Lawyered to Death

by Michael Biehl

  “Pig farming causes knee surgery?”

  “Pigs are aggressive, heavy and quick. They ram into the farmers, and happen to be just the right height to get them in the knees. Pig farmers all need knee surgery, sooner or later. So remember: it’s not bacon you’re buying, it’s men’s knees.”

  “Fascinating. I have a new respect for pig farmers. Have you made any progress yet on tracing the order for Lorraine Winslow’s box of poisoned chocolates?”

  Anne smiled, something she did rarely, and handed Karen a page of handwritten notes. “I thought you’d never ask. There’s the name of the clerk at Mercury Messenger who took the order, her store location and phone number. The order was placed the morning of June 16, in De Kalb.”

  “Who placed it?”

  “She wouldn’t give that out, at least not on the phone. Whoever did it paid cash.”

  “Sure. Covering his trail,” said Karen.

  “Or her trail,” said Anne.

  THE BOARDROOM AT Shoreview Memorial, with its traditional hunting club decor and dim lighting, seemed to belong to another era, as did many of the board members themselves. They sat at a long table covered with a white linen tablecloth, using sterling silver to eat greasy cafeteria food and bone china to drink coffee that never knew a bean.

  During the table talk on her agenda item, Karen noticed conspicuous changes in board members’ attitudes toward both herself and Arthur. The directors paid much more attention to her than they had in the past, as if she had finally garnered their respect by quitting. Or maybe it was that now that she was at a law firm, these attorneys and executives saw her as a real lawyer. Arthur’s stock, on the other hand, had moved drastically in the opposite direction. It was because of his foolishness that the board had to deal with this sordid mess. Arthur was now viewed as a blot on the hospital’s escutcheon.

  “In essence,” said the chairman, a ruddy-faced plant owner who put Karen in mind of a bulldog, “the hospital is being asked to pay $50,000 hush money to some receptionist our CEO was fooling around with. Because if his dalliance is discovered by the prosecutor, it could be used to sway the jury in his murder trial. That about it?”

  It was unfair, unkind, infuriating. But accurate. “Yes, that’s about it,” said Karen.

  “I don’t see how we can be a party to this,” said the chairwoman of the hospital foundation, a biddy with half-glasses who was also the wife of the board chairman. Her remark kicked off a flurry of moral outrage that burned itself out in a couple of minutes. Then, one by one, the board members started raising practical issues. How would a sexual harassment suit and a wider scandal in Arthur’s criminal trial affect the hospital? What about the impact of bad publicity on patient admissions? Would it bring in government regulators? What would it cost to defend? Would it interfere with any business deals they had in the pipeline? How would it affect philanthropy?

  “It would kill our fall fund-raising campaign,” said the foundation chairwoman. “Our main benefactor, the Leef family, would back away immediately.”

  A motion to authorize $50,000 was made and seconded. The amount was upped to $100,000, in the words of the chairman, “So we don’t have to face this again.”

  It passed unanimously.

  WHEN MATT STOKER came to Karen’s office later that afternoon, he had an anxious look in his eyes she had not seen before, and a slight skulkiness in his posture. His collar was open and his necktie loosened. He held a coffee mug with the firm logo on it.

  “Did you get authority from the hospital to settle?” he asked.

  “They gave me twice what I asked for,” said Karen.

  “Good work.” He flopped into a guest chair like a lethargic teenager. “You’re going to have to handle the settlement negotiation yourself, Karen. I’m tied up for the rest of the day. We’ve hit a snag.”

  Karen had handled countless settlement negotiations and had no qualms about going it alone on this one. But what was the problem?

  “Arthur’s financial assets have been frozen,” he said. “I’ve never seen this done before. Harold Fairfax hired Ben McCormick to represent Lorraine’s estate.” Karen was familiar with Ben McCormick, the most intimidating personal injury lawyer in the state. “Apparently they’re going to sue Arthur civilly over Lorraine’s death after the criminal case is resolved. McCormick got a judge to tie up Arthur’s bank and brokerage accounts pending a hearing on Friday on allegations that Arthur might expend the marital estate or deplete his liquid net worth to make bail.”

  “Arthur is still in jail? God, he’s going to be a basket case.” And quickly she remembered Amy, home alone.

  “It’s incredible what gets done if you’re representing Harold Fairfax. Big strings are pulled, hard. I’m on my way to visit Arthur now, to see if we can figure out how to scrape up half a million bucks in a hurry.” Matthew swirled the coffee in his mug and looked into it as if he hoped to find an answer there. “Trevor won’t authorize the firm to disburse it.”

  “Tell Arthur I’ll check on Amy. He’ll be worried.”

  Matthew downed his coffee and rose. On his way out, he paused in the doorway. “By the way, did you give the hospital directors our marketing brochure?”

  IT WAS HARD to say which of the three looked the most ill at ease in Van Dyke ~ Eddington’s plush conference room. Attorney Gary Wickwire, who, Karen knew, worked out of his apartment, was wearing a wool suit on an eighty-degree day, suggesting that his nonpolyester wardrobe was limited. Duane Billick, smelling of alcohol, was as fidgety as a ferret and conspicuously silent, as if Wickwire had instructed him to keep his lip buttoned. Shari, whom Karen knew from Shoreview, asked Karen if she liked her new job but otherwise sat unsmiling with her eyes downcast.

  Wickwire opened with a soliloquy about the evidence he had to support the claim, including an affidavit from the desk clerk at the Sleepy Time Motel and an internal hospital memo to Human Resources stating that Mr. Winslow had requested Ms. Billick’s reassignment. After threatening to file a suit in circuit court, complain to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, force production of Arthur’s bank records and talk to the newspapers, he demanded $1,000,000. Karen knew the drill required her to start at zero and spend an hour arguing before offering anything. After several hours of posturing and maneuvering, they would end up somewhere between her goal, which was anything under $100,000, and the limit of her authority, which was $150,000. But she found that now she had neither the time nor the stomach to go through a tedious, contentious negotiation, her willingness to burn hours plummeting with a baby at home. Besides, her instinct told her the other three people at the table all had unpaid bills piled up and a core of insecurity about their conduct. She just had to pick the right number, something easily divisible by three.

  She popped open the latches on her briefcase as noisily as possible. “Seventy-five thousand,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “You fuckin’ nuts?” snarled Duane. “Winslow’s in the can with a noose around his neck. If this gets out . . .”

  Gary pointed a finger and said, “Duane?” in a tone of voice that translated as “Clam up.”

  Karen dropped the Billick file into her briefcase and closed it. “I fully appreciate the extortion value of your claim, Mr. Billick, but the fact is that once this ‘gets out,’ the claim becomes worthless. We can prove that the claimant’s relationship with Mr. Winslow continued after her reassignment, and after the sexual harassment claim was made.”

  Duane jerked back in his chair like a fist had hit him in the chest. He looked at Shari in a way that frightened Karen. Shari turned maroon and covered her face with her hands. Wickwire spoke.

  “Could I have a minute alone with my clients?”

  Karen waited outside the door of the conference room, briefcase in hand, fiddling with her hair with the other hand and worrying that her little bluff had put Shari Billick in peril. Wickwire opened the door halfway and stuck his head out.

  “When would we, my clients, get t
he money?”

  “Shari’s deposition is still on for tomorrow afternoon. We can get the papers done by then. If she and Duane both sign, you’ll have a check before the end of the week.”

  Wickwire’s eyes moved back and forth, then to Karen.

  “Draw ’em up.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  “I’ll be home later than expected. I have to go see Amy Winslow.”

  “No problema.”

  “Why is the baby crying?” McKinley was screaming like a fire engine on call.

  “’Cause that’s what he does.”

  ON HER WAY out of town, Karen drove a stretch of Route 23 lined by strip malls and franchise restaurants. When she saw the sign for the Sleepy Time Motel, she decided to stop and talk to the desk clerk. Her successful settlement of the Billick claim hinged on Jake’s interpretation of a flimsy piece of motel evidence; maybe she could shore it up. She was relieved that the driver of the black SUV that pulled into the lot behind her did not follow her into the office. She needed to talk to the clerk alone.

  “Wanna room?” asked the clerk. Someone should tell him he doesn’t have the body to wear a see-through shirt with no undershirt, thought Karen. Yuck!

  “No, thank you,” she said. She handed him a business card. “I just need to see your guest register and ask you a few questions.”

  He studied the card. “Uh, I don’t know about that. My guests want their privacy.”

  Karen explained that she wasn’t looking to serve process or otherwise bother any guests, but he remained balky. When she tendered the price of a room without taking one, he showed her the register and acknowledged giving Duane Billick’s lawyer an affidavit that Shari Billick had accompanied the man registered as “Elihu Yale.”

  “Did she accompany him both times he was here?”

  “Yeah. It sticks in my mind because hardly anybody checks in midmoming. ’Course, she’d stick in your mind any time of day.” He winked at Karen. “Not that you wouldn’t.”

  Double yuck!

  FROM THE FRONT steps of Arthur’s lakefront house, Karen could hear rap music thumping away inside. She looked back at the driveway, where she had parked behind a yellow Volkswagen. It was the longest driveway she had ever seen, and she was glad of it. She could have sworn the same black SUV that had pulled in behind her at the motel had followed her, but it continued on when she turned down the Winslow estate’s private drive.

  “Your father is worried about you,” Karen explained to Amy. “He asked me to stop by and see if you needed help with anything.”

  Karen and Amy sat in the “parlor,” which was the size of a normal house. The room had been furnished with eighteenth-century English antiques. Gilt-framed oil paintings and tapestries the size of patio doors covered the walls. The oriental rugs looked so old and rare, Karen felt uncomfortable stepping on them. In spite of the formality of her surroundings, Amy was barefoot, in cutoffs and a T-shirt, more suitable attire for the weather than Karen’s black skirt and jacket. Amy had lowered the volume on the stereo, but the bass and percussion still penetrated the ceiling above Karen’s head. She suspected the driver of the yellow VW was upstairs in Amy’s bedroom, avoiding contact with the grown-up.

  “We have a woman who comes in six days a week,” said Amy. “She does all the housework, and she’s a good cook.”

  “I think he was more concerned about you being alone here.” Karen forced herself not to glance upward.

  “I’m fine. My aunts call constantly. And I have friends. My dad doesn’t know any of them.”

  Amy was being polite but guarded. Karen had fulfilled her promise to Arthur. She could go home to her husband and son now, but she would be leaving unsatisfied. Her visit had not done any good. What could she do to be helpful? Amy and Arthur had so many formidable problems, it was hard to know where to start. Was Amy on drugs right now? Karen tried to get a look at Amy’s eyes, hoping the size of her pupils or the color of her sclera would answer the question. No such luck. When she was a student, Karen could always tell when her friends were stoned. But she didn’t know anything about Ecstasy or other nouvelle dope.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Your dad said you had some trouble at school.”

  “It wasn’t my stuff. I was just holding it for a friend.”

  Uh-oh. Karen knew enough to realize that, new drugs or old, hackneyed excuses were a bad sign. Next Amy would be saying she could quit anytime.

  “I know some very good people at Shoreview Memorial if you think you might need help.”

  “I don’t need any help!” Amy raised her voice on the word “help” beyond a polite level. She recovered her composure quickly. “Thanks anyway.”

  Karen realized that she looked like a typical benighted clod from the parental generation, thinking she could understand enough to help without really knowing anything about Amy. With a sense of futility, Karen looked out through an enormous picture window at the lake, which was dark and stippled with whitecaps. The few boats on the water appeared to be hurrying to shore, as if anticipating heavy weather. A white fiberglass sloop that probably had not been sailed all summer was moored beside the Winslows’ pier, its single mast thrusting and parrying against the rolling sky. The sight of the pier brought a question to Karen’s mind.

  “Amy, did you know your mother wore a Medic Alert bracelet?”

  “Yeah. She was allergic to antibiotics.”

  “When was the last time you saw the bracelet?”

  “I don’t know. I visited her the day before she died.”

  “Did you notice whether she was wearing it when you visited?”

  Amy waited a moment to respond. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t there long.”

  “Did you see a box of chocolates in your mom’s room when you were there?”

  Amy’s posture stiffened. A crease appeared between her eyes. “No. I don’t remember. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Amy, you must realize your father is in serious trouble. I’m co-counsel for his defense. I need to find out everything I can about your mother’s death.”

  Amy half rose from the chair, her face suddenly wild with outrage. The mention of her mother’s death seemed to have thrown an emotional switch. “So that’s why you’re here. You didn’t . . . c-come to help me. You came to question me, like that f-fucker Lopopolo. You don’t think I know my father is in trouble? He’s my father!” She sat back down and buried her face in her hands. Now she was sobbing and making a yelping noise that aroused both fear and pity in Karen. Karen looked toward the foyer to see if the probably male friend would come bounding down the stairs to Amy’s rescue. He didn’t. Either he was unchivalrous or wearing headphones.

  “I’m sorry, Amy. I didn’t mean to upset you. I really did come because your dad . . .”

  “Get out!” shrieked Amy. “Get out of my house! Just leave me alone!”

  Karen, feeling shaken and ashamed, showed herself to the front door. It wasn’t hard to believe that this girl, with provocation, had screamed that she wished her mother was dead. As Karen was pulling the front door shut behind her, she heard Amy call out in a mournful voice.

  “Please get my daddy out of jail!”

  BY THE TIME she pulled out of the Winslows’ driveway onto the two-lane state forest road, Karen had rebuked herself for several mistakes. Should have called Amy first. Shouldn’t have interrogated a grieving teenager on drugs. Shouldn’t have mentioned the dead mother. Should have just dropped off a gift and let it go at that. Sometimes she had a tendency to try too hard.

  When she got onto a straight stretch of road she saw something in her rearview mirror that caused a pang of fear. The same black SUV was about forty yards behind. It was surely the one that followed her earlier, still driven by someone in a gray windbreaker, dark glasses and a baseball cap.

  Karen sped up, ten, fifteen over the limit, maintaining her speed through an S turn that squealed the
tires. The road straightened out, and she checked the rearview. Same SUV, same distance. She pressed down on the accelerator, and instead of getting a burst of speed from the Volvo’s engine, got a hesitation and a dull clunk. Then another hesitation. The engine was missing strokes.

  She looked at the gas gauge. The needle was below empty. She had filled the tank yesterday. A sickening dread dropped into her abdomen as she realized that someone had siphoned her gas tank and was tailing her. There was no chance she could make it out to Route 23, where there would be other cars. Whoever was back there had arranged for her to stop on a stretch of road where, at this time of day, a half hour could elapse without a single car passing by. There was no benign explanation for this set of facts.

  An idea occurred to her. Around the next curve was an old logging road that was a point of access to the network of hiking trails that meandered through the state forest. She rounded the curve and turned into the logging road as sharply as the Volvo’s suspension would tolerate. Twenty yards in, she was stopped by a metal gate.

  Karen shut off the engine, turned and looked back, whispering, “Please, please, please, please,” and then, when she saw the SUV pass the logging road, “Thank you.”

  Her relief was short-lived. It ended with a screech of brakes followed by the whine of a car being driven rapidly in reverse. Karen grabbed the cell phone from its cradle and stuffed it into the side pocket of her skirt. Then she got out of the Volvo and ducked under the gate. When the SUV appeared at the end of the logging road, she ran as fast as she could.

  Karen had recently made some choices she regretted, but none more than her decision that morning to wear pumps. As she ran she looked at the surface of the trail. Dirt, twigs, leaves, an occasional small stone. Would the extra fleetness of foot be worth the soreness of foot? When she heard the door of the SUV slam, she kicked off her shoes and sprinted.