’s shoes to the defense attorney’s watch. To be safe, a complete ensemble hung in her office closet for emergency calls to court. Appearance might not be everything, but it certainly counted for something, and there was no need to make her job any more difficult than it already was, especially on the back of her clients. So even when temperatures soared above one hundred degrees, she suited up, pantyhose included, and prayed she wouldn’t melt in the process.
The soft day lured her into walking the four blocks back to the office. She took her time for a change, taking in the city streets in a way that wasn’t possible through a car window. Most of the larger law firms had deserted downtown and set up shop in new modern office complexes out north, a good twenty-minute drive from court, opting for climate control and energy-efficient sterility. But Bernie liked being close to the action, and she liked the graceful old houses of downtown. In an odd way, she felt somehow connected to the depressed atmosphere of old Fresno. White-collar flight had quickly changed a thriving downtown to a dusty stretch of classic urban blight. The Fulton Mall, a six-block walking mall, was an outdoor museum of art and flowing fountains. For years it brought cars and busloads of folks to town for shopping, lunch at Woolworth’s, and a matinee at the Crest Theater, but the flight of businesses and newer shops out north had turned it into a string of empty storefronts or sandwich shops, the beautiful sculptures and fountains left to collect dust and graffiti. The rumor was that it would be ripped out and cars would once again roll down the avenue. She’d been drawn to this area since she was a kid; she had fond memories of shopping with her grandmother for school clothes at JC Penney and chocolate malts at the Newberry’s lunch counter. Ripping up the mall would be like ripping up those wistful days, but those days were gone.
A cool breeze elicited a broad smile for the old Mexican man selling the ginger candies he kept tied in plastic bags to the handlebars of his bicycle. His brown skin, thick and leathery from a lifetime of working in the sun, made his white shirt radiant. He stopped, gestured to the candie
s and nodded his head at her, grinning sweetly.
“Señora,” he said, pointing to the candy, his smile broadening.
“No, gracias, Señor,” she said softly, wishing she had tucked a few dollars in her pocket, but she only had her ID and a credit card in her bag. Bernie dragged her rolling briefcase behind her, letting it drop off the curb with a thud, yanking it up at the next block, the sound of the turning wheels an even rhythm as she trudged along.
The thought of Stuart Reilly’s smug face in court was maddening. He was still strutting from their last battle together, one where she was on the losing end. Not so long ago, she had believed in Arnold Kramer’s case just as she believed in all of her cases, invested thousands of her own dollars in experts, worked tirelessly, spent countless hours building a top-notch case. By the time depositions rolled around, she was convinced the case would be worth at least three quarters of a million, maybe more if she got lucky with a good jury. Arnold Kramer’s days of driving big rig trucks were over; his injured back unable to stand the long hours behind the wheel without pain medication, and it was impossible to take drugs as a driver.
The whole case crumbled at Kramer’s deposition when Reilly brought in a video for all to see. There was Arnold carrying bags of concrete, shoveling dirt, swinging a hammer, and, just in case there was any doubt about his abilities, he could be seen diligently operating a jackhammer to hack away at an old concrete slab. He was just helping his sister in an emergency, he’d explained, his eyes pleading and searching for understanding. That one day of physical labor sent him to bed for a week, he cried. He really was hurt, hurt bad, he had pleaded.
Before the day was over the six-figure case that Bernie was counting on settled for a measly fifty grand. Bernie didn’t make a cent after paying all the costs, and doctors and rehab experts and even shelled out five-grand to Arnie to get him to agree to the settlement. All that work and not one dime to show for it. A sole practitioner can’t handle many of those hits and expect to stay in business.
Bernie stopped for a moment to inspect the new beds of flowers at Lisle’s Funeral Home, a gorgeous white colonial mansion surrounded by beautifully landscaped grounds. The gardener replaced the flowers every few days, before any blooms had a chance to fade. The only ones that were constant were the purple agapanthus that bordered the sidewalk and circle driveway. She loved the way their blossoms seemed to explode like violet fireworks from long arching green necks. It was a sin, she thought, that most people who visited the place probably never even noticed the old guy’s hard work.
Like the old funeral home, Bernie’s office was located in an old clapboard Victorian home. A hundred years ago, Fresno’s finest social set jostled along the tree-lined street in buggies or on horseback. After World War II, the homes slowly turned into rundown monoliths, many chopped up into cheap apartments. Eventually, some real estate tycoon had the bright idea to renovate some of the grand old homes into professional offices that offered the charm of antiquity with a costly visit to your lawyer or accountant. Only one or two downtown houses were still actually home to the stubborn old folks who refused to run away, choosing to install iron bars on the windows or wrought iron fences around their yards instead of moving to some fancy retirement center in the suburbs.
Bernie loved her office, the Gordon Home, with its polished hardwood floors, grassy front yard, and casement windows that opened to the outdoors. She loved the long, covered porch and filled every corner with pots of lacey ferns and succulent jade. A basement, naturally cooled by the deep earth that held it tight, was perfect for her library. But her favorite feature was a large stained-glass window at the top of the stairs that sent a shaft of red and yellow light over the reception area, an illusion of a good aura floating in the air. On the south side of the house, a Modesto Ash spread its branches wide just outside her office window, offering its protective shade from a vicious sun. She had an ever-changing view, fluttering greenery in the spring, a shower of orange and gold leaves dropping to the ground in fall, and, finally, naked branches of winter floating in a haze of fog. An old hitching post stood on the side of the house where she occasionally imagined a chestnut gelding waited to carry old Dr. Gordon off to some medical emergency.
The landlord had done a nice job of restoring the old house, choosing a subtle green-grey color for the walls, a sharp burgundy and creamy vanilla for the layers of trim around the windows and door frames. The front porch gable featured a curlicue accent that reminded her of the cursive line she used to scribble beneath her name when she was twelve, when signing her name was still a work of art, practiced again and again with care. If an office would be her second home, she wanted it to be a real home.
By the time she reached the bottom of the four steps that led to the front door, a thin band of sweat darkened the back of her pale silk blouse and her cheeks were flushed, this time from heat, not anger. The day was gorgeous, but still too warm for walking in pantyhose and silk. She climbed the broad steps and crossed the painted porch to the front door. Through the large oval of leaded glass, she could see into the old living room, now reception area, and back to the old dining area where Crystal sat working at her desk. Before she could even get her keys out of her pocket, Crystal pushed the button hidden beneath her desk; the buzzer sounding as the lock released with a loud, clanging snap.
“Mediation,” Bernie announced from the doorway, pausing just long enough to slip out of her shoes and kick them through the door to her private office, tossing her jacket onto a guest chair. “Can you believe it? Mediation already? We haven’t even answered interrogatories for Christ’s sake.”
After twisting a handful of limp, rust-colored hair into a knot on top of her head, Bernie grabbed a pencil from the cup holder and jabbed it through the makeshift bun to hold it in place and off her damp neck. Bernie didn’t let many people see her hair pulled up, but Crystal already knew that her boss had big Dumbo ears that turned the color of strawberry Jell-O; she’d seen them light up more than a few times. A fantail of wild hair stuck up in the air while several loose straggles hung limply down Bernie’s back, but it worked in a sort of fashionable messy way that she would never strive for.
“I’m not surprised.” Crystal yanked the headset from her ears, swung around in her chair and followed Bernie into the small kitchen area near the back door. “Why did you walk? I wanted to get out and pick you up, my morning reprieve, you know.”
“I’m sorry, it was just so nice out and I felt like I needed a breath of fresh air, a little think time.” It was easy to forget how dreadful it must be for Crystal, tied to her desk and telephone all day, every day. “Anyway, the judge gave us ninety days to get it done, so set it out as far as you can.”
Bernie grabbed her cup from the dish drainer, a rose-patterned, bone china teacup she had bought for a quarter at a yard sale the first month she opened practice. The cup had survived an uncertain past and sat alone on an old card table, fragile and beautiful, unchipped, unbroken. A quarter seemed too low a price for such a treasure.
“What’s the rush?” Crystal asked, pouring the last of the pot into Bernie’s cup. She placed the empty pot in the sink and let the water spill in and over the rim while she spooned fresh grounds into the gold cone filter.
“Judge Baldry. He doesn’t care that my clients live out of the country or that discovery isn’t even halfway done.” She rested her back against the counter, peered into the brackish liquid, took a sip, scowled at the bitter taste, and set the cup down. “Think I’ll wait for fresh.”
“Why don’t you have some ice water? You have that,” she pointed to Bernie’s face and circled her index finger around, “that look.”
Bernie recognized Crystal’s polite attempt to point out what she already knew—her face was the color of a maraschino cherry.
“What look?” she asked, sarcastically wide-eyed and innocent, her left eyebrow raised, the only one she could control, offering a wry smile. “Don’t worry, kid, it’s just the heat. I jus
t walked six blocks in pantyhose and heels. Besides, my dad always said hot coffee was the best thing to drink on a hot day.”
“It’s only four blocks,” Crystal said, sliding the coffee filter into place.
Bernie ignored the correction, lifted the overflowing pot from the sink. She dumped out the tap water and filled the carafe from the water cooler, a slower process, but she swore she could taste chemicals in the city water. As fresh coffee began to sputter out, the two women moved on to Bernie’s office, Crystal stopping to grab a stack of pink phone messages, notepad, and pen.
“Who’s Joan Bennett SS?” Bernie asked, quickly shuffling through the pink squares of paper, skimming the names of the morning callers.
“She’s with Social Security—that’s the SS. Said it was personal.” Crystal picked up her boss’s jacket from the chair and hung it on a wooden hanger behind the door, carefully smoothed the wrinkles with her hands, then gave it a gentle pat as if it was some kind of pet hanging there.
“Must be about Noni.” She set the stack of messages down next to the phone on the credenza behind her as a visual reminder that she had calls to make, then swung around, unzipped her briefcase and pulled out the manila file folders she had taken with her to court that morning.
“Also, Reilly’s secretary called to schedule Carlos and Rosa’s depositions, wants to know if you’ll bring them here.”
“Of course, he does. And if he wasn’t such an ass, I’d agree.” She studied the files briefly before handing them over to Crystal, removing her legal pad covered in scribbled notes to keep with her at her desk.
“So, what? You’re going to go all the way to Mexico for deps because you don’t like the guy?”
“Sure, why not?” Bernie shot one quick glance across her desk, just a flicker of eye contact, before shuffling through a mass of papers and pens, searching for her casebook, a thin notebook of detailed case information. She might remember every word in there, but she was lost without it at her fingertips. It was like a touchstone, all her projects condensed to one black binder. She knew she had an uncanny recall for detail, but she also knew she had gaps, things she couldn’t remember at all. The casebook and meticulous files let her sleep at night, knowing all the names, dates, and numbers were safe if her memory failed.
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