Unfit to Practice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  “Whoo-wee.” Sandy examined the list.

  “The client-intake notes are my biggest concern. People are forthright with me, and of course, like a good schoolgirl, I write it all down. And as I’m listening, I’m scribbling my thoughts and impressions.”

  “Not to mention doodling all over the page. Let’s start with Kevin Cruz.”

  “The secret’s out. Ali Peck testified. The result isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “Quite a coincidence, her showing up at the last minute. Her name’s in the missing file.”

  “I know. They might have found Ali without the file, but the time frame-”

  “Anything we can do?” Sandy asked.

  “Not about the hearing. It’s too late to do anything about that,” Nina said.

  “That man’s gonna win,” Sandy said, referring to Riesner. “And we were five and O!”

  “I wasn’t keeping score. This isn’t about-”

  “You can bet he was.”

  Nina stuck to the point. “Kevin was having a relationship with a young girl. Milne isn’t a prude, but, boy, she looked young up there.”

  “Well, don’t sound so guilty. He slept with her, not you, for Pete’s sake,” Sandy said. “How’d they say they found out about her, anyway?”

  “In court this morning, Riesner said he got a tip at home early this morning. Implied she called him.”

  Sandy frowned. “He claims he just found out about her but it’s my policy never to believe a word he says. Maybe he knew months ago and sprang it on you. However. Maybe he did get a phone call. From a car thief.”

  “Exactly what I’m afraid of.” Nina noted with clinical interest that her throat seemed to be closing up. She went over to a client chair and sat down and knew she was finished for the day. Time to go home.

  “Wish knows Kevin. Says he’s seen him around the community college. Says Kevin comes down hard on the druggies.” Sandy’s son, Wish Whitefeather, helped around the office, studied criminology at Lake Tahoe Community College, and now drove Paul’s old van. He idolized Paul, and made a good sidekick when Paul needed help on his Tahoe work for Nina. “So. Moving right along. Number two-the arson case-the Hmong. The Vang family.”

  Nina went to the window. The purple mountains’ majesty didn’t soothe her as much as usual. A Sunfish with its tricolored sail hoisted high glided into view on silver water toward the Tahoe Keys Marina in the distance. False tranquility, Nina thought. Too beautiful to be true. She remembered someone telling her once there might be bodies lingering on the bottom of Lake Tahoe, perfectly preserved in the melted snow.

  She said, her back to Sandy, “The Hmong. Nobody, but nobody, knows about the insurance claim I filed.”

  “It’s a pitiful story. What was the worst thing in the file?”

  “Kao Vang’s address. He didn’t want to give it to me but I insisted. Kao said, he warned me, that his family would be in danger if the news got out that he might recover a settlement from the fire. People might get angry.”

  “Angry enough to do what?”

  “I don’t know. The Vangs won’t talk about it.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nina’s voice must have told her assistant to leave things at that, because the usually exhaustively thorough Sandy moved briskly forward. She scribbled a note in pencil, then went back to the list. “Brandy Taylor and Angel Guillaume.”

  “Witnesses to a murder. Deeply buried, until I wrote it all down for our thief. I have to get Brandy and Angel to the district attorney and get them protected. How I hate unknown quantities. Those two are about as unpredictable as my cooking, especially the younger one, Brandy. She got dragged here by Angel in the first place. They could get hurt, Sandy. My intake notes-I listed Angel’s address here in Tahoe, and maybe even Brandy’s in Palo Alto. Along with the whole story they told me.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad. I read your notes while I was making up the file.”

  “Anyway. The weekend is starting. I’m taking a run down to the Monterey Peninsula tomorrow morning, and I plan to ask Paul to come up here as soon as he can next week.”

  “Wish could help out in the afternoons.”

  “We could use his help. Could he come in next week?”

  “You kidding? He’ll make time.”

  Nina already felt better.

  “The A-Team,” Sandy said. “Back together again. Last time was, I think, the Nikki Zack case.”

  “You know, Sandy,” Nina said, “believe it or not, I saw these cases as a symbol of our success. We were helping ordinary people in the worst trouble of their lives who heard such good things about our work, they trusted us to do a good job.” She found herself unable to continue with the thought. “Let’s finish here quickly and go home. I have to see everyone on Monday.”

  “Maybe you should wait longer.”

  “I can’t. I’m not feeling good about even taking the weekend. I have an ethical duty to tell these clients promptly that there’s been a possible breach of confidentiality. Monday’s as late as I can wait. If the files turn up, great. Maybe the police will find the car with the files intact. But I have to give myself the weekend. I have to think and talk to Paul, and the insurance company. And-” She stopped.

  “Two days to pray.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sandy said, “Things were rolling along so great. For a minute there we had so many clients we almost had the money for bigger offices. If this gets out, we’ll be lucky to keep the fig in Miracle-Gro.” They both looked over at the plump-leafed tree, which, in spite of the misfortune of living in a law office, thrived in its sunny corner. “Look. Let’s get some perspective here. Some skunk is banging around in your Bronco, having a whee of a time. He has zero interest in a briefcase full of papers lying on the floor in the backseat under his empty beer bottles.”

  “The Bronco bunged up and the papers ignored-that would be the ideal outcome, and I never thought I would feel so casual about my truck. I love my truck.”

  “Question.”

  “Yes?”

  “You pay that legal-malpractice-insurance bill I put on your desk a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Sent it out last Thursday.”

  “Good.” She punched her lip with a pencil, thinking. “So we went down today.”

  “It’s not a football game, Sandy. Like I said.”

  “He makes a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, he does.” Nina had had the distinct displeasure of visiting Riesner’s leather-swaddled, mahogany-bedecked offices a few times in the past.

  “I’ll tell you something about him and money. He’s also a cheapskate. When I used to work there, he gave the most pathetic Christmas presents. Instead of bonuses. Stuff he makes down in the basement at his house. Spice racks, lazy Susans, wood bowls.” She made an impolite sound. “We’d have to admire his talent. What we would have really admired was a big gift certificate from Macy’s. His ego is the size of Cave Rock. I still have one of his bowls. The dog admires it when he drinks his water. Yeah, he’s a prick, no way around it.”

  “Sandy, you’re going to have to find another description for Riesner. I find that term objectionable.”

  “You offended? You never said that before.”

  “I’m not offended. It’s just objectionable.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to make a couple of quick calls before I go.” Nina opened the door to the inner office and went in, leaving the door open.

  After a few minutes, Sandy called, “So what’s your objection? Why’s it objectionable?”

  “It’s not offensive enough,” Nina said, and was rewarded by a dusty chuckle from the outer office.

  Sandy said, “I’ll call Angel Guillaume tomorrow morning to set up the appointment. How do I get hold of Brandy Taylor?”

  “I think she’s still at her sister’s.”

  “And Kao Vang?”

  “Call his friend Dr. Mai. He gave me his phone numb
er in Fresno.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I gotta go right now. Joe and I are on the committee to organize a powwow down by the lake two weeks from now. So far, lots of discussion and nothing getting done.”

  “Sounds like my life. Go get ’em, Sandy.”

  “Yeah, we’ll ruffle some feathers tonight. Don’t forget to lock up. And.”

  “And?”

  “Stay cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  As soon as she heard the outer door slam, Nina punched in the number of her malpractice insurer, Lawyer’s Fidelity. No answer. The company had gone home for the weekend. She should have called earlier.

  She called the Lake Tahoe Police Department and asked for Officer Scholl or Matthias. The officer on duty took her message and told her the Bronco hadn’t been found yet.

  She called Paul.

  “Van Wagoner Investigations.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hi!” She always forgot his voice, so warm and full of life.

  “Paul, I changed my mind. I have a big problem up here I need to discuss with you. And I miss you. I can be there about four tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Sure. I was just on my way out the door. Big football game tonight at Carmel High School. Can you tell me what’s up right now? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. It’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  But Paul made her give him the outline, and from the long silence on the end of the phone when she finished she knew he, too, was grappling with what to say.

  “You go on,” she said. “You’ll miss the game. And I have to get home.”

  “Wait, Nina. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call an old buddy of mine who happens to be certified to practice in the state-bar court. All he does is lawyer-discipline cases. He can help us sort this out.”

  From the new relief she felt, Nina knew he was on the right track. She needed information. “That sounds great. But is this attorney good? You know this person well?”

  “He’s been around. Left private practice two years ago and does this exclusively now. Lives in SF and loves to come down to the Monterey Peninsula. Big talker, big ego, but you see plenty of that in your business.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Let me call and see if he’s available first. Meanwhile, pack light. My big plan for the evening won’t involve dinner clothes.”

  Nina’s bed did not offer its usual comforts that night. Instead of resting, she journeyed bleakly through times she had screwed up or swerved into the windy side of the law. Green sunglasses-two years ago, she had hidden this evidence of one client’s presence at a crime scene. Hypnosis-she had assured another client it would remain private. She had been wrong and Misty Patterson had almost been convicted of murder because of it. Bob’s No Fear cap, recognized by her at another crime scene-she had never told the police about that. And then there were the pieces of a dead man out there buried under the pine trees of Tahoe-a murder had been committed to protect her and Bob.

  She had thought of herself as a good lawyer, good enough to look for the spirit behind the letter of the law sometimes, looking for the real rule that ought to govern the situation, trying to be brave about applying it.

  She had been accused of recklessness many times, but she had always managed to pull the right result out of the situation before. Sometimes, she had to admit, she had taken risks that were more suitable to a horse track than a law practice. All in the service of the clients, she told herself.

  Last night? She hadn’t even identified the risk in advance. She had been careless and lazy.

  How hard would the clients get hit?

  How hard would she get hit? For the first time, she let her most private, selfish fears loose, and the thought came:

  Fuck! I could get disbarred!

  And then what would I be?

  She opened a bleary eye to the green clock light at 2:30 A.M., then rolled and tumbled until dawn in the twisted sheets. Gut-wrenching self-doubt, the whole night long.

  7

  “Y OUR BAG?” PAUL said, peering into the backseat. He must have been watching for her, because he had appeared the moment her car pulled up. Paul lived in a neighborhood called Carmel Heights at the top of the hill high above the ocean. Dry fir trees around his townhouse condo whistled and creaked in a hot wind. Behind them lay the hills that led to Carmel Valley a dozen miles inland from the central-coast community of Carmel-by-the-Sea. Beyond the trees of his parking area, the Pacific twinkled in the sun. Even in the shade the air felt heavy with heat.

  “This is it.” She shouldered a small duffel. She had stuffed it with her weekend needs early in the morning: a toothbrush, a nightie, swimsuit, and a few other items, imagining herself as Grace Kelly in Rear Window, reaching into her minuscule designer case to pull out a fluffy negligee, making Jimmy Stewart’s eyes bulge. She unzipped a corner and showed him a bit of transparent chiffon.

  “Ah.”

  His eyes didn’t exactly bulge, although he gave her a squeeze that made her jump. “You won’t even get a chance to put it on,” he promised.

  “No, no, I insist that you tear it off me.” Satisfied, she stuffed her nightie back into the bag. “Is your friend coming?”

  “We’re driving down to Big Sur with him for lunch tomorrow.”

  Inside, he pulled the door shut behind her and did exactly what she had imagined he might do during the long drive from the mountains to the ocean, lifting her off her feet until their faces matched, kissing her with the passion she found so moving.

  She licked his neck, lounging in the spot where his hair curled slightly, and ran her hand down the dip in his back as far down as she could reach. They swayed in the doorway for some time before he set her gently down.

  “I have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge. Do you know that you can take the cork out of that thing and let it sit all night and the next day it’s still fizzy? It’s a wonder. Let’s get started. Even if it is four in the afternoon.”

  “I’m hot. Long drive.”

  “The towels are clean in there.”

  She went into the bathroom, stripped down, and jumped into the shower. Paul’s decor followed his stated principle about himself: What you see is what you get. Simple and direct with a touch of whimsy in the forties’ posters of guns and molls, the room had white walls, a black-and-white-tiled floor, and white towels.

  She heard Paul pop the cork off the balcony deck. He had put on the Michael Hutchence CD they both liked and was humming along. He was happy to see her. The evening would seem to stretch on forever, and that was how she wanted it: dinner, drinks, talk, lovemaking, a swim in the condo pool, late night on the balcony, his arms around her as she fell asleep.

  She needed this night away from everything. Just this one night, she told herself. So it always went with Paul. “You’re already married,” he would tell her. “To your briefcase.”

  As she hung the damp towel neatly on its rack, she admitted something to herself: Their relationship had changed forever on the day, just a short time before, that she realized that Paul had saved her life by killing a man who was trying to kill her. She trusted him now in ways she didn’t trust anyone else, even her brother and father. In the face of his extraordinary act, she had surrendered much of her resistance to him. She felt bound to him in some primitive way that she had better sort out fast. Coming to him now, when she was so vulnerable, felt natural and right.

  She needed him. Before, he had needed her. Her need for his solidity, his loyalty, was beginning to overwhelm all those other conflicts between them.

  This feeling is new, she thought to herself, looking in the mirror. Was weakness driving her so urgently to him now?

  Did it matter?

  Sun poured through the window. She looked at the black teddy. It wouldn’t do. The 1950s were dead, R.I.P. Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart, but viva the new century! She would at least skip the underwear.

  Pulling her shorts and tank top out of her duffel, she dres
sed swiftly, giving one final glance to the woman in the mirror, the physical one that seldom communicated with the cyborg of the office, the one with nipples obvious under the thin material of her top, the one with tangled brown hair and bare feet. This woman could be irresponsible without dire consequences because she knew it-Paul would never hurt her. She could relax into a blur of sex and pleasure with him, if just for tonight, sleep dreamlessly in his arms, and store up power for Monday.

  Out on the deck, Paul grilled teriyaki tuna and steamed asparagus with butter. She fed the blue jays, letting them do the chattering. They ate at a patio table covered with a red cloth, the candle flame flickering in the breeze. As the sun moved west across the ocean and the moon revealed herself, splendid and yellow, Nina ended up on Paul’s lap. They moved right along into the bedroom and Paul finally revealed the rest of his big plan.

  As she walked toward the living room late on Sunday morning, she heard the low rumbling of masculine voices. His lawyer friend must have arrived. The man stood up when she came in and took a step toward her, his hand coming up and then hanging in the air, along with his mouth.

  She stopped, her mouth frozen in the polite smile.

  “Oh, no. No, Paul,” she said.

  “What’s she doing here?” her ex-husband, Jack McIntyre, said at exactly the same time.

  They both turned to Paul, who sprawled in his chair, long hairy legs stretching out from his khaki shorts. “You both would have said no. You’ll both thank me later. Get you something, Nina?” he said.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, retreating into the kitchen, trying to figure out what in the world she felt, seeing Jack again. Shock, definitely. They hadn’t met since before their divorce, not since the day Jack walked out on her and their place in Bernal Heights.

  She walked slowly back out, holding a soda. Apparently not a word had been spoken. Jack held a beer to his mouth and appeared to be draining it. Beer on Sunday morning. That was new.