Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series

by Russell Moran

  “Mr. Mason,” I said, “questions about the background of a witness are always permissible, not sometimes, always.” If this case goes to trial I hope they send this jerk against me, I thought.

  Phil Mason, not to be confused with Perry Mason, chose not to press the issue.

  “I’m curious about your accent, sir. We don’t often hear folks like you around Chicago. Did you spend much time in the South?”

  “Dad gum, I talks the way I talks.”

  I saw Bennie scribbling notes.

  I decided to ignore that line of questioning, and let this Evanston redneck talk the way he talks.

  I then went into the standard questions about the position of his vehicle in relation to the crash. According to the police report, his car was eight-to-ten car lengths behind the accident vehicles. Because he was in the center lane, his line of sight to defendant’s car would have been obscured, The evidence was that Morgan drifted into the far left lane and then swerved to his right. No way in hell could this guy have seen defendant Morgan talking on his phone. But, McDougald simply testified that he saw Morgan talking on his phone. I was about to cross examine this guy into a shriveled prune, when I realized that he gave me just what I needed for our case. He gave me what I wanted. Or did he?

  “Your witness, counsel,” I said to Phil Mason.

  “I have no questions, Mr. Blake.”

  The deposition was over in 35 minutes. If I were the attorney on the other side I would have questioned the witness for two hours or more.

  We shook hands, and McDougald and Phil Mason left.

  ***

  “What the fuck was that all about?” I said to Woody and Ben. “The witness served up a platter of testimony in favor of our case, and defense counsel didn’t ask a question. This is the strangest case I’ve ever worked on. Bennie, your thoughts?”

  “The guy lied like a rug, starting with his cornpone accent. Just like you and Woody pointed out to me before the deposition, McDougald couldn’t possibly have seen Morgan with a phone in his hand. I notice that the witness was perspiring heavily, and that he didn’t look at you when answering a question. He kept rubbing his nose, and clearing his throat. His testimony was one of the more stellar performances of bullshit that I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “But why?” I said. “If I were cross examining that guy I could have turned him inside out in five minutes. But Mason didn’t ask him one question—not one. Is it my overactive imagination or does it seem like the other side wants us to prove negligence?”

  “You seem to be warming to my theory of an intentional act,” said Woody.

  “Did you talk about the intentional act theory when you met with Diana Spellman?” said Bennie.

  “Yes, I think I was ethically bound to do just that. She talked about taking the $8 million offer and being done with it. When I told her about the evidence and our suspicions of possible murder, she stopped talking settlement.”

  “What did you think of Diana?” asked Woody.

  “She’s an attractive and articulate woman. I think she’ll do just fine on the witness stand.”

  I’m also flipping out over her, I thought.

  “Next week is the main event, guys. That’s when I depose Mr. Harold Morgan, ace stunt driver.”

  Chapter 29

  On Saturday evening Diana Spellman and I walked into The Signature Room, a charming restaurant on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Building in Chicago’s Magnificent Mile district. We had a commanding view of Lake Michigan from our window-side table. It was just past 7 p.m. and the late June sun bathed the lake with gold. Because the sun was on the other side of the building, we enjoyed its beauty without the glare. A large sailboat beat gently into the slight wind with the waning sun highlighting its sails.

  Diana reached across the table and flipped my hanging clump of hair. Until she first did that I had never given my hair a thought. It occurred to me that if I ever accidently cut it off, I’d replace it with a hairpiece.

  Diana wore a pale yellow sleeveless dress and a string of tasteful small pearls around her suntanned neck. She looked stunning. Even though she has a fabulous shape, I’d noticed in the few times I met her that Diana usually dresses conservatively. That night, however, her dress was a bit low cut, showing her beautiful cleavage. Of course, she wore that wonderful perfume. I haven’t asked her the name of it. I kind of liked it to be a mystery.

  “I bet you’d even look great in a burqa,” I said.

  “I’ll make sure to wear one for our next meeting. So Matt, we’re actually on a date.”

  I recalled back when I was 14 or so, and I had my first crush on a girl. I was having that same feeling with Diana. I reached across the table. She didn’t have any hair flopping down her forehead, so I just stroked her cheek. She grabbed my hand, kissed it, and held it against her face, never once taking her pale blue eyes off mine.

  The waiter came to take our drink orders.

  “I’ll have a tall glass of Perrier,” I said.

  “Same for me, please.”

  “This place is famous for its wine selection, Diana. Would you like to see the list?”

  “No thanks, but please order whatever strikes you, Matt.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  She looked at me with those soft blue eyes and stroked my hand.

  “Neither do I,” she said softly, “not a drop.”

  “Wow, this is like a boy and girl scout outing,” I said.

  She laughed. “Beats the hell out of waking up on the floor of a jail cell.”

  What did she just say?

  “Do you mind if I ask you to elaborate on what you just said, Diana?”

  “After Jim died, a few well-intentioned girlfriends thought it was their job to keep me company and make sure I was busy. Their idea of passing time consisted of drinking—constantly. It wasn’t wine, either. We’d drink vodka or gin, always straight up or on the rocks. That went on for about two months, after which I guess they thought I could be left alone. The only thing that changed was the number of people. It was down to one—me—but the booze continued. I got into the habit of starting my classes at the university by giving a half-hour written quiz. The purpose wasn’t instructional; the idea was to give me some extra time to shake off a hangover. Then one of my crazy friends came over and said I absolutely had to try something. She reached into her purse and came out with a bag full of white powder. I assumed it was cocaine. She said not to worry, that it wasn’t cocaine and it wasn’t addictive if taken in small amounts. After I snorted my first line of heroin, I think I was hooked. I loved the feeling. It also gave me something to do between martinis.

  I lived near Grant Park at the time. Early one evening I walked through the park toward my apartment when I decided to sit on a bench and take in the view. I reached into my shoulder bag and took out a bottle of gin I had just bought. I also carried around a supply of little plastic water cups, just in case. I would never swig directly from a liquor bottle, not in public anyway. Wouldn’t be ladylike. So I poured some gin, took a nice swallow, and felt myself relaxing. Well, if one drink felt relaxing, another one would feel even better, right? I woke up in jail the next morning at 10 a.m. My pocketbook was gone, along with my gin and the little cups. Thank God it was Saturday and I didn’t miss class.”

  She reached into her purse.

  “Here, I want you to take a look at this photo. Tell me what you think.”

  I looked at the picture.

  “Well, she’s a pleasant looking woman, but obviously she’s quite fat,” I said.

  “Look again, closer.”

  I stared at the woman’s face in the photo. There was something about those light blue eyes.

  “Oh, my God. No, no, no, it can’t be. It’s impossible.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, it’s possible. That’s me, little old 230-pound me. The picture was taken a few years ago. A little gin, followed by a couple of lines of heroin, then a banana daiquiri, followed by pizza washed down w
ith a couple of pints of ice cream. I started to hit the bottle before Jim died, and I had gained a few pounds. Heroin users are often quite thin, but I was a full menu abuser of everything: booze, drugs, and food. After Jim died, I completely lost control. In just over a year, I looked like a Thanksgiving Day float. So, yes, Matt, I’ll be happy to join you in a nice refreshing glass of Perrier water.”

  “What turned it around for you, hon? Sorry, I meant Diana.”

  “ ‘Hon’ works just fine. What turned it around for me was an old friend from elementary school, Jeanine Lawlor. She’s a psychologist and was auditing a class I taught at Northwestern. We had lunch one day and she asked, ‘How long has it been going on?’ ”

  “How long has what been going on?” I asked her. Jeanine is one perceptive lady. She just said, ‘How long have you been getting drunk and snorting heroin?’ I felt like she could see right through me. So, to make a long ugly story short, I came totally clean with her, and we discussed my problems. Jeanine introduced me to a friend of hers who runs an institute in Milwaukee.”

  “You mean Jake Monahan of the Monahan Institute?” I asked.

  “How did you know that? Hey, how big a file do you guys have on me?”

  “Just a guess. I’m a recent graduate of the Monahan Institute myself.”

  She looked at me with those embracing eyes, her mouth slightly open, but smiling at the same time. She reached over and grabbed my hand.

  “Looks like you and I have more in common than losing a loved one, Matt,” she said softly. “We’ve also lost a monkey on our backs.”

  “A good friend of mine says a monkey on your back is a bad analogy,” I said. “He says it’s more like a rattlesnake up your ass.”

  “So what kind of monkey, or rattlesnake, were you entertaining?”

  “Booze and heroin, straight or on the rocks, and snorted not injected—at least not by the time I straightened out.”

  I told Diana all about my romance with substance abuse, my missing court and falling into a mud puddle, my waking up in my car, not knowing where I was or how I got there, and the general downward spiral of my life.

  “Here, I have a photo to show you. It was taken by a friend of mine who’s a judge’s law clerk. Here’s me showing up for a court appearance.”

  Diana looked at my proud photograph that Josie Johnston had taken, the one with mud splattered across my face and down the front of my suit. She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea, Diana. I’ll contact Jake Monahan and we can have a reunion at the institute. We can be homecoming King and Queen. I think Jake would love the idea.”

  She laughed hysterically.

  “So I guess this means you’re not going to be my drinking buddy, Matt.”

  I pulled my chair next to her, leaned over and kissed her on the lips, a long slow kiss.

  “No, I won’t be your drinking buddy, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be buddies.”

  We kissed again.

  ***

  Diana’s apartment was a few blocks away. I pulled my car into the guest parking spot. Her apartment was on the third floor.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, Matt. Let me take your jacket.”

  “Humble? This place is beautiful, Diana. Do all professors have such exquisite taste?”

  The living room was large and had a view of Lake Michigan in the distance. She grabbed my hand and showed me around. Diana obviously favors warm colors, which I like too. The walls were painted a deep beige, and the wall-to-wall carpeting was taupe, complementing the walls. Her living room furniture was burgundy leather. The place gave off a feeling of warmth, just like its occupant. The kitchen was small but had an eating area with a tasteful chandelier over the table. Her bedroom, painted in a soft gold, had a plush king-sized bed, I noticed. A guest bedroom had been converted into an office, tastefully decorated in taupe and gray, giving the room a calm, soothing atmosphere. “I use this room whenever the university’s closed because of a blizzard. I spent a lot of time here this past winter.”

  We walked back into the living room. It was 9:30 and the late June sky had finally darkened. We walked over to the couch and sat next to each other, holding hands. We both yawned. Diana put her head on my shoulder and I rested my face against her hair. We both fell fast asleep.

  ***

  I felt the morning sun touch my face. We were still in the same position, holding hands with Diana’s head on my shoulder. She woke up.

  I reached into my pocket and popped a breath mint into my mouth. Diana asked me for one. Why spoil a beautiful moment with morning breath?

  “I can’t believe it’s 5:30,” I said. “We’ve been sleeping here all night.”

  We stood and stretched.

  “Oh crap,” she said. “I just remembered that I have to be in Barrington at 7:30 to take care of my sister’s kids. She and her husband are catching a flight from O’Hare at 9:15. I just have time for a quick shower and I have to hit the road. Their regular sitter will be there this afternoon, but my day is booked.”

  Diana grabbed my sleeve and pulled me close to her.

  “Last night was the most incredible evening of my life, Matt. I never opened myself to another human being like I did to you, and I got the feeling you did too.”

  “I did. I feel like I’ve been through, I don’t know, like some sort of emotional cleansing. Last night was better than rehab. I didn’t expect that we’d fall asleep sitting up, but just being with you made it a perfect evening.”

  “I know we both expected something different, Matt, but when I woke up, you were holding my hand and my head was on your shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what we had in mind, but I felt like I was sitting next to a friend, a good friend.”

  We kissed.

  “Let’s get together again, Matt. Soon?”

  “Yes, real soon.”

  Chapter 30

  I first saw Matt when I sat in on his trial in the Andres case. A friend who practices real estate law recommended that I bring my case to Blake & Randolph, probably the best personal injury firm in Chicago. It had been 20 months since Jim’s accident, and she told me that I had exactly two years to file a suit if I wanted to avoid the Illinois Statute of Limitations, so I had only four months left. I immediately made an appointment with the firm. That was over two years ago. I had my doubts about bringing a lawsuit and that’s why I delayed so long. I made a pretty good income at the university, and I was well paid by various newspapers and magazines for my articles. Along with our investments and Jim’s life insurance, I was in good shape financially. I always figured that an accident was an accident, and I felt a bit creepy to try to cash in on Jim’s death. My lawyer friend convinced me that I would be crazy to let the case go, that I wasn’t cashing in on anything, but just seeking compensation for a wrong. “The money will come from an insurance company or a big corporation, so don’t think twice about it,” she said. I took her advice.

  As the case meandered its way through the system and got closer to trial, I decided that I’d like to see one of Blake & Randolph’s attorneys in action. I was told that you don’t get to pick your own attorney and that one would be assigned to me. But they don’t know Diana Spellman. My case was moving toward the trial stage if it didn’t settle. The wheels of justice grind slowly.

  The plaintiff’s attorney in the Andres trial, who I learned was Matt Blake, was tall, maybe 6’4” or so, broad shouldered, and spoke with a deep sonorous voice. He spoke to the jury in a way that seemed to enrapture them. I know he enraptured me. He was also incredibly good looking, I couldn’t help notice. And he had an adorable flop of hair that hung over his forehead.

  After the jury announced the huge verdict, I noticed that the opposing attorney, I believe her name was Georgina, walked up to him in the hallway and give him a congratulatory kiss. I wanted to smack her. And I hadn’t even met the guy.

  Immediately after the Andres verdict I called James Blake, the senior partner
at the firm, and let it be known in no uncertain terms, that I wanted Matt Blake to handle my case, even though I hadn’t met him yet.

  Well, we’ve gotten to know each other since then. I wasn’t kidding Matt when I told him that last night was one of the greatest nights of my life, maybe the greatest. In the past few days it was obvious to both of us that we were attracted to each other. Quite obvious.

  When I lost Jim I thought my life was over. Of course, I damn near helped it to be over. I like to blame Jim’s death for my booze and drug problems, but that’s really just dishonest drunk/junkie thinking. I had started hitting the bottle well before Jim was killed, but not the heroin until later. I made a mess of my life, and I blamed it on a wonderful man. The simple reality was that I wanted to get drunk, I wanted to get high. Jim’s death gave me a convenient excuse.

  After rehab I was done with the bullshit that was destroying me. I began to see that there’s a lot of life to live. Matt and I poured our souls out to each other last night. When we got back to my apartment, I expected we’d have a wonderful intimate evening, and so did Matt. It sure didn’t work out as we expected, and in a strange way I’m glad it didn’t. We were both emotionally drained and our bodies demanded sleep. Our awakening was like coming out of a beautiful dream—my head on his shoulder, his head resting on mine, and our hands clasped together.

  I almost blew it once, almost destroyed myself. I wasted a few years of my life, and no way in hell am I going to let that happen again. I’m young enough to see a long future, and I’m old enough to know what I want.

  Him, I want. I want Matt in my life.

  Tomorrow I’m going to stop by his office. It’s supposed to rain, and my hair will be frizzy. I don’t care. I want to see Matt.

  Chapter 31

  I hate rainy Mondays and I don’t know why. What the hell’s the difference between a rainy Monday and a rainy Tuesday? It’s just rain. But after my date on Saturday with Diana, this particular rainy Monday didn’t bother me. As a matter of fact, nothing bothered me.