Carom Shot

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Carom Shot Page 13

by JJ Partridge


  I remembered that I had the insurance coverage memo to review with him but now it seemed like small potatoes. I did, however, deal with McAllister’s caution. “I assume you know that Martine is on the rally’s speaker list.”

  “Yes, she told me. She’s very proud of her friendship with Jesse. I rather guess she’s the one that got him to come up here. Otherwise, I bet he wouldn’t have accepted out of some misguided deference to our friendship.” His voice was steady and it was clear that he had thought through the ramifications of Kingdom on campus. “There will be some who will be disturbed by my association with Jesse,” he said, his eyes exploring my face. “So be it. We all take risks with who we are.” He said it easily and that made me feel more confident about his position. “I appreciate your concern.”

  I left the room and Danby followed me out to the hall. He held my raincoat as I slipped it on. For conversation, I mentioned that I had been named Reinman’s executor. Danby said, “Met him just once, at a party last spring. Have to say that in two minutes of conversation, I was kind of put off by his view of his colleagues. Then, after his heart attack, we spoke on the telephone, a short ‘how are you doing?’ Got him a TA to help out. Even then …”—he paused to find a word—“... prickly?”

  He had found the right one.

  We shook hands and he held on to mine for a moment. “Martine is a wonderful kid, and I know McAllister keeps his eyes on her. And it’s important that she has something of a regular college life, even if she insists upon living with her old man.” His face became somber. “If you ever hear anything that I should know, friend to friend, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” I said, and went out the front door, leaving him standing in the doorway. As I walked down the steps, I knew I had seen a glimpse of the man’s loneliness as well as his sense of himself and his mission. Was The Stalker and Jesse Kingdom about to frustrate both?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Champlin & Burrill—Founded In 1818.”

  The words were etched in burnished silvery metal on a slab of cherrywood which faced the elevator bank on the twenty-third floor of the Bank of America Tower. Lorrie Stevenson, the firm’s principal receptionist, a gray-haired, gentle-faced woman, was at her wide, teak desk when I asked for Eustace Pine. She instructed her assistant at the telephone console beside her to call Pine’s secretary and the assistant complied amidst a constant repetition of “Champlin & Burrill ...,” pause, “... one moment please.” As I hung my Burberry—now with its lining zipped in—in a closet behind her desk, Lorrie began her ritual discussion of the vagaries of Providence weather—the sky now had a suspiciously yellowish cast—and after agreement as to the likelihood of imminent change, I left her desk and sank into the comfort and familiarity of one of the reception area’s upholstered chairs.

  Nothing garish here, no smears of paint on the walls, just appropriate furniture and carpets, silk flowers in celadon glazed bowls, paintings like the one facing me—a FitzHugh Lane of a Newport yacht knifing through the swells in front of Beavertail—and a panoramic view of WaterPlace Park. Instead of aging Sports Illustrateds, the table in front of me held a fan of current issues of Smithsonian, American Heritage, Forbes, and Antiques. I admit to smugness: this was what a lawyer’s reception area should be: comfortable, radiating civility, giving the client a feeling of security, not fright.

  Eustace Pine, in a three-piece brown suit, striped shirt, and polka dot bow tie, took my hand in a two-handed grip as he thanked me for meeting on short notice, said that Mrs. Cabel had arrived, and led me down a hall to the glass door of the firm’s main conference room. Since it was usually reserved for partners’ meetings, bond issue closings, and other transactions involving a host of clients, lawyers, paralegals, and secretaries, I mentioned that I was surprised we would be meeting there. Pine stopped at the doorway, ran a bony hand over his scalp, and said, somewhat abashedly, “Seems as though the others are busy.” Had I caught him trying to impress his new client?

  He opened the door for me. Almost lost in the somber luxury of the conference room, in one of the twenty or so high-backed chairs spaced around an oval, green leather topped conference table, sat a plain-faced woman in a gray cardigan over a gray blouse, gray hair pulled back and knotted, hands clasped primly on the table next to a large cloth handbag. No jewelry lightened her appearance. From where I stood, the scene had the quality of a studio portrait sitting: a pale yellow wall with an elaborately framed landscape of a verdant pasture by Edward Bannister, and below the painting’s center, the motionless study in gray. Pine made introductions while I crossed to her, offering my hand. She gave me a few fingers, rough to the touch, to rest in mine as I expressed condolences; her mouth relaxed slightly and I was struck by a flickering wariness in eyes that may have been blue but also seemed gray.

  Pine recognized the awkwardness and quickly suggested I sit across the table from her, next to a stack of documents. I passed behind her, catching the scent of lilies of the valley. Pine sat next to Mrs. Cabel, took out a slim glasses case from his coat pocket, elaborately perched reading glasses on his nose, and began in a practiced manner to review Reinman’s will. Deborah, he said, was the sole beneficiary since there was no “issue,” a fact he repeated several times. He explained the documents I would be executing: a petition for probate, a waiver of notice of newspaper advertisement of the hearing, a form of bond, and two insurance forms. The hearing would be before the Honorable Judge Cremascoli of the Providence Probate Court at nine o’clock on Friday morning and there was no doubt the will would be admitted to probate and I would be appointed executor. As Pine rambled on about probate procedures, timetables, and estate tax returns, Mrs. Cabel, who had roused herself from passivity, stared at him intently; her face, showing the clefts and lines of age, with sags under her chin and indentations under the cheekbones, had the lack of color that one finds in elderly people who have suffered tragedy. I discerned a likeness to my recollection of Deborah Reinman in their shared narrow noses and thin-lipped mouths, but what appeared to be in proportion on the mother’s face was oddly pinched when replicated on Deborah’s.

  “... Of course, once the formalities are through and, Algy, you’re appointed executor, the firm will assist in every way possible. Algy would be entitled to a fee but has agreed to waive it.” Had I? Or had Pine assumed that I would? “We’ll prepare the Rhode Island and federal estate tax returns, the inventories ....” He peered over his glasses at me. “I imagine, Algy, that you’ll be appointed appraiser as well. We have the names of several experts to assist with the valuation of his copyrights and stream of royalties, and will contact them promptly. We’ve requested that there be a suitable widow’s allowance from the probate estate for Mrs. Reinman, just in case, but there seems to be more than adequate funds in a checking account and a money market account with ...”—he checked a document—“... Merrill Lynch.”

  Mrs. Cabel spoke for the first time. It was a dry voice with a slight Vermont twang, and I sensed a person who spoke when spoken to, who led a self-contained life. “Before his heart attack, he took care of all the major bills and Deborah had an allowance for household expenses,” she said evenly. “He handled the investment sort of things by himself until he was stricken. Then, Deborah took over the accounts—”

  Pine raised his hand slightly. “Of course, of course. Mrs. Reinman can use the accounts and will be permitted a widow’s allowance as a matter of course. From what you’ve told me, I think six thousand a month would amply cover all expenses including the mortgage on the Little Compton property. The Benefit Street house is mortgage-free, so we really only have to worry about usual living expenses, the Little Compton mortgage, and of course, taxes.”

  “As I told you,” Mrs. Cabel addressed Pine, “Deborah is determined to move back to Vermont.” Her hands went to her lap, as did her stare. “Deborah is ...”—she struggled for a word—“... overwrought. We took her back home last night. Her sister’s come down from Burlington to be with her. T
he houses should be sold as soon as possible.” Her eyes blinked twice as though for emphasis.

  Pine reassured her. “Not to worry at all. With Algy’s help, we’ll move right along. I’m sure that whatever you …, whatever Mrs. Reinman decides can be accomplished promptly. House prices have been firm and ....” He continued on, tilting his head fractionally towards Mrs. Cabel as he gave her his insights as to the realtors to be contacted while I wondered why the widow had such a reluctance to stay in Rhode Island where she’d lived for probably twenty years or more. Maybe it was this determined old lady who didn’t want to leave Vermont. In any event, it seemed to have been decided.

  Pine handed me a gold plated Cross ballpoint pen which I used to execute documents flagged by red gummed tags. I came to a personal property inventory form and stopped. “Who will be doing the inventory, Ew?”

  “One of our paralegals, Connie Adams. Do you remember her? Very astute. She’s going through personal property at the homes today with Mrs. Cabel.”

  I continued with the signing. “What about his University office? Can I be of help there, to get Connie in?” Reinman had an office in Ramsden Hall, the faculty office building for the History Department.

  “That’s next. A teaching assistant has been assigned and Mrs. Reinman, fortunately, had been there frequently during her late husband’s illness, and had an office key.” He rummaged through a redwell file and removed a key on a long string which he laid on the table. Mrs. Cabel’s forehead wrinkled with seeming impatience at the imposition of a TA and Pine’s paralegal going through her late son-in-law’s possessions.

  “It’s really routine,” I offered, feeling she should see me as somebody more than a mere endorser of Pine’s legal documents. “Traditionally, class outlines and teaching notes are left with the Department, a resource for anyone teaching similar courses. The same with books that the family may not want or need. Everything gets inventoried, and Deborah can decide what she wants to keep or leave.”

  “If that’s what’s done,” she said resignedly. “The idea of strangers going through his things ....”

  Pine replied to both my feeling of being supercilious and her reaction to the law’s and the University’s intrusive fussiness. “Connie is scheduled to be at his office Friday morning at ten. She’s quite capable. Lots of experience. Of course, if you’d like to be present ....”

  She pursed her lips as if balancing competing pressures on her schedule. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She reached for her handbag.

  The meeting seemed over but Pine couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Algy, you might want to stop in on Friday.” He smiled, maybe even winked, thinking he had bridged the gap between myself and Mrs. Cabel by offering me some useful activity, and dangled the key from a string. “Won’t take but a minute. Just to get things going?”

  Mrs. Cabel gave me a quick but penetrating glance. In her estimation, I was, like Pine’s paralegal, a practical necessity to be tolerated, and that irritated me. “I would like to move things along ....”

  Pine smiled in anticipation and slid the key across the table. It was then that I realized Pine hadn’t explained to her that I hadn’t known about Reinman’s nomination of me as his executor.

  Damn Pine! Damn Reinman!

  I made my face into a half smile, nodded, and took the key. I said, “Friday at ten.”

  Mrs. Cabel stood. She was short, barely five-four, and slight, so different than her daughter. When she came around the table to me, I stood. “Mr. Pine has told me about you being the University’s lawyer, so I guess you’re familiar enough with this kind of thing. Carl must have felt you could do the job, that Deborah might be too upset—.”

  “I’ll do my best to assist Mr. Pine,” I replied, and shook the limp hand which she offered to me.

  She peered up at me, maybe with some kind of acceptance in her eyes. “I guess we ought to thank you, so I will,” she said evenly. “I hope it isn’t too much of a chore. Mr. Pine says it won’t be. Deborah’s much too upset, especially about not being home when Carl died. Barely made it through the service yesterday. The one time she takes a break from caring for him, just an overnight down to their place in Little Compton, that’s when he goes .... Now, she can’t bear the thought of living here.” She lowered her eyes, turned, and left the conference room without another word, followed by Pine.

  Well, that explained the quick return to Vermont, even if it seemed an overreaction.

  I put Reinman’s office key in my jacket pocket. Pine returned and while I executed the remaining probate forms, he filled in some details on Mrs. Cabel’s parting words. Deborah Reinman, he said, had been in Little Compton, a respite from her nursing of Reinman, when he suffered a fatal heart attack. Died in his sleep apparently. Mrs. Cabel had come down from Vermont to replace her as his nurse for the weekend. “Tragedy,” Pine said quietly, “a young man,” and put Reinman’s will—which had a pale blue cover with his name typed and underlined—on top of the documents I had executed. I touched the will; as far as the law was concerned, it represented the formal winding-up of Reinman’s life.

  Somehow, it was not enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  During the next hour, Steve Winter, the co-chair of Champlin & Burrill’s litigation group and usually an optimistic sort, briefed me on Zerma v. Carter University, the sexual bias and harassment case that was high on my anxiety barometer. His predictions were bleak; the federal court magistrate judge would likely allow the plaintiff, Associate Professor Isabel Zerma, to use pre-trial discovery—over fifty noticed depositions of administrators and faculty, together with a forty page documents request that would require thousands of hours of search, review, and evaluation of the University’s recruitment, hiring, and promotion records—in an effort to find a scintilla of evidence that the University tolerated sexual bias or harassment. Danby’s predecessor, after stonewalling on an individual settlement, had allowed the case to mushroom into a class action for all female faculty members and candidates for faculty positions, encouraging plaintiff and her aggressive counsel to go for complete capitulation, including millions in damages, an admission that Carter was institutionally biased, and court monitoring of all faculty hiring and promotions. The cost of the litigation in terms of time and focus, never mind the legal fees, had been and would continue to be enormous; on the other hand, a loss of this high profile case would grievously wound the University’s integrity, reputation, and ability to govern its affairs.

  Three uncomfortable meetings, three major, different, and continuing worries, in three hours. Must be some kind of record.

  I left the office tower and stepped out into Kennedy Plaza, noisy with bleating car horns and saturated by the aroma of diesel fumes from the buses lined up at the depot which ran down the Plaza’s center. I turned on to Westminster Street in front of the granite steps and columns of the Arcade, and became part of the financial district’s noontime bustle of office workers on lunch break and takeout runs, sidewalk vendors offering hot and sweet Italian sausage rolls, walkers and joggers in exercise clothes, bicycle messengers, and construction workers munching sandwiches and commenting on the “skirts” going by at the Sovereign Bank Plaza. At the College Street Bridge, a gust of brine-filled air caused me to linger at its central parapet over the Providence River. The tide was flowing toward the Bay, carrying debris from upriver on a turgid current. The breeze driven water slapped against the bridge’s abutments and the blackened, mushroom-like braziers anchored permanently for WaterFire events, and flicked away in a million small waves toward the riverbanks. Further down the river, sea gulls shrieked and swooped, their cries almost lost in the noise of traffic on I-195 and the whomp, whomp, whomp of a helicopter landing at the South Main Street helipad. Above me, the wind sang in the halyards of the bridge’s three empty flagpoles.

  My hands left the recesses of my pockets and went to one of the wrought iron chains that served as railings for the parapet; the adhesion of finger flesh to cold metal
brought to mind my winter sea duty on a cruiser of the Sixth Fleet before I got tapped to defend court-martials. I was so aware of myself at twenty-six, a Marine lieutenant, a lawyer, full of expectation that life was meant to be lived well, with a single-mindedness that reduced the entire world to manageable size. Those were easier days, all action or all monotony, with specific responsibilities and ascertainable risks, and, my God, didn’t my future seem exciting! I would be a hand of justice, use my talents and good fortune for noble ends! I’d be focused and passionate about whatever I did!

  What happened?

  It’s not what you are, somebody said, but what you don’t become that hurts.

  Despite the satisfaction of a legal career and successes that others might envy, I had been wrestling with the realization that I was without that focus. My professional life was a series of reactions to others’ demands, needs, causes, or outrages: a legal litter box. My relationship with Nadie was unsettled. How was it that I wasn’t in control? Where had the passion gone? Would I ever again feel that I would make a difference?

  * * *

  The three-story brownstone which houses the Faculty Club once had all the charm of the Irish funeral parlors on Smith Hill. Its dingy, high ceiling rooms, closed in by maroon and gray drapes, dark wallpaper, brownish rugs, and mahogany trimmed furnishings, its bland “welsh rarebit special” menus, and BYO booze policy, discouraged use, except for the gastronomically challenged and bachelor professors of both sexes. In a peace offering to a complaining faculty, the University renovated and decorated the dining rooms, parlors, and reading rooms, added an atrium off the main dining room and a patio annex for summer dining, subsidized the Club’s budget so that dues remained manageable, and hired experienced kitchen staff seduced by regular hours, reasonable compensation, and the freedom to plan menus and interesting food-centered events. Eventually, even Providence politics were satisfied; to obtain a full liquor license from the uncooperative and unsympathetic City Licensing Board, the Club, nominally independent from the University and therefore taxable, was persuaded to offer an ex officio membership to the holder of the office of mayor, creating the supreme irony that Sonny Russo could, and did, have lunch here occasionally with Puppy Dog and other cronies. Just to demonstrate his disdain, he paid his bills infrequently, and late, with checks from his “Friends of Russo” political fund.

 

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