by Lia Matera
He lowered his arm, glancing at me. “They told me you said Connie shot at you in the woods. They didn’t believe you.”
I backed away from her body, backed toward the door, heaving, feeling as if my heart would come up through my throat.
“But I talked to Linda Leiden after she got Connie’s message last night. I checked on Brad Rommel—saw he was still in jail, knew there was some kind of mix-up. I went out to his cabin, thinking you’d go there. Wanting to set you straight. I heard you screaming. I fired a shot in case you needed to find me. Then I saw you with your detective friend, safe and lovey-dovey. I figured you’d spooked yourself somehow. That you were okay.” His voice deepened. “I should have talked to you. I didn’t want to with him there, I guess. I didn’t see Connie.” His head jerked as if he suppressed a shudder. “But later when I heard what you’d told the sheriff, I thought about it. I thought about Rommel. About everything that’s happened. When I heard that you withdrew as his lawyer, I went to see Connie. I knew she was here today, but she was out of her office. And the elevator—that’s what tipped me off. There was a book jamming the door. I was afraid of what I’d find on the stairs. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew. I think I knew what I’d find.”
I scrambled as far away from Gold as I could, bracing my back against the closed door.
Bartoli sank to a squat on the stairs beneath her body. He covered his eyes with his left hand, gun trembling in the other.
“I should have known it sooner,” he whispered. “That night in your cell, I could see you didn’t know about the phone number in your jacket. I got pissed off by your attitude—you never gave me a chance to get near you, not since high school. But I could see you were telling the truth. And I didn’t put that paper in your pocket. It had to have been Connie. At the hospital. She’s the one who supposedly found it there. I knew how much all this hurt her—the bad publicity, the State Bar, getting sued.” He began to sob. “How could she? Actually try to murder— Oh god,” he moaned, “I’ve killed Connie.”
I began to shake. I hugged myself on the cold concrete, closing my eyes as Jay Bartoli wept.
He’d saved my life. I tried to get it together to say thank you: Thank you for believing me over someone you work with. Thank you for trusting an old high school friend—as I’d trusted Brad Rommel.
But I wasn’t able to speak. And he wasn’t listening.
41
I sat facing Maryanne More across her desk. She looked pale and pinched, worse than she had the day I’d broken the news to her. Worse than she had during subsequent encounters at the Hall of Justice, where we’d again described the shooting of Jocelyn Kinsley, this time with renewed focus on the clothing and body type of the masked man. Of Brad Rommel.
Maryanne More, in the chiaroscuro of intense sun half obscured by rain clouds, resembled one of the masterpieces on her office wall. Without makeup or fussy styling, she had the rare elegance of good sense and good intentions.
She said, “I hope you’ve been well?”
“Yes, I’ve been coming to terms with it.” I’d learned some difficult lessons, especially about my so-called “instincts.”
My instincts hadn’t warned me Brad Rommel could slice Cathy Piatti in a rage of rejection, collecting her spurting blood in a bucket to minimize his clean-up. Jay Bartoli believed Brad had neglected the bucket by the wayside in his rush to get Piatti’s belongings onto his boat. Considering the number of things Brad had to dump at sea, it was impressive that only the bucket and skirt remained to incriminate him. I hadn’t believed those pieces of evidence important, but of course they told most of the story.
The one thing Brad hadn’t lugged to his boat for disposal was Cathy Piatti’s body. Probably he’s been afraid to be spotted with something he couldn’t explain away. He’d buried it instead. Later, he or Gold found a way to use it as the clincher in favor or dropping the charges against him.
I hoped Brad Rommel hired a good lawyer and got a fair trial. But for once, I’d work as closely with the DA as I was allowed.
I felt a little guilty facing Maryanne More. Rommel could have shot me anywhere, but I’d come here, and he’d followed. Maybe he’d seized the opportunity to look like yet another office sniper. Maybe he’d decided to do it that afternoon, no matter where. But the fact remained: my client had killed More’s partner.
“Knowing all this must make it harder for you,” I said.
“Not harder.” The delicate skin beneath her eyes seemed to swell. “It’s always better to have the facts, no matter how brutal they are. It’s worse to wonder. To blame the randomness of fate. That’s much scarier than any actual reason.”
I nodded. “I’d rather see the sense in something, too—even if it depends on a psychotic context. I’m not comfortable writing things off as bad luck.”
“You get used to taking responsibility when you have your own practice.”
“That’s why I’m here.” I’d waited awhile, giving her time to sort things out. I’d waited until charges against me were dropped, until Brad Rommel was indicted for Kinsley’s murder as well as Piatti’s.
But I could wait no longer. I’d have to drum up business if I wanted to keep my office open. I’d have to make the rounds of charity dinners and political fund-raisers and corporate seminars. When, frankly, I didn’t care about the work. Bank and corporate clients didn’t need me. They got what they deserved in Steve Sayres.
It was the thought of Sayres that most disturbed me. In my determination to be as important a player, I’d nearly become him. I’d undermined Connie Gold’s reputation to shore up my own—exactly what Sayres had done to me. I needed to back away from the corporate mirror before it pulled me in. I needed to get some perspective.
I knew my strengths. I was a good strategist and a good advocate, not easily rattled and never deterred by bad publicity. I wanted to represent clients who required talent, not just competence. I wanted to work for people who deserved to beat the odds.
“You asked me two weeks ago if I’d like to take on Jocelyn Kinsley’s case load. You were under a lot of stress. And neither of us realized then she’d be alive if it weren’t for me. That might change things.”
Maryanne More scooted back a few inches in her chair, hand fluttering to her collar.
“I’m asking if the offer still stands.” I tried not to care too much. Either way, my transition would be difficult. Either way, I’d have a lot of work ahead.
“Yes,” she said. “It does stand. I’m completely overloaded here.”
“There are a lot of good labor lawyers out there.” I wanted her to be sure.
“This isn’t about a legal specialty.” She pulled her chair forward, watching me intently. “It’s not a particularly complicated area of practice. What makes it complex is the emotions of the clients, how much they have at stake, how pronounced the power imbalance is.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m sure you can do the work. What’s most important is whether we can work together.”
At White, Sayres & Speck I’d been fired for being a “lone wolf.” For refusing to abandon a criminal case that mattered to me in favor of corporate motions that didn’t.
“I would like to work with you and learn from you. I understand the importance of your practice to your clients. I’d do everything in my power to keep you afloat—and to expand the practice eventually. There’s no other lawyer I could say that to.”
A bit of color suffused her pale cheeks. “And I know your background. I’ve followed your cases. I admire you. I trust you to do your share. And I’d hope, as the practice expanded to include criminal matters, to learn from you, too.” She smiled. “I’m a little stunned. We’re partners.” She looked uncertain. “Is that right?”
I smiled, too. “Yes. With one possible glitch.”
She leaned toward me, a slight frown creasing
her forehead. “Go on.”
“I’d like to speak privately with your paralegal. With Hester Donne.”
“Hester?” She blinked, looking confused. “She’s one in a million. You’d have no complaints about her, believe me.”
“I do believe you. But I wouldn’t enter into a partnership without speaking to the office manager.” I felt guilty beginning our relationship with a lie of omission.
“All right. If you’d like to wait here, I’ll go get myself a brioche. You two can sit in my office and get acquainted.”
“Thank you.”
Passing my chair, she turned. I’d risen in anticipation, offering my hand as she offered hers. We hung on longer than was strictly polite. We had higher hopes than a mere handshake could express.
A moment after Maryanne left, Hester entered the room.
I was still standing. As she moved closer, I grew conscious of craning my neck. She was a good eight inches taller than me. She stood close, feet apart as if preparing for battle, shoulders squared, plain features locked in a martial scowl.
“You’ve been listening to the conversation. You know what’s been said here,” I began.
She shook her head slightly.
“You have a listening device planted in this office and another one in Jocelyn Kinsley’s. You even bugged Maryanne’s purse to hear a conversation in my office.”
Hester crossed her arms. Her lips set in a stubborn line.
“It could only be you or Maryanne. And Maryanne wouldn’t have offered to make me her partner if she was involved in designer crimes.”
Hester remained silent.
“I understand your motives.” I meant it. I hoped she knew that. “So many clients here have terrible problems with no legal remedy. You’ve been listening to their consultations, choosing the best candidates. Fixing things for them extra-legally.”
“Do you expect me to admit something like that?”
I had to smile. “You’re not the only one who can get into a computer system. I found Jocelyn Kinsley’s ‘designer crimes’ file—the one hidden in the shovelware—before you copied it. Before you burned it. Her password was ‘designer.’ For ‘designer crimes.”
She blanched. I hoped she didn’t ask me anything technical, anything revealing I’d had help. I wouldn’t implicate Sandy.
“You weren’t careful enough,” I hurried on. “You made Kinsley suspicious.” Although she’d seemed to suspect Maryanne, not Hester. “She started keeping notes on what you’d been doing.”
A glint of tears appeared in her eyes. It had shocked her to find the hidden file.
“No one was sorrier than me when Jocelyn died.” Her voice was deep and distant. “I’d have been a million times happier with her confronting me than with losing her.”
“I believe that. And I understand how your feelings for certain clients …” I pulled an old Wall Street Journal out of my briefcase. “Super Prime. They fired workers so they could make their product shoddy without anyone blowing the whistle.”
“The law offered those workers zero protection. Even in a situation where machines will rust and cost other businesses money, no one’s willing to side with labor. To say, Let’s make these bastards give some kind of reason for throwing eight fine people out of work.”
“Did you set off the alarm the night Sandy and I were outside the plant?”
“It was one of the workers, someone acting as a spotter. Arkelett’s license plate was on her list. He’d been nosing around, I didn’t trust him. When she saw his car, she hit the alarm to warn … well, to warn some people not to come back.”
“You’d already contaminated the primer?”
“Yes.”
“What else were you planning to do?”
“It doesn’t matter. It didn’t happen. Luckily the primer was enough.” Her brows sank. “At the very least, let me protect my people.”
I stuffed the newspaper into the outer flap of my case.
“I’ve never done anything an employer didn’t have coming,” she insisted. “I’ve never done as much as an employer had coming.”
“I understand,” I repeated. “Your motives don’t conflict with the work you do here. But still—”
“I was afraid you’d figured it out. I got everyone else to believe Joss said ‘it’s a sign of the times.’ But you wouldn’t let go of it.”
“When you heard Maryanne offer me Kinsley’s office, you tried to save mine. You’d been researching Steve Sayres since you heard me complain to Kinsley about him. Just in case you needed to offer me your services. Or try to bribe me with them.”
But I’d been partly mistaken about Sayres. I’d confronted Perry Verhoeven again, forcing him to lay it on the line. This time he’d made it clear: criminal lawyers represented scum, and he didn’t want one representing him.
“Rather than have me join this firm, you tried to save my practice. You’d been scrutinizing Sayres’ clients, you had the information you needed. You put together a RICO brief to make him look bad.”
She shrugged. “I had to work fast. If he wasn’t so sloppy …”
“I’m impressed. Truly.” Though I doubted she’d worked on it alone. She’d mentioned having “people”—presumably employees she treated well. “And I’m certainly not sorry for Sayres. He is sloppy. I’m glad he got called on it. But designer crimes is something else.”
Playing by traditional rules wasn’t always effective, wasn’t usually fair. That’s why Connie Gold had tried to bend them.
“I believe there’s intrinsic value in behaving professionally,” I told her. “There are too many unintended consequences, if you don’t.” Maybe I had been a lone wolf. But I regretted my detours off the high road.
She tilted her head, watching me, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You heard me accept the partnership offer.”
“Yes.” Anxiety skated the surface now.
“I’m not blind to what I owe you.” I took a small step closer. “I know you eavesdropped on my cordless phone conversations. You heard me arrange to meet Brad Rommel. I don’t know why you followed me there, but if your car hadn’t come out of nowhere, he might have killed me.”
She nodded. “When you hit the disconnect button on your phone, he didn’t. He stayed on the line for a few seconds, very upset. Just muttering, really.”
“What did he say?” I could feel my flesh crawl.
“I’d never admit any of this,” she warned. “The eavesdropping, any of it. Not to the police, not to lawyers, not in court.”
“Understood. What did he say?”
“It was the way he sounded. Fretful, wild. I was afraid for you.” Hester’s cheeks flamed. “Considering the shooting here. And that he was wanted for killing someone else. I followed you, just sat there with my lights off, watching. And when you went leaping out of your car, I thought he must have drawn a gun or something. I couldn’t think what to do. I hit your car door because it was the only thing that came to mind. All I could think of to give you time to get away.”
She’d thought fast that night, trying to save me. She was a woman of action, a woman who took things upon herself. A woman capable of conceiving and carrying out designer crimes.
“I’m grateful to you. I suppose Brad would have …” His deal with Connie Gold offered him only one option: to kill me. “That’s why I’m talking to you, not the police.” Nevertheless, “I can’t work here unless I’m confident I have privacy. You can understand that, I hope.”
“I’ve been here since the office opened,” she said.
“I’m aware of that. And also that I owe you a favor.” I sighed. “I won’t turn you in, that’s a promise. And I won’t do anything about it if I hear of other ‘designer crimes.’ If you choose to continue your illegal operation, I’ll be as blind to it as I can possibly be.”
I waited till she offered a slight nod. I supposed she was recording this. But she couldn’t use my words against me without incriminating herself and her people.
“I’ve accepted the offer of a partnership. I’ll start on Monday. Within a week, I’d like you to find an excuse to give notice. I don’t care what it is—you can say you hate working with me, if you want. But I won’t have a loose cannon in my office. And I won’t worry about having my privacy invaded.”
“Do you use a computer?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Then you have no privacy, not really.”
We stared at each other.
I reiterated, “I won’t tell the police. And you’ll leave and stay out of my computer. That’s the deal.”
“All right.” She turned away. She hesitated for a moment. But she had an enterprise to protect.
She walked out, closing the door behind her.
I checked my watch. In half an hour, I was meeting Sandy. We were spending the weekend together. I was nervous, determined to apologize for four lost years, to put them behind us.
I crossed to the window, staring down at the colorful bustle of the financial district. I’d found my way back.
About the Author
Lia Matera is the Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity Award–nominated author of nine novels. A graduate of UC Hastings College of the Law, where she was editor in chief of the Hastings Constitutional Law Quarterly, Matera was a teaching fellow at Stanford Law School before becoming a full-time writer of legal mysteries. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
