Irrefutable Evidence

by Melissa F. Miller

  6:10 a.m.

  A nasty winter rain lashed against the windows promising a miserable day. He headed down the stairs to the kitchen, Java at his heels. A glance toward the foyer confirmed that Sasha’s running shoes and Mocha’s leash were gone. Poor dog. Nothing like a pre-dawn jog in the freezing rain.

  He banged around the kitchen, cracking eggs, toasting bread and drinking coffee. By the time Sasha and Mocha came through the door, both dripping wet and shivering, he had fed the cat and plated breakfast for two. He toweled off the dog, who looked at him balefully.

  “I didn’t drag you out there in this mess,” he said. He tossed a treat toward Mocha, who snatched it out of the air and then shook the remaining water from his fur before heading off to his dog bed. After a morning run with his mistress, the dog would spend the better part of the day snoring loudly. Leave it to Sasha to be able to tire out a puppy.

  “It was invigorating.”

  “I’ll bet. I’ve got breakfast ready. Why don’t you eat before it gets cold?”

  She ran up the stairs to their bedroom and returned bundled in an oversized robe—although any adult human-sized robe would look oversized on her—and her wet hair tucked up in a towel.

  “Ahhh,” she sighed as she wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “Thanks for this.”

  He slid on to the stool next to her. “My pleasure. I figure it’s my best shot at getting some time with you before you race off to the office for another marathon day.”

  She winced.

  “I’m not complaining, babe. I know you’re crushed,” he hurried to assure her. He really wasn’t complaining. Long hours and canceled plans were part of the deal when you were married to a hotshot attorney. Frankly, he was just glad that no one had tried to kill them in nearly seven months. It was a personal record—for both of them.

  She nuzzled his ear with her icy nose. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “No thanks needed. Now eat.”

  She devoured her sunny-side up eggs and sopped up the remaining yolk with her toast. Then she drained her coffee and checked the time.

  She hopped off the stool and kissed his cheek. “I have to get in the shower. I have a meeting with the Steel City Roaster people at eight.”

  “Who has a business meeting at eight a.m.?”

  “Me.”

  He chuckled then caught her hand and pulled her close. “Hey, before you run off, I need you to make an executive decision. Mountains or beaches?”

  Their first wedding anniversary was only weeks away, and she’d deferred the planning for their much-needed getaway to him. He was happy to take charge of the arrangements, but he needed to know if she envisioned herself sluicing down a ski hill or snorkeling in tropical waters.

  She chewed her lower lip in thought then glanced out the large window to her right. The sky was slate gray and the December rain was coming harder now, almost sideways, and pelting the glass. She shivered.

  “Beaches. Hot, sunny beaches.”

  He smiled. “Your wish is my command.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sasha rarely felt warmly toward her corporate clients. She might like them, even respect or admire them. She certainly wanted to help them. But she wasn’t fond of them. Tamsin and Pete Maravach had proved to be the exception. When Caroline Masters called from the reception desk to let her know they’d arrived, a genuine smile crossed her lips. She grabbed her files and headed down to the conference room to meet them.

  She ran into Caroline at the door to the conference room.

  “Your coffee people are just the sweetest,” she remarked as she passed Sasha.

  Sasha walked through the door, and Pete popped to his feet.

  “Sasha.”

  “Hi, Tamsin, Pete. Please sit.”

  His seated wife smiled broadly, lighting her whole face. “Good morning, Sasha.”

  Sasha took the chair across from Tamsin.

  “I’m sort of afraid to offer you coffee for fear it won’t be up to snuff, but can I get you something to drink?”

  “Caroline took care of us,” Tasmin assured her, gesturing to the tumblers of ice water in front them.

  “Have you heard anything from our carrier about the motion to compel?” Pete asked as he took his seat, unable to hide his worry long enough to suffer through the small talk.

  “I’m afraid I have.” She frowned. “Mid-Atlantic’s outside counsel has just ignored this case and instructed me to talk to the in-house lawyers. They kept referring me to the business people. I finally caught your claims adjuster on the phone and told her we were concerned that she may have relied on faulty and/or incomplete information in issuing the denial.”

  “And, no dice?” Pete fretted.

  His wife patted his hand.

  Sasha shook her head. “First she refused to talk to me on grounds that we hadn’t submitted a Power of Attorney on the Mid-Atlantic Fire & Casualty approved form. Ms. Yim didn’t yield to the logic that, as your attorney in fact, I had your consent to speak to her about your claim. So Tamsin kindly faxed her a copy of the appropriate form and followed up with a hard copy in the mail. Having cleared that hurdle, I called back and the inimitable Laura Yim informed me that she had nothing to say on the matter other than her assurance that the claim hadn’t been denied by mistake.”

  The Maravaches stared across the table at her. Their faces were twin masks of dismay. As Sasha expected she would, Tamsin recovered first.

  She jutted out her jaw. “So what’s our next step?” she asked in a soft, pleasant voice as if she were asking Sasha for a recipe.

  Pete followed her lead. “Right. What do we do now?”

  Sasha opened the folder on the top of her pile of documents. “We tried to play nice, and Mid-Atlantic wasn’t interested. I know you were hoping to resolve this through mediation, but that ship has sailed. At a bare minimum we’ll need to see this through to a motion for summary judgment. And now these guys are stiffing us on discovery. So we’re going to get their attention.” She handed each of them a copy of the motion to compel she’d spent the weekend drafting.

  Pete studied it intently. Tamsin flipped through the pages listlessly then pinned her green and gold flecked eyes on Sasha and shifted uneasily in the leather chair.

  “Sasha, I don’t think … I don’t want to accuse our insurance company of bad faith. That sounds so serious. Gosh, Benjie Dolman’s been our agent since we rented our very first apartment—”

  Pete interrupted her gently. “Even longer than that, Tams. He insured the first car I ever bought. Don’t tell me you forgot that VW bug I had our sophomore year?”

  She smiled at the memory but grew serious again almost immediately. “That’s all the more reason not to pick this fight, Pete. I know Benjie will help us work this out. Just tell him what documents you need, Sasha. He’ll get them for you.”

  Pete shifted his eyes from his worried wife to Sasha. She nodded to let him know she’d handle it.

  She pushed back her chair and walked around to their side of the table then crouched beside Tamsin’s seat. It wasn’t a posture she’d ordinarily adopt with a client, but then the Maravaches weren’t her ordinary clients. She generally didn’t need to convince a client be aggressive—every once in a while, she might have to talk an irate general counsel out of carpet bombing his competitors with an arsenal of arguably frivolous complaints, but talk someone into a fight? Never.

  “Tamsin, listen. I know you wanted to take care of this without resorting to a bad faith claim, and I respect that. But you tried. I tried. Your broker has tried. Your insurer isn’t interested in working it out. They just aren’t. That’s not right or fair—especially seeing as how they’ve covered several other claims arising out of this same fire—but it’s the reality we’re facing.”

  She paused to make sure Tamsin was still with her and then softened her voice just a bit. “You and Pete built Steel City, slowly, carefully, to be a business you could be proud of. And now you’re in danger
of losing it. Your employees are going to lose their jobs. Customers like Jake will suffer. And why? Because Mid-Atlantic cashed the premium checks you sent them faithfully, year after year, but when it came time for them to provide the coverage you paid for, they just … didn’t. Holding their feet to the fire to enforce the policy doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or greedy or litigious. It just means you’re a smart, responsible businessperson. It’s not personal.”

  She stared up at her client, willing her to understand. Pete cleared his throat.

  “Tams, it’s a last resort. But she’s right. We’re going to go under if they don’t pay out—and soon.”

  Tamsin nodded slowly and pushed the motion away. “Okay.”

  Sasha handed it back. “You have to read it. I need you to be sure I’ve got all the details right.”

  Her client sighed and flipped it open. “Fine.”

  Pete cleared his throat. “Uh, we need to talk about your fees. You still haven’t billed us for the work you did on the complaint.”

  She held up a hand. “No, we don’t. We have a signed representation agreement. I’m going to invoice you monthly, but just hold the bills. If—when—we win, we’ll ask the Court to make Mid-Atlantic cover my fees, and they’ll have to do so. Don’t spend even a second worrying about that.”

  Pete opened his mouth to argue, but she shot him a look that said ‘don’t you dare.’ He closed his mouth.

  Tamsin looked up from the pleading with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, we do have some beans lying around the house. Not enough to fill any of our contracts, but more than we would use before they go stale …”

  “Now you’re talking,” Sasha told her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One week later

  Naya poked her head into Sasha’s office and rapped on the open door.

  “You busy?”

  She looked up and rubbed her eyes, blinking as she tried to focus on Naya’s face.

  “No. I think I need to get my vision checked, though. Everything’s blurry at a distance.”

  Naya held up the fingers of one hand and ticked off her points. “One, you spend entirely too much time staring at a computer screen. Your eyes need a break. Two, you’re getting older, it’s natural for eyesight to begin to fail as you approach middle-age—“

  “I’m nowhere near middle aged!”

  Naya ignored her protest. “Three, the lighting in here is pathetic. Get some task lighting.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  “Is the reply in support of the motion to compel in the Steel City Roasters case filed?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was coming to tell you. Filed and served as of about an hour ago.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing. I filed under your ECF number, so the confirmations should be in your email.”

  “Awesome.” She checked the time. It was just after three o’clock. Mid-afternoon.

  The ability to file documents electronically in federal court was something of a double-edged sword. It had obviated the five o’clock race to the courthouse that Sasha remembered from her time as a law student and very junior associate, but she’d quickly learned that an attorney who failed to master the technology became a slave to it. She’d spent too many nights at Prescott & Talbott frantically trying to get documents loaded and filed at 11:59 p.m. She’d vowed when she’d gone out on her own that she’d avoid that situation at all costs. As her late mentor was fond of saying, ‘the work expands to take the time allotted to it.’

  “So this case … insurance coverage, really?” Naya wrinkled her nose.

  “I know.”

  “No, seriously. Insurance coverage.”

  “No, seriously, I know.”

  The reality of what lie ahead of her was the stuff of nightmares. The obfuscating, delaying, and flat-out lying of lawyers tied to the insurance industry was legend. She was depressed just thinking about it.

  “They must be paying you in coffee.”

  They shared a dry laugh.

  “I wish. I mean, they kind of are. But not nearly enough.”

  “Oh, but good news. Judge Partridge’s clerk called. His honor with the rocket docket already read the reply and the clerk was calling to let you know the court will not be setting argument on the motion to compel.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. That means he’s going to grant it, right?”

  “Usually that’s what it would mean. And Partridge is pretty pro-plaintiff, so yeah, I’m going assume we’ll have an order granting us the discovery in the morning.” She sat up a little bit straighter and smiled, feeling rejuvenated. “That’s awesome.”

  “Well, congratulations.”

  “Let’s not get too excited until we see what Mid-Atlantic actually turns over. Insurance coverage, remember?”

  Naya shuddered in mock horror and tilted her head toward the hallway. “I better get back to it.”

  “Me, too. I’m reading the galley proofs of the journal article Will and I wrote about the Bennett kids’ witness protection case. I’m sure he’s going to send Caroline in here any minute to see when I’m going to finish—they’ve been on my desk all week.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Don’t forget to call an ophthalmologist, Mac.”

  Naya disappeared into the hallway before she could get off a retort. She laughed to herself and turned back to the microscopic font favored by The Journal of Legal Ethics. She immediately stifled a yawn. Despite their best efforts, she and Will hadn’t been able to capture the heart-pounding fear that the Bennetts’ situation had caused for all involved—including the attorneys. Apparently, even the specter of a psychopathic, murderous father couldn’t make irrevocable trusts and intended beneficiaries of third-party contracts an interesting read.

  She tossed her pen on the desk and grabbed her purse. Seeing as how her afternoon coffee was out of the question, she needed a quick sparring session to jolt her back to wakefulness. Especially given that she and Connelly would be spending their evening babysitting the six Bennett kids.

  She raced through the reception area, but she wasn’t quick enough to evade Caroline.

  “Sasha? May I ask where you’re going?” she called across the small space.

  “Oh, sure. I’m heading to the studio to work out with Daniel. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  Caroline frowned ever-so-slightly and fiddled with her left earring.

  Sasha plunged toward the stairs and called over her shoulder, “Let Will know I’ll have those proofs for him when I get back.”

  She heard the little mew of relief that escaped from the receptionist’s lips as she headed down the stairs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nino slouched against the hood of the glossy black Town Car and watched from a distance as Peaches and his buddies knocked their bocce balls in the general direction of the court. For as much time as they spent playing, they didn’t seem to be very good. But they certainly were committed. He blew into his cold hands. Although the wintry mix had stopped falling, it left a raw, wet day behind.

  The phone in his right pocket vibrated. He frowned and squinted toward the game. They were nowhere near finished. It was probably safe to answer. Probably.

  He dug out the phone and jabbed the button to answer.

  “What?”

  “Can you talk?” Cashion asked.

  “Maybe.” He didn’t like it when she called him. But she didn’t seem to care what he liked. Arrogant—just like every other prosecutor he’d ever worked with. Wonder how she’d like it if she were living in constant danger and some suit risked her life just to get an update for a monthly status report for a file somewhere. The thought of Charlotte Cashion, with her honey-blond cloud of hair and ever-present pearl choker, going undercover as a member of a criminal enterprise almost made him laugh. Dirty work had to be done, but she certainly wasn’t going to mess up her manicure to make it happen.

  “Yes or no, agent?”

 
; “Make it fast.” He kept one eye on Peaches while he readied his responses to her inevitable inventory of pointless questions.

  Instead of launching into her question and answer routine, Cashion said, “We got some useable intelligence from that gathering the other night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. We turned a dancer who has a quite hefty credit card debt. In exchange for a cash payment, she made sure she was performing in the private room where the meeting took place.”

  He smiled at the slightly appalled note in Cashion’s voice. He wasn’t sure which she found more offensive—that the girl took her clothes off for money or that she was in hock to MasterCard and Visa.

  “And?”

  “And she reports that in addition to carving up the territory, the underbosses discussed some other interests—gaming, of course; drug running from West Virginia; and one item that wasn’t already on our radar.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It involved your guy in Atlanta.”

  He rolled his eyes. Only the Justice Department would think that using “your guy in Atlanta” as a code for “Peaches” would confuse anyone. Georgia. Peaches. Duh.

  “Did it?”

  “It did indeed. He’s apparently been asked to find a torch for an upcoming assignment.”

  Nino sucked air between his teeth. He waited a beat. “Arson?”

  “Evidently. You know anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well find out.”

  He switched off the phone and shoved it back in his pocket. Peaches had abandoned his ball and was stalking down the hill toward the car.

  Crap. He was going to get chewed out for not having the engine running and the car warmed and waiting.

  “Game over already?” he asked as he jogged around to jerk open the rear door on the driver’s side. Unlike most of the guys with drivers, Peaches sat directly behind him, despite the obstructed view. He figured it was in case his boss decided to shoot him in the head at a red light. Paranoid? Maybe. But that didn’t make it untrue.