by Sandra Hill
Behind the defendants’ table sat lower level Cypress executives and a few big investors, including none other than Valcour LeDeux, Luc’s father. Adam had never met the old guy in person, but he’d heard plenty. He had to admit that, even at seventy or so years old, Valcour was a handsome man. You’d think there would be at least one gray hair in his dark brown, razor-cut locks. He might have had some work done on his dissipated face (no hiding the alcoholic flush beneath the taut, tanned skin) because there were hardly any wrinkles, but he may have had some genetic luck. All the LeDeux men were good-looking. And hey, the women weren’t too bad, either, like Simone LeDeux . . .
No, no, no! He was not going to think about Simone today. He’d done too much thinking about her every day since they’d met, and during the night, too. Hot damn, but did he think about her in his dreams! He was becoming a teenager again, wet dreams and all.
But back to Valcour LeDeux. The man had come a long way from the days when he’d been a young widower living in a rusted-out trailer with his three sons whom he’d used as punching bags regularly, all this according to Luc, who had no love for his old man. But then they’d discovered oil on his bayou property, and that made a major change in Valcour’s lifestyle. Not that he’d treated his kids any better. That’s when Tante Lulu—the great-aunt or something of Valcour’s deceased wife, Adèle—had stepped in and taken over. To say there was no love lost between Valcour and Tante Lulu would be a gross understatement.
Adam glanced at Luc to gauge his reaction to his father being there, on the opposing side, possibly a ploy on Cypress’s part to rattle Luc’s nerves. No reaction at all. But then, this wasn’t the first time legal action had been taken against this particular company located just outside Houma, nor was it the first time Luc had been on the complainant’s side.
In a way, though, it was surprising to see all the big guns out for such small game. Nothing like the humongous class action suits filed every so many years against these destroyers of the Gulf Coast environment. No twenty-billion-dollar BP Oil–type settlement if they won. Not even one billion. In fact, the Phams would be happy with a mere million. This kind of court case was just nibbling away like ducks, that’s what Luc called it. Not that nibbling wasn’t important. The end result was the same. Make the culprits pay for their bad deeds and, hopefully, change their evil actions.
“Are you ready?” Luc whispered to Adam. The judge and jury had just returned to the courtroom after a midmorning break. “You do the cross on the chemist, and I’ll go get our next piece of evidence.”
Piece of evidence was a misnomer. More like three pieces of evidence, each of the pieces weighing about three hundred pounds. “I still don’t see how you’re going to get those dead gators in here.”
“On a hospital gurney covered with a sheet. They’re only young gators.”
“I know that, but how will you get the gurney past the guards? And, man, have you checked that Gulf Coast Meats refrigerated truck out in the parking lot lately? You can smell the rot from fifty feet.”
“The guard on duty will conveniently have to visit the men’s room. He’s a friend of a friend of Tante Lulu’s.” Luc grinned.
Adam should have known the old lady would have a hand in this stunt. He wouldn’t be surprised if she popped up, wearing a nurse’s uniform, pushing a gator in a wheelchair. “I still don’t think the judge will allow us to provide the gator gang as evidence.”
“Of course he won’t. But by the time the defense objects and the judge rules, the jury will have gotten a whiff and a looksee at the evidence. Hard to wipe that image from the mind, or that stink from the nostrils, no matter how hard the judge rules it as inadmissible.”
Adam had pulled some courtroom antics himself in the past, following “the end justifies the means” theory of law, but he was a rank amateur compared to Luc.
Mike had been talking to his father, but then turned to Luc and Adam. “What gators?”
“You don’t want to know,” they both replied.
Luc slipped out of the courtroom as the jury filed in and Howard Lintell, the Cypress chemist, took the stand again. The bailiff reminded Lintell that he was still under oath, and Judge Chenier looked at Adam, taking note but not unduly concerned that the lead attorney was no longer there. “Is the plaintiff ready to cross-examine?”
“Yes, sir,” Adam said, standing. He went over to the table in front of the judge’s bench, or raised desk, and checked on an array of test tubes that were on display, already entered in evidence. Those on behalf of Cypress Oil and those prepared by an independent company on behalf of the Phams. Then he stepped over to the witness stand where the nerdish-looking chemist in a crumpled wool suit—clearly Lintell was a northerner brought in to testify and was unaccustomed to the moist heat of the South—wiped nervously with a handkerchief at the perspiration that beaded his forehead. “Mr. Lintell, you testified this morning that the tests you ran on runoffs at the Sweet Cherry plant fell within government regulations for safety.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And those tests were run on April first and second?”
“Yes.”
“Did you obtain those samples yourself?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Were you not alarmed that results of your samples and the ones we obtained from a private testing company differed so greatly?”
“No. Private companies are not always reliable.”
“But your tests are?”
“I pride myself on the integrity of my work.”
“No offense intended, Mr. Lintell. I’m aware of your impressive credentials. You testified on behalf of Great North Oil Co. last year, too, didn’t you?”
“I object,” the lead Cypress Oil lawyer yelled. “Irrelevant.”
“Objection sustained.” The judge waved a hand for Adam to continue, clearly bored. He wouldn’t be for long.
“You did not gather the testing fluids yourself, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” Lintell conceded, again.
Adam glanced toward the jury box to make sure they drew the appropriate conclusions, implying tampering with evidence.
“But there was a chain of evidence to protect—”
“Your honor!” Adam protested. “Please advise the witness to only answer the questions.”
The judge nodded and so advised Lintell.
Adam went over to the table where he opened a metal insulated thermos and poured out a glass of murky water. “This water was poured from the kitchen faucet inside Mr. Pham Sr.’s Sweet Cherry home this morning. Would you care to take a drink?”
The judge was already chiding “Mis-ter Lan-ier!” even before the defendant’s counsel objected that this item had not yet been entered into evidence.
“I withdraw my offer,” Adam said.
But the jury had already seen Lintell recoil at the prospect of drinking the gray water. Adam knew how to practice the law the traditional way, slow and plodding, but he also knew how to use the system and made no apologies for employing all the tricks . . . rather, talents at his disposal.
“Behave yourself, Mister Lanier,” the judge warned. “You’re already walking a fine line.”
Just then, the courtroom door opened and Luc strolled in pushing the hospital gurney up the wide center aisle. Even before he stopped and yanked the sheet off three dead and rotting gator carcasses, the fumes were filling the air. “Your honor, I would like to introduce some new witnesses for the plaintiff. Moe, Larry, and Curly, residents until last week of Sweet Cherry Bayou. Unfortunately, they—”
The judge, with a white handkerchief pressed to his nose, finally overcame his shock and yelled, “Mister LeDeux, you are in contempt of court.”
“But, yer honor, I didn’t kill them gators. Cypress Oil runoff did. Why, I’m practicly a PETA person. I wouldn’t hurt a—”
“Mister LeDeux! See me in my chamber immediately and get that . . . that mess out of here.”
Adam glanced over to th
e jury box. One woman looked as if she was about to vomit, while several men barely stifled grins. Mission accomplished.
An hour later, the jury had been sent home with the trial adjourned until Monday. Luc had been fined one thousand dollars for contempt with a warning that one more transgression would land him in jail. Even Adam had been warned that the judge’s patience was wearing thin.
The older Mr. Pham had already gone home, but Mike had stayed to talk over the case with them. They stopped at a nearby café often frequented by lawyers and courthouse employees.
After they discussed the lawsuit thus far and what was to come (the defense not having started their case yet), Mike hemmed and hawed before asking, “Um, assuming we’re going to win this case, eventually, can you guys suggest a way to hide the funds?”
Adam and Luc exchanged “Uh-oh!” looks.
“What do you mean?” Luc asked.
“Well, there’s a good possibility that I’ll be getting a divorce, and, well . . .” He shrugged, his face flushing with embarrassment.
“You and Thanh? Good Lord, man, you’ve been married as long as I’ve known you,” Luc said. “Longer than me and Sylvie.”
Mike nodded. “Twenty-one years. The boys are in college now, and I’ve stuck it out longer than I ever wanted. All Thanh does is hang around the house and mope.”
Luc cut right to the chase. “Is there another woman?”
“Uh . . .” Mike looked uncomfortable.
“Or more than one woman?” Adam guessed. Mike was Luc’s acquaintance, not his, but Adam recognized the signs.
Mike shrugged and raised his chin defiantly.
“Thanh doesn’t strike me as the type who’d be aggressive in countering a divorce action,” Luc commented.
“She isn’t, and I would make sure she was taken care of, for life. But I don’t intend to bankrupt myself, either. She has a sister, Kim, who’s as assertive as Thanh is retiring. I’m afraid Kim would get her ear, and you know how that goes. They’d have Gloria Allred flying to Loo-zee-anna faster than a kamikaze seagull.”
“Allred only represents celebrities, as far as I know,” Adam pointed out.
Mike just blinked at him, probably wondering if he was being sarcastic.
He was.
“There is no legal or moral way to hide assets in a divorce action,” Luc said, stern faced.
If Adam hadn’t admired Luc before, he would now. But then, for all his courtroom shenanigans, Luc was an honest attorney. And, no, that wasn’t an oxymoron. But then, Adam had known that about Luc before he’d joined his firm. He wouldn’t have aligned himself with shady legal practices.
“I have a friend who says his lawyer showed him how to hide money in some offshore account . . . Brazil or Bermuda, I think,” Mike argued, a tone of belligerence in his voice.
Luc’s lips thinned even more. “I don’t handle divorces, but if that’s the direction you want to head in, I can give you a referral. Not for illegal activity, but for divorce advice.”
Mike muttered a foul word under his breath that sounded something like “Pussy!” followed by a statement that men should stick together. But then he nodded, reluctantly.
After Mike left in his own car, Luc said, “What an asshole! I never saw this side of him before.”
“Are you going to recuse yourself from the Cypress case?”
“Hell, no! I’ve put in too much time already, and you have, too. He’s got billable hours out the wazoo. Besides, there’s nothing immoral about fighting against the evil oil empire. We’ve just got to separate the two issues. Mike the justified litigant. And Mike the jerk.”
“Too bad it’s a breach of ethics to make a suggestion to the other party.”
“Cypress Oil?”
“No. Mike’s wife,” Adam said. “I’m thinking she should hot foot it over to Legal Belles.”
Luc laughed. “You’re right. That would be a breach of ethics.” Luc tapped his closed lips thoughtfully. “But maybe Tante Lulu could give Thanh a business card from the new agency.”
“Do they have business cards yet?”
“If they don’t, they should.” Luc gave him an assessing look.
“What?”
“You could go over and get a card. Or a pile of cards for our office. For referrals.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Are you kiddin? Every time I mention Legal Belles or my half sister Simone, your eyes light up like a bayou moon.”
“They do not,” Adam countered, but not too strongly.
“Besides, Tante Lulu has you two in her crosshairs.”
“For what?”
Luc shrugged. “You never know with Tante Lulu’s thunderbolt. It could go in any number of directions. Love, sex, marriage, the-itch-that-can’t-be-scratched, baby bumps.”
Any one of those were unacceptable to Adam . . . at this time . . . with that woman. Besides, he could handle his own hookups, thank you very much, Tante Lulu, and he for sure could scratch if he wanted to.
But he wasn’t about to let Luc get the last word in. “Rusty told me that Charmaine is pregnant and blaming Tante Lulu. Is it true that you and Sylvie might be rocking the cradle again, too?”
“Touche!” Luc said. “Touche and pray God my swimmers are still fin-less.”
“Mine, too. Not that I’ve had a vasectomy. But I’m not looking for more kids, either. I’ve got my hands full with Maisie.”
“None of that matters when it comes to Tante Lulu.”
“Surely, she wouldn’t be wishing paternity on me without the love and courtship and marriage crap.”
Luc shrugged. “You never know with my aunt.”
Ironically (although it was probably deliberate on Luc’s part), they were just about to pass Legal Belles, and standing outside was none other than Tante Lulu and some big Amazon of a woman, not just tall but hefty. But more important, Simone stood there, hands on pretty hips (She was wearing paint-splattered black-and-white polka dot shorts. Not that he was paying that close of attention!), flirting with two men who were grinning like hound dogs at a barbecue.
Who were they?
Boyfriends? Lovers? Ex-husbands? Husband?
One of them looked like an inmate who’d just gotten $10 in gate money and a bus ticket after being pushed out some jailhouse doors, and the other could have stepped out of the pages of GQ.
Shiiit!
It was just like Hannah all over again. Discovering her men in all the wrong places. Always on edge. Always wondering. Jealousy. Rage. Thank God he’d seen this today. You could say he’d dodged a bullet. A Tante Lulu bullet, or a hot female bullet. Didn’t matter which. Now he could tuck Simone away as a “close call.”
But Luc’s car was already moving along, and when Adam glanced his way, he saw that his partner was giving him a knowing look. “Yep. Like a bayou moon.”
Adam put a hand to his face. He was a little hot.
How many bullets can one gal dodge? . . .
Simone was in the middle of her third interview of the morning, and it was not going well. Alexis Fornier, a college student looking for a part-time job and tired of waitressing, thought it would be “wicked good fun” to turn a guy on and then “whomp his ass” when she had the goods on him. The best part, she boasted, was that she had a license to carry.
Sweetheart, I wouldn’t trust you to carry my purse, let alone a pistol. “Um, that’s not exactly what we do here,” Simone told the girl.
“What? Oh, y’all mean what Ah said about ‘whompin’ ass’?” Alexis was pure Southern belle in skinny jeans, bustier, stilettos, and big hair upswept to heaven.
Yes, the girl had come to an interview dressed like a tart. Simone and Helene were continually fighting the impression that Legal Belles was no more than a cheater entrapment agency, an impression that had been spread like wildfire on the bayou grapevine. Probably by you-know-who, the Mouth of the South.
“Whompin’ ass . . . that’s jist an expression us young folks use, ma’am.”
> Ma’am? The implication was that Simone was not one of the young folks.
“Uh-huh.” Simone nodded, wondering whether her next interviewee would be any better.
“Really. Ah would be amazing at entrappin’ those losers. Me and mah friends often pretend ta be interested in guys at bars, just ta lead ’em on, fer the fun of it. The easiest ones ta tease are the old fogies, those guys over forty.”
Definitely, I am not one of the young folks, in her world.
Next up was Sabine Gentry, a thirtysomething blonde with a slim, almost boy-like figure tucked into a sleeveless Billy Bob’s Biker Club T-shirt and leather pants with boots. She had diamond climbers on her ears, a gold stud in her tongue, and myriad tropical flowers tattooed over her arms, culminating in a chain of roses around her neck.
Simone hired Sabine on the spot. She knew Sabine from the police academy and wouldn’t have to instruct her in proper entrapment techniques. Sabine hadn’t been working for the past seven years while she raised her three kids, the youngest of which was now in kindergarten. Sabine’s husband, Brad, worked undercover for the New Orleans PD.
“You still have that thing for Cajun men, Simone?”
“Unfortunately.”
Sabine laughed. “I remember how your lady parts would get all gooey when a Cajun man winked at you, or, God forbid, said, ‘Come ‘ere, darlin” with that slow Southern drawl.”
Yep, that’s me. Fool with the gooey parts.
“Doan be gettin’ all embarrassed, honey. I’m the same way. Whydja think I married a Yankee? He’s the one that gets all gooey, in his man parts, when I drawl, ‘Come ‘ere, darlin’. I got somethin’ fer you.’ Southern sugah, that’s what I call it.”
