Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  I had to laugh. “I admire your versatility. But no, better leave them. My uncle’s not into gardening anyway. Let them stomp over stuff. What’s it matter?”

  “They’re aiming their telephoto lenses at this here window.”

  “Parasites!” I stepped back. “Okay, go muscle them.”

  20

  I was starting to feel like a yo-yo, flung to Hillsdale, yanked back to San Francisco. I’d meant to remain north for a while this time. I assumed I’d be conferring with Brad Rommel, consoling my uncle, investigating the new developments. But Brad didn’t get in touch with me. My uncle was away at constant ad hoc meetings. And the sheriff’s department most definitely didn’t want me interviewing Cathy Piatti’s friends and neighbors, not while they were doing the same. They threatened to arrest Sandy if he didn’t stay away from the Rommel’s cabin and what remained of the mall.

  Sandy left Hillsdale Sunday evening. He had to testify in a civil trial the next morning. I couldn’t go with him. I needed to remain long enough to defend Brad Rommel’s bail. I also hoped for word on the new bucket.

  The first thing Monday, I learned the blood belonged to a human, but not one whose DNA was on file anyplace the sheriff had thought to look. It wasn’t Cathy Piatti’s blood, that much was certain.

  The bucket—and of course the charred plane—outweighed my arguments. Brad’s bail was revoked that morning. I went straight from the courthouse to the airport.

  By afternoon I was back in San Francisco, back in my south of Market office. I sat at my desk trying to find things to do for the two minor-matter clients still in my Rolodex. My secretary had instructions not to put through, or even message-log, calls from reporters. Sandy was out of court, but not in his office. I didn’t know where.

  I was surprised when Maryanne More phoned, asking if I could spare her half an hour. I’d bee contemplating, out of desperate frustration, making an appointment to see her. Sandy was right, at least it would be forward motion.

  I sat in More’s office in the gloom of a gray-sky day, again admiring her sullen chiaroscuros, her dark wood furniture. She was as well-dressed as usual and as carefully groomed, but she looked awful. The puffiness around her eyes had settled into small pouches, pale blue and occasionally throbbing. Her skin was sallow under a sprinkling freckles. Instead of attending to my business, I blurted out, “Are you all right? Are you holding up?”

  She nodded, then scowled. Finally shook her head. “When I heard the shots,” her voice was a confiding hush, “I hid under my desk. I was on the phone and I pulled the receiver down under with me, and my only thought was that the person shooting would notice the phone was off the hook, and know I was down there. I didn’t so anything—do you understand? Not anything to help. I feel like it’s partly my fault.”

  “What could you have done? Gone out and flung briefs at him?” But I could see her pain was beyond the consolation of reason. “Survivors always feel guilty.” Unfortunately, I knew this from experience. “Feel they could have or should have done something. But I was here, too. I know how quickly it all happened. There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have hung up, called building security or nine one one. Or maybe just screamed or said something to him. I mean”—she leaned imploringly forward—“who knows what might have made a difference?”

  “Hiding was smart. Maybe she”—I couldn’t bring myself to speak the dead woman’s name—“would have done the same if she hadn’t been with a client.” God, why did I have to think of that? “And nothing you could have done would have stopped him. It was over too fast.” Her wince of pain made me wonder: “You don’t keep a gun here?”

  She closed her eyes tight, shoulders shaking. She did keep a gun, I was certain.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said quickly, “even if you had a gun. You couldn’t very well whip it out and shoot him. You didn’t know if he was aiming at anyone, if he was just making noise, what was going on. And maybe he’d have shot you because you had a gun. Just like that, before you felt confident enough to fire.”

  Her face was slack with desolation.

  I knew I was right. I also knew nothing would have consoled me in an analogous situation; I it knew from experience. I sat back, trying not to let Maryanne More’s emotions trip my own domino chain.

  Finally, all I could think to do was change the subject. “The reason I came to see her that day?” I searched More’s face to make sure she knew we’d changed direction. “The reason for my appointment? All that is still unresolved.”

  She blinked as if I’d shone a sudden light in her eyes. “Your problems with Mr. Sayres?” Her tone hid none of her incredulity.

  “Yes.” I didn’t recall having mentioned Sayres to her. Perhaps she’d overheard me tell the police the reason for my interview, or she’d read the jottings on Kinsley’s legal pad. Or maybe she’d been on the listening end of the bug in her partner’s office.

  “Sometimes,” I hesitated, knowing Sandy would approach this with more stage presence, “I don’t believe a legal remedy will work. I know enough labor law to worry that my business will go bankrupt before my case gets to court. I keep thinking the only thing that’ll help … I don’t know.” And I don’t want to express a criminal intention if you’re taping this conversation.

  I’d paved Sandy’s way. Perhaps I could leave it at that.

  I watched her. She watched me. We measured each other with secret yardsticks. The situation was designed for nonconnection, miscommunication. And yet I felt something crackle between us, a tiny spark jumping the open space of a Tesla coil.

  “It is unfortunate,” she said. Her voice was low and full. “You might not be able to save your business. From what I know of White, Sayres and Speck—they’ve represented management in a few of my cases—I’d guess they’ll fight you, no settlement, to the end. But if and when you do win, you might be looking at a very nice package.”

  “What do I do in the meantime?” I felt the stirring of an unreasonable wish: maybe she really could tell me what to do. “I need to shut Sayres up now. I need a plan now. Not the hope of a good outcome in several years. I need to fix this right now, because I don’t have a parachute.”

  A parachute. I flashed back to the plane in Rommel’s driveway; the explosion; the mess of black smoke and chemical foam.

  More leaned back in her office chair. Her eyes widened, moved slightly as if she’d entered a REM state.

  For a long moment, we were silent.

  “My practice is not lucrative,” she said quietly. For a moment, she just watched me.

  I braced myself. It was coming now, a description of her designer crimes service.

  “Neither Jocelyn nor I ever managed to take home a six-figure salary and draw, not even close. We end up doing so much pro bono work, you see. The hard luck stories we hear. It’s all so unfair, what’s left of the labor laws, the working conditions, the take-backs, the plant closures. It’s all so hard on the working person. And because it’s a relatively uncomplicated area of the law, we have so much competition. My high-technology specialty was supposed to be our hedge against that, but high-tech is the hardest hit segment of today’s market. It’s collapsing all around us.”

  I waited. Then said, “But you’ve found a way to stay in business?”

  “Jocelyn was frugal. Our overhead is low. I have a private source of income.”

  I felt myself stop breathing: here it came.

  “Jocelyn’s gone.” A tic afflicted the corner of her eye. “Her office is just sitting there empty. She has clients who need attention. And I’m too upset to deal with my own clients.” She leaned forward, forearms extending across the desktop. “Why don’t you join me? I know how good you are. I’ve followed more than one of your cases. I know you have integrity. I admired the way you spoke up for Dan Crosetti in spite of everything. You’d have to get up to speed on la
bor issues on your own time—we couldn’t bill Jocelyn’s clients for it. But it wouldn’t take long, not if you were committed to it. And you’d retain the absolute right to expand her practice, your practice, in any direction you wish. Except management labor, of course.”

  I was speechless. A job offer: the last thing in the world I’d expected. Not an invitation to break the law, but a job offer. “I’m sorry, I’m— I thought you were going to— I don’t—”

  “It’s sudden. Maybe presumptuous—you do corporate law, not … I know this isn’t anything you’d thought of.” She shook her head as if shaking off water. “We hardly know each other. We don’t know each other’s methods or business practices. I guess I just—” Her lip trembled. “I need someone in Jocelyn’s office. It feels haunted. It’s horrible. I feel like I could accommodate anyone rather than be alone. But I shouldn’t have presented this now. This way.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  More & Kinsley was a more cheerful address than mine in spite of the tragedy, no doubt about it. And it was a full case load, it was work. It was better politics than anything I’d done in a long while. And I could make some interesting additions to More’s client list.

  I almost laughed at the irony of it. I was considering joining forces with a firm I suspected of criminal activity. Get my stuff all moved over here, get my name linked to More’s, and then what? Discover she’d been masterminding antiemployer scams? That she’d ordered a hit on her previous law partner? That she was about to be arrested by federal marshals?

  “I’ve been thinking about this all week, wondering if it would be appropriate to bring it up.” More looked like an eighth grader who’d been rudely turned down for the prom. “I didn’t want to shock you or offend you.”

  “I’m just surprised.” I seemed to see her at greater magnification, as someone who might possibly enter my life. “I wasn’t expecting …”

  A line-dance of suspicions left me speechless. Was this offer designed to throw me off track, keep me from digging into her background, force me to call off Sandy? Was she trying to neutralize me? Hide something from me? Maybe even arrange to have something happen to me in Kinsley’s office?

  “Please let me think about it,” I said. I couldn’t afford to dismiss such an offer. Ready-made work. Something new, something that would take me out of Steve Sayres’ orbit. “If you could keep the offer open a while, I’d like to consider it.”

  “Yes, of course I’ll keep the offer open.” She sounded reluctant, looked a little panicked.

  The room took on the sparkle of unreality. We’d been strangers. Now we were discussing partnership. It scared me so badly I stood abruptly and walked out.

  I walked past Hester, the office manager. She looked flustered and startled as I passed her computer terminal. She said something about another appointment. I didn’t stop to clarify or respond.

  On the street, I wondered if Sandy had returned to his office in time to tap into More’s bug, if he’d eavesdropped on the conversation.

  I stood staring at the twelfth floor of the building across the street, at the windows of my old office. I’d worked so hard there and done so little good.

  I shivered in the cold wind, looking up at gray building against gray sky.

  Sandy would be suspicious, even more than I was. He’d remind me of all the worrisome facts I hadn’t forgotten. But it wouldn’t change the nature of the carrot More dangled before me: I might feel okay about myself again, practicing labor law. I could throw off a hellacious load of career insecurity. I could put away the thought of moving. Even get past some of my hatred for Steven Sayres. He couldn’t touch me in a labor practice. His friends were all management, the enemy. No one who hired me would heed their slanders. No one who hired me would respect Sayres enough to care what he said.

  Living well is the best revenge, they always say. Maybe I finally had a chance to test the adage.

  Or maybe I was being set up.

  21

  Having tentatively considered a more mature response to Sayres—finding an arena in which his slanders meant nothing—I was shocked by Sandy’s news.

  Sandy looked plenty shocked himself, hovering over my desk as only a very tall man can.

  “It’s somebody’s handiwork, Laura,” he insisted. “This didn’t happen, timed just right for you, out of the blue.”

  I was still reeling on the brink of delirious cheer, afraid to believe and celebrate. For the very reason he cited. “Tell me again, Sandy.”

  “Steve gave advice that caused two different clients to maybe violate RICO.” The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. “That’s the news hitting Montgomery Street today.”

  I wanted to laugh. It was probably untrue, very likely unfair. The racketeering laws, written to nail organized crime, were now being used against businesses and political groups. They added a heavy federal component to allegations that some law had been broken more than once. If a pattern of law-breaking could be shown, a conspiracy repeatedly to break the law could be charged. By calling this “conspiracy” racketeering, the feds upped the ante, slapping on penalties far exceeding the total for individual violations.

  Corporations dreaded RICO because minor violations of the law—almost unavoidable if one did complex banking—could be patchworked into a charge of conspiracy. Businesses were then wide open to civil suits as well—suits entitling plaintiffs to three times their actual money damages. And the word “racketeering” made investors nervous, bringing to mind wiseguys and sleazy practices.

  That was why corporations insisted their lawyers provide protection from RICO. Rules might be interpreted to a client’s benefit, others might be cautiously ignored, but the lawyer was there to make sure this didn’t appear conspiratorial, didn’t trigger RICO.

  Because, once alleged, a racketeering charge was going to be expensive, whether it stuck or not. At best, investors would bail, and lawyers by the battalion would arrive to comb business records, requiring an expensive army of one’s own. At worst, it meant treble damages and other stiff penalties on top of years of legal fees.

  Leaving a client vulnerable to RICO was major egg on a lawyer’s face.

  But before I rejoiced, I needed to be fair. “Steve’s a jerk, but I can’t imagine him letting two RICO patterns develop.” Some rule-bending was normal practice for any client, but a vigilant lawyer put a lid on it before it got noticeable.

  “The banks will beat the charges, if that’s what you mean.” Sandy had worked for White, Sayres & Speck long enough to know who was doing what. “Hell, I doubt if they’ll even be charged. Just investigated.”

  “Then why the RICO rap?”

  “Somebody’s gone and done a bunch of legwork, that’s what I think. Presented the feds with a good strong brief, something they can’t ignore and feel like they have to at least check out.”

  “Someone set the banks up?”

  “Looked through their business records with an eye toward RICO, yeah. The feds wouldn’t have put these cases together. The violations are too small, no red flags. This was someone finetoothing to see what they could find.” Sandy’s scowl deepened.

  “How long have the feds been investigating?”

  “They haven’t really started. Notified the banks this afternoon they’ll be wanting documents. Probably just received the information themselves. Like I said, chickenshit stuff. It’ll get dropped eventually.”

  “But in the meantime, it’s an expensive hassle. And it looks bad. Especially for Sayres.” I tried not to smile.

  “That’s the most interesting part of it: that it’s on the street already. Sayres had calls from other clients.”

  “I’ll bet. Two of his banks facing RICO charges.” His current clients might hang in there with him; they’d been together a long time. But they’d worry about advice he’d given, worry that he’d left them vulne
rable. And strangers would think twice before hiring Sayres over others in the howling pack.

  “Someone went to a lot of trouble to make Steve Sayres look bad. And to get word out fast. He’s bound to think it was you.” Sandy put his hands on my desktop, leaning closer. “I’d think it was you if I didn’t know better.”

  The hell with fairness. I laughed outright.

  “Stupid bastard has been maligning me all over town. Now he’s got this big old cloud over his reputation, and I don’t care if he deserves it or not, Sandy. His stock has dropped, and it doesn’t matter anymore what he says about me.” I leaned back, grinning. “Sayres can think what he wants, he can come here and have a major hissy-fit in my face. He can choke on his own damn medicine.”

  “Before you get too euphoric—”

  “Too late.”

  “Better consider that it—”

  “It won’t hurt you, Sandy. Sayres will need you more than ever, to get information to clear the clients, help restore his rep.”

  “I know that. But you’re not thinking this through. Why would someone go to this kind of trouble? It’ll cost the banks, but put that aside for a minute. The one person really gets hurt by it is Steve. Someone went after him big-time, and probably he thinks it’s you. We know it’s not. But what are the odds of anyone else hating him as much as you do?” He shook his head. “I know the firm, I know the clients, I know a hell of a lot more than I’d like to about Sayres’ private life after working for him ten years. And I’m telling you, there’s nothing there. Whoever did this, did it for you.”

  He leaned closer, only inches from my face. “Somebody shut Sayres up for you. That’s a hell of a favor. You better ask yourself who did it, and what they want in return.”

  “Maryanne More offered me Kinsley’s office.” I put it out there with no clue where it fit in.

  “What do you mean, offered you her office?”

  “Offered to make me her partner. Give me Kinsley’s clients.”