Accidental Lawyer: A humorous peak into Baltimore's legal community, with a thread of mystery

by Kim Hamilton

  “Can we please go in?” I asked.

  He stepped aside and whispered something to his partner as we passed. They both snickered.

  We found Dawson, Marty, Detectives O’Mallory, and his faithful sidekick, Howdy Doody inside. Dawson sat on the sofa petting Bailiff. He stared up at the detectives, who stood side by side with their arms crossed against their chests. Marty held firm to a spot in front of Dawson, as though protecting him.

  Kari interrupted whatever conversation was taking place. “What the hell’s going on in here? It looks like some macho standoff.”

  “And what’s with all the media people?” I added.

  Marty squared his shoulders and continued to stare at the detectives while he answered. “The detectives are here to take Dawson in for questioning. The media’s here to watch it happen.”

  Marty had his lawyer face on. “On what grounds are you arresting him?”

  “We’ve received the security footage from the night Metzger was killed. He had a pretty sophisticated system. It shows Dawson arriving at 9:10 p.m. and leaving at 9:35 p.m. No one came or went after that until Mrs. Metzger came home around 1:30 a.m. and found the body. Dawson’s financial statements were laid out across the desk, covered with blood. It all fits.”

  “That’s not conclusive evidence. Any hack can circumvent the security cameras. What about the wife? What about the maid?” Marty turned to Dawson. “You said they have a live-in, right?”

  “Yes. Maria. Delightful young lady.”

  O’Mallory was stone-faced. “They both have alibis. Dawson had motive and opportunity. I’ve got to take him in.”

  Marty’s face turned red. “That’s ridiculous! There must be hundreds of more likely suspects—other clients of Metzger’s who knew.”

  “No one else knew about the missing money until after the murder. They found out watching the morning news like everyone else. I gotta bring him in.”

  O’Mallory held firm, staring Marty down. “We can do it the easy way and walk out together and get in the car, or I can cuff him and drag him out there in front of all those cameras.”

  “Can we compromise?” I asked. “Can you have a car pull into our rear lot and bring Dawson out the back. We don’t want any pictures of him being escorted by the two of you, with or without cuffs. We’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  O’Mallory gave an affirmative nod to Howdy Doody, who took out his cell and made a call.

  “Don’t worry,” Marty told Dawson. “There’s plenty of time to have the bail hearing this afternoon and get you out this evening.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Kari said. She was looking out the front window.

  “Who?”

  “It’s Stuart Milligan. That good-for-nothing sleazebag is talking to the press again. And lots of people have gathered outside.” Kari stomped her foot. “Oh no she’s not! It’s Chantel. That uppity bitch is handing out business cards and pointing people across the street to their office. I’m going back out there to shut them down.” She marched toward the door.

  “Kari, don’t do anything,” Marty said. “Stay put. We don’t need any more attention.”

  Kari’s nostrils flared like a charging bull. She stepped away from the window, arms crossed, taking deep breaths.

  Howdy Doody was off the phone. “I’ve arranged to have another car come in through the alley. It’ll be here any minute. Dawson, you ready to go?”

  “Do I have time to iron my pants?”

  The detectives laughed.

  Dawson started unbuckling his belt and headed toward his office.

  “He’s not kidding,” Kari said. “Can you give him time to iron his pants? It calms him down.”

  The detective shrugged. “Sure. You’ve got five minutes.”

  We followed Dawson into his office. His ironing board was at the ready. He laid his pants across the top and took a lint roller to the legs as he waited for the iron to heat up. He turned on his Bose system and the sound track to Fiddler on the Roof began to play.

  “Dawson, you okay?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’m okay. Marty will get me bailed out, and I’ll be back here in the morning.”

  The iron beeped, signaling it was ready. Dawson began to press his pants. He was slow and methodical. “I didn’t kill Harvey, you know.”

  “Of course we know that,” I said.

  “I know it looks bad. I was mad enough to kill him that night, but I’m no killer.”

  “O’Mallory has it in for you for some reason,” Marty said. “Did you ever do anything to get on his bad side?”

  “Not that I know of. He was working Vice until a few months ago. He put a lot of mid-level drug dealers behind bars.” He flipped his pants over and worked the iron across them. “A handful got off by hiring savvy defense lawyers who managed to get the charges dismissed on technicalities—illegal searches, that kind of thing. But we never represented any of them. I figure he hates all lawyers.”

  “A lot of people do,” said Kari.

  We nodded in agreement.

  Marty said, “Arresting a well-known local lawyer for killing the orchestrator of a Ponzi scheme jacks this into a high-profile case. That’s what the police commissioner is trying to do.”

  “Trying to do what?” I asked.

  Marty swiveled his head toward me and gave me an eye roll so severe it almost knocked me down. “He wants the publicity. Don’t you get it?”

  “So this is all for show? A way to send the message to the public that they are hard at work on this murder? Even if they have the wrong guy?”

  “Yes. Even if they have the wrong guy.”

  Dawson looked up from his ironing. “Plus they need to distract the press from the drug money that went missing during O’Mallory’s East Side drug bust a few months ago. The department’s in the hot seat for that one. Over half a million in cash disappeared.”

  “I hadn’t heard that part of the story,” I said.

  “It’s back in the news because the top guy they nailed, Terrell Smith, he goes on trial this week,” Marty said.

  “I’m a pawn in their media manipulation. My arrest will take the media attention away from that bust and maybe even cover up corruption within the department.”

  Dawson started putting on his pants. “I found out about Harvey’s scam because I wanted to take out a large sum. I wanted to diversify to prevent something like this from happening. A little too late, I guess. Harvey kept stalling and giving me excuses for days, so I finally went to see him. That’s when he confessed.”

  “Car’s here,” Detective O’Mallory called from the outside room.

  Dawson did a final check of his pants in the mirror behind his door, gave Bailiff a pat on the head, and joined the detectives with Marty at his side. Kari and I followed the four of them through the kitchen and stood at the back door. There was no press back there, but the helicopter was circling overhead. There would be no time for goodbyes. Before Dawson slid into the back seat, he yelled, “Hold down the fort, Jess.”

  They drove away. Marty followed in his car. Kari and I returned to the office and peeked out front. The press was still mulling about.

  “Hard to believe none of them thought to peek around back,” Kari said.

  “They’re not even making an effort. They’ve already convicted him. The headlines tomorrow will have Dawson pulling the trigger and kicking the corpse.”

  #

  The phone rang incessantly, and the message light was blinking. Kari tended to the calls as I entered Dawson’s office to turn on the news. He had a thirty-six-inch, high definition television and full cable package. I had to see if Dawson’s arrest had been reported yet. It was mid-afternoon. All I could find were soap operas, but each station had a news scroll across the bottom of the screen that read: Local lawyer arrested for murder. Dawson Garner, accused of shooting Ponzi scheme mastermind. Tune in at 5:00 for the full story. Or some variation of that nonsense. I turned off the TV and joined Kari at her desk.

/>   “We got a problem,” Kari said and handed me several pink message slips. “Those are all client calls. Five of them so far. They all want to fire us. Every one of them said they didn’t want to be represented by a murderer, and one of them specifically said he was going across the street to Stuart Milligan.”

  The news had spread like a wildfire. Dawson got arrested and we started to hemorrhage clients before he even reached the police station. Looking at the messages, I noticed four of the five were my files and one was Marty’s. It was likely that Dawson never even spoke with these people. That meant Marty and I were guilty by association. Great. Where was the presumption of innocence?

  The phone rang again. Kari answered it. “Dawson Garner & Associates, how can I help you? Yes, ma’am. Can you please hold?” She pressed the hold button and said, “It’s Marjorie Howard. She’s got her foul-mouthed self all worked up. Said she saw the news and doesn’t want a murderer touching her case. She wants Stuart Milligan.”

  “Let me speak with her.”

  Kari put the call through to my desk. “Hello, Mrs. Howard.”

  “It’s Miss Howard, and don’t you ‘hello’ me. You people are a disgrace. Dawson Garner’s nothing but a murderer pretending to be a lawyer. I don’t feel safe with him. I want to take my case to Stuart Milligan. I hear he’s a pervert, but at least he ain’t no killer.”

  I didn’t want to lose Marjorie’s case. It could be a decent payout for us because she broke her wrist. Broken bones meant money. If I could get the adjuster to expedite on her file and give me a number, maybe I could salvage our fee. “Ms. Howard, I understand you’re upset, but Dawson is no murderer. He’s one of many suspects. He’ll be cleared soon. Meanwhile, we’re working hard on your claim and expect an offer before the end of the week.” This last part wasn’t true, but I intended to get right on top of it.

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Miss Lady. Just get my file over to Milligan’s office.”

  Since a rational approach wasn’t working, I decided to stall. “No problem, Ms. Howard. I’m going to send you a form that I’ll need you to sign and return. It will state that this firm is no longer representing you and that you would like your file transferred to Stuart Milligan’s office. I’ll send that out today.”

  “You do that.” She hung up.

  I went out to tell Kari about my conversation, but she was taking another message, and there was another call on hold.

  The front door opened and a woman walked in. It was Helen Holman, a reporter I recognized from WTTZ news. I wondered how she got past the two uniformed officers, then realized that they must have left as soon as Dawson was carted away. Helen was an industry veteran in her mid-fifties. She was dressed in a simple, navy-blue V-neck top tucked into crisp white jeans with a crease down the middle that even Dawson would envy. An air of confidence preceded her as she bounded into the office.

  “I’m Helen Holman.” She reached her hand out to shake mine. Kari spotted Helen and rushed around her desk to shake Helen’s hand, too.

  “I’m a big fan, Ms. Holman. I’ve seen you on WTTZ Channel 7. But not lately, now that I’m thinking about it. You’re even prettier in person. You want some coffee or a bottle of water? We’ve got some cookies in the kitchen. How about a cookie?”

  I was irritated at Kari for her overt girl crush on this woman. Helen Holman was the press. She was the enemy.

  “No, thanks. And I’m no longer with WTTZ. I’m an independent reporter now. The networks get all caught up with the ratings and political correctness. It stifles my search for the truth. Hey, can I use your bathroom?”

  I directed her down the hall toward the restroom. When she was out of earshot, I turned to Kari. “Do not say anything to that woman. She’s on a witch hunt for dirt on Dawson. She can bring us down with one catchy headline, so don’t say a word.”

  “I know how to handle the press,” Kari said.

  Helen returned from the restroom. “It’s so damn humid. Look at my hair. I tried to run a comb through it, but it’s no use.”

  “Jess has that same problem. It’s because you white women don’t use enough product. I told Jess she should—”

  “Ms. Holman isn’t here to discuss common Caucasian hair ailments.” I turned to Helen. “How did you find out that Dawson was arrested? How did any of the media know?”

  “It was that lawyer across the street, Stuart Milligan. He sent emails and called the tip lines at all the local stations. I found out from an old friend at WTTZ.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a copy of an email chain that originated from Milligan’s office. It was time stamped at ten this morning.

  I saw red. My pulse quickened. My hatred for Stuart Milligan took an ugly turn. I would somehow make him pay for this. But for now, I needed to focus on helping Dawson. “Everyone else is gone. Why are you still here?”

  “I’m here to find out who murdered Harvey Metzger.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong place. Dawson didn’t murder Harvey,” Kari said.

  “I’m not here to talk to Dawson. I know he left out the back with the detectives. I wanted to talk with you two. Listen, those other reporters out there, they’re convinced of his guilt because that’s the easy story. They’re young. They’re lazy. I like to assume the old adage is true.” She looked at me. “You know. The one they teach you in law school—‘innocent until proven guilty.’ It’s a real gem.”

  I was beginning to like Helen Holman.

  “Who’s the lead detective on the case?” she asked.

  “O’Mallory. He focused on Dawson right away, which doesn’t make sense considering there are so many other people with motive.” I studied her. “What’s your angle?”

  “I’m looking at the wife.”

  “Olivia?”

  “Yup. What do you ladies know about Olivia?”

  Kari’s left eye started to twitch. She knew something but didn’t want to blurt it out. Such restraint was uncommon for her.

  “Helen, would you excuse us for a moment?” I motioned for Kari to follow me into my office and closed the door.

  “So, what do you know?”

  “How do you know I know something?”

  “Because some juicy nugget of gossip has you practically jumping out of your skin.”

  “It’s Olivia. She was having an affair with her Pilates instructor, Juan Carlos.”

  “Juan Carlos?” I’d recently added Pilates to my exercise routine with minor success. I wasn’t good with group fitness. Juan Carlos was my instructor, too. “What makes you think Olivia and Juan Carlos were having an affair?”

  “My stylist, Paulette.”

  “At The House of Hair?”

  Kari nodded. “That place has the pulse on this city.”

  “Then it’s a rumor. Helen Holman won’t act on a rumor.”

  “So I can tell her then?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We rejoined Helen in the reception area.

  Kari wasted no time. “Olivia Metzger was having an affair with her Pilates instructor, Juan Carlos.”

  “Did you witness this affair?” Helen asked.

  “No, but it was all the talk at the House of Hair last week.”

  Helen’s face brightened. “The House of Hair. That’s a great resource. Those ladies were the reason I got a front-page story last month on the now-disgraced Reverend Tappalo.”

  “That was you?” Kari said. “That was some good investigative reporting.”

  “Thanks. I owe it all to the relentless gossip ring at the House of Hair. One of the ladies there grew up with Tappalo and knew him to be a scheming degenerate since he was thirteen years old. The story practically wrote itself.”

  “What’s this world coming to when you can’t trust a reverend?”

  It was five o’clock. Time to watch the news.

  Kari locked the front door, and she and Helen followed me into Dawson’s office. I turned on local Channel 6. The requisite male-female pairing sat at the news desk. The guy
wore a crisp, dark-blue suit with white starched collar and a bold striped tie, like the kind worn by prep-school students. He was fit and tan with chicklet-white teeth. The woman, whose teeth were even a shade whiter, had impossibly blonde, shoulder-length hair. She wore a red dress that clung to her body and revealed her size D cup cleavage.

  Kari said, “Turn it up. Let’s hear what Ken and Barbie have to say.”

  Helen laughed. “That’s why I never made the news desk.” She gestured across her own chest. “Not enough in the booby department.”

  We pulled the chairs from around Dawson’s conference table and huddled up close to the television. Traffic and weather updates dominated the news at this hour. Then finally:

  “In local news,” Ken began, “The death of Harvey Mezzer is being—”

  “Metzger,” Barbie said.

  “What?”

  “Harvey Metzger. His name is Metzger. I mean was Metzger. Harvey Metzger.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said Mezzer.”

  “Did not.”

  Barbie rolled her eyes at the camera. Ken continued.

  “In local news, the death of Harvey METZGER, has turned into a murder investigation. Dawson Garner, a Baltimore attorney known for his ubiquitous advertising on billboards, buses, and benches across the city, has been arrested. The motive for the murder has not been revealed, but there is speculation that Garner and Metzger were involved in a love triangle that turned deadly...”

  “What! A love triangle?” Kari said. “They’re making shit up.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Helen.

  I couldn’t listen to it. I turned the volume down on the television.

  “We need to save Dawson from these lies.”

  “The only way to do that is to shift the media focus onto something else,” Helen said. They’re like kindergartners. They have short attention spans. They’ll forget about Dawson if they have something juicier to talk about.”

  “How about a UFO sighting?” Kari asked. “I can call one into 911. We can Photoshop a few pictures together to make it look like it was flying over Camden Yards. That would catch a lot of attention. No one would be interested in hunting down a murderer when there are aliens watching baseball.”