by Diane Capri
Based on what I’d heard this morning he wasn’t the kind of man I’d want anyone involved with. If he had taken advantage of the widow in the Fitzgerald House case he might take advantage of Margaret, too.
She had told George and me that Ron’s life insurance and other assets would leave her financially well off. And she was particularly vulnerable right now. Exactly the kind of situation I had imagined the Fitzgerald House widow was in when she’d had her unsavory encounter with Otter.
The morning’s fainting spell had proved that Margaret was unhappy and upset and trying valiantly to stay composed. Nothing good could come of any association between Margaret and Armstrong Otter. I didn’t have to know more about him to know that.
I was in a position to rescue Margaret from herself, right now. So I went into what George calls my Mighty Mouse routine. You know, from the old cartoon where the mouse dresses up like Superman and flies through the air singing, “Here I come to save the Daaaaaayyyyy.” It’s a bad habit that I’ve tried to break.
George tells me, “Willa, if someone wants your help, they’ll ask for it. You don’t have to be everyone’s hero. Some people don’t want to be rescued, you know. If they want your help, they’ll ask for it.”
I know that. But it’s against my nature to turn my head when my friends are in trouble.
Maybe Margaret’s wish right now was not to be rescued. But that could only be because she didn’t realize what she was dealing with. If the fraud claims Fitzgerald House was making against Otter were true, I didn’t want Margaret involved with this guy, whether she thought she wanted to be or not. Especially until Ron Wheaton’s autopsy came back and Ben Hathaway was satisfied that he’d died of natural causes.
Nothing makes a cop more suspicious than a new widow with a man friend who has a questionable past.
“Margaret recognized me as an old friend, that’s all. We were just catching up,” Otter said, like it was true. Maybe it was.
“Mr. Otter, you are a defendant in a case in my courtroom. Please don’t contact Margaret again until this case is over. After that, what you do is your own business,” I told him, not as harshly as I could have.
He shouldn’t be having private conversations with Margaret about the case. Otherwise, litigants have social conversations with court personnel all the time. It’s not a problem. But I was hoping he didn’t know that, and that he wouldn’t discuss it with CJ. If Otter did as I asked, it might give Margaret time to come to her senses and decide on her own not to become involved with him in any way.
Beyond that, my staff isn’t supposed to be personally involved with litigants in cases in my courtroom. It appeared that Margaret and Otter had been arguing. That suggested more of a personal relationship than I could ethically allow.
If any member of my staff did know Otter personally, the knowledge would have to be disclosed to all parties and dealt with. I might even be required to recuse myself from the case, if the involvement had gone too far.
“Of course, Judge, I understand. I’m sorry,” Otter said as he turned off to leave the building.
I watched him until he reached the elevator lobby, pushed the button, got in and the doors closed behind him. My sweet tooth had evaporated, but I went quickly, bought my cookie and returned in less than fifteen minutes to finish my conferences.
After the last of the lawyers left, I should have spent the rest of my time on my work, but of course I spent the time dwelling on Margaret instead.
What was Margaret’s connection to Armstrong Otter? Ordinarily, she wouldn’t even know the man. Otter traveled in circles that were way beyond Margaret’s usual social life.
He was a local celebrity, in a small town way. He’d been an award winning jeweler in Pass-a-Grille, the little beach community just south of St. Pete Beach in Pinellas County, across the bay from here, for at least as long as I’d been in Tampa.
Yet I’d never met him before Saturday. Who was this guy and why had he upset Margaret enough to cause her to faint? Because, although there were other people in the courtroom when she collapsed, somehow I felt that Margaret was involved with Armstrong Otter. I was concerned based on what I’d learned about Otter today in the Fitzgerald House case.
Fitzgerald House claimed that the deceased widow hadn’t just spent a million dollars on jewelry that Otter sold her, she had spent every cent she owned. She believed, because he told her so, that the jewelry was “one of a kind,” with a “special history.”
He told the woman that the necklace and earrings she’d bought had been designed by the legendary Tiffany’s designer, Paulding Farnham, and had belonged to Marilyn Monroe. He showed the widow pictures to prove it.
Otter sold the pieces to her as an investment that would increase in value more significantly than any other investment she could make. The widow died believing that she had left her favorite charity, operated by the little woman who was now the chair of the Fitzgerald House board and the widow’s closest friend, a legacy.
When the widow died, Fitzgerald House had the necklace and earrings appraised to be sold. They had an actual value of about forty thousand dollars.
The pieces did look like the pictures of a set Marilyn Monroe had worn to the Academy Awards in 1953, and they might have been. But if she’d worn these particular gems, they were fakes then, too.
Otter’s only defense so far was to admit that the stones were not real, but to claim the widow knew that when she paid him more than twenty times their value. He said that Marilyn Monroe had actually worn the jewelry, and it had been costume jewelry at the time.
As memorabilia, Otter claimed, the gems were actually worth a million dollars, and suggested that Fitzgerald House simply sell them. Otter had counter-sued for defamation and damage to his business reputation caused by the claim, too. That was a pure intimidation tactic, I thought.
Working at my desk, I got caught up in the Fitzgerald House file as the time passed me by. Margaret stopped to talk to me on her way out at five o’clock.
“What happened today, Margaret? What caused you to faint this morning? Are you all right?”
“Willa, I know you’re trying to help,” she stood in the doorway to my office with her purse in her hand and her coat on, tying a scarf around her head against the wind.
Margaret got her hair done once a week and didn’t touch it between beauty appointments. It always looked exactly the same. Her style was short, teased and varnished, not merely sprayed—a product of a bygone age.
“I mean this as kindly as I can say it. Please don’t interfere in my private life.”
“Margaret, you’re not yourself right now, and you know how much George and I care about you.” I jumped in without really hearing her or letting her finish her sentence. “Ron’s illness and his death have been so hard on you. The stress must be overwhelming. It’s not a time for you to make any big decisions.”
“I appreciate your concern. Truly. I do. But I’ve been on my own since I was a young girl, long before you were born. Let me handle myself.”
She said this in the same tone everyone uses to tell me to mind my own business, as she buttoned her coat and turned to go.
“If you need anything, you’ll let me know?” I asked her.
She smiled her indulgence, “Sure, Mighty Mouse. I’ll yell for help before I need it. Goodnight.” She turned around to leave, but changed her mind. “There is something you can do for me, though. Talk to your friend Dr. Aymes and tell her not to sue Otter, okay?”
“Why is Marilee Aymes going to sue Otter?”
“You’ll have to ask her. All he told me was that it was a big misunderstanding.” This time she did turn and leave quietly.
Margaret had no idea what kind of trouble she could be in. I had to help her, whether she wanted me to or not, I persuaded myself.
Margaret was all the way out of the building before what she’d said actually resonated with me. When would Otter have told Margaret anything about Dr. Marilee Aymes?
; CHAPTER NINE
Tampa, Florida
Monday 5:30 p.m.
January 29, 2001
I HAD ABOUT AN hour before my date with Marilee and I spent my time wisely. I turned around to my computer and accessed the files that are available to me as a U.S. District Court Judge.
Computers made researching individuals fairly easy, although limited information was available without the consent of the particular individual in question. I could get access to certain FBI files if I needed to do so, but not without a good reason. Furthermore, I’m not allowed to investigate cases on my docket.
So, all I looked for was whether there were any more cases involving Armstrong Otter.
I punched in “Armstrong Eugene Otter,” after looking up his full name in the Fitzgerald House file. While waiting for the data to process, or whatever it does, I continued looking at the Fitzgerald House file. I’d have to know it fairly well for trial anyway.
A few seconds later, the computer came up with a list of cases involving Otter. According to the screen, there were several closed civil actions in various jurisdictions. Some reflected Otter as the plaintiff and some were claims against him.
From this search, I couldn’t discern the disposition of the files. Had Otter ever been brought to trial? Or were all the cases settled? I’d have to look at the actual files to know and most of them were either in storage or over at the new courthouse.
I saw one pending criminal complaint, U.S. v. Armstrong E. Otter, and, according to the case number codes, it was also on my docket, although I hadn’t had any involvement with the case yet.
I wrote a short note to one of my clerks to pull the file for me and have it on my desk in the morning. I didn’t have time to look into it further if I was going to make my date with Marilee Aymes.
But I put it high on my priority list for Tuesday, along with a note to do a similar search on Ron Wheaton
I had about ten minutes to make it to Bella’s. Fortunately, even with today’s traffic, you can get just about anywhere in South Tampa in ten minutes. Ten years ago, you could do it in three. I picked up my purse, pulled my electronic key to my car out of the side pocket, skipped the ancient elevator ride and loped down the stairs and to the parking garage.
Minutes later I’d pulled onto Florida Avenue, a one-way street north, which took me past the new Sam M. Gibbons Federal Courthouse containing the courtrooms I lust after. I looked again at the killer palm trees out front, so called because one of them had rolled off a truck during construction, landed on a worker and killed him. Not funny.
I turned left onto Tyler and drove past the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center where the marquee said Tony Bennett was performing. There was a crowd of twenty-somethings out front, lined up to get in. To see Tony Bennett. Go figure!
I pulled into Bella’s parking lot at six o’clock on the nose. I love living in South Tampa. Everything is so close, so easy. Except finding a parking spot at Bella’s on a Monday night in January. I finally found one at the far end of the lot, locked the car and rushed up to the front door.
They had plastic walls up outside against the cold winds still blowing in the winter chill and snow birds.
Bella’s is cozy, with a large wood-burning oven in the back. As I walked in, I was thankful for the oven’s warmth.
Like most nights, the bar was busy with the South Tampa crowd, while the tables were filling with diners of all ages. I looked quickly at the bar stools to see if Marilee Aymes was waiting there. She wasn’t. Then I checked the booths along the bar side and saw her in the back. I waved the hostess away and maneuvered through the martini-drinking, upwardly-mobile young professionals.
I ordered Bombay Sapphire and tonic with lemon. Marilee had a fairly hefty glass of bourbon on the table. It’s not nice to make your friends drink alone. Besides that, the Queen Mother drinks gin and she’s over a hundred years old. What’s the problem?
Marilee was ensconced in the booth, her short, hefty body taking the entire bench on her side. She wore no make-up, a no-nonsense haircut, and a belligerent stare, a combination that made her a target of gossip and rumor around town. Add to that her tell-it-like-it-is style and it was fairly easy to understand why she was a guilty pleasure for people who cared about the opinions of others.
That group had never included me. Being a federal judge, I’m appointed for life. I’ll have my job unless and until I do something truly outrageous. That day may come, but drinking with Marilee Aymes didn’t keep me from getting appointed and wouldn’t put me over the line now.
After greetings, Marilee lit one of the new Gasparilla cigars. I declined her offer to join her in another of our shared vices. I came straight to the point, which is the best approach with Marilee.
“I’m here to ask you a favor from my secretary.” It was a direct, but not elegant, start to the conversation.
“You’re kidding, right?” Marilee interjected as she puffed.
“Let me finish. You know Margaret Wheaton, don’t you? She’s worked with me for years. She helped us with our pet project, Young Mothers’ Second Chance, several times?” I explained Margaret’s pedigree in terms Marilee would remember.
“That’s right. A very nice woman. Doesn’t her husband have some kind of terminal illness?” Everyone always remembers what’s of interest to them. Sometimes, getting information from people is easy. I’d wanted to ask Marilee about Ron’s death so I could head Chief Hathaway off at the pass if he kept going off in the wrong direction.
“Yes, that’s right. ALS,” I said. “Or, at least he did. He died on Saturday.”
Marilee shook her head, finished her bourbon, and ordered another. “Nasty death, ALS,” she said around her cigar. “The lungs lose the ability to breathe air. The victim suffocates, fully aware of what’s happening. Makes you believe in voluntary euthanasia.”
“Yes,” I said again, startled that her thoughts were mirroring the police chief’s suspicions without knowing the facts. “Chief Hathaway is suggesting Ron’s death might have been a mercy killing. By Margaret.”
“Couldn’t blame her. If I had ALS, I’d kill myself. Wouldn’t need anyone to help me,” she said, as she knocked back another swig of bourbon.
“How would you do that?”
She eyed me speculatively through the purple haze of her cigar smoke between us. “Well, as a doctor, it would be easier for me to do than it would for someone who didn’t have easy access to drugs. The nicest thing would be to inject myself with an overdose of morphine. I’d just go to sleep, rather peacefully, too.”
We sat quietly, both thinking about Ron falling peacefully asleep; Marilee thinking how much better that would be than the alternative at the end of the course of his disease.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not sure how I feel about voluntary euthanasia. Being a lawyer, I can argue all sides of the issue. But if I’d been in Ron Wheaton’s shoes, what would I have wanted to do? And when would I have wanted to do it? Would it have been better to await my turn, living out my life until the last minute, experiencing all there was to this life before moving on to the next?
I knew Ron Wheaton was a religious person, like most Americans are. He and Margaret had attended Hyde Park Methodist Church on Swann Avenue every Sunday for all the years I’d known them. Ron was a member of the administrative board; Margaret played the piano for the choir. Would his religious beliefs have made Ron less likely to take his own life?
“How far along was he?” Marilee asked me.
“Medically, I don’t know. I saw him the day he died. He looked very thin, frail, like a strong wind could blow him down,” I told her, taking a sip of gin.
“Was he ambulatory?” she puffed in my direction.
“He was walking, but he had a wheelchair nearby, which he used when he got tired. They found his body in it. On our veranda. After the parade on Saturday.” The telling of it made me shudder. I recalled Ron’s pale body in death.
“Then he probably had the dex
terity to inject himself. Maybe he did. Make it easier on the wife,” Marilee offered her brand of compassion.
“What else could he have been injected with?” I asked her.
“Almost anything in large enough doses will kill you. Cocaine, heroin, insulin, household bleach, even air, to name a few.”
“Then again, he could have had a heart attack, couldn’t he? He was the right age for it. He had a history of angina. Couldn’t that explain it?” I asked her, hearing the hope in my own voice and thinking it odd to hope for such a thing as a heart attack. Everything’s relative.
She nodded her head on her short, stout neck. “Yep. Saw three heart attack patients over the weekend myself and a couple more today. No reason he couldn’t have been one of ’em. So, what’s the favor?” she asked, reminding me of the second reason I’d asked her here.
“Margaret asked me to persuade you not to sue Armstrong Otter. So I said I would talk to you about it. What’s going on?”
“What do I look like, the answer woman? How should I know what’s going on with that bony little troll?” she snapped at me, pounding her glass on the table to remind the bartender that she’d ordered another drink and it wasn’t there yet.
“Well, are you involved in any lawsuits?” I asked her, feeling a little uncomfortable now. It was a pretty personal question, particularly for a doctor. Most doctors are fairly touchy about being sued.
I used to defend doctors when I was still in private practice. I’d never met one who thought he’d done anything wrong. When I was a young lawyer, I had the chief of medicine say to me, “Willa, doctors are never negligent.”
If only that were true. More people die of medical errors in our country each year than heart attacks. Hospitals are places you go to die, it’s been said. At least, you should keep your wits about you while you’re there.
Marilee looked at me through narrowed eyes and a bigger cloud of blue smoke. I didn’t mind the smoke. In fact, I was rather wishing I had broken my self-imposed rule about not smoking Partagas, my cigar of choice, in public.
