''You didn't notice anything before he died? Nothing suspicious in his behavior?'' Kathleen dropped her fist and folded her hands.
Michael leaned forward.
''This isn't the most personal place, Ms. Cotter.'' He didn't have to refer to her card. ''I suppose I should restate that. This isn't the most personal place unless the powers that be want to single you out and make it personal. Then it can get downright intimate. In fact, the company can live in your hip pocket. I didn't know Lionel really, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't the kind to draw an undue amount of attention to himself. When he died I went through the channels and asked some questions.''
''That's sort of odd since you hardly knew him.''
''He was in my division. It didn't seem anyone else was going to bother. There were a few things that seemed odd enough to me that I thought someone should at least ask a question or two.''
''Like?''
''He was found dead four floors down in a transition area of this building for one thing. Our work in auditing doesn't take us traveling. It's all paper.'' He considered his desk: the calculator that pulsed, the pen, the three pencils. He took inspiration from the simplicity or at least he ordered his thoughts with it. ''There were other things. The man had never been late, never stayed late, was never disoriented. In the few weeks I had to observe him he didn't do anything that could be considered clandestine and the only personal phone calls he ever made were to his wife. I know that because he asked permission.'' Michael Crawford raised only his eyes to her. ''That's not the profile of a drug user.''
''I thought you couldn't tell me much,'' Kathleen said.
''Not intimately about the man. I can tell you what I observed. Even in a few weeks I would have seen some sign if he'd been a junkie. I'm a very observant person.''
Her heart didn't stop but the heat went up. He was looking her in the eye again. Gerry had been the last one to do that, but Michael Crawford was the first to make her blood boil.
''Did you point all this out to the authorities?'' Kathleen's fingers went to her fringe and she combed through it briefly.
''The Tysco authorities, yes.'' He fiddled with the calculator. He flipped it off and shoved it aside, looking displeased. This was the second time he had intimated Tysco wasn't the benevolent, if boring, big brother Kathleen assumed. ''I was never asked to talk to the police.''
''You went to a lot of trouble.''
''I don't think so. There are some things that are just right to do.'' Michael Crawford's head tilted to the side, he seemed boyish and animated.
''That's it? You did all this because it was the right thing to do?'' It wasn't the answer she expected, but then this man wasn't who she expected to find in this place.
''Yeah,'' he nodded and sat back again and bounced a little in his junior executive chair. ''What're you trying to do?''
''I'm trying to prove that Lionel Booker didn't intend to kill himself.''
''That's admirable.''
Kathleen blushed.
''It's my job,'' Kathleen stepped over his comment and went on. ''I want to prove that Lionel didn't want to die. If he was an addict - which is getting hard to believe from the little I know about him - I want to prove that Lionel might have meant to get high, but he wanted to live.''
''Sounds like his ex-wife must really have loved the guy to have hired you to prove that. Too bad the marriage didn't work out.''
''She's the beneficiary on a life insurance. She can't collect if he actually committed suicide. I need to prove Lionel had a lot to live for.'' Kathleen said bluntly, needing to distance herself from Louise even in front of a stranger.
''You're a funny lawyer.''
''I don't mean to be,'' Kathleen said.
''I meant unusual, funny. You're very honest.''
''I try to be,'' Kathleen needed some fresh air and she needed it fast. ''Look, I'd just like a little history on Lionel Booker even if it's recent history. Was he despondent? If so, why? Was he given to emotional outbursts? That kind of thing. I honestly believe Lionel Booker's death was an accident. That's it. It's nothing more unusual than that.''
''Think you can prove it?''
Kathleen's eyes widened. She blushed. ''Yes, I think I can. If it's true. So, could you just help me out a little? Please?''
Michael Crawford actually grinned. He gave his head a little shake and she heard a chuckle come from deep in his throat. He wasn't laughing at her, that she understood. In fact, Kathleen had the feeling he was laughing at himself.
''It's been a long time since someone said please to me.''
''That's too bad,'' Kathleen answered.
''Yes, it is.'' The chuckle faded. He busied himself with a drawer on the side of the desk. ''I appreciate the courtesy.'' His glanced up long enough to let her know he really meant it.
The blue-bound book he put on the desk was official looking. The drawer shut with a metallic click. Michael Crawford flipped through the pages. They were blue, too, and made a restful flapping sound, spreading themselves neatly under his strong fingers. The motion stopped as quickly as it had begun.
''Look, I'm sorry I can't make this easier on you, but at least I can try to point you in the right direction. You need to talk to Lionel's old supervisor. He worked with him for a good number of years. I was going to give you his extension, but why don't I try to set something up?'' He picked up a pencil, made a notation and closed the book before he stood. He looked at her card then at her. ''I'll call you and let you know what I find out.''
Kathleen stood too. He was even taller than she'd first imagined and only now was she able to look at him without those butterflies pounding away at her insides.
''Shall I call you?'' she asked.
''No. I won't forget.''
''Okay.'' She checked him out, looking for the lie. It wasn't there. ''Okay, then, I'll wait. But I don't have forever.''
''I understand.''
''Okay, then. Well, I better let you get back to - '' She waved a hand over his desk. On the back swing he took it and shook it. It wasn't personal yet her body reacted like it was. She let her fingers slip through his. ''You don't know seem like the kind of man who would be working in a place like this.''
''You don't seem like a Beverly Hills lawyer,'' he countered.
''I'm not. Not really. Not yet,'' Kathleen admitted knowing it would be hard to explain that to a man like Michael Crawford.
''I'm not really an auditor.''
Kathleen smiled. She said all the right words of good-bye, sure that she didn't sound too reluctant to go. She didn't look back until she was on the other side of the glass double doors. He as working, not looking after her and for some reason Kathleen wasn't disappointed. She knew she would hear from him again. She put her eyes forward unaware that he was now watching her go and appreciating every step she took.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The day was a good one.
Henrietta Poole had been wheeled into Kathleen's office by a male nurse. The woman, while in her eighties, was gorgeous, sharp and knew exactly how the carpet company she was suing had been negligent. She brought photos of the establishment, of herself lying on the floor (though how she managed to convince the carpet store owner to take that picture was beyond Kathleen) and x-rays of her hip. She brought doctor's records and a few stories of a very well traveled and colorful life. Her case was valid and she was a far cry from the proper old woman Gerry had led her to believe she was.
Kathleen would love to point this out, but Gerry was gone, as he always was these days, coming back late in the afternoon with reports of who he talked to, what kind of business they might expect and always bright with the belief the hoped for work would be forthcoming before the end of the millennium. Kathleen listened to the dreams. It was the best she could do since she didn't share them. Nor did she remind him constantly that at the conclusion of Louise's suit, she would, more than likely, try to find more mainstream employment.
Life had fallen into an oddly comfortable routine
: just enough challenge, just enough work. Kathleen almost forgot what it was she had wanted from this leap out of Banning. So Kathleen listened to Henrietta Poole, filed the proper paperwork, directed Becky to have the subpoena's served and to follow up with the clerk for a court date once the case was assigned.
Michael Crawford called while Kathleen was with Mrs. Poole and Kathleen found herself holding the pink message slip close to her breast when she walked back to her office and closed the door. By the time Kathleen composed herself to call him, he had left his desk. She wondered if he'd managed to set up an appointment with Lionel's previous supervisor. She wondered if he had found out anything that might have an impact on her case. Then she wondered if, by some stretch of the imagination, he might just have wanted just to talk to her. Perhaps he would also hold a message slip a little longer, place it carefully on the side of his desk, and look at the name and number as long as she had.
Kathleen went to lunch an hour late, just in case he came back and called. She found a dollar on the sidewalk when she went to lunch and came back to find she had a new client -Becky's boyfriend. He wanted her to handle the articles of incorporation for his new business. Kathleen charged him Dorty & Breyer rates. In her heart of hearts she still wasn't sure she was worth the $170 an hour Gerry charged for her time, and she sure as heck knew Becky's boyfriend couldn't afford it if she were. Maybe when his business flourished, Gerry would thank her for the little lapse and reap the rewards.
At three she picked up her new dress from the tailor, a dress she insisted she didn't need and Gerry insisted she did.
By five her make-up was perfect: pale as porcelain skin, redder than red lips and eyes just smoky enough to make a statement. She slicked back her short blond hair and donned her new dress. She almost felt as beautiful as Gerry told her she looked; she felt more vital than she ever had in her life. Kathleen Cotter knew it wasn't the clothes but the destination that made her feel this way.
''Don't forget, Kathleen, the people I told you about. Carl, of course, is one you wish to impress along with Richard. There's also James Ellis who is Carl's right hand man. Gloria Pennin is a big supporter of Carl's and she runs Power Records. Oh, what am I saying? Talk to everyone, hand out your card. Let the world know you're here and that here is O'Doul & Associates.''
''I know. I know. And if you talk about it anymore I'm going to start getting nervous.'' Kathleen turned Gerry toward her and straightened his bow tie. She stood back. He patted it.
''Don't let them see that you're on the edge. Who would want to hire a nervous attorney?''
He laughed. Kathleen didn't. He was absolutely right. Who would want to hire her if she appeared less than capable? There wasn't another moment to even consider it. The elevator doors were open and Kathleen Cotter saw what she had expected to see all those weeks ago - offices of stunning proportions that screamed opportunity and success. They stepped out into the reception area of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.
People were everywhere: drinks in hand, balancing plates of food, laughing without really sounding amused as they passed. A low hum of conversation was background music to the conga line. Women were dressed in suits in colors that were dark. The few women in dresses seemed to hug the walls. Spouses, Kathleen decided. Men followed the same pattern as their professional female counterparts. This was the A team, no slouches about. Kathleen blessed every article in every fashion magazine she had ever read. On Gerry's arm they moved into the heart of the firm.
Here the serious gathered. People smiled but more often than not their heads were together as they engaged in deep conversation or their eyes were darted about as they searched for someone they would like to engage in an even deeper, more lucrative dialogue. There was a subtle difference in the way these people were dressed, the jewelry they wore. Kathleen smelled money. Kathleen was finally north of Wilshire.
A waiter passed by with a tray full of small cakes and Gerry moved into his wake. The first person who stopped to nibble was reeled in by Gerry O'Doul. Kathleen was thrilled to be cut lose so soon. The ball had just begun and she was determined to make it to midnight with her shoes on.
''Carl? A refill before you face your supporters?''
Richard held up a decanter, its many facets catching the light and shooting prisms toward the corners of Richard Jacobsen's office.
The mayor looked over his shoulder, checked out his glass and shook his head. He was tired and looked it. Facing a camera or a city council meeting, a group of well wishers or a reporter, he bloomed. Alone, without the jarring light of public scrutiny and the fuel of public adoration, Carl Walsh was a shadow man, blending into his surroundings. Tall and a little stooped, he looked less a politician than a disenchanted college professor. But out there he became animated, talkative, back slapping and glad handing. His schizoid tendencies had cost him a wife but the loss of a wife would not affect his run for the Senate. It might actually help. She had been such a bore.
''Nope, I'm fine. I'm just worried.''
''No need. Everything is going very well. Out there you'll find some of the most sycophantic folks in the entire legal system. All are willing to reach deep into their firm's coffers, and their own pockets, to support you. They believe you will be one of the next Senators from California. They want your good favor, Carl. They want your ear when you reach Washington.'' Richard poured himself two fingers, replaced the stopper and held his glass. ''And in here you have your campaign committee. Me, myself and I. Believe me, between everyone out there, and me in here, you haven't a worry in the world.''
Carl walked from one end of Richard's office to the other. It was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Richard, unattractive as he was, had a marvelous eye for beauty. Carl couldn't have begun to describe the place or figure out how he managed to pull it all together - antiques, modern furniture, artwork and collectibles. He made a statement so elegant visitors almost forgot who, and what, Richard Jacobsen was.
Carl put his glass on a small table nestled by a big chair and walked back to where Richard sat. There he sank into a carved chair that had a mate on the opposite end of the long table that served as Richard's desk. He propped his elbows up. He'd had a bit to drink, just enough to put him on the edge of depression.
''I'm not sure we should make the budget thing our lead on the campaign. I mean it's an incredible story, but I don't want to get caught up in anything - you know - that the press could make anything out of.''
''Carl, Carl, Carl. Please.''
Richard put his head back.. He sounded weary. Unlike many small men, he hadn't opted for a power chair. The one in which he sat was tasteful and perfectly proportioned to his short, almost misshapen, body. Everyone who realized this nod to practicality was impressed by it. Richard Jacobsen, they assumed, was a man with no ego. He was the possessor of a fine mind that worked brilliantly for the clients of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington, who put himself second. They assumed wrong.
''Don't use that voice, Richard,'' Carl begged, his head now falling into one upturned hand. ''You sound like a schoolmarm.''
''And you sound like a man who doesn't really want what he says he wants. You sound like a child, and all this time I thought I was playing with a big boy.''
''Richard,'' Carl whined. Both hands were over his face now. ''It's just now we're going to start screaming about it. It's one thing to have it on paper where the press can just pick it up, but I don't want to debate. . .''
''If you're tired of everything go home. If all you want to do is practice instead of pitch, I'll find someone else to support for the Senate. I'll help someone else who is willing to take some risks for what they want. I thought you were that man.''
''I am,'' Carl grumbled miserably, ''I was only saying that I think the emphasis on issues should be spread out a bit more to protect us. All of us, Richard.'' He tried to give Richard a knowing and harsh look. He succeeded only in looking as if his bodily functions had suddenly gone awry. He tried again. ''What we've been doing isn't go
ing to be so easy when we're dealing with Federal budgets. You know, that and I know that. A city is one thing. I controlled the city, but Washington is different. With the way the press is these days if I toot my horn too much on one topic they're going to come back at me hard. I don't want anyone snooping around. I just want to win this election, settle in and leave it at that.''
''It will never be left at that, Carl. This is politics. Nice looking as you are, I'm afraid you won't be able to swing votes on that alone.''
Richard Jacobsen stood up in a surprisingly fluid motion. He was a legal vampire, appearing and disappearing with little fanfare, but always carting away the blood while everyone else was still arguing about how much there was to suck. He was a smart cookie and Carl had done well listening to him. What Carl lacked was Richard's surety that everything he did was what should be done. He never attached words like right or proper or moral. Richard simply did what he had to do to reach an objective that seemed logical to him. There was little he was passionate about and his passion was usually reserved for very special people. Richard knew them when he saw them. Carl was not one of them.
He wrapped his hand around Carl's upper arm and helped him up; though Carl wasn't sure he had wanted to go just then. Richard steered him toward the door.
''It's time to meet and greet. Put on the face, Carl. It's a wonderful one. Tomorrow have your medication checked. I think your chemical imbalance has shifted again. Leave everything else to me. Everything. It will all be just fine. You will be hailed as a fiscal God, I will have what I want and my good friends at Tysco will have what they want. That is even more important to me than your ultimate destination. No one will get in our way. I promise you. No one.''
Richard opened the door to his private office. It was a stunning design. Though he could see many of the three hundred people milling about in the outer offices, they could not see him.
Character Witness Page 13
