BOOK TWO. DISCOVERIES
A wonderful fact to reflect upon,
that every human creature is
constituted to be that profound secret
and mystery to every other.
– Charles Dickens
8
On November 12, a week and a half before Thanksgiving, Nina woke to a cold house. Bob was stirring downstairs. During the night, Hitchcock had evidently decided against the hooked rug on the frigid floor and joined her in bed. She was spooning with her dog! Was this the fate of a single woman?
Shoving the dog to one side, she jumped out of bed, ran downstairs, turned on the heater, then ran back up and pulled the feather bed around herself while the heater roared to life. While she lay there in delicious comfort she thought of Paul, missing him. Other than a few brief telephoned hellos, she hadn’t heard much from him since the Markov party.
She never seemed to find the time to call him. She needed him to help her come up with a detailed and impartial history of Markov Enterprises and to carry out preliminary interviews with anyone Lindy might suggest could be a favorable witness.
She needed him in her bed.
The house warmed up and soon she saw Bob’s head peeking around the bedroom door. Seeing that her eyes were open, he ran to the window and pulled the curtain, saying, “It’s snowing! Mom, you have to see this.”
Outside the air had turned white and wispy. The snow was so heavy she could barely see out, but the whiteness moved, drifting downward.
Pulling aside the covers, she threw on her robe and accompanied Bob downstairs. “Get your clothes on, Bob. I’ll drive you to school. We missed the bus.”
“Hey, maybe they’ll call a snow day!”
“I’ll find out.” While Bob started up their new CD of African ska music, she got the coffee going and laid out bowls for the oatmeal, then called the school to find out that, thank God, they hadn’t canceled the school day.
Bob sat down at the kitchen table to wolf down a couple of bowls of oatmeal, and Nina headed back upstairs to put on her warmest wool suit. To keep her hair dry under her hat, she knotted it, pinning it to the back of her head. “Bob! Don’t forget to put your lunch in the pack!”
Overnight, fall had given way to winter. Nina felt a rush of exhilaration bundling up in the parka and gloves and boots and pushing open the door to a foot of fresh snow. Transfigured overnight, the neighbors’ old junk car next door had become an ice sculpture, and the trees were festooned with white. Not a breath of wind blew to stir the airy, cool flakes melting on her cheeks.
They got into the Bronco and she put it into four-wheel-drive, hoping they wouldn’t have to get out again and shovel the hilly driveway, but it trundled up without a problem.
“What’s the big rush, Mom?” Bob asked as they skidded slightly on a curve.
She slowed down. “We’re trying to get going on the Markov depositions, but we’re having trouble with Mike Markov’s lawyer.”
“Deposition. That’s where you interview the people in the case and it’s all written down, right? And then later you trip them up when they say something different during the trial.”
“How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I think from TV.”
At Bob’s school, trucks and SUVs and Subarus jammed the parking lot. She kissed him good-bye and watched him disappear into the white, running in spite of the slipperiness and his heavy backpack.
Through the rest of November and into December, Nina continued to fight with Riesner over what documents would be produced at the depositions, which had to be postponed twice so they could go before the Hearing Examiner and obtain rulings. Riesner refused all her calls and she had to fax every communication.
Professional courtesy in this case consisted of faxing motions at five o’clock on Friday so the other guy got them on Monday and lost three days of prep time, informal press conferences in which the object was to influence the entire jury pool, and stonewalling on each and every interrogatory.
She had known how it would go and she paid back each trick, even adding a few of her own. She became friendly with Barbet Schroeder of the Tahoe Mirror and fed her tasty tidbits once a week until Barbet was following her around with her tongue hanging out. The producer of a show on Court TV called and asked what she thought about televising the trial. This kept her up a few nights, until the producer finally called back and said it wasn’t going to happen as there was a juicy sex murder going at the same time in Indianapolis that they had chosen to televise instead.
Lindy called almost every day, demanding detailed progress reports.
“But this case is going very quickly,” Nina reminded her.
“Being broke sure got old fast. Whenever I come into town, Alice has to pay for everything. I hate it. I feel like I owe everyone something all of a sudden. I want this thing resolved. I want to see the look on Rachel’s face when Mike loses. I want my money.”
Nina knew how she felt.
Lindy was spending a fair amount of her time raising hell at the casinos with Alice. A few oblique references in the paper gave way to full-blown mentions on the gossip page of the San Francisco paper after one incident, when they were both thrown out of Prize’s Club.
During one of Lindy’s late night calls to Nina’s house, Nina asked Lindy about it.
“They blow every little thing I do out of proportion,” Lindy said. “Except for that one night. The night before going to Prize’s, I saw Mike. I’m not going to go into that. It was bad. Alice and I went out the next evening to play craps. I guess I had more than my share to drink. She hardly ever drinks but she kept me company. Then we got onto the topic of her divorce and that really set her off. Well, you saw how she gets. She pulled out that stupid gun. Took a few potshots at the craps table.”
“My God!” Nina said. “Did she hit anyone?”
“She hit the table,” Lindy said. By now, she was laughing. “She’s such a nut. I don’t know if she did it out of anger or just to cheer me up because I was losing. I doubt she could tell you, either.”
“Were you arrested?”
“She knew the pit boss so they didn’t call the police. They just tossed us out of there like sacks of rotten potatoes.”
“Lindy, this is serious. No matter how bad you feel, you need to keep a low profile. All of the jurors in your case will come from this area. You don’t want them reading about your wild, drunken exploits right before they decide whether to give you money for being such a hardworking businesswoman, now do you?”
“You’re right, Nina. I’m sorry.”
“And another thing. Your friend should not have a gun.”
“She doesn’t anymore. I took it away from her right then and there.”
“Where is the gun, now?”
“I hid it in my suitcase. She won’t find it there, because she’s a privacy freak.”
After calling Paul’s number in Carmel for weeks and not reaching him, she called his office ten days before Christmas and got a new number for him in Washington. “Run, run as fast as you can,” she teased when he answered. “I will still catch you.”
“I could swear I left my new number on your machine one lonely evening when you were out carousing with another man,” Paul said.
“More like having a late meeting.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, but he didn’t sound worried.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call more often. I’m really swamped. Why did you change hotels?”
“They moved me to an apartment at the Watergate. It’s more comfortable than a hotel room.”
“More of a long-term place,” she said.
“Well, yes. I couldn’t spend all my time in a hotel. That’s no life.”
“No,” she agreed, actually preferring to think he had no life there.
“Nina, you would love it out here,” he said, changing the subject. “Talk about being in the thick of it! Guess who I ran into in an elevator of an office build
ing on K Street. Ralph Nader. Almost knocked him down. And then I saw Henry Kissinger in a corner grocery store in Georgetown one day. It’s so different from California. The history here-well, it’s out walking around the town, buying Twinkies.”
“Wow,” said Nina. “Sounds like you are enjoying yourself.”
He assured her he was not, that he missed her and all the other mountain folk, keeping it light, asking after Bob, and Andrea and Matt’s family. They talked for a while, catching up. Then Nina asked the question uppermost in her mind. “When can you come back?”
“Not until late January. I’m stuck here over Christmas,” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Nina. “You can take a few days, can’t you? I thought we might sneak in some skiing over the holidays. I don’t have much time, but I thought maybe we could swing a weekend up at the lodge at Squaw Valley.”
“There’s the alternative.”
“What’s that?”
“Wrap yourself up in a pretty bow, put yourself on a plane, and appear on my doorstep.”
“You want me to come to Washington?”
“ ’Want’ is weak. I long for it. I desire it.”
“Paul, I’m busy, too. Even though Bob and I will celebrate Christmas over at Matt’s, I still have to buy presents, decorate the tree, do the whole number. I just can’t take any time away.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” said Paul, sounding pissed.
“That’s just the way it is,” she said, “same for me as it is for you.”
Eventually, he cheered up. In the end, he agreed to call the minute he had some time to help with the Markov case.
He left her with the suggestion that he couldn’t wait to show her something new he had thought up, something involving the four tall bedposts of her new pine bed.
The holidays came and went in a blur of green and red and family visits. Bob seemed happy with the new software she’d scrimped and saved to buy him and did not ask again about seeing his father. She knew he hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t want to hurt her.
In order to keep Winston informed about developments in the case, and therefore involved, Nina continued to send him copies of all the written battles and arguments. He called regularly with encouraging words and some excellent strategic advice, but he always seemed too tied up to come up to Tahoe. In this way, without it ever being plainly expressed, she learned that famous trial lawyers don’t sully their hands with the dirty little processes of pretrial discovery.
Genevieve stayed in Tahoe long enough to observe Nina a few times and to attend a short civil trial in another matter in which Riesner was the plaintiff’s attorney to, as she put it, “search for the soft underbelly.” Before she left, she and Nina set up a conference call with Winston, who agreed with Genevieve that Riesner would appeal to underdeveloped personalities who didn’t like to make their own decisions, and stronger conservative types looking to harden their positions.
They followed up with a discussion of Mike’s potential witnesses. Nina told them that, aside from Mike, his girlfriend would pose the biggest threat to them at trial if she could shake off her credibility issues with the jury. Rachel Pembroke had a long history at Markov Enterprises, a responsible position there and a personal view of the Markov relationship that would undoubtedly bolster Mike’s position.
Then at Genevieve’s suggestion, they brainstormed what she called the “mantra” for their case.
“Let’s get it all down to five words or less,” she insisted. “Look for an inspiration as we keep draggin’ our nets through the facts.”
“We’ll know it when we see it,” Nina said, “as Justice Potter Stewart said.”
“ ’It’s trophy-wife time,’ “ Winston said.
“Ooh, that’s good,” said Genevieve.
“She made him rich, then he dumped her,” Nina said.
“Too long,” said Genevieve. “We need something catchy like ’Where’s the beef?’ Or like Paula Jones and the President’s ’distinguishing marks.’ That was the mantra for that case.”
Winston laughed.
“We sound so cynical.” Nina soft-balled the criticism by including herself as a target. “There are important questions in this case. Things like, what is a marriage? What actually is a family? You know?”
“I like it,” Winston said, rolling happily over her objection with his enthusiasm. “ ’What is a family?’ Only it doesn’t cover the business aspect.”
They ended up with something Lindy had told Nina: the business was their child. That summed up Lindy’s position. Nina liked it because it seemed to reach for a deeper truth, an emotional truth she hoped a jury would embrace.
Outside, the snow deepened along the roads and in the woods. The landscape turned from dusty olive, tan, and blue to blinding white and blue, while Squaw Valley, Heavenly, Sierra Ski Ranch, and the other resorts hustled to get the maximum number of lifts operating. The town filled up again after its autumn lull. The winter season had begun.
Depositions began on the first Tuesday in January. Nina beat Sandy to the office and spent an hour going over notes before she arrived.
At ten o’clock, the parties assembled in Nina’s cramped conference room. After one memorable pitched battle the Hearing Examiner had decreed that Mike Markov would have the honor of being deposed first. Special rules had been devised to limit the number of hours per day, and Nina would have only two days with him. He sat across from her now.
After commenting on the lamentably disheveled state of Nina’s conference room and the generally inelegant surroundings, Riesner was suspiciously calm and quiet. He had the chair on the left. At the end of the table the stenographic reporter, Madeleine Smith, tried to lighten things up by chatting about the fantastic weather. Wearing beige pants tucked into boots and a knit sweater that covered her almost to the knees, Lindy fidgeted, appearing uncomfortable. In a week, it would be her turn.
“Swear the witness.” Mike raised his right hand and the reporter made him promise to tell it like it was. He wore a tweed sports coat over an open-throated golf shirt. His thin black hair was brushed neatly back, and his soft suntanned face shone slightly from soap and water. He had an odd expression on his face. Nina couldn’t quite identify it. Shame? Guilt?
Her goal for his deposition was quite simple. She would be trying to scare up anything she could use against him. She would listen for inconsistencies and she would gather details in enough bulk to trip him up during the trial.
From three feet away, he didn’t look like the evil despot Nina had tried to make him in her mind; but Riesner did. He wore the Stanford ring, his personal fetish, on the manicured hand resting on top of the pile of papers they would be going through. His lips curled, but she couldn’t say they formed a smile.
Nina placed her new leather attaché, a gift from her dad, directly in front of her, making sure Riesner noticed, feeling rather petty. When he had entered her offices for the first time months ago, she felt he had seen at a glance exactly what she was, a shoestring practitioner with shallow pockets. She couldn’t compete at this level, but by God, she would show off what she had.
“Okay,” she said. “Mr. Markov. On November first you were served with Requests for Production of Documents numbered one through thirty-five. It has been subsequently ordered that you bring all documents in response to this deposition at this time.”
“He has complied with the Requests except as modified in subsequent hearings,” Riesner said. “Here are the responses, numbered from one to thirty-five.”
“Thank you. Let’s get these marked as exhibits.” While stickers were placed on the exhibits, not a word was said. Lindy looked at Mike; Mike glared at her. Riesner sighed, sat back, crossed his legs. The room felt too hot. Nina sketched abstracts on her legal pad. Outside, cars mushed through the barely plowed street.
“All right. Cross-Complainant’s Exhibit One. All records, memoranda, notes, written memorializations, and any other document of any sort whatsoever ten
ding to support Cross-Defendant’s claim that the parties agreed that the businesses and other property in issue were to be and remain the separate property of Mikhail Markov,” Nina read.
“For the record,” Riesner began, “Cross-Defendant continues to object to this Request on grounds that it is overbroad, calls for a conclusion, is vague, ambiguous, and unintelligible, and all the other grounds set forth in our opposition thereto last week.”
“Noted,” Nina said briefly. Riesner could object until he gave himself a sore throat, but he still had to turn the documents over. Mike still hadn’t opened his mouth. Riesner passed over a manila file stuffed with papers, and Nina began picking them up one by one, identifying them for the record, and having Mike authenticate them. Before the day was over, Sandy would copy them. There were originals of the corporate documents she had already seen, Articles of Incorporation, Bylaws, registration documents, Profit-and-loss Statements, and so on. The next group included the deeds to the Markov homes, several titles to vehicles, and other titles to property, all in Mike’s name.
Then came the tax returns, both corporate and personal. After Mike had stated for the record what they were, Nina put these aside for copying. She would go over them with the accountant down the hall from her office this evening so she could ask intelligent questions about them tomorrow.
The next group seemed to be a series of interoffice memos and correspondence with suppliers and customers in which Mike made various policy and executive decisions. So what? She wasn’t impressed. Lindy had a similar pile of documents lying in wait for Mike. Each note and memo had to be identified for the record. Nina was very careful, very formal as she described the documents for the reporter.
Exhibit 1 was the most important of the lot. If Mike didn’t have some kind of smoking gun here, they’d be all right. They’d have a good chance.
Mike kept on, polite, unfaltering, answering each question after a short pause, sometimes consulting for a moment in a low voice with Riesner. As the morning wore on, the tediousness of the process settled them all down.
Breach Of Promise Page 12
