by Julie Ramson
He was about 6' tall, just tall enough to look down at me if I am wearing flats and worked out just enough to look substantial but not bulky. His hair was a light brown and his eyes were more golden than brown. He had a kind face and a ready smile. He looked a little like a big teddy bear, except of course, for the large gun he wore. I loved him as a friend and almost brother but could also see why many women stopped to take another look when he came into a room. He was oblivious to that, however.
Now he was all grown up and a cop. And if Jimmy was here, my brother Sean was too - or would be soon. This was not good news. Sean would pull rank and yell and play the Irish Jerk Cop Brother. And I might have to take it from him since I was in a locked house - possibly illegally - and technically, I suppose I could be arrested.
I would kill Sean if he arrested me. I could usually count on Jimmy to defend me to Sean, be on my side in things. This time I wasn’t so sure.
I looked back at Jimmy and gingerly touched my head. Huge lump on the back. Hurt like the devil. “What are you doing here?” I asked sharply. I have always believed that the best way to deflect the unwanted consequences of my misconduct was an outraged attack. It has worked in the past.
“I got a call from a neighbor that someone had broken into this house. Sean was tied up with that damn skeleton and money case but he’ll be along. Who knew it was you?” Now that I was alive and in one piece, Jimmy was definitely getting angry. “What the hell are you doing here? Have you lost your mind?”
Now I was getting annoyed too. Not only was Sean on the way to yell at me, Jimmy was yelling, too. And Jimmy never yelled at me. I didn’t need this. I had the mother of all headaches and there was a small voice in the back of my mind saying I might really be in trouble for breaking and entering a crime scene – and this time I might not be able to talk my way out of it.
“I am on a case Detective. I have a client and I can’t say anything more. The attorney-client privilege.” I did my best to sound haughty and gave the best eye roll I could under the circumstances. The effect was a little spoiled however when I tried to get up and my knees buckled. Jimmy caught me and despite his annoyance, grinned. “Feisty won’t work, Pipsqueak. You have some ‘splaining’ to do but we can wait for Sean.” The rat. He knew that was a threat. He had one arm around my waist, holding me up. I did my best to straighten to my full height.
“Look, Jimmy, I am not waiting for Sean or anyone else. I have more work to do. Thanks for that tender wake-up call but I am leaving. Now.”
“I don’t think so, Maggie. Not until Sean gets here and we get the full story. Right now you just may be in over your head - high as that head may be.” Jimmy kept hold of my waist. Which was probably good since I wasn’t sure I could stand on my own yet.
I looked around the room. I had to get out of there before Sean arrived. It was my only hope. Sean has an Irish temper second only to mine - maybe worse than mine. It would be complicated by his outrage that I had entered this place illegally but even more, it would be complicated by his fear and then relief that I was okay. For all our battles, Sean was a good brother. Most of the time.
But that would not stop him from yelling like a banchee at me or waving his arms, blathering on about my being reckless and stupid, thoughtless and irresponsible, even criminal - you get the idea. It’s not like we hadn’t covered all this territory before. I twisted out of Jimmy’s arm.
I started to move toward the door. Jimmy reached out and grabbed the neck of my coat, stopping me in place. As I started to speak, I heard the door open and Sean’s voice. “Jimmy, where are you? What’s going on? Why are the window boards moved?” I groaned.
As usual, Sean was talking a mile a minute as he came into the dining room. He wore a sport coat and turtleneck under his topcoat and had his hand on his gun. He stopped cold and stared at me. Sean is big. No other way to describe it. He has the dark Irish looks, all 6'1" of him. Broad shoulders and muscled arms. Dark hair, dark blue eyes and a killer smile when he smiled - which he was not doing now. His mouth was a tough, thin line and when he saw me, his eyes turned to the flat, hard dark blue of The Cop Sean.
“Maggie! What the hell are you doing here? What is going on? Wait - She’s the intruder?” He sounded incredulous and looked from Jimmy to me. “Oh, God.” He looked again at Jimmy, who just nodded. Sean looked back at me. “Okay, Maggie, start talking. Fast.” He lowered his head and crossed his arms over his chest.
I did the Major Eye Roll which sent a sharp pain along the top of my head. “There’s nothing to say. I have a client and I can’t discuss the case. That’s it. So I’ll be going now.”
“Not so fast! You’re not going anywhere. I want to know why you are in a locked house - illegally - one that’s marked off as a crime scene - and what’s going on! Your face looks like hell. You can tell me here or we can all go to the station. You choose.” Even though Sean was 6' 1" he couldn’t look down too far at me. But he tried. Glaring , he said, “What is that lump on your forehead? And the two shiners you’re getting? And the swollen nose? What the hell happened here?”
Great. I now knew I looked as bad as I felt. The adrenalin was wearing off and I had pretty much figured my face was probably bruised. It hurt like a son of a bitch.
I wanted a shower, an aspirin, a stiff drink and a bed. In that order. I did not want to deal with my brother or Jimmy.
My brother looked at Jimmy. He held up his hands and shook his head. “I got a call that someone was in the house. When I got here, Maggie was out cold, face down on the dining room floor. Scared the shit out of me.” Thanks a lot, Jimmy.
Sean turned back to me. “Maggie? Again, what happened?” He used the overly patient I-am-with-an-idiot-tone of voice.
“Nothing much. My client is inheriting this house and the contents and wanted me to look around. I tried to call you but you didn’t answer.” Okay, so I lied. Twice. Shoot me. No, scratch that. Someone might.
Sean gave me the yeah, right look. “This is a crime scene. You know it’s illegal to break in here and don’t tell me you called me. I’ve had my cell phone on all day. You didn’t call because you knew I would absolutely not agree to let you in. What client? What inheritance? We only know of one niece and there’s no will. We checked. She inherits. So cut the bullshit and give.” Sean was looming over me, his voice rising in pitch and volume with each word.
I thought fast. Sean was loud and mad but I knew it was because my bruises scared him as much as my stupidity in breaking into this house. I sighed. Because of the attorney client privilege I could only tell him what he already knew. Unfortunately, I had to make it sound like it was something new.
“Okay, here it is. The woman’s niece, Emily Hastings came to see me today. Her aunt told her that she would inherit the house and the contents and she can’t find the will. She needs it. How was I to know that coming here would lead to some lunatic psycho hitting me on the back of my head?” As soon as the words were out I wanted to snatch them back.
Both Jimmy and Sean rocked back on their heels. Jimmy found his voice first. “What do you mean someone hit you? Who? When? What exactly did he say?” Jimmy voice was rising too and he and Sean exchanged looks.
“He didn’t say anything to me. I just felt someone but before I could turn around, he hit me on the back of my head. I don’t remember anything else.” I shrugged.
Sean spoke up. “Okay, Mag, we need to start at the beginning. Start with the client. When did she come to see you? Take each detail and do it in order.”
I sighed. I explained that my client retained me to help her find the will. I didn’t say anything about the actual conversation but it was clear that Sean already knew about Emily and the missing will. No privilege there. Certainly no privilege was involved in the attack on me. I told them I never saw who hit me. I didn’t know why he was here or if he had been in the house when I entered or not. I couldn’t tell his height. I didn’t know if he was blond or dark, white, African American or green. That was i
t. Not a lot to go on.
They peppered me with questions. What time had I gotten there? How long had I been in the house? What rooms had I been in? After what seemed like hours, Sean and Jimmy finally agreed I could leave. I was shaken and bruised and my face throbbed. I was close to tears and just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over my head. It was late afternoon and the sky was getting even darker.
They walked me out. Maybe to help me, maybe to make sure I left. It was still sleeting. My car was covered in ice and even thought Jimmy and Sean were still really mad at me, the cleaned my car off while I sat inside it watching.
They followed me home in their unmarked car. I objected at first, but not too strongly. Frankly, someone following me home was okay. I felt shaky still and drove very carefully. I pulled into the parking lot behind my apartment and they walked me up to my door, then had me wait in the hall while they went in. Killer bounded up to the door joyfully at first, but when he saw Sean and Jimmy and sensed their tension, he headed right for the bathtub. After a few minutes Sean and Jimmy came back.
“Clear, Pipsqueak, but your watchdog is in the bathtub hiding. Also, you might try dusting. And vacuuming. You have dust bunnies the size of small cities on the floor under your bed.” Thanks, Sean.
Killer didn’t come out of the bathroom again until I was inside the apartment. He slobbered all over me for a few minutes then turned his attention to the guys. Sean patted his head and Killer immediately fell to the floor, belly up to be scratched.
“It’s a terrible thing you did to this dog, having him fixed, Mag. Poor guy. Trading sex forever for a tummy rub. You should be ashamed.” Sean grinned as he reached down to rub Killer’s belly.
“Stuff it. No one needs a bunch of little Killers running around. I did the world a service.”
Sean patted me gently on the top of my head. That always ticked me off and he knew it. “If you had a life, Mag, - any kind of life, including a love or sex life, you would be more sympathetic to poor Killer.” He grinned as I sputtered.
“Out! Enough! My head hurts, my face hurts and I am tired. Go away.” I was dangerously close to collapsing.
Jimmy reached over and hugged me. “Take a shower, some aspirin and get some rest. We can talk more later.” He smiled sweetly at me and poked Sean. “Come on, Sport, let’s go. She’s had enough.”
Sean threw his arm around me and hugged gently. “Okay, but we will talk later.” I figured that. “Tell you what, check your front door in about 15 minutes. There might be a large tub of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food there to ease your pain.”
I grinned at Sean. “At last, the brother I always wanted. There may be hope for you yet.” But even my bones were starting to hurt and while ice cream is always a good idea I had a feeling that after a shower I would be too drained to even lift the spoon.
I closed the door and headed for the bathroom. It suddenly
occurred to me that I had not asked them about the cat. Oh, well. I
would later. Or tomorrow. I climbed into the shower and let the hot
water cascade over me. It felt like heaven. I washed my hair and
screamed when I touched the back of my head. The lump had grown
to the size of Mt. Rushmore. I deliberately hadn’t looked in the mirror
yet – too chicken. When I got out of the shower, I forgot and turned
around and screamed again. My nose was swollen, my eyes glassy
with purpling areas developing around both of them. I was a real
vision.
Or a sight.
I left the bathroom, gave Killer some dog food and fresh water and started for the bedroom. I remembered the Ben and Jerry’s and checked. Yes, there it was. Phish Food. Okay, Sean was not all bad.
I put the ice cream into the freezer, swallowed some aspirin and stumbled off to bed.
CHAPTER THREE
MONDAY EVENING
Things hurt. I hurt. My face throbbed. I opened one eye and looked at the clock. Yikes! 7 o’clock. Evening? Morning? I sat up and my head started throbbing again. It was evening. I had slept for about two hours. I stumbled to the kitchen and got a glass of water. Killer was lying on his rug in the corner looking at me mournfully. Oops. He probably needed to be walked. The problem was I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do less. Still, I got the leash and Killer did his happy dance at my feet.
“This is going to be short, Killer, so don’t get all excited. See this face? It is not the face of a woman who wants to do the long walk in the sleet and snow thing. It is the face of a woman who means business. Your business. Fast.” Killer is almost human and understood exactly what I was saying. He gave me a reproachful look.
I got the baggie. I hate, hate, hate doing this. I know, it’s part of the responsible dog owner thing. Most of the time Killer behaved and did his thing behind the dumpsters in the weeds and I didn’t need the baggie thing. Sometimes not. Best to be prepared. I bundled up and walked to the elevator. Killer and I rode the two flights down and out the back door. I huddled in the doorway and Killer took off to do his duty. For the first time, I let myself think about what had happened. What had happened? One minute I was doing a little B and E - breaking and entering - and the next thing I knew I was banged on the head and out cold on the floor. What was this all about?
Killer came bounding back, smiling and full of pep now that he was outside and able to run. I thought about taking him for a walk, then decided no. Too cold, too dark, too sleety. And too scary. What if that guy was out there? It wasn’t like I could depend on Killer to save me. I could call Sam. Rats. She was out on a date tonight with a new guy. It occurred to me that I really didn’t have anyone else to call and ask to come over and walk the dog with me.
Sean was right. I needed a life.
Once back in the apartment, I made a sandwich and paced restlessly. I wanted some human contact and decided to call a few old friends. I had been fairly reclusive at first after I was fired. I had been and still was really embarrassed and really ticked off about it.
My old law firm was Cavenaugh and Hartmann, Attorneys at Law. Both of the original founding partners are dead which is just as well since they did not believe in hiring female attorneys anyway. Their portraits hang in the foyer of the firm and they looked humorless and stuffy. Yuch.
The firm itself is located on the north end of La Salle Street in Chicago - Lawyer’s Row. It was all very mahogany, with plush carpets, muted colors, hushed voices and an air of big money. It was staffed with Senior Partners, who did most of the client getting and schmoozing. They also did very little actual work. Generally we did not see much of them since they tended to make guest appearances at the firm - usually when the money was being divided up. Then they were right there, johnny on the spot to claim that since they brought in most of the business they were entitled to most of the money. The next level was the Partners who did a tiny amount of the grunt work but generally passed it down to associates whenever possible. They wanted most of the money because they believed they managed the clients. And they just wanted the money.
The partners all held their meetings in the board room. This is where the big decisions were made and the profits divided four times a year. The walls of the boardroom were mahogany to the chair rail then painted with a textured burgundy paint. This was to hide the blood spatters from the Dividend Meetings. The table was huge and also mahogany, with arm chairs covered in tapestry. I was allowed to pass by the room as an associate but never allowed to actually sit in it.
The next group was the Senior Associates. These were the Partner WannaBes, who guarded their limited power with the tenacity of junkyard dogs. Typically they handed out the assignments to the Junior Associates and reviewed their work. No need to bother the Partners with the actual quality of the work.
Senior Partners and Partners tended not to know the names of the Junior Associates since they were fungible and probably would not be there long. No point in getting to know their names until they we
re at least Senior Associates. Maybe not even then.
The single most important thing was Bringing In Business. If you brought in Exxon or Xerox, your future was golden. If not, well you would just toil 2500 billable hours a year, recorded in tenths of an hour on your time sheets for seven or eight years when you were fired for not having brought in Exxon. You could be fired sooner if for some reason you came to the attention of a Senior Partner, a Partner or ticked off the Senior Associate.
Which leads to me.
Douglas Hartmann III was the grandson of the original Hartmann and also, unfortunately, the managing partner of Cavenaugh and Hartmann. He was a little under my height and had a graying, receding hair line. He was stocky and walked around with a pursed look on his face at all times. I always pictured him sucking lemons in his office when no one was looking. The day I was fired, I was a second year associate in the Litigation Department. I tended to avoid Hartmann, because either due to some genetic deficiency or having been a pervert in a prior life, he had evolved into the Chauvinist From Hell. He referred to me and all other female associate as “lawyer-ettes.” It ticked me off royally. At 5'10" in my stocking feet, I don’t think of myself as an “ette.” Certainly no one else had ever called me an “ette.”
But on the October day of my firing, as we were passing in the halls, Hartmann (Mr. Hartmann to us peons) asked, “How our Lawyer-ette was doing today.” I had already been humiliated that morning by Judge Wright during an argument on a motion in court. Hartmann had sent me over to court on that motion, knowing it was a loser since it was directly against the prevailing law. This fact was not lost on Judge Wright and he felt compelled to announce the stupidity of the motion - and me for arguing it - to the entire courtroom of attorneys. So, when Hartmann called me a “Lawyer-ette” I snapped. Drawing myself up to my full 6' 1” feet (with heels) I whirled around and said, “That’s enough. I am not a “Lawyer-ette. I am a lawyer, just like you. I went to law school, just like you and took the bar, just like you. I am every bit the lawyer you are. I am not an “ette” anything and I am resent your calling me that. It's condescending and demeaning.” There was a stunned silence which for some insane reason I felt the need to fill. “Are we clear?”
