by Diane Capri
It’s a short drive to Great Oaks. As I approached the large, plantation-style club house, I realized, as I always do, how amazing it is that such a beautiful 36-hole golf course is nestled right in the center of South Tampa. I parked the car and walked to the pro shop. Since I play every Saturday, the caddies had my cart set up with my clubs. I went into the women’s locker room and put on my golf shoes before meeting Mitch at the cart. Of course, he was ready to go, already behind the wheel. On the golf course, as on the road, men do the driving if the women don’t get there first.
At the first tee, Mitch hit a drive 200 yards with his Big Bertha driver and was feeling pretty smug, thinking, I’m sure, that he’d be getting his $5 back today. By the end of the first nine, though, I was two strokes under and he was becoming surly. I remembered my mother telling me that I needed to let the boys win; otherwise they wouldn’t play with me anymore. She obviously hadn’t known Mitch. It’s when he’s winning that he wants to stop.
We always eat lunch in the clubhouse. Today, Mitch wasn’t quite as interested in gloating over his winnings as usual.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Actually, I was feeling sorry for Mrs. Junior. I’ve always liked her, even if she is rather homely.” He said, referring to the CJ’s daughter-in-law, his only son’s wife, using the nickname we’ve privately, and derisively, given her husband.
“Why?” I asked, “She has everything in the world. Aside from having to live with Junior, I’d say there are only about fifty million women in the country who would gladly trade places with her.”
“Not today. Junior made a complete fool of himself a few years ago and his wife, too. He resigned from our firm yesterday because the scandal broke.”
“No kidding! Junior, heir apparent, the anointed one, one day to become the second great and powerful Oz himself? What on earth possessed him to do that?” This was truly juicy news, if only because it would cause the CJ so much consternation. Junior was detested by every partner in my old firm lower on the ladder than he was, and by some who were a little higher up. It’s not that Junior was really such a bad guy, it was just that he got his privileges the old-fashioned way—Daddy bought them for him.
To be fair, he probably would have done well enough on his own if he’d been a little more pleasant. But he was one of those guys who always had sand kicked in his face as a kid. He was scrawny, wore glasses, and had a sour personality. In truth, he was one of the reasons I sought a judicial appointment after he came over to the firm a few years ago. Practicing another twenty years with Junior running the show was more than I could bear. Maybe I had to work with his father as the Chief Judge now, but the CJ had no real power over me. Working with Junior as my managing partner was unacceptable. Now, then and always.
“You have to give me all the details. And don’t you dare leave anything out.” We ordered burgers and beer, our standard Saturday lunch. The beer came in tall, frosty mugs while we waited for the well-done burgers cooked the Jimmy Buffet way: cheese, lettuce, pickles, tomato and onion. Fries, too, of course.
“Well, you know Junior was the rising star in our downtown office.” Mitch is like James Michner; he always begins at the very beginning of time.
“Sure, as the saying goes, he came from money, married money, and made a lot of money. All the makings of a successful lawyer, even if he is a twit.”
“Willa, that’s not very becoming of you,” Mitch scolded as he grinned. He doesn’t like Junior any more than I do.
“It seems an attractive, sexy, female lawyer was hired in the prosecutor’s office when he was over there. And for reasons that can only be attributed to a mental handicap or extreme nearsightedness, she apparently found Junior attractive. Maybe it’s the power that turned her on or the promise of future power. I could never understand Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts, either.”
“I’m with you.” When the waitress came around with our burgers, we ordered another beer. In addition to the $5 bet, I had to buy lunch and he was making the most of it.
“Anyway, she appears to be attracted to him and he, who never had a date in his life that didn’t have to wear a bag over her head, is besotted. Everyone notices. Rumors fly. She’s bright and capable and could make it on her own merits, but the favoritism he shows her makes her the target of vicious gossip.”
“Imagine that.” The drinks arrived, and I settled in for the rest of the story.
“Such sarcasm. Anyway, you know Junior’s granddaddy was the President of the First Federal Bank of Tampa, and when Junior’s daddy took the Federal Bench, Uncle Bishop got the bank job. The largest bank in town, and not coincidentally, one of the firm’s major clients, is controlled by Uncle Bish. The CJ and Uncle Bish were afraid Junior had gotten totally out of hand. The scandal would shake his place in society. Uncle Bish, a powerful man himself, can’t have that, even if it would otherwise have been okay with Oz, senior.”
“This is delicious. What did Bishop do?” I licked the juice off my fingers and dipped a French fry in mustard. Mitch frowned at my poor table manners. He handed me a napkin.
“Uncle Bish called our State’s Attorney in to lunch, and, friend to friend, asked him to squash the whole situation by firing the young associate and putting Junior on a big project that would take him out of town for a couple of months.”
“A few months away from hearth and home and the floozy and he should start thinking with his big head again, instead of his little head. I can see the logic of it.” I smiled, a mouthful of beef, cheese and mustard dribbling down my chin. I picked up the extra napkin so as not to interrupt the story again.
“Right. But the truth is, Uncle Bish is more than a little proud of Oz’s sprout. Junior has never before exhibited any traits of real manliness, you see. He’s always been sort of a bookworm weeny. Now, at least we know he’s capable of manliness. But that doesn’t mean Oz wants Junior destroying his dynasty. Junior has four children, after all, and a very respectable wife.” Mitch was chewing his burger with gusto. He was really getting into this now.
“How sweet.” I said. “A little meaningless dalliance. Well, that’s a time-honored privilege of the privileged, but throw away the future the family has planned for Junior on a pair of long legs, even very attractive and smart long legs? No.”
“Is this my story or yours?”
“Sorry. It’s just so predictable.”
“No problem, but watch it.” He gave me a mock slap on the wrist. “So, the State’s Attorney agrees to the plan because what choice does he have? Besides, he’s been totally oblivious to the gossip and didn’t even realize what was going on in his own office.”
“It’s really true that the farther up the ladder you get, the less people talk to you.” I waved for some extra napkins again and the waitress brought them over. Mitch took a couple this time, too.
“Right. Besides that, you know the State’s Attorney is one of those true blue types. He’s been married since he was twenty-five and he’s never even looked at another woman.”
“He’s never really looked at his wife, either.” I couldn’t resist. I figured if I was going to be a gossip, I might as well go all the way.
“True, but sex has not been his aphrodisiac. He can’t understand how otherwise intelligent men let their dicks do the thinking.”
“Amen.” I signaled for another round, trying to decide if I should switch to something lighter. I did have to drive home, and I wasn’t interested in explaining a drunk driving ticket to the CJ. I could just see it. “Oh, Oz. Junior’s story was just sooooo interesting. I couldn’t help myself.” I’d stick with the beer for now. What the hell.
“So, the State’s Attorney himself calls Junior into his office and gives him the ultimatum,” Mitch continued.
“Let me guess. ‘This is unseemly. It’s embarrassing. It’s affecting your future’” I said, covering my sarcasm well, I think.
“In the tradition of the way these things have been handled from time immemorial, he
tells Junior to put a stop to ‘this relationship’ at once, or the young assistant will be fired.”
“That’s outrageous!” I nearly spit out my beer. “Why didn’t they fire him? What he’s doing was immoral and illegal. The State Attorney could find himself on the wrong end of a sexual harassment suit over this.”
“Don’t I know it. Labor law is my forte, remember? But does anyone ask me? No.” Mitch sounds more than a little put out by this. Everyone’s got his own ox to gore, every time. Count on it.
“Junior must have been incensed. He is next in line to the throne, after all. Not only the family throne, but Uncle Bishop’s throne as well.”
“Make that ‘was.’ The way I heard the story, that was exactly his thinking. So Junior calls Dad and lays it on thick about the lame-brained behavior by the dotty old State’s Attorney. But, shock of shocks, Dad agrees with Uncle Bish.”
“Junior must have been having a cow! I wish I could have seen it!”
“And you’d have had to stand in line. Anyway, Junior told his cronies later that Dad said ‘a piece of ass is nice, Junior, but it’s not worth your credibility, your family, and your job.’ He wouldn’t support him on this one.”
“What did Junior do?”
“Junior thinks about it for two hours. He decides to put an end to the affair. He calls her into his office and tries to explain it to her. She cries. She pleads. She sits on his lap.”
“So, Junior’s little head snaps to attention and he throws caution to the wind.” The sarcasm was so thick you’d have to cut it with a chain saw.
“Right. He called the guy I heard this from, really hot. They’re not going to railroad him. He’ll show them who’s boss. And so forth. His pal tries to get him to calm down. No dice. He calls a guy who’s been courting him to come over and join our firm for months. He agrees to come if he can bring her with him.” The finish was kind of a letdown, although the story had been a good one.
“You have got to be putting me on. It’s interesting to finally learn how he got to the firm, but why would all this ancient history cause him to resign now?” This was real news. If I ever leave the bench, it actually gives me a place to go back to.
“Because everybody found out about it this week. Uncle Bish had managed to keep the whole thing quiet, but lately there’s been some rumblings in our associate ranks that Junior’s up to his old tricks. Someone reported him to our managing partner, who called Junior in for a little talk. Junior told him to take this job and shove it.”
I don’t know if it was the story or the beer, but the whole situation seemed so funny. We were laughing so hard that other patrons in the clubhouse were staring at us.
“I would have paid, paid you understand, to see the look on your managing partner’s face when Junior quit. This is precious.”
When he could talk again, Mitch said, “Yeah, but the managing partner is really sweating. Now he’s really pissed off Oz, Senior, and Uncle Bish, and he knows it. He doesn’t know what to do. What will he say? Everyone was planning on Junior to be managing partner when his time came.”
“Well, I can’t believe many of your comrades are too upset about it. I’m thrilled, although if you repeat that I’ll deny it.” We signed the check and went out to our cars. Certainly one of the more entertaining golf dates we’ve had lately, even if it did cost me fifty dollars. I had a nice little buzz going. We said our goodbyes and were about to leave the course for the day, when one more question occurred to me.
“Mitch, just out of curiosity, where did Junior’s floozy go, anyway? Did she come with him to your firm?”
“No. She left Junior at the same time she left the State Attorney’s office and took an in house counsel job for some medical device company in St. Pete.” Buzz kill. Fifty bucks wasted, but that solved one mystery, at least. How had Carly thought she’d ever keep such a secret? And no wonder she thought she had no credibility with our local authorities.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tampa, Florida
Tuesday 9:00 a.m.
January 12, 1999
BY TUESDAY, MY PATIENCE was exhausted and my annoyance level off the charts. I’d spent the weekend alternately in front of the television or the newspapers and trying to reach Carly. The news was all about the upcoming Gasparilla festivities, Tampa’s version of Mardi Gras. Carly was nowhere to be found.
Jones v. General Medics started promptly at 9:00 Tuesday morning, as the judge promised, and I was in no mood for nonsense. The case was scheduled for three weeks on my docket, but the way jury selection was going, I was sure it would take three months. Just great. Three whole months of Christian Grover. I couldn’t wait. Voir dire dragged on through 12:30, and we broke for lunch.
When I came back to my chambers for the lunch recess, there was a message from Carly. The message said “don’t worry I’ll be back soon.” No number. I asked Margaret, my secretary, whether she had talked with Carly and how she sounded. Margaret said someone else had taken the message and I asked her to find out who. She looked at me quizzically, but knew better than to argue. She said she’d let me know.
As Margaret was leaving my office, she said “by the way, the CJ called. He wants to see you this afternoon when you recess for the day.” Interesting. He’s staying late to talk to me. This can’t be good, I thought. More than that, it promised to be a pain in the ass. Maybe I’d recess early and get out before he came by.
I also had a message from Mark, Carly’s brother. Thinking he might have heard from Carly, I called him back. He was out and I left another message. In private practice, I used to bill for telephone tag. Now, it just takes up my time and makes me irritable.
Just before we reconvened after lunch, my secretary came to tell me that she’d asked around and no one remembered taking the message from Carly. She seemed puzzled and promised to keep trying.
Before bringing the venire back into the courtroom, I strongly admonished both lawyers, on the record. “Gentlemen, I’ve had enough fooling around in this case already. So there hasn’t been a breast implant case in the country that’s been tried in under four weeks. This one will be the first. When we get started, I will finish voir dire myself. When we have the jury, Mr. Grover, you may give your opening statement. You have twenty minutes. And” . . . I looked at Grover steadily, “there will be none of your infamous shenanigans or I’ll mistry this case so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
I turned to O’Connell. “Mr. Worthington,” I said, just as sternly, “you’ll have twenty minutes for your opening and we will get our first witness on today.”
I addressed my bailiff before either man could say a word and instructed him to bring in the jurors. Once the panel was seated, I apologized for keeping them waiting and told them that we would finish the case in three weeks. I asked the few relevant voir dire questions I thought had been missed, gave the lawyers their preemptories and finished the selection in ten minutes flat. I instructed the jury, asked them to give the matter their undivided attention and we got down to work. Appealable error be damned.
Grover has a reputation for outrageous behavior in the courtroom, and he doesn’t care whether his verdicts get overturned on appeal. I was surprised when he delivered a colorful, but proper, opening in nineteen minutes. As O’Connell concluded his opening remarks, I could see Grover’s mind and attention were elsewhere. I couldn’t fault him for that; my mind wasn’t on the trial either.
I asked Grover to call his first witness. The trial proceeded quickly through the afternoon hours and we recessed at 4:30. I admonished everyone to be back in the courtroom promptly at 8:30 the next morning and left the bench. I couldn’t remember a thing that had been said by either side, and I hoped the jury was paying closer attention.
Because I needed the distraction, I had called Pricilla Worthington during the three o’clock break and asked her if I could come by for a cup of tea and bring over the bill for food service for the AIDS benefit. Cilla is the only woman I know who still has a full
tea service in the afternoon. She hesitated just a little too long over the request and I thought for a minute she might actually refuse. But then, gracious as always, she said of course I could come.
I arrived at their Bayshore mansion about five minutes early, and I parked under the porte-cochere. It was a gloriously sunny day, about seventy degrees, and no wind. The sailors would be unhappy, but for the rest of us, it was the kind of day Floridians live for.
I walked up and rang the bell and Mrs. Smith, the Worthington’s ancient black housekeeper, finally got to the door about ten minutes later. She hugged me, and escorted me into the parlor, where Cilla was waiting, her silver tea service set out on the coffee table.
“Willa, dear, do come in. The tea’s just ready. You’re right on time.” I sat down on the antique camel-back sofa across from Cilla, and admired the room, as I have countless times. I don’t think there had been a new piece of furniture placed in that room in more than fifty years. Cilla told me once the house had belonged to her parents, and she and O’Connell had moved into it just as it stood when her father finally died in ‘64. It was old, but it was clean, and all the pieces were in excellent repair. The rugs alone were worth a fortune. I wondered just how big the Worthington estate would be when their children inherited. And now I was also wondering why her brother, the CJ, didn’t live in the house.
Cilla and I spent some time discussing the fund-raiser, how successful it was, and how much the Junior League had Senator Warwick to thank for that. I gave her the bill, ostensibly my reason for coming. She took it as if it was a piece of junk mail, and set it on the side table. I was sure George would eventually get paid, but it’s a mark of extreme wealth that Cilla believed it wouldn’t matter exactly when the League settled up.
Finally, I was able to bring the conversation around to the real reason for my visit. “Cilla,” I said, as if it was, oh, just a little curiosity, “do you remember the other day when we were at Minaret with Kate and Tory Warwick?”
