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The Ditto List

Page 26

by Stephen Greenleaf


  She paused. “See my purse there on the floor beside you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open it up and get a dollar out of it … no, don’t look at me … go on … now put the dollar in your pocket. Good. That makes you officially my lawyer, right? With a retainer and everything.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “So you have to keep what happens next strictly confidential, don’t you, Mr. Jones?”

  “I certainly do, Miss Holloway.”

  “Then you may proceed.”

  There were no covers on the bed, only Rita Holloway, naked but for a diaphanous scarf she had draped over the dark and bulbous portions of her body, masking them in silk, stuffing him with lust. He removed his clothes and joined her. Her flesh was wet and warm. He rubbed her flank, then wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. “Is Toledo going to mind?” he murmured.

  “Not unless you make me cry.”

  They fit themselves to each other, found a rhythm, rolled one way and then the other. “Did you know this was going to happen when you asked me out for breakfast?” she asked as she rolled on top.

  “I think so.”

  “Did you turn off the stove?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I guess we can get right to it.”

  He told her he’d give it his best shot. Sometime later she uttered what he thought might be a cry, but Toledo stayed away so he guessed it might have been a cheer.

  When he got back to his office he began dictating the complaint in the case of Preston v. Preston. Halfway through, the telephone buzzed. “D.T.? Paul Brashman. I got the dope.”

  “Shoot.”

  Brashman cleared his throat. “Clifford Microdata. Small electronics outfit in Southern California. Founded by some IBM refugees. Now defunct. One hundred shares purchased in 1965 is worth exactly zip.”

  “I figured as much. Same story on the other?”

  “Not quite. East Jersey Instruments. Medical equipment house. Small, then hit on a couple of significant advances in prosthetics. Bought by Federal Hospital Supply in ’72. One hundred shares of East Jersey is now a five-hundred-share position in Federal Hospital. Current quote: thirty-seven and a half. Market value: eighteen thousand and change. Less commission.”

  Times three equalled fifty thousand plus. Divided by two equalled twenty-five thousand plus. Times 25 percent equalled seven thousand plus, contingent fee of D. T. Jones pursuant to verbal agreement with Esther Preston. “Thanks, Paul,” D.T. said, and hung up.

  D.T. added a claim to his complaint and gave the cassette to Bobby E. Lee to type. When it was finished, D.T. sent Bobby off to the hospital and told him he could go home after seeing Mrs. Preston.

  That night Bobby E. Lee called him at home for the first time ever. “I talked to her for two hours,” he said. “You absolutely have to do something to help that woman.”

  “Well, plunk your magic twanger, Bobby, and make me something better than I am.”

  Bobby E. Lee hung up.

  D.T. floated through the motions of preparing for sleep, his mind full to bursting with Esther Preston and her problems. When he was under the covers he picked up the telephone.

  “Dr. Preston? This is D. T. Jones. We met at Joyce Tuttle’s? Sorry to be calling so late.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Jones. Talk to my lawyers. Bronwin, Kilt and Loftis.”

  “I have something to say to you, though. Your attempt at terrorism didn’t work, Doctor; it just made her mad. So I’m warning you. No more threats, no more sabotage; no more contact with her of any kind. If she suffers as much as a hangnail I’m going to the cops and tell them exactly what you’ve been up to and why, and’ I’m going to swear out a criminal complaint against you for assault and endangerment. Do you hear me, Dr. Preston? I’m telling you to leave Esther the hell alone.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Jones, you goddamned maniac. But if you don’t leave me alone I’m going to ruin you in this town. Believe me. I’ll make you wish you’d never heard my name.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to be calling so early, Mr. Jones. This is Irene Alford. You represent me in my divorce case? We go to court the middle of next month?”

  “Of course. How are you?”

  “Not too well, actually.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I … it’s difficult to explain. My husband keeps calling me. And coming around. At all hours. He’s driving me crazy.”

  “Is he threatening you? Has he assaulted you?”

  “No, no, he hasn’t threatened to do anything to me. It’s …”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s him. He claims he’ll kill himself if I don’t let him come back to me, if we don’t reconcile. He tells me how he’s going to do it, what it will feel like. Look like. It’s horrible.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “That he’ll really do it? Yes. I think he might. He talks about suicide all the time. He always has, since way before I considered divorcing him.”

  “If everyone who talked about it actually did it we’d be running short of people, Mrs. Alford.”

  “I know, but Louis is different. He has this terrific martyr complex. Always the sacrifice, always the burden on his shoulders, always the victim. It’s his thing, you know? He’s famous for it. It’s one of the reasons I decided I couldn’t live with him any more.”

  “Did we get a restraining order directing him to stay away from you?”

  “No. You mentioned it, but I didn’t think it was necessary. I keep underestimating him.”

  “I think we’d better get one now. I’ll try to have the papers ready to file today.”

  “That means the police will arrest him if he comes around again, is that right? If I call them and complain?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “I don’t know if I could have Louis arrested. He’s up for tenure this year. My God, if he gets passed over he will definitely blow his brains out.… Listen to me. I’m making jokes about it.”

  “Mrs. Alford, calm down. He’s trying to make you solely responsible for the failure of your marriage. He will even get you to believe it if you let him. The first thing to do is keep him away from you. The second is to get him some kind of help. Do you agree?”

  “I … yes. I guess I do.”

  “Has he ever been in analysis?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a physician or clergyman or another professional he’s close to?”

  “No. He’s very competitive. He has few friends. He’s jealous of the world. I have no idea who could help him.”

  “Family?”

  “Estranged.”

  “Okay. I can give you the names of some psychiatrists who are very experienced with this kind of thing.”

  “You’ve had this happen before?”

  “Several times.”

  “Have any of them actually …?”

  “One.”

  “How awful.”

  “Yes. But the vast majority did not. The point is, it’s not your fault if it happens. You are not obliged to live with a man you no longer love, not even to save his life. You aren’t required to be the solution to every problem he’s got. You weren’t while you were living together and you’re most definitely not now. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re human, not divine. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Now these doctors are all in the book. Their names are Dillon, Friller, and Exlerton. The first is a woman, if you think it makes a difference. Also, there’s a crisis center which counsels the suicidal. You might want to talk to them yourself, to get their suggestions on how to handle him if he calls or comes around again. And give him their number, if he calls you. In the meantime, I’ll talk to his lawyer. I’ll tell him we’re getting a restraining order and that your husband could jeopardize his car
eer if he doesn’t let you alone. Okay?”

  “I don’t think it will do any good. He’s convinced himself he can’t live without me. He just calls and calls. I dread the sound of it, the phone. I just dread it.”

  “Hang up. Change your number. Get an answering machine.”

  “I have one. He used the entire tape on one call. It reminded me of Hamlet, for God’s sake. That’s what he teaches, by the way. Elizabethan drama. He’s an actor in his own play.”

  “You’re in his play too, Mrs. Alford, if you go on like this. So don’t talk to him. Don’t let him in the house.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me if there’s trouble. After tomorrow, call the cops. He’ll be a misdeameanant if he keeps harassing you.”

  “I don’t know if I could live with myself if I did that, Mr. Jones. I really don’t.”

  “It might be the best thing for him in the long run, Mrs. Alford. That’s all I can say. My guess is he’s been coddled all his life. It’s time for a kick in the pants. Try not to worry,” he added, and said good-bye.

  Something else to lose sleep over. Another drama that would stage itself above his bed in the wee hours of the morning, no doubt in a violent and tragic guise. The odds were small that the jerk would do it, but they were there; the portion of the population on the fence of sanity or beyond it was fantastic. Now that they were no longer locked away you saw them everywhere, babbling, raving, burrowing through the city like moles, their minds flapping like torn flags. They were pitiful, and helpless, yet in their abandonment and their potential somehow terrifying. D.T. swore. He hated how much he found in the world to fear. He pulled the phone to him and dialed another number.

  “Mrs. Stone? This is D. T. Jones. Did you have a chance to read the transcript of your husband’s deposition?”

  “Is that what you call it? It read like a fairy tale to me. And I do mean grim.”

  “I need to talk to you about it, Mrs. Stone. Can I come by this afternoon?”

  “Can’t we do it by phone?”

  “I’d rather do it in person. Say four?”

  “I suppose so. If you must.”

  “See you then.”

  Good. He would see her house, see how she fit in it, the way she kept it, see how much trouble she would go to knowing he was coming. Then some time before the trial he would drop by unannounced. To see whether she really was unfit. Not that it would make any difference. She had paid her fee and he was her boy. In court he would paint her a blend of Sister Teresa and Father Flanagan, Dinah Shore and Jimmy Stewart.

  Bobby E. Lee peeked into the room. “Mr. Slater is here.”

  “The process server?”

  Bobby nodded.

  “What’s he want? His money?”

  “That. Plus he mentioned the Finders case.”

  “Send him in.”

  Bobby E. Lee disappeared and a moment later a fat, ruddy-faced man stomped into the room, sneered at its contents, and marched to the front of D.T.’s desk as though volunteering for something risky. His clothes seemed to be struggling to escape him. A wad of something the size of a pear filled a front pants pocket. A pen was clipped to the placket of his shirt, its tip out of sight behind a polyester plaid. The temples of his glasses were taped at the hinge. “You ain’t paid your bill,” he said, making it a proclamation.

  “I told you I’d have it by the end of the month.”

  “I know what you told me,” he countered, his puffy eyes inviting D.T. to make a further promise. D.T. said nothing. “The Finders guy? On Houston Street?” Slater went on.

  “What about him? Is he served?”

  Slater’s lips curled as though they had begun to fry. “He pulled a gun on me. A fucking magnum. I could have crawled down the barrel and survived World War Three.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t hear nothing from you about this guy being a cowboy, did I? Huh? Isn’t that what I told you: the guy you want served is a fucking gun-toter you tell me up front, right? Didn’t I fucking stand right here and tell you that?”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, the guy looked like he was ready to give me an extra nostril. Most of them don’t, you know, look like they’d really shoot the fucking thing. This one did. But at least I don’t got to go back.”

  “Why not?”

  “You ain’t paid your bill, number one. Number two, there was this broad standing behind him while he was waving his piece at me, tits like my old lady would kill for. Said she was the wife. Said she wasn’t going to dump the cowboy after all. Said for me not to come around with no papers ever again. So here they are.” Slater tossed the documents on the desk. “Tab comes to eighty-seven fifty for this one alone. I don’t get it the end of the month I give it to my collection agency and they smear your name all over town, the credit dentist won’t clean your teeth. You get it?”

  “I get it.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Here.”

  Slater thrust another paper at him. D.T. took it reluctantly. “Which is this, for God’s sake? Don’t tell me you missed another one.”

  Slater’s grin spread like a run in a nylon. “This is the case of Dillinghert v. Jones. Complaint for malpractice. Prayer of two hundred thousand actuals, plus a half million punitives, plus fees and costs. Enjoy.” Slater’s face was one great gloat. He turned and left the office.

  When D.T. discovered his mouth was open he closed it, then clutched blindly at the document Slater had handed him and tried to read its crackling pages. It was as Slater had said, a complaint against him, its code as familiar to him as the Racing Form.

  Words slapped his eyes then vanished, acrobats, tumblers, unconnected to each other. Dillinghert. Jones. Plaintiff complains of defendant and alleges. Client. Attorney. Services for hire. Fiduciary relationship. Breach of trust. Neglect of duty. Negligently and carelessly failed to discover and include. Husband’s pension. Property settlement agreement. Lack of due care. Failure to observe standards of his profession. Knew or should have known of said rights. Proximate cause of loss. Present value in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. Punitives. Fees and costs. Such other and further relief as the court may deem just.

  Two hundred thousand.

  Two hundred thousand.

  Two hundred thousand.

  D.T. dropped the complaint on his desk. Goddamned military pensions. A new community property right, first accorded women in the state a decade ago, then taken back by the Supreme Court, then awarded again by Congress. Murky area of the law, coupled with a client he could not abide. She had been arrogant and self-pitying, contemptuous of all men and lawyers except her brother, who lived off personal injuries in the state of Arizona and thus was somehow qualified to second-guess him. He’d wanted her out of his office, the way he wanted to lose a bad tooth, and his perfunctory questions had revealed no hint of pension rights or any other rights in her husband beyond those accorded every citizen. As he recalled, the husband had been self-employed at the time, a cabinetmaker, though evidently not forever. Fifteen pension-earning years in a federal armory, claimed the hysterical complaint.

  Malpractice. The plaintiff’s lawyer was Oswald Blacker, the sleaziest in the city, a snorting symbol of the profession’s lack of standards that proscribed anything short of outrage—standards that in fact encouraged the sham and misrepresentation and false promise which were the specialties of far too many practitioners of the trade of Pound and Cardozo. Malpractice. Bobby E. Lee stuck his head in the door but D.T. waved him away. Mal-fucking-practice.

  D.T. pulled out his form file and dictated a motion for a temporary restraining order that would direct the almost-tenured Louis Alford to refrain from communicating his design for self-destruction to his wife. The words fell off his tongue automatically: “restrained from contacting, molesting, attacking, striking, threatening, sexually assaulting, battering, telephoning, or otherwise disturbing the peace of the petitione
r.” What horror the words encompassed, what insignificance the system had reduced them to, the same phrases used by all—from the truly endangered, like Lucinda Finders, to the trivially annoyed, like the client of D.T.’s who had called the cops when her husband stopped by to ask if she wanted to use his opera tickets.

  Malpractice. That particular word still held its threat. Too bad there wasn’t a restraining order protecting lawyers from their clients.

  Louis Alford. Suicide. To be or not to be; right, Professor? Let me count the ways. Bite the barrel, the top of the head spattered against the wall. Slash the wrists and go with the flow. Jump off something. No, he would have to feign an accident, so Heather would receive the insurance proceeds he had been purchasing all these years. Drive into a wall. Stumble off a cliff. Inadvertent poisoning. Electrocution. Drowning. Supposedly the least painful, drowning. All tried and true methods, he supposed, though none as comfortably definite as a bullet in the brain. With his luck he would muff it, render himself an invalid, a prisoner in that most abhorrent of conditions—a human unable to flee the noise of other humans. Suicide. The worst that could happen would be to spend an eternity in hell, which couldn’t possibly be worse than an hour at a bar association meeting. Suicide. He picked up the phone.

  “Harry? D. T. Jones. How’s it going?”

  “It’s a rocky road, D.T.”

  “All the rocks on your road are diamonds, Harry.”

  “A vicious calumny. Spread by those who equate virtue with impoverishment. All of them impoverished themselves, I might note. How can I be of service?”

  “I got a call from the wife of one of your clients. Mrs. Louis Alford. Ring a bell?”

  “A small tinkle, perhaps. The problem?”

  “He’s annoying her. Calls. Visits at all hours.”

  “Violence?”

  “Not yet. His gambit is a threat of suicide if she does not tuck him back into the conjugal bed.”

  “Ah. Entreaty number three-oh-two.”

  “Right. I’m getting a 4359(a)(2) order this afternoon, should you care to waste an hour opposing it.”

  “You’re kidding. For a few phone calls?”

  “The guy’s a nut, Harry.”

 

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