by Kim Hamilton
“We can’t lie,” I said.
“They are,” said Kari, gesturing toward the television.
“True, but I’m a lawyer, I’m supposed to represent the truth.”
There was silence for a few beats before we burst into laughter.
#
Mrs. Bianco was sitting on her porch with the twins. Kaitlyn and Kristin were around my age and lived in the row house on the other side of mine. We had become fast friends when I moved in. Having lived there for four years, they were my social connection to the happenings in Canton and Fells point, and they were big sports fans. When the Ravens or Orioles played, they had an open house for viewing on their sixty-inch wide screen with surround sound. On nice evenings, they moved it onto their front porch for outdoor viewing.
“Hey, Jess. You coming over to watch the O’s game on Friday?” Kaitlyn asked.
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
They stood to leave. “We’d love to stay and catch up, but we’re meeting a client.” The twins were real estate agents. I was glad they couldn’t stay. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Bianco about Franco Giovanni. While I loved hanging out with the twins, I didn’t trust them to keep our conversations confidential. Their gossip circle was almost as big as the one at the House of Hair.
After they left, Mrs. Bianco said, “I saw the five o’clock news. What a story they tell about your boss.”
“Dawson didn’t do it. He was just the last one to see Harvey alive, according to the security cameras. His financial statements were tossed around Metzger’s desk when they found him. The rush to justice has Dawson tried and convicted. Marty’s hoping to get him out on bail so he won’t have to spend the night.”
She poured me a glass of port and freshened hers.
“Do you know a guy named Franco Giovanni?” I asked.
“Franco Giovanni?”
“Yeah, big guy, nice hair, intimidating security detail. Do you know him?”
“I play bingo every week with his mother, Cecilia. And I knew his dad, Franco Sr. He had nice hair, too. Franco Sr. did some business with Mr. Bianco. But I can’t talk about that. How do you know Franco?”
“I’m representing a guy who fell and was injured at Brenner’s Market. He’s a male dancer. Franco owns Brenner’s. He offered to settle. I told him it was too soon to negotiate a settlement. He didn’t take my refusal well.”
“He does not like to be refused.” She took a pull on her Tiparillo.
“Franco Giovanni is more barker than biter. You earn his respect, and he’ll be fair.”
“How do I do that? I’m a rookie here.”
“You be confident. Fake it if you have to.” She shrugged.” Don’t let him know he intimidates you. Respect him, but demand his respect, too. If you cross him...”
“What?” I asked. “If I cross him, what?”
I saw in her roaming eyes that she was searching for the right words. Then her eyes settled on mine. “Things could get unpleasant.”
“I don’t intend to cross him.”
“You do, you end up like Harvey Metzger.”
She took a long sip of port, eyes still on me. “You know, the Giovanni family invested some money with Harvey Metzger, too.” She watched my face as the implications of this information sunk in.
Did Harvey get whacked by a Giovanni hit man? I thought that only happened in the movies.
“Mrs. B, does the mob still whack people?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure, but if it was a Giovanni who ordered the hit, who could blame them? I wanted to kill Metzger myself.”
We sat in silence for a moment, watching the foot traffic. There was a young couple about my age strolling by, holding hands and talking intently to each other. It made me think of Mark. I had a quick school-girlish daydream about me and Mark walking hand in hand along the docks by the harbor, soaking in the warm sun and falling in love. My expression must have changed because Mrs. Bianco said, “What are you smiling about?”
“A funny thing happened at work yesterday. I accidentally set a dumpster on fire with one of Dawson’s cigars. The fire department came and had to put it out.”
“There are some good-looking firefighters in this city,” Mrs. Bianco said.
“I know. A couple of them showed up. I talked to one of them.”
“Did you introduce yourself?”
“Not exactly, but I did confess to starting the fire.”
“That is good. Confessions are adorable,” she said and chuckled to herself.
“His name was Mark. He had warm blue eyes and a nice smile.”
“How’s he going to ask you out if you didn’t introduce yourself?”
“Well, he knows where I work.”
Mrs. B shrugged. We enjoyed another quiet moment as we sipped our port.
It had been a long day, filled with unexpected and troubling events. I was worried that I hadn’t heard from Marty or Dawson. Was he still locked up? It was hard to imagine him tossed into a cold holding tank filled with drunks, drug dealers, and pimps. I didn’t want to think about it. We needed to figure out a way to get him back in the office and clear his name before we lost any more clients. If Olivia was having an affair, then Detectives O’Mallory and Johnson need to be made aware of that. I decided to check things out at the House of Hair tomorrow. There was also the possibility that the mob was somehow tied in Harvey’s murder. If Franco had money with Harvey and lost it, ordering a hit would be another day at the office for him.
My phone rang and I was oddly relieved so see that it was Marty.
“He’s out. We posted bail.”
“That’s such a relief. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep if I knew he was locked up with a bunch of dirty, derelict, lowlifes.”
“You watch too much television. There were only two other guys locked up with him. One was 22-year-old law student who blew over the legal limit after two beers. The other was a 60-year-old pervert they hauled in for exposing himself to a group of ladies having a picnic lunch in front of the Science Center. They both recognized Dawson from the commercials. They want us to handle their criminal cases.”
“They’re okay being represented by someone charged with murder?”
“Neither of them had seen the news about Dawson’s arrest and didn’t seem to care why he was in there.”
“So, not a bad day then?” I asked.
“Guess not.”
“I’ve got a lead on who may have killed Harvey. Did you know that his wife, Olivia, was having an affair?”
“How’d you find out?”
“At this point, it’s a rumor, but I plan to check it out tomorrow. We need to establish Dawson’s innocence before we lose more business. The press has him convicted and clients have been calling wanting to fire us. Stuart Milligan is circling, waiting to feed on our scraps.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, I drove past the front of our building before parking in the rear. A small contingency of the press had returned. There were two vans, two cameramen, and two reporters. I passed without being noticed. When I pulled into the lot, Marty was right behind me.
“Did you see the press out front?” I asked. “Looks like most have lost interest.”
“Don’t be naïve. They’re not done with us yet.”
Dawson pulled in as I was opening the back door to our office. Marty and I waited for him by the door.
“Do you think prison changed him?” I whispered to Marty. He inched away from me.
“He was locked up for five hours. It wasn’t a big deal.” He rocked his head back and forth in a way that confirmed he thought I was an idiot.
Still, I was happy to see Dawson, and not just because he was carrying a box of doughnuts.
Dawson joined us and handed the doughnut box to me. “Let’s get inside and have a meeting over breakfast. Kari’s got bagels, too.”
We could smell the coffee. Kari was sitting at the kitchen table and flipping through People magazine. When she saw Dawson,
she said, “You don’t look like an ex-con. Where’s your prison tattoo?”
“Prison wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. Although when I got home, I threw my clothes in the trash and took a twenty-minute shower.” He handed Kari some paperwork. “I picked up two clients while I was in there. Criminal cases. They should both be in today with the retainer money. Then you can set up the files.”
Kari listened while she pulled a foiled tray of bagels out of the oven. “Compliments of Dr. Cohen,” she said. I was standing next to the refrigerator. “Jess, can you grab the cream cheese?”
I laid out some knives along with the cream cheese. Between the bagels and the doughnuts, it was a carb feast. We dug in shamelessly. It looked to be an amicable breakfast among co-workers until Marty and I grabbed the same sesame bagel. I dug my nails in for a better purchase.
“Jess, let go of the bagel.”
“You let go.”
It was a bagel standoff. We positioned our elbows on the table for added strength and held firm. Moments passed. Dawson and Kari watched on in silence. Maintaining my grip, I leaned forward, whipped out my tongue, and licked the top of the bagel.
Marty let go. “That’s disgusting.”
Kari passed me the cream cheese. “Well played, Jess.”
Dawson gave me a quick wink and brought our attention back to business. “We’ve got a PR nightmare. Did you see the news yesterday? The press has me convicted.”
“So do some of our clients,” I said. “A couple have asked to transfer their files.”
“Not to Stuart Milligan, I hope,” said Dawson.
“Marjorie Howard asked for him.”
“So did Walter Reese and Taylor Lawson,” Kari said. Marty and I looked at her. This was news to us, too. “They both left angry voicemail messages. They didn’t mention Stuart by name, but said they wanted their files sent across the street to the TV lawyer.”
“I’ll talk with all of them. Bring me their files after breakfast. These people just want their money. They don’t care which attorney gets it for them. If I can convince them that changing attorneys at this point will delay their settlement, they’re likely to stick with us. At least for a little while longer.”
“We won’t have to worry about losing more clients once the press turns its focus on Olivia,” Kari said.
“That’s ridiculous. What makes you think Olivia killed Harvey?” Dawson asked.
I jumped in ahead of Kari. “We heard it from a reliable source.”
“Who’s the source?”
“The ladies at the House of Hair.”
“A gossip ring?” Incredulity filled Marty’s eyes and he let out a puff of exasperated air. “You’re not serious?”
I ignored him. “I’m going over there today to check it out for myself. If it proves to be a solid lead, we’ll alert Detective O’Mallory.”
“You’re wasting your time. O’Mallory already talked to Olivia,” Marty said. “They always interview the wife.”
“Yeah, but at the time he had Dawson pegged as the perp.”
“Perp?” No one says ‘perp’ anymore.”
“They do on Law & Order,” I said, raising my eyebrows and wiggling my head at him.
#
I had to set the murder investigation aside to lock in my first exploding-toilet case. Delroy had convinced his cousin to meet with me to discuss representation. Delroy and Kari came with me.
Parking was easy this time of day in Marshall’s Druid Hill neighborhood. I found a spot across the street. We proceeded up Marshall’s front porch. Marshall opened the door immediately.
“I saw you pull up. Come on in. Wipe your feet.” Marshall was a large man. Defensive-tackle kind of large. Not fat, but very big, very strong. He could have played for the Ravens. He was dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt and sweatpants. His feet were bare.
The houses in Druid Hill were built in the 1950s, but this one was updated We stood in the taupe painted hallway on top of the matching carpet. The home had a comforting monochrome palette. I admired a couple of bright botanical prints framed in black. On the opposite wall, a pewter-framed mirror hung over a narrow sideboard. Marshall motioned for us to follow him into the family room. He moved with caution toward the biggest recliner I’d ever laid eyes on and lowered himself gingerly, grimacing as he came to rest. The three of us spaced ourselves evenly across the matching leather sectional sofa.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” I said.
For a monster-sized man, he was surprisingly soft spoken. He stared at his fingers in his lap and said, “It exploded. The toilet. It exploded. I had just flushed and was…” He paused, looked up at Kari and me. “I’m sorry for being indelicate here, but ... I hadn’t ... I hadn’t even pulled up my pants yet when bam! I felt this sharp pain in my side and heard the explosion at the same time. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor. My head is pounding. My side”—he gestured toward his left midsection—“was bleeding like I had been cut in two. I felt sick to my stomach. It hurt so bad.” He stopped and shook his head from side to side.
“I see you got started without me.” We all turned our heads toward the woman in the doorway. I assumed it was his wife, Lucinda. She was wearing a floral blouse, white capris pants, and a scowl on her face that made me feel I got caught with my hand in her wallet. She had her hair pulled back off her face and her makeup was severe. Marshall sat mute. “Marshall told me Delroy was bringing over a lawyer. Where is he?”
He? This ought to be fun.
I stood and stepped around the coffee table with my right hand stretched out. “Hello, Mrs. Ball. I’m Jessica Snow with Dawson Garner & Associates.” She took my hand and released it like it repulsed her. I turned toward Kari. “And this is my assistant, Kari Cruz.”
Kari also stood to shake Lucinda’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Can I call you Lucinda?”
“No. I prefer to be addressed as Mrs. Ball.” She turned back at me and studied my face. “I’ve seen you on that billboard over on North Avenue, near the Market.” She looked me up and down from head to toe. “They must have airbrushed you. Amazing what they can do with a little airbrushing.” Her voice and her eyes dared me to a verbal sparring.
Her personal assault fired up my anger, but I held it in check. I replied in my most saccharine voice, “Aren’t you sweet to notice.”
A vein in Kari’s neck pulsed purple anger. She was ready to jump to my defense. I motioned for her to stay calm.
We resumed our seats and Mrs. Ball stepped over to stand by Marshall’s chair. There was a coldness about the woman that put me on edge. Marshall reached for a prescription bottle on the table next to him and shook out two white pills. He tossed them down his throat and chased them with whatever was in his coffee mug.
“What can you do for us, Ms. Snow?” Lucinda asked.
“Should Marshall choose to hire me, I intend to get him a substantial amount of money to compensate for his pain and suffering, his permanent scarring, and any other permanent injury he may have, as well as compensation for his time missed from work. Also, we would seek compensation for the damage to your bathroom.”
Lucinda tapped her fingers are the back of Marshall’s chair. “What about loss of constitution?”
Marshall stiffened and lowered his eyes again.
I had no idea what Lucinda was talking about, so I turned to Kari. “Consortium. I think she means consortium.”
Lucinda rolled her eyes. “That’s what I said.”
Oh, boy, this should be fun. Under Maryland law, both spouses can make a claim for the loss of consortium. That is, loss of marital intimacy due to injuries caused by the negligence of a third party. In other words, they can get paid for not being able to have sex while Marshall is recovering. It’s a statute that is rarely called upon because the questions that need to be answered to prove its value are intrusive and embarrassing. If Marshall was embarrassed about being injured with his pants down, wait until he tried to justify a loss-of-consortium
claim.
I sat forward in my seat and made direct eye contact with Mrs. Ball. “Certainly, we could make a claim for loss of consortium, but I don’t recommend it. Those claims, even if proven, carry so little value that it’s not worth the embarrassment that is inevitable when certain questions about your intimacy need to be answered. I’m talking very personal questions requiring very specific answers.”
I could tell Mrs. Ball was not happy with my answer when she stepped forward, hands on hips, and said, “What do you know? Have you even graduated from high school?”
Kari started to rise to my defense when Delroy put a gentle hand on her shoulder and addressed his sister. “Lucinda, that’s enough. Ms. Snow is a smart attorney. I know she looks young, but she’s an ace. I wouldn’t have brought her here if she weren’t. Come on, let’s you and me go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee while these folks work things out.” He took her by the elbow and led her through the door.
Marshall looked up. “I’m sorry about that. She means well. She gets a little carried away is all. What else do you need to know?”
“Tell me more about your injuries,” I said.
“The doctor said I have a concussion from hitting the floor. And this.” He angled his hips so that his left side was facing us and lifted his shirt to reveal at least a dozen staples pulling his flesh together. They formed an angry line from the top of his hip down below the waistline of his sweatpants. “Doc did a good job patching me up, but it hurts like hell. I can’t work for at least two weeks.”
I made a note. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I drive a delivery truck for Big City Distributors. No way I can haul pallets of beer until this thing heals. Doc says it could rip right open.”
“Had you been having any trouble with the toilet? Was it making any noise, or not operating properly? Any reason to believe there was something wrong with it?”
“No. Not a thing. It was fine up until this happened. I hate to think that this might’ve happened to one of my kids. Could’ve killed them. Someone needs to get the word out about these toilets.”
“Can I see where it happened?”
