by Diane Capri
When I came back from Margaret’s room, I heard the front door to our flat open and Dad and Suzanne walk in, laughing and chatting, right past the kitchen and on to their room down the hall.
George chuckled, “Afternoon delight, hmmm?”
I hit him in the arm and he yelled, “Owwwwwww!” loud enough to wake the dead. We were both still laughing when a couple of our other house guests came in to join us.
We exchanged pleasantries for a while, spent the rest of the day being social, and tried, unsuccessfully, to forget Hathaway’s suspicions.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Monday 8:15 a.m.
January 29, 2001
MONDAY MORNING, AS I drove over the bridge off Plant Key away from Minaret and turned right onto Bayshore Boulevard heading toward downtown, my favorite view of Hillsborough Bay unfolded. Some days I see dolphins and manatees on my way to work.
My daily drive east on Bayshore, over the Platt Street bridge, toward the Convention Center, and on to the old federal courthouse to my office is one of many aspects of my life for which I am truly grateful.
I felt my mood lightening and I actually felt better, physically. Even though I was running late, something I detest in judges, especially myself, I tried to focus on the view as it sped past.
The old courthouse itself is circa 1920, about twenty years newer than our house. As the most junior judge on the bench, I’m stuck in the least desirable office. It’s the RHIP rule; I have no rank and no privilege. My courtroom and chambers are on the third floor in the back. Moving quickly from the parking garage helps me keep my schoolgirl figure.
Only slightly out of breath, I got to my chambers a little before nine and had to dig out my key to open the door when my repeated impatient buzzing failed to raise Margaret to release the lock.
Margaret wasn’t at her desk, but her computer was on, her chair was away from her desk like she’d just gotten up for a moment, and a cup of hot tea was steaming near her phone.
Before she left our home on Sunday, I’d tried to convince her to take some time off, but she’d declined. She said she’d rather work. “I need to get on with my life, Willa. Let me do that, okay?”
I hurried into my office, dropped my minuscule purse into a drawer, and picked up my robe off the hook on the back of the door. I flipped through my pink telephone slips quickly and found one from the “CJ,” that is, the Chief Judge of the United States District Court for the Middle District of Florida. He’d called at seven-thirty this morning, knowing I wouldn’t be here. I never get here much before nine. I’m not a morning person. The message, written in Margaret’s hand, said CJ wanted to talk with me before I took the bench.
I was tempted to ignore him. If I went out right now, I’d be seated on the bench at eight fifty-nine, keeping my self-imposed rule of timeliness. The CJ isn’t really my boss, although he acts like he is. I’m appointed for life and there isn’t a darn thing he can do about it, as much as he’d like to.
I inadvertently took his parking place my first day on the job and he’s been on my case ever since, a reaction more than a little bit drastic for such a minor infraction. I got the worst case assignments, the smallest chambers, the most meager courtroom budget. At meetings he ignored my suggestions and generally made it known, without saying so, that I was far from his favorite jurist.
When his sister and brother-in-law both committed suicide a while ago, CJ acted like it was my fault. Then, when George was accused of murder, according to CJ, I should have resigned before the masses had a chance to impeach me. He’s still pissed off that I didn’t.
My thinking was, hell, if the Chief Justice Earl Warren could withstand an impeachment attempt, let ’em try and get me for nothing more than being married to a guy who was wrongfully accused.
The CJ has aspirations to higher office and I’ve been his biggest supporter. Moving him to Atlanta would be a very pleasant surprise.
So talking to the CJ was never high on my list of priorities, and especially not when I’m already late taking the bench. Regardless of whether he acknowledged our true relationship, this was a request and nothing more. I could honor it. Or not.
But it would be good for me to take the high road, I reasoned, if I was ever going to convince him to give me a chance to move my office to the new courthouse with the rest of my colleagues. No point in creating trouble if it’s unnecessary.
So I picked up the phone, hoping he’d be busy. Unfortunately, CJ had left instructions to put my call through immediately.
I sat down wearily in my chair and looked around at my minuscule office, decorated in what I call ugly green and uglier brown but that a decorator probably once had called “avocado” and “copper.” The beat-up client chairs and this stupid platform my desk sat on were put here by my predecessor, who was clearly a little Napoleon.
I wondered when I would ever get to move. I refused to redecorate, although CJ had several times offered me the money to do it. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was planning on staying here long enough to make redecorating worthwhile.
Maybe if I could force myself to be a little more gracious to the CJ he’d find the money in this year’s budget to let me relocate to the new courthouse with everyone else. Maybe that was why he’d called.
“Good morning, Willa,” he boomed into my ear. Why is it that some people who are hard-of-hearing either shout at you or whisper? He continued right on through my greeting, “I understand you have Armstrong Otter in your courtroom this morning.”
Really? I had no idea. I hadn’t had time to prepare for my docket of conferences today and didn’t know exactly what was scheduled. I’d been just a little preoccupied with the party preparations, Jim Harper’s new wife, and now, a death in my home.
Besides, one case begins to look like another after a while. The CJ knew more about today’s calendar than I did.
CJ continued to shout, “I have personally known Armstrong Otter for several years. I’ve bought a number of pieces of jewelry for my wife from him and I’ve always been completely satisfied.”
Really? I thought again, and my mind began to wander. Nothing CJ said ever held my interest for very long
“Most everyone in South Tampa has been his customer, one time or another,” CJ said. “There’s not a damn thing to this case and you ought to dismiss it so you can get on to the real cases on your docket.”
What? My eyes blinked and I shook my head, as if to clear it of the outrageous remark.
The CJ was so far out of line that if he hadn’t been shouting I would have thought I’d misheard him. He wasn’t really asking me to dismiss a case. He couldn’t be.
CJ took my non-response for consent, and said, “Good. I’m glad we got that resolved. You have over eight hundred cases on your docket, Willa. Surely some of them deserve your attention.” And he hung up!
I pulled the receiver away from my ear and stared at it, as if the receiver itself had uttered the offending remark. I returned the receiver to its cradle slowly, but I was still nonplused as I walked out into the courtroom and took the bench to hear pre-trial motions on my first case, which I obviously knew very little about.
The courtroom deputy called Fitzgerald House v. Armstrong Otter and we were about to begin working when Margaret entered the courtroom from my chambers, walked toward the bench where I sat and handed me a ceramic mug filled with café con leche.
Seated at the defense table was a local lawyer, Armstrong Otter, and his insurance adjuster. As Margaret glanced over toward them, all color drained from her usually placid, small, olive face. She stared at the three men, her mouth open, speechless.
I reached to take the coffee cup from her, a split second after she dropped it. The cup shattered into a thousand pieces. Just before Margaret fell to the floor.
I stood up immediately and motioned to my court security officer. He picked Margaret up, carried her into my chambers and placed her onto the ugly brown couch that did noth
ing to enhance the adjacent ugly green chairs. She looked too pale. I put a shaky hand on her clammy forehead. I felt a shallow pulse.
Margaret could have simply fainted. Heaven knows she probably hadn’t gotten much sleep or taken care of herself since Ron died two days ago.
Yet, Margaret is a pretty tough little woman. She didn’t faint when we found her husband dead and it was nothing short of amazing that she had now.
I instructed one of my clerks to call the court’s medical team and, once they arrived, to call the housekeeping department to clean up the floor.
Then, I returned to the courtroom, stood in the position Margaret had occupied moments before, and turned to look out into the courtroom, just as she had done.
My gaze fell squarely on the three men seated at the defense table, but so what? Margaret had met the lawyer, the adjuster and Otter before. What had caused her so much distress that she’d fainted?
Today, Otter looked much as I had seen him Saturday. He wore a business suit, which made him appear somewhat more conventional. The suit’s style was recent enough, but the suit and its inhabitant didn’t seem to be comfortable companions or even well acquainted.
All in all, Armstrong Otter wouldn’t even rate a second look on the street, I thought. Margaret’s reaction told me to wonder whether he had a totally different impact on older women.
Still thinking, I looked back into my chambers where Margaret was sitting up now, sipping tea, and well cared for. Because I had a courtroom full of work to do, I returned to the bench, making my way around the broken pottery and coffee on the floor, vowing silently to ask Margaret about the entire matter later in the morning.
When the clerk called the Fitzgerald House case again, Otter, his lawyer and his insurance adjuster were still there looking pretty much the way they had a few minutes ago, except that Otter appeared even less comfortable.
Fitzgerald House was present in the form of the chair of its board of directors, a bent, grey-haired, elderly woman who looked like my elementary school librarian. Her lawyer was young and inexperienced, probably because no more experienced lawyer would have taken this case.
I glanced briefly at the case summary my clerks had provided to me. Privately, I had to agree with the CJ that this case didn’t appear to deserve the court’s time. Unfortunately, I don’t get to make that decision sua sponte, or on my own.
This was a relatively small matter involving a business dispute between two parties. Ordinarily, my view is that such matters should be resolved without my time or energy. However, anyone with the filing fee and a typewriter can file suit. It’s called open access to the courts for the redress of grievances. Our government is founded on it. True, many cases were frivolous and got dismissed, and this one might, too, at some point. But we weren’t there yet.
After a brief recitation of the facts by the young lawyer on behalf of Fitzgerald House, I tried to settle the case. Not because the CJ had asked me to, but because I try to settle all my cases. I tell litigants, “All cases are settled. The question is whether you do it yourself or whether you let the jury do it for you.” Sometimes litigants listen to me.
“No, Judge,” the adjuster said in response to my suggestion that the insurance company simply pay Fitzgerald House the appraised value of the property in dispute. An elderly widow had bequeathed certain jewelry to the charity in her will.
The adjuster took a deep breath and delivered his prepared speech, all in one take. “The widow knew full well the necklace and earrings were fakes when she bought them. They weren’t even insured, which she surely would have done if she’d thought they were really worth a million dollars. No. This is just another frivolous lawsuit and we will win this case. And if we don’t, it’s because Mr. Otter misrepresented the jewelry, which is an intentional act, and not covered by the policy anyway. We will pay no money to settle this claim.”
The adjuster was puffed up with righteous indignation, settling in for a long, cold trial.
I looked at Otter and his lawyer. “You know how it is, Judge,” Otter apologized. “Insurance companies always want to collect your premiums, but you’re never covered.”
He stared bleakly at the adjuster, who glared back. The lawyer was sitting, literally and figuratively, in the middle.
I’d dealt with this adjuster before. He would never budge. So I appealed to the board chair. Fitzgerald House is a museum, allegedly a modest home that F. Scott Fitzgerald once owned and where it is claimed he wrote part of The Great Gatsby. I’ve always been skeptical of the claims. But it was true that Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald used to spend vacations at the Don CeSar hotel on St. Pete Beach, and I’ve always felt a small connection to him.
Maybe the Fitzgeralds did own the little house in Palm Springs once. Beyond that, the connection to Gatsby seemed tenuous to me, based on what I’ve read of Fitzgerald’s life.
“Can you afford a scandal like this?” I asked the board chair as kindly as possible. “And what if you lose? It’s going to cost you a lot to take this case to trial. You could have to pay Mr. Otter’s costs, too. Does Fitzgerald House have that kind of money to risk?”
The board chair and her lawyer looked uncomfortable, but she answered me truthfully. “Judge, we believe we’re right about this. I talked to the widow myself about the jewelry. Many times. She absolutely believed it was real. She thought she was giving Fitzgerald House a gift that would finally bring us financial prosperity.”
The young lawyer inserted, with the righteous certainty only the young can muster, “We can’t afford not to try this case in the face of absolutely no offers from the defendant.”
I felt a deep sigh escape my lips. You can lead a litigant to water but you can’t make her think, I reminded myself silently.
“Well, then we have no choice but to get started. I’ll take the plaintiff’s motions first,” I said, and we worked straight through all the motions until lunch. I recessed the matter for the day and went to take care of the pile of work on my desk, already feeling exhausted.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tampa, Florida
Monday 2:00 p.m.
January 29, 2001
MARGARET HAD GONE OUT for lunch, which was unusual but not unprecedented. I didn’t see her before she left, so I couldn’t ask about her fainting spell this morning, but I was worried. I picked up the phone and called Chief Hathaway’s office. He wasn’t there. I left a message. I drummed my fingers on the desk, thinking about who could give me some answers. I picked up the phone and dialed Marilee Aymes.
“Dr. Aymes’ office,” the receptionist said, with as much enthusiasm as I display for over-cooked spinach.
“This is Judge Carson. Is Dr. Aymes in?” I asked, brusquely, and she agreed to check. I’ve learned that if you don’t act important with these receptionists, they actually think they don’t have to let you talk to the doctor. It’s easier to call the CEO of Microsoft than to get past a physician’s receptionist.
“What’s up?” Marilee’s office persona is about the same as her personal and private ones. For years, she was Tampa’s only woman cardiologist and she was still the best. She’s also brash, bossy, brusque and more than a little overbearing. I think she’s a hoot, but George says I shouldn’t be seen with someone so “unsuitable.” I suspect he thinks she’s unsuitable because she does whatever the hell she wants. To George, such conduct isn’t becoming, honorable or appropriate. He can be awfully stuffy sometimes.
“Sounds like you’re busy?” I asked tentatively. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have without Marilee’s full attention.
“Always. But it’s Monday. Everybody saved their heart attacks from the weekend for today. The waiting room is jammed. I’ll be lucky to get done here by seven o’clock.”
“So I guess a drink around five-thirty is out of the question, then?” I looked at the gold and platinum Cartier watch George had given me for our last anniversary. It was about two o’clock now. I needed to get home to my guests, but I wasn’t
impatient to do so. It was clear that Dad and Suzanne knew how to amuse themselves and George would be working until much later.
“Lemme look. Hey, girls, what’s the wait look like?” she shouted to someone in the other room. “Umm. Ok. I could make it by six-thirty. How’s that? Wanna meet at your place?” She asked me.
“How about Bella’s? That’s between here and there.” I suggested a local Italian bistro with a nice bar and some quiet booths on South Howard, or “SoHo” as the area was now being called. She agreed and hung up without signing off. I called George’s office and left a message that I’d be later than usual, but home by seven-thirty at the latest.
I’d finished my tuna sandwich and now I wanted a cookie. I had just enough time to run down to the cafeteria to get one before my next conference. So, I picked up my purse and, preoccupied with my thoughts, made my way quickly past Margaret’s empty desk and through the door to the hallway.
Without watching where I was going, I literally bumped into Otter, who had his hand on Margaret’s elbow as they argued in hushed tones outside the door to my chambers. When I practically knocked them down, Otter stepped away from Margaret and looked up, but Margaret was so engrossed she didn’t notice I was there.
“But we’re not young enough to waste any more time. Ron is dead now. Nothing will bring him back,” she pleaded.
“Hello, Judge,” Otter said, loudly enough to interrupt Margaret and too loud for the quiet hallway of our surroundings.
“Hello, Mr. Otter. Margaret.” I nodded at them both. “Something I can help you with?”
“No, Judge,” Margaret had composed herself. “We were just talking.”
“You two friends?” I asked the obvious question.
“We were. Once. A long time ago,” Margaret said. “I need to get back to work. Excuse me.”
She left us to return to the office. Otter watched her go and continued to look uncomfortable standing there alone in the hallway with me.
“What was that about?” I asked him, not really sure I wanted to know. Margaret was all alone in the world. I didn’t want to think she had any relationship, ever, with Armstrong Otter.
