Dead Ringer

by Lisa Scottoline

  Bennie looked up from her computer with a reflexive frown. “DiNunzio, could you sell yourself any shorter? Don’t ever begin a conversation that way.” Her tone was unnecessarily harsh, but she was in high maverick mode. Unfortunately, it had the effect of driving the associate deeper into her shell.

  “Okay. Sorry. Forget it.” DiNunzio’s head retracted. “I’ll come back when you’re not busy.”

  “No!” Bennie shouted, then got up and went to the door in time to catch her. “DiNunzio, come back here.” She tried to change her tone from ballbuster to kindergarten teacher, but it had been a long night. “Please, come back here.”

  “Okay.” DiNunzio turned and came back slowly in her conservative print dress, with its high neck and thin leather belt. Either the associate dressed kind of retro or everything old was new again, but Bennie didn’t care. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t want you to be so wimpy.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bennie smiled. “Stop apologizing for yourself. Don’t be such a good girl. You want to be lead counsel someday, don’t you? You’re tougher than this, aren’t you?”

  “In my head, I am. But then it disappears when it goes outside.”

  “Let’s give you a lesson. You go over there and sit in my seat, at my desk.” Bennie gave the associate a starter shove that propelled her into the office, where she walked around the desk and sat miserably down. “Watch me, DiNunzio. This is how you approach me in my office from now on.” Bennie cleared her throat, strode to her own office door, and gave it a stiff rap. “Bennie, you gotta minute?” she asked in a rapid-fire cadence that took the answer for granted.

  “Uh, yes. I mean, bring it!”

  “Say no, and say it exactly how I would.”

  “No!” DiNunzio shouted, which Bennie overlooked.

  “This is an important question. I have to speak with you, right now.” Bennie barged into her own office and took the seat opposite the associate, whose freshly made-up eyes flared with mild alarm. “Get it? See what I’m doing? How I’m acting?”

  “Rude?”

  “No, in control. Fueled by testosterone.”

  DiNunzio snorted. “I forgot my injection.”

  “Pretend. Imagine.”

  “I can’t. I went to Catholic school.”

  Bennie thought a minute. “Then act caffeinated. It’s basically the same thing.”

  DiNunzio looked dubious.

  “Channel Starbucks, and ask me what you came in to ask me.”

  DiNunzio cleared her throat. In a strong voice she asked, “Can I go to Washington for Brandolini?”

  “No.”

  DiNunzio blinked. “Oh.”

  “You just going to take no for an answer?”

  “Well, yes. You’re the boss, and I don’t have a choice.”

  “Bullshit! You have a good reason to go to D.C., don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve never asked to go on a business trip before, have you?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, this would be your very first one, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, fight for it. Gimme your best argument. Keep it short. People like short.”

  DiNunzio squared her shoulders behind the desk. “I have to go to Washington. It’s my job.”

  “Not that short.”

  DiNunzio inhaled deeply. “It’s the only way I can find out what happened to Amadeo Brandolini. The records of his internment are there, in the War Department files in College Park, Maryland. I requested them under the Freedom of Information Act, but I have to wait four months unless I want to go there and see them for myself. I know it’s a bad time to be leaving the office, but I can’t wait that long, so I have to go.”

  “Well done.” Bennie felt a guilty twinge. “But I don’t have the money to send you right now.”

  “I’ll pay myself.”

  Ouch. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

  “Why not? It’s my client and I can invest in it, same as you.”

  Yowza. “I’ll reimburse you. How long will you be gone?”

  “Two days.”

  “Fine. You have my permission.”

  “Who asked you?” DiNunzio shot back, and Bennie hid her smile, just as the telephone started ringing.

  It was St. Amien. “Benedetta. I’m sorry to be returning your call so late. I had a minor emergency to deal with. My son.”

  “Nothing serious I hope.”

  “He needs money, naturellement. For clothes, food, CDs, books. This week here, that week there. You have no children, am I correct?”

  “None without fur.”

  “Excellent. Keep it that way. Since my wife passed away, Julien has been nothing but trouble. She had a special way with him, which I seem to lack.” St. Amien paused, and Bennie could hear the softest whoosh. He must be smoking his stinky cigarettes. “But enough of that. How are you, and what happened with the police yesterday? Judy called to let me know you were all right and that it was a case of mistaken identity. But what a scene that was! And they have you on TV, all over the news I see!”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Bennie said, but she had already decided to level with him. “My twin sister is back in town, making trouble. But don’t worry about it. I can deal with her.”

  “A twin! How wonderful. You are identical?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she is the black sheep?”

  Bennie smiled. A quaint notion. “This flock ain’t that uniform, Robert.”

  “I see. In any event, so you’re not going to prison.”

  “Not at all. They’ll be some fussing later, but I can clear that up, too,” Bennie answered with a light laugh. Then it occurred to her. Alice could make trouble for St. Amien, as well. “Though, just to be on the safe side, you should know that this twin looks exactly like me and has been running around posing as me. There’s even an outside chance she may approach you—as me—at some point. She’s taken to dressing like me too. We’re completely identical.”

  “Ah, so she is lovely too.”

  “Picture me with a criminal record,” she said, deflecting the compliment. She flashed on that kiss of the other day. St. Amien was the Pepé Le Pew of clients. “Her name is Alice Connelly and she’s a bold sort, Robert. So if I drop by your office unexpectedly, call here to double-check if it’s really me. I know this sounds awkward, but it needs saying.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Wish I were.”

  St. Amien blew out some smoke. “Benedetta, if you are in trouble, perhaps I can help you.”

  Bennie felt touched, but worried. No client would keep that attitude for long. In three days St. Amien would be looking for a lawyer he didn’t have to help. She channeled reassurance and caffeine. “Robert, I think you have that backward. Thank you for your very kind offer, but I am here to help you. You stay the client and I’ll stay the lawyer, okay?”

  “اa va.”

  “And that, too.”

  “Also, I did have a surprise visitor this morning, though it wasn’t your twin. Herman Mayer came to see me, without an appointment. It was Mayer who told me about you, on the TV. I was dealing with my son and hadn’t turned it on.”

  Bennie felt mortified. “Mayer? What did he want?” she asked, but she was already guessing.

  “To speak with me about switching lawyers, from you to Mr. Linette.”

  Whoa. “Full-court press.”

  “What means this?”

  “It means they’re really pressuring you.”

  “Herman Mayer cannot pressure me to do anything,” St. Amien said, his tone changing on a franc. “His opinions are of no moment to me. He and I have history, as you say.”

  “How so?”

  “We have been competitors for some time, he and I. I was going to tell you this when we went back to your office, but the police intervened, unfortunately. Mayer and I were both bidding on the Hospcare contract, the one which eventually fell t
hrough, as you know. He wanted it very badly, but they awarded it to us.”

  Bennie raised an eyebrow, even over the phone. “I didn’t know that.”

  “There you have it. I suspect that Herman is increasing his damages estimate in some artificial way, inflating the revenue from the contract I got. There can be no way his damages are greater than mine. None. He has seventy-five employees only and not even ten million in sales, and he didn’t build an entire plant on the strength of certain contracts. Perhaps he is smarter than I.” St. Amien laughed.

  “Or maybe he just has less faith.”

  “Perhaps. My company is much older than his, founded by my grandfather. Herman and I expanded our European facilities at the same time. He came to the States first, however. Moved here and gained a small foothold on the market two years before I saw the opportunity. As such he feels as if he were my superior, which is not the case, needless to say.”

  But it’s cute that you said it anyway. Bennie liked this client. He seemed more human to her than when they had first met. Though the kiss by the elevator bank may have had something to do with it. Everybody needs positive reinforcement.

  “So Herman and I had a brief, unpleasant meeting. I told him I was quite pleased with my counsel and wouldn’t switch.”

  “Even with me getting arrested? And my wacky sister?”

  “Ha! Wait until you meet my wacky brother, then we shall talk again. Ah, he does not work ten hours a week, but for play, his horses, he has much energy. Riding around and around a ring of twenty meters.” St Amien chuckled. “Don’t worry, Bennie. I stay with you, wacky family and all.”

  This guy is loyal. Bennie flushed with gratitude. Maybe she could learn to smoke. She knew how to eat, and it was basically the same thing. But back to business. “You think that Linette put Mayer up to seeing you? Linette can’t contact you directly at this point, but parties to a lawsuit can always talk to one another.”

  “I doubt it came from Linette. Mayer is too stubborn to listen to anyone, least of all a blowhard.”

  Bennie smiled. “Blowhard! Who taught you that word? It sounds like a bad translation of asshole.”

  “Benedetta, don’t be an asshole,” St. Amien said with a soft chuckle, and Bennie laughed.

  “Okay, wise guy. You got my letter, you know what’s going on this afternoon. Meet me there at one. I’m doing it to shore up your position as lead plaintiff.”

  “I understand, and I’ll see you at one o’clock. But tell me, how will I know you’re you and not your twin?”

  “I’ll be the one you kissed,” Bennie said, and hung up with a smile. Touché. Then she caught herself. What the hell was she thinking? St. Amien was way too old for her, and he was a client. Was she that desperate? Of course not, right? Bennie rested a hand on the phone and couldn’t help but wonder: Can I get him to stop smoking?

  Then she came to her senses. She had a master plan to set in motion, and kisses didn’t figure into it.

  14

  Bennie felt the familiar whoosh of chilly air rush at her as soon as she opened the door to the courtroom and ushered St. Amien inside. In the federal courthouse in Philadelphia, the government conserves money by air-conditioning only the courtrooms, clerks’ offices, and judges’ chambers, and saving it in the many hallways of the twenty-odd-floor building, so the refrigerated blast of the courtroom welcomed Bennie as surely as coffee smells did at the office and a golden retriever did at her house. It signaled to her that she was on her turf, even that she was home.

  St. Amien was looking around. “No one’s here yet, we’re so early,” he said, his tone hushed by the spaciousness and grandeur of the courtroom. Bennie had noted that the room usually had that effect on clients and witnesses; it was why she always brought witnesses in for a look-see. St. Amien wouldn’t have to testify today, but he stopped at the door, uncertain. “Benedetta, may we enter?”

  “Of course. It’s a courtroom. It’s public. It belongs to us.”

  “It is so different from Paris,” St. Amien whispered, eyeing the place, his mouth taut. “Our courtrooms are much smaller. Darker, and much older.”

  Sounds great. She led him up the carpeted center aisle, and his silvery head swiveled left and right, taking in the huge wood-paneled courtroom, which empty seemed even bigger. An immense modern dais dominated the room, flanked by paneled boxes for the witnesses and jury, and it bore the flag of the United States before a rich maroon backdrop meant to absorb sound. Above the dais, a heavy golden medal of the United States Courts hung like a gilded sun in the sky. Okay, maybe Bennie was idealizing the place, but if a lawyer didn’t get a charge in a courtroom, she should get out of the business.

  The flag, the dais, the seal, and the jury box—all of these fixtures reassured and thrilled Bennie. They were the stuff of the law, the emblems, accoutrements, and tools used every day to hammer out justice, case by case, verdict after verdict. Bennie wasn’t so naive that she thought justice was always perfect, blind, or evenly administered; she knew from bitter experience that judges and juries made mistakes, were bamboozled, or simply went the wrong way, every day. But she also believed that in the main, judges, juries, and lawyers strove together for justice, and that the courthouse remained a citizen’s best hope for a truly level playing field. Which was why she had come here today.

  “Please sit down, Robert,” Bennie said, and gestured him into a seat in the front row of smooth polished wood. He sat down dutifully and placed his cushy leather envelope on his expensive pants. She could have been imagining it, but she sensed a subtle shift in the balance of power between them, as if he were silently ceding her the upper hand. She had become the expert, his Sherpa in the big American courtroom. Now if she could only get him to kick the habit. “Robert, I have to ask you, have you ever tried to quit smoking?”

  St. Amien looked up, puzzled behind his spotless glasses. “I won’t smoke here. I know not to smoke in the courtroom. I would never do that.”

  “It’s not about that. Why don’t you quit?”

  “Quit smoking? Why would I?” He sounded so nonplussed, Bennie almost laughed.

  “Because it’s bad for you. Haven’t you heard that in Paris, where the courtrooms are older and smaller?”

  “Yes, of course, they say this, but I enjoy smoking.”

  Bennie let it go. She had her answer, and it was off the point anyway. “Okay, fine. You stay here and watch. And don’t give this seat up for anything. This is the best seat in the house, and you are about to become the lead plaintiff in this lawsuit. I want the judge to see you, and you first. When Mayer and everybody else arrive, let them step over you.”

  St. Amien smiled. “It seems ill-mannered.”

  “It is. We call it litigation. Welcome to America. It’s time to bang some heads.” Bennie knew that St. Amien would need an explanation for the idiom, but she didn’t offer one. She turned to plaintiff’s counsel table to take first chair. By the end of the afternoon, St. Amien would understand the term perfectly.

  The Honorable Kenneth B. Sherman glared down from the dais, his gray hair slightly frizzy and his dark eyes cranky behind gold-rimmed aviator glasses. He hunched over in his black robe with tiny gathers at the yoke top, and his striped tie was knotted too tight for most liberal Democrats. If he was angry at Bennie because she had requested this conference or because she’d been thrown drunkenly out of a Chinese restaurant or because she had been widely reported as guilty of diamond theft, she didn’t know. It might have been moot.

  “Well, good afternoon, everyone,” Judge Sherman said as the courtroom settled down. He nodded briefly around the room, now full to capacity and almost warm with body heat.

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” Bennie responded, in unfortunate unison with Bull Linette, who shifted unhappily next to her at counsel table. He’d be unaccustomed to second chair at counsel table, which was usually occupied by the second-in-command on a lawsuit. He had barely said a word to her when he stormed in with an equally stony Herman
Mayer, and he kept his gaze riveted to the front of the courtroom. She knew she’d pissed him off royally with this move, but she was trying to represent her client, not make friends and influence people.

  “Does everyone have a seat on the plaintiff’s side?” Judge Sherman asked, eyeing Quinones and Kerpov, who nodded back as they pulled up chairs next to Linette, then the other minor lawyers who formed part of their cabal. More lawyers filled the left side of the courtroom, spilling onto the pews behind counsel table, sitting with their clients, brought for show.

  In contrast, the right side of the courtroom, reserved for the defense, was markedly empty, the pews completely vacant. There was no client presence at all, and only a single defense lawyer, an older man, sat at counsel defense table. Bennie knew that the trade association would have retained fleets of lawyers from one of the big, prestigious law firms in the city, but had intentionally sent only a single lawyer, to preempt the underdog position. He wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all Bennie, who felt like telling him to save it for the jury. But she’d fight that enemy later. Right now she had to fight her alleged friends.

  Judge Sherman shifted his oversized glasses higher onto his nose, and his mouth became a hyphen as he returned his glare to the lawyer directly in his field of vision, Bennie Rosato. “Now, Ms. Rosato, since we are all here on your motion, do tell us, what is an emergency hearing in a class action? Class actions usually move along as quickly as evolution itself. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing in this context.”

  It’s okay, Judge, neither have I. Bennie didn’t require prompting to stand up and take the lectern. This whole proceeding was about her taking the lectern. She grasped both sides with sure hands. “May it please the court, my name is—”

  “Bennie, for God’s sake, I know who you are. What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

  Okay, maybe that wasn’t a good start. Bennie’s hands shook a little, so she gripped the lectern harder.

  “And do tell me, while you’re at it, what these papers are. Is this an exercise in creative writing?” Judge Sherman held up a sheaf of white papers at a delicate distance from his nose, as if they smelled really bad. Unfortunately Bennie recognized the motion she’d filed today with the court and had sent to chambers with her letter. Judge Sherman’s knitted brow told her he thought she was ready for rehab. “What on earth is an ‘Emergency Motion to Determine the Method for Appointment of Class Counsel’? I never heard of such a thing. You on an emergency binge or what?”