A relatively young family-owned firm, Rabb & Company manufactured a variety of consumer products, including children’s aspirin, foot fungal sprays, and herbal shampoos. The Rabbs, relatively new to Atlanta, had become society page fixtures—and judging from a small mention of a domestic disturbance call and a couple of society page pictures of Pendleton with women who weren’t his wife—gossip column favorites as well. When did this guy have time to run his company?
Forbes hinted at some new drug development ventures Pendleton planned to pursue aggressively, including some joint ventures. “We’re a small company, so of course I’m intimately involved in everything we do.”
I crab-walked the heavy armchair over to the credenza and dialed the Atlanta number for Rabb & Company. A pleasant recorded voice informed me that the offices were closed, so I tried the home number for Pendleton Rabb.
The woman who answered had been hired for her talent at screening out nut cases. I explained that I was a lawyer—which impressed her not at all—and that I was calling about the research project at Barnard Medical—which got me transferred, after a long wait, to a fellow named Ed.
Ed didn’t seem inclined to chitchat.
“Mr. Rabb is not in at the moment. If this is a business matter, I suggest you try to reach him at the office on Monday.” Ed should get a job recording unctuous phone messages about preplanned funerals.
“I have critical information about one of his research projects. If—”
“Mr. Rabb doesn’t conduct business on weekends. He’s quite adamant about that. Call him Monday.”
“For Pete’s sake, you mean to tell me if I called to report his company was burning to the ground, you’d want me to wait until Monday morning?” I was riled by his cool, clipped tones—and the fact that I had no leverage.
“No,” he replied. “I would expect you to call the fire department. Good afternoon.”
The dial tone buzzed loudly.
What did I expect, especially on Saturday? And what was I going to ask Pendleton Rabb? Maybe I could open with “Did you know people involved in your research project keep dying?”
I’d channeled my pretrial energy into searching for Tunisia. Now that she’d been found, I felt at loose ends, all fidgety with nowhere to go. Mark was dead, in a mysterious car accident with two men in a swamp. I’d had my own encounter in another swamp, frighteningly similar, though I refused to get all melodramatic about it. Tunisia shows up in a scene out of some sicko sex movie, and the contraceptive research project she enrolled in now led right to Hilliard.
I paced back and forth the length of the conference room. Was I reading too much into it? I had plenty of reason to despise him. Had I lost my objectivity? Vendettas aren’t pretty—and can be pretty stupid. But Hilliard was the linchpin. Mark’s colleague. Tunisia’s research chief. Expert witness in Jake’s trial. Hilliard.
Who could give me some more information on Hilliard’s little deal? I’d probably tapped out Demarcos, and I didn’t know what his involvement might be with this project Dr. Ellin, maybe? He’d really shut down when I mentioned Tunisia’s name. Was something going on there?
My cell phone buzzed. “Hey, Lydia. What’s up?”
“I got a wild-hare favor to ask. I know you probably can’t do it, but I thought I’d ask, just in case.” Her voice sounded odd.
“Spit it out.”
“Do you get Sunday off? Is there—any way you could meet me in Atlanta tomorrow? Go shopping? Is that too far?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. “Shopping?”
“I’ve got that doctor’s appointment early Monday, so I’m driving over tomorrow. Frank can’t come with me and—well—I just didn’t want to—I thought it would be fun. Only if you have time, though.”
Atlanta was a two- or three-hour interstate drive from Dacus, but no roads led there from Charleston.
“That’d be fun. I’ve got to be back early Monday morning, but I’m just marking time until then. Let’s see—” I started clicking through a travel Web site. “The best option is for me to fly in tonight. I can meet you tomorrow at the hotel?”
We agreed to stay near Lenox Square—restaurants and shopping galore.
“Avery, are you sure you’ve got time for this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. Now I’m excited.” Her voice sounded lighter.
“Me, too. See you tomorrow.”
My brain raced through all the loose ends I needed to batten down: plane ticket, packing, contacting Jake. This was lunacy, but at least I was moving. Lydia never asks for anything, so she dreaded this doctor’s appointment more than she would admit, even to herself.
I booked a ridiculously expensive nonstop ticket—at least I had a Saturday-stay discount—and shuffled through the stacks of papers, deciding what to carry with me.
I picked up my Web-search printouts. Atlanta. Ed at Rabb & Company was in Atlanta. Ed had ticked me off. I hate being told no. Langley Hilliard was scheduled to testify on behalf of Perforce next week, and Jake could use details about Hilliard’s little drug development deal when he cross-examined him. In addition, Rabb would likely appreciate a warning about two mysterious deaths before he signed a contract with Hilliard. Thank you, Lydia.
On the way to the airport, I called Mom.
“Atlanta? Don’t know why that would surprise me. You never can sit still right before a trial.”
“What do you mean?”
Mom just pshawed. That’s actually a sound she makes, and it’s quite rich in meaning. “You always skitter around like a water bug just before a trial. Why don’t you just come home for the weekend? You could rest up, go hiking.”
“I’m going to meet Lydia. Keep her company before her doctor’s visit on Monday,” I said, skittering around. I didn’t mention Lydia’s anxiety and neither did Mom. Lydia must have known Mom wouldn’t have time to ride to Atlanta with her, and didn’t want to share her worry with her just yet.
“That’s nice.” I could hear an unspoken pshaw. “Just don’t push yourself too hard. I’m certainly glad Lydia’s finally getting that cyst checked. Did I tell you Olivia Sterling and Harrison Garnet have started keeping company?”
“You are kidding!”
A little girl rolling a tiny multicolored suitcase plowed into the back of my knees, almost knocking us both into aheap.
“They’ve been coming to church, and he brought her to the spring Men’s Club dance.”
“What happened to his wheelchair?” Last time I’d seen Harrison Garnet was a few days after Thanksgiving, when we’d investigated an arson and murder at his manufacturing plant.
“Once he got rid of that wife of his, Harrison’s whole life seemed to brighten up. ‘Bout time he and Olivia got together. They should’ve married forty years ago.”
Long time to wait for true love. Olivia had never married, after Harrison got lured away by someone else. I realized I was standing in the middle of the airport, grinning like a fool.
“Everything else okay there?”
“Seems to be,” she said, without elaboration on any of her special projects. “Just wish you could come home.”
“This trial won’t last forever.” I didn’t explain beyond that.
We signed off, I checked in, cleared security, then called Jake’s number. No answer.
“Jake, it’s late Saturday. I’m flying to Atlanta, following up on an idea. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Think it might help you handle one of their witnesses. You have my cell phone number.”
In the back of my brain, I’d mused all afternoon on Tixtill and Perforce’s criminal guilty plea. Jake wanted the jury to know Perforce had been bad in the past so Perforce would be suspect again. Realistically, though, Judge Bream wasn’t about to let Jake waltz in and introduce that old case, particularly since, try as I might, I’d found no hint of similar wrongdoing in the development of Uplift. True, my search had been cursory and my evidence anecdotal, but the endorsements were consistent and
glowing.
One way to get it admitted was as reputation evidence, but that was a long shot. Reputation evidence was used most often in criminal trials to discredit a defendant who claims he has a spotless past. Prosecutors wait with bated breath hoping a defendant will open the reputation evidence door just a crack, so the crook’s rap sheet can come back to haunt him. If Perforce said it was a sterling company with a spotless reputation, maybe Jake could use Tixtill to create doubt in the jurors’ minds. Big if.
I’d once faced a plaintiff’s attorney trying to use reputation evidence in a medical malpractice trial after my witnesses talked about the doctor’s excellent reputation among his colleagues and patients. The attorney claimed he should be allowed to introduce evidence about the number of times the doctor had been sued, to show his reputation wasn’t that good—evidence that’s not usually admitted because past lawsuits, like past crimes, usually don’t have anything to do with the current case and, in fact, would unfairly prejudice the jury.
The judge had agreed with me—the reputation evidence wasn’t admitted. Judge Bream was unlikely to allow it in this case, either; but I pulled out my laptop and e-mailed Jake a lengthy message, including a couple of citations Lila could use in preparing a trial brief. Just in case he found an opening where Tixtill would fit.
I kept my suspicions about Hilliard and his development deal to myself; no need to cloud Jake’s thoughts with a half-baked idea.
18
EARLY SATURDAY EVENING
Charleston’s tiny “international” airport stays busy mostly with military families from the nearby bases, coming and going from overseas. So few people waited to board the afternoon flight to Atlanta, I feared they would cancel it. But fly we did.
En route, I studied an Atlanta map I’d found in the gift shop and located the streets for Rabb & Company and Pendleton Rabb’s home address. The People magazine picture of Pendleton’s house was distinctive and the street name was well known and didn’t include Atlanta’s ubiquitous “Peachtree,” so I could probably find it.
I opened my notebook to talk to myself about Tixtill. I usually think better on paper, but I couldn’t make myself focus on the words, dancing from topic to topic. Day after tomorrow, the bailiff would be announcing, “All rise.” Maybe I could replace my much-lamented purple suit in Atlanta. I’d wear my gray suit on Monday, with the pearl blouse. I kept thinking about Tabbi Johnson and her grape Tootsie Pop.
From the air, not much distinguished between South Carolina and Georgia until Atlanta’s sprawling suburbs began to spread out from the gloom. Atlanta has character. Everything from leftover hippies and street people in yuppie-built shanties to Coca-Cola, Ted Turner, the Olympics, and the street comer where Margaret Mitchell was struck dead by a car. Atlanta is a schizophrenic, sprawling, urban Southern eccentric, with lights spreading forever.
Fortunately, Saturday evening wasn’t the airport’s busiest time, and I lucked into what had to be one of the few Georgia-cracker cabbies in the city.
“Whur to?” he asked into the rearview mirror, his bucktoothed grin, his chin, and his Adam’s apple all competing to see which could get closest to the windshield.
“You sound like you would know Atlanta well.” My Carolina drawl got broader and flatter along the vowels, just being close to this thatch-head named Rowly. That’s how his nameplate announced him, anyway: ROWLY EDWARD.
Rowly whirled around to face me, afraid I’m sure that the rearview mirror didn’t reflect his deep hurt. The fact we were barreling out the airport exit toward I-85 North wasn’t reason enough for him to keep his eyes on the road. I grabbed the edge of the seat.
“A’ course I do. What do you think?”
“Good. Because I have several places I need to find and I really need your help.” Now I had a Southern man with something to prove. Might as well make use of my Saturday evening.
“Just tell me where to. You’ll get there.”
Company headquarters was close to the airport; seeing it would give me time to get used to his driving. I hadn’t ridden with anyone else since my mishap in the swamp and I was surprised at my own skittishness at not being in control.
“Do you know Rabb & Company headquarters? Just off I-85?”
“A’course I do.” He hit the accelerator, rocketing into downtown-bound traffic that would’ve done most other cities proud during rush hour. Dusk had long passed and headlights shone in a steady stream.
Rabb headquarters would be deserted, but I wanted to see it for myself. Though I tried to squelch my own frankness, this whole enterprise was beginning to feel like idiocy.
Rowly Edward did know his way around. Rabb & Company’s white, gothic headquarters, a Tara clich6 gleaming into a broad reflecting pool, was visible from the interstate.
“You wanna go in?” Rowly Edward asked, whipping out of traffic and onto the exit ramp. A guard gate loomed ahead. A woman in a security uniform stepped out to meet us, her belly straining unbecomingly at her pants.
Rowly assumed a chauffeur’s pose, eyes straight ahead, as I rolled down my window. “I wonder if Mr. Pendleton Rabb is in tonight?” Might as well carry the idiot act all the way. I really just wanted a chance to study Rabb’s unbelievable building.
“No, ma’am. He’s not. Not on Saturday. Perhaps you would like to call for an appointment Monday morning.” With her hands behind her back, she bowed solicitously toward the taxi, genteel and polite. She seemed to take this late-night cabbie visit in stride, more used to functioning as a uniformed greeter than a guard.
“Thank you. I will.”
Rowly turned the cab around as I gawked out the back window at the mocked-up Southern plantation house, more Las Vegas than Atlanta.
“Where to now?” Rowly’s puppyish good spirits didn’t seem the least bit dampened by our peculiar mission. He had his foot on the brake and his gaze on me in his rearview mirror, awaiting instructions. I fumbled with my notes and map, looking for the address.
“Do you know where Paces Ferry Lane is?”
“Who-ee,” he whistled through his orthodontically challenged overbite. “Nice neighborhood. That where this Rabb fellow lives?”
“That’s the street. How hard will it be to find the house, do you think? I’ve got a picture, but no number.”
Rowly flicked on the dome light and studied the black-and-white print of the magazine photo. I realized it looked almost exactly like the corporate headquarters building behind us.
“No problem at all. Hell, ever’body in Atlanta knows that house. The parties they got there, ever’ cabbie in town has drunks to carry home after those.”
“Drive on, Rowly.” I settled back in the worn and slightly greasy upholstery.
Back on the interstate, we flashed past the towers of downtown Atlanta, decorated with glistening lights for the evening. The speedometer read seventy-five, but we were moving with traffic.
“Rowly, you from Atlanta?”
“No, ma’am. From a little town near Columbus, near where Lewis Grizzard was from. Loss of a great American. You know, him and me been married the same number’ a times. Lucky none of mine ever wrote a book about our double-wide, like one’a his did. Must be something with us Georgia boys, reckon?” Rowly grinned, a buck-toothed preen.
“You been in Atlanta long? You sound a lot like Lewis Grizzard. And—what’s that other guy’s name? Jerry Clower?”
“Well, he’s from Mississippi.”
Like that was a long way from Georgia.
“Been here a quite few years now. First come to try to get a part on Matlock, but they didn’t really film much’a that here. Working to get my country singin’ career started. I’m only cabbin’ until I can attract the right kind of attention.”
Pointing toward Nashville or even Myrtle Beach as better choices might be rude. What did I know about the country music business?
“You write your own music?”
“Some. Been told I sound just like Hank Williams. That’s Senior, not
Junior. You know, Junior’s just a little too—I don’t know—long-haired for me. Don’t you think?”
“You ever get nervous, on stage in front of all those people?”
“Naw. I just think about how good I sound. And how much ever’body’s enjoying listening to me.”
This guy kept leaving me with nothing to say.
We’d exited the interstate and wound our way along a maze of residential streets among rolling hills. Rowly handled the wheel with self-assurance.
The homes became more elegant and farther apart, and somewhere we crossed a line that guaranteed a burglar alarm sign in every yard and at least one German car in every circular drive. After Charleston, with its crowded streets and walled European gardens, Atlanta looked land-rich and sprawling.
It came into view around a slight bend, glowing at the end of the narrow residential street. Pendleton Rabb’s Atlanta home. A small affair, probably no more than ten thousand square feet, discreetly protected but not hidden behind wrought iron gates and sheltering oaks.
Rowly stopped where the road dead-ended at Rabb’s gate. A generous oval drive in front of the gate provided the curious but uninvited plenty of turnaround space.
Rowly didn’t maneuver into a turn but sat with his headlights shining brazenly into the return glare of the estate’s floodlights. He pointed. “There’s a call box. You wanna see if he’s home?”
“Heck. Why not? Pull on up.” The worst they could do is tell us to leave.
A voice crackled almost immediately after I pressed the button. “Yes.”
“May I speak with Mr. Pendleton Rabb? I’m an attorney from—”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Rabb is not receiving guests this evening. Perhaps you could try his office on Monday morning for an appointment.”
The call box gave an audible click of dismissal.
‘Too bad there’s not a party tonight. You could get in then, for sure. Particularly late, when bunches of ’em would be losing their lunch on the lawn or their underwear upstairs.”
DONE GONE WRONG Page 15
