by Alex Gilly
Mona smiled. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was how to work insane hours. She wasn’t worried about her ability to work.
“It’s not even billable,” said Joaquin. “Who would I bill? There’s no one to bill. So you’ll be costing us. Which means all those hours you put in will be paid for by our donors. Which means it’s a violation of our charter. We’re supposed to help living migrants deal with immigration law. Who’s going to tell our donors we’re spending all their money fighting a wrongful death suit? And what if you lose? What then? What if you lose and we’re ordered to pay costs?”
Mona let him carry on, let him vent, bleed the steam from his pipes. He was a lawyer like she was, and like she had, he had chosen to work for justice not profit; but he was a boss, in charge of running a small not-for-profit with limited resources, of which she was one. She couldn’t blame him for being worried.
Joaquin was now reciting some of the cases that Wolfeson, White had litigated—infamous cases, studied in law schools throughout the country. In one case, Wolfeson, White had successfully defended a billion-dollar building-material company from an asbestos-related class-action suit. In another, it had saved an oil company after one of its supertankers had hit a rock and coated the coastline of British Columbia in a million barrels of Alaskan crude.
Mona interrupted him.
“Can I tell you a story my father likes to tell?” she said. She didn’t wait for an answer. “My father came to LA in 1972. He was seventeen years old. He started working on building sites, first casually, then he got some more permanent gigs. He needed to get around, but he couldn’t afford a car, so he bought a little old Japanese motorcycle for a hundred dollars. After he bought it, he realized he didn’t know how to ride it. So he asked the guy who sold it to him to teach him. The guy said, ‘It’s pretty basic. Wherever you point your head, that’s where you’ll go. So look where you want to go.’ My dad asked the guy what he meant. The guy said, ‘If you see a pothole on the road ahead, don’t look at the pothole. Not unless you want to ride into it. Look at the path you want to follow around the pothole.’”
Joaquin stared at her. “Wolfeson, White makes pretty big potholes. Like, crater-sized,” he said.
Just then they both heard the sound of voices at the front desk.
“So we’ll go around them,” said Mona. “We’ll look for a way to get where we want to go.”
* * *
A moment later, Natalie brought in the “five people from BSCA”—they were all men. Hands were shaken, cards handed out. Three of the men were from Wolfeson, White. The fourth was the BSCA’s in-house counsel. The fifth was from the BSCA’s insurer, Chattel House.
The Wolfeson, White contingent was led by a trial lawyer named Morrison Scott. Like almost everyone in the legal profession, Mona had heard of Scott’s fearsome reputation. He was supposed to be a rottweiler, yet meeting him now, Mona thought he looked more like an overfed Labrador. He had the doughy midsection of a man who routinely ignored health warnings. His suit, though obviously expensive, was cut too large, and it billowed on him like a wedding tent untethered by strong wind. His tie had loosened, and Mona could see his top shirt button clamping shut his too-tight collar. His jowls were blotched. His thinning gray hair flared up in unruly wisps. When he smiled, he did so heartily, his neck puffing out of the collar like a cake out of its tin.
Scott introduced his assistants, naming them as Anderson Page and Marshall Wilson III. Mona wondered whether Wolfeson, White only employed white men with last names for first names. The BSCA’s in-house lawyer had a normal first name: Bill McCormack. The fifth man, from Chattel House, also had a normal first name: Lewis Anning. Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to be there, but Mona knew why he had come: he was there to look after Chattel House’s money. That meant preventing a payout if possible, and minimizing it if not. Chattel House, Mona later learned, had a market capitalization of $100 billion.
Everybody sat, except for Mona. In a strong voice, she said, “Thank you for coming. Our first task today is to establish deadlines for discovery. I think I’m speaking for all of us when I say that it’s in the interests of all parties to avoid any unnecessary delays. I know that the Vega family want this to be over as quickly as possible. They’ve suffered enough already.”
Scott looked at her apologetically, like he had something to say but didn’t dare interrupt her. He looked like an old man out of his depth. She almost felt sorry for him.
“Yes, Mr. Scott,” she said.
“I appreciate your sense of urgency, Ms. Jimenez. The death of Ms. Vega is, as you say, a great tribulation for her family. However, the matter that you have filed with the Paradise Superior Court is complicated. It has serious implications. I don’t think it will do to rush through discovery. I think we ought to allow for the full period of discovery permissible under Rule 26.”
Mona said, “Respectfully, three months is the best I will do.”
Bill McCormack gave a snort of disgust. “Yeah, right,” he said.
Morrison Scott silenced him with a look and said, in a voice soft as butter, “Ms. Jimenez, do you feel three months will allow you enough time to address the many complex issues I expect we will encounter in this matter?”
It was a challenge. He was saying, “You think you’ll be able to handle everything we’re going to throw at you in the next ninety days?”
Mona held his gaze. “I believe I will, Mr. Scott.”
“Very well,” said Scott. “Then let us look at the calendar.”
They set an end date for the discovery. They set an end date for amendments. They set an end date for expert-witness disclosures. The two sides agreed easily. Too easily, thought Mona. She began to wonder whether it had been Scott’s intention all along to set a short discovery period.
The meeting came to a close, and Joaquin and Mona walked Morrison Scott and his team to the elevator. While they were waiting for it to arrive, Scott sidled up to Mona and said, “When you have time, you don’t need people. When you have people, you don’t need time.” He stepped into the elevator, gave Mona a big smile, and said, “You, Ms. Jimenez, have neither.”
The doors closed.
EIGHTEEN
WHILE Mona was meeting with the five gentlemen from Wolfeson, White, Finn was standing at the back of a Catholic church in San Bernardino.
The church was small and crowded. The mourners around him were, for the most part, young. Around Leela’s age. Although he was sitting in the last pew, Finn could still see the casket placed on trestle legs on the raised floor of the transept. It was a closed casket, covered in flowers. A plain white pall hung over the sides. Projected on a large screen hanging from the ceiling above the casket was a studio headshot of a smiling, well-dressed Leela—Finn figured it had probably been taken for a graduation yearbook. At the bottom was her name, and the dates: 12/27/1995–05/02/2019.
The service had started by the time Finn arrived. The priest was standing at the pulpit, speaking into a microphone. He was talking in generalities, about grief and consolation. He spoke about forgiveness. Finn got the impression that he didn’t know Leela all that well; that she wasn’t a regular at the church.
The priest introduced Leela’s father, Tony Santos, to say “a few words of rememberance.” Finn watched a big man in a black suit climb the steps to the pulpit. He had a clean-shaven head and a goatee. His eyes were visibly red, even from the back of the church. The microphone squealed when he leaned toward it.
“I tought Leela to ride,” he began, his voice hoarse. “On a little 50cc dirt bike in our yard, when she was just eight years old.”
Behind him, the photo on the screen changed. It showed a kid riding a little dirt bike coming off a jump on a motocross track. The next photo showed a beaming child, recognizably Leela despite the missing tooth, wearing a protective suit and holding a trophy up for the camera.
After the service, people clustered on the steps outside the church, consoling one another. Finn
waited at the bottom of the steps for Leela’s father to emerge. When he did, Finn approached him and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tony Santos peered at Finn with his red eyes, obviously trying to place him. When he couldn’t, he gave a curt nod.
“I worked with your daughter at AMOC,” continued Finn. “I just wanted to say, she was exceptionally good at her job. I didn’t know Leela long, but she taught me a lot. I was totally devastated when I heard.”
Tony Santos blinked a couple of times, as though to hold back tears.
“Thank you. She was coming home from work when the accident happened,” he said.
Finn shook his head.
“I wasn’t there that day. Do you mind me asking, where did it happen?”
“On the ramp onto the 215 off of Cactus Avenue. A box truck cut in front of her, knocked her off her bike. The car behind her collected her.”
Finn knew the on-ramp. It was near March Air Reserve Base, where AMOC was located. He’d taken it many times.
“The truck didn’t stop,” continued Tony Santos. “Just drove off. The police are still looking for the driver.”
The priest appeared and started moving toward Finn and Leela’s father.
Tony Santos looked off into the middle distance, as though the priest were invisible. “People talk about forgiveness,” he said, his voice hard. “I drive a truck for a living. That kind of thing, on the road, I don’t forgive.”
NINETEEN
AFTER the conference with Wolfeson, White, Mona closed the door to her office and dialed the cell number on the card Maws had given her.
“I want to meet,” she said.
“Wonderful! Do you know the Players’ Club on Wiltshire? Shall we say eight?” he said.
“I’ll be in your office in forty minutes,” she said.
* * *
Maws was behind his desk, reclining in his big leather chair, smiling. He didn’t bother getting up. “You’re back,” he said.
Mona nodded. “I’m back, Mr. Maws.”
“I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’m not surprised.”
“You do sound arrogant.”
Maws grinned like it was a compliment. “I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said. “Let me ask you something: Is Mona your real name?”
“No.”
“I knew it! You’re up to something, I can tell. I like a woman with secrets. What is it?”
“What?”
“Your real name.”
“You can call me Ms. Jimenez.”
He affected a crestfallen look. “Now that’s not very friendly, is it?”
“Mr. Maws, last time I was here, I asked you about the $5.8 million that your company received from the Border Security Corporation of America.”
“Ah yes, the detention-center contract. And I told you, Miss Mona, there was nothing unusual about it. It’s just good business.”
Mona said, “I’ve just met with the BSCA’s legal team, Mr. Maws. They know they’re in trouble. They’re looking for someone to take the fall.”
Mona’s bluff worked. The smile melted from Maws’s face.
“He didn’t tell you about the meeting, did he?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Your old crew mate. Michael Marvin.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mona leaned forward. “Cards on the table, Maws. Here’s what I know. I know that in the winter of 2015, Michael Marvin came to you with a scheme. He asked you to give up your restaurant and set up a catering company. He said he would make you rich. I know that you went to Saint Ignatius Loyola Academy with Marvin. The same school your son, Archie, goes to now. I know that the detention-center contract with the BSCA is a sham, a cover for something else. I also know that you solicit sex workers on Western Avenue and are a regular at a strip joint on Santa Fe. I know that you went to Tijuana thirty-four times between January 2016 and August 2018, and I think I know why. I know a lot, Mr. Maws. But the most important thing I know is this: Michael Marvin is not your friend. He is not going to protect you. To him, you’re just muscle. Someone to row the boat. The minute you become a problem, he’ll throw you overboard. And your sex addiction has become a problem, hasn’t it?”
He kept leering at her as if it were a shield, like it was all that stood between him and annihilation. His face was defiant, but his body slumped under the weight of shame. She felt almost sorry for him.
“I heard about your stunt at the school fund-raiser,” he said. “What did Michael do to you, anyway, that pissed you off so much you’re trying to ruin his life?”
“A client of mine died in his detention center out in Paradise.”
“The whore who got bitten by a snake? How is that his fault?”
Mona said nothing for a minute. She let the ugliness of Maws’s words hang. She could see the desperation in his eyes.
“Here’s my offer. I can get you a deal with the prosecutor. No jail time. You can go to rehab. There’s a place in Arizona that specializes in helping people like you.”
“And in return?”
“Tell me what $5.8 million buys Michael Marvin.”
She shut up and waited for Maws to decide. He sat there for a long time, blinking, the corner of his mouth twitching. She wondered what the private terrors he was working so hard to conceal looked like. Eventually he said, “Ms. Jimenez, the money to which you refer is to feed detainees at the detention center out in Paradise. What else would it be for?”
She stood.
“You’re making a mistake, Maws. One way or another, I’m going to get Marvin. I’ll find out what the money’s for. And when I do, believe me, you’ll wish you’d taken the deal. You think he’s a friend, but he’s not. He’s using you. Men like Marvin don’t have friends. Marvin won’t protect you. His every move is calculated. He’s always in control. But you”—she pierced him with a stare—“you can’t help yourself, can you?”
She walked out.
* * *
Later that evening, Mona was on the couch alone, enjoying a glass of wine and watching a telenovela called Flores Amarillas. Finn had gone to bed early. The show finished, and Mona was about to do the same when her cell rang.
“Hey, Mona,” slurred a man’s voice.
“Mr. Maws.”
“‘Mr. Maws.’ Why don’t you call me Edward, Mona? Or Ed? Why don’t you like me? Mona. Mona. Mona. Has anyone ever called you Mona Lisa?”
“Maws—”
“They should. You’re pretty as the picture, Mona Lisa. Hey, Mona. I’ll tell you, Mona, what I want to do.”
He was singing now.
“You should stop now,” said Mona.
“Build a house next door to you.”
“You’ve been drinking, Maws.”
“Yes. Yes, Mona. I’ve been drinking.”
“I’m going to hang up now,” said Mona. But she didn’t. It was eleven at night. Maws had drunk-dialed her. She knew two types of drunks: the belligerent kind, and the maudlin kind. If he got aggressive, she’d hang up. But if he wanted to unburden himself of his secrets, she would let him talk.
“Unless you have something you want to tell me,” she said, softening her voice.
“Yes. Mona, I have something I want to tell you.”
She braced herself. “Okay, but I’m warning you, if I don’t like what I hear, if you disrespect me, I’m hanging up—”
“Relax, Mona Lisa. I’m not gonna ask you to marry me.”
“Okay. Glad to hear it.”
“Although, now that I think of it, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Mona? Will you marry me?”
Mona physically moved the phone away from her ear. “Good night, Maws.”
“Wait.”
She waited.
“I know what happened in Paradise,” said Maws.
Mona made an effort to modulate her voice. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t think. I know. I know what happened to that girl.”
Mona’s heart thumped like a kettledrum.
“That got your attention, didn’t it? Now you’re listening to me. See, that’s all I want. Someone to listen to me.”
Was he crying? Was that sobbing she could hear?
“I’ve done some bad things, all right, Mona? Some bad things. I know what I am. But I’m not like these guys. These guys, Mona. They’re animals.”
“Which guys? You mean Michael Marvin?”
She heard a wet laugh.
“Michael fucking Marvin. No, not Michael Marvin. I mean, he’s an asshole, but he’s not the one you want. You think he is, but he’s not. But I know. I know what you want. I know everything, Mona, and it’s bigger than Marvin. Way bigger than you can even imagine.”
“Okay. So then, who?”
More sobs. “Oh, Jesus. I need help, Mona.”
“Maws, where are you?”
“I’m at home.”
“I don’t think you should be alone right now. If you tell me where you are, I can come round.”
There was a long silence.
“Maws? Are you there?”
“Aren’t you alone, Mona? Isn’t everyone?”
Mona bit her lower lip. She loathed drunks. Her husband was a recovering alcoholic. He’d been sober three years, but listening to Maws brought back the feelings she’d felt at the nadir of Finn’s drinking—the way his lies and sneakiness and self-pity had darkened the sky like a storm that constantly threatened but never broke. She found Maws repugnant, but she needed him to tell her what he knew.
“Edward. Tell me what happened to Carmen Vega. Tell me what the money’s for.”
She heard a gurgling sound: liquid leaving a bottle. Then more sobbing.
