Lawyered to Death

by Michael Biehl

  Karen glanced over at Shirley, who was looking off to the side and twirling a Cross pen with her fingers like a tiny baton. Shirley’s avoidance of eye contact aroused Karen’s suspicion.

  “You want me to sell a legal audit to St. Peter’s Hospital?” Karen asked.

  “Who better than you?” said Trevor, leaning forward and gesturing toward her. “I’m on a board with the chief financial officer of St. Pete’s and he told me he thinks you’re the best hospital lawyer in town. You know hospitals inside and out; you’d know right where to look for the dirt we could charge them for cleaning up. Besides, I sensed the CFO was intrigued by something else only you could offer St. Pete’s.”

  Trevor paused, apparently waiting for Karen to guess what her unique expertise was that so interested the CFO of St. Pete’s. The sun was in his eyes and he was squinting and smiling slyly. His expression made Karen feel stupid, as if what she was supposed to say should be completely obvious to her, but it wasn’t.

  “And that would be?” she said.

  “Your knowledge of Shoreview Memorial,” said Trevor.

  He settled back in his thronelike desk chair. He offered no further explanation, but none was necessary. The two hospitals in Jefferson were bitter rivals. Because of shrinking demand for inpatient services, the town would soon support only a single hospital. Karen knew all of Shoreview Memorial’s plans, strategies, tactics—and its hidden vulnerabilities. That sort of information could be decisive in a competition that the execs at both hospitals viewed as a fight to the death.

  “I couldn’t possibly divulge confidential information I learned as Shoreview Memorial’s lawyer to its competitor,” said Karen.

  “Why not?” said Trevor. “You don’t work there anymore.”

  “It’s against the rules of legal ethics.”

  “How would anyone at Shoreview ever know what you tell St. Pete’s?” said Trevor.

  “Hospital employees socialize and move between the two hospitals,” said Karen, “but that’s irrelevant. It’s unethical even if no one at Shoreview finds out.”

  Trevor rubbed a hand over his chin and pinched the jowl beneath it. He let out a sigh. “All right, then. So you don’t give St. Peter’s any confidential information about Shoreview. Maybe you just give them the impression you might, to get our foot in the door. That’s not against legal ethics.”

  Karen could see frustration in Trevor’s face, but it seemed to be no greater than what she herself was feeling. “No,” she said, “that would be against my personal ethics. Besides, why are we selling to St. Pete’s? Shoreview Memorial is already a client. We can’t represent both because one is likely to drive the other out of business soon.”

  “Who says we can’t?” said Trevor with a sharp tone of irritation. “Shoreview won’t find out we’re advising St. Pete’s right away, and by the time they do, we’ll have a good idea which client is generating more billings.”

  “So we play both sides, wait to see who pays us more, then toss the other one out like yesterday’s newspaper?” Karen felt she was going to implode.

  “That’s right,” said Trevor. “I live in the real world, Karen. Right now, in the real world, corporate law firms are going through a shakeout. The ones that are most aggressive, most willing to take risks and make hard choices, are going to dominate. Nice guys finish last.”

  Where do crooks finish? Karen wondered.

  “Trevor has a vision for the firm,” said Shirley. “He sees us as a regional firm and, eventually, even a national one. Do you want to be part of that vision? Are you a team player?”

  A red-tailed hawk swooped by the window. The air around here was full of birds of prey. Karen felt like a field mouse looking for cover. “Not if it means acting as attorney for St. Peter’s,” she said. “It wouldn’t be kosher.”

  Trevor glared at her for a moment; then he pulled his desk pen from its onyx holder and began writing on a legal pad. “Matthew hasn’t made a bad move since he’s been here,” Trevor said, without looking up. “There’s a first time for everything. That’s all, Karen.”

  Karen picked up her crutches and hobbled toward the door. Halfway there, she dropped her briefcase and had to hold her crutches in one hand while she bent down to pick it up. The motion forced her to put weight on her left toe, inducing a stab of pain in it like a needle shoved up to its eye. Neither Trevor nor Shirley made any move to assist her.

  As she reached the door, she saw Shirley Roach out of the corner of her eye, looking at her with a combination of contempt and smugness that seemed to say, “Gotcha!”

  CHAPTER

  22

  The rain that had started the night before continued to fall as Karen, foot up to ease the throbbing in her toe, gazed out the window of her office, imagining nicer weather and more pleasant ways of making a living. Teaching in Arizona might be nice, or perhaps being director of a cruise ship in the tropics. Maybe she could get a job at the zoo, now that she had experience working with snakes. She watched the river below. The Weyawega was at the top of its banks, its violently churning water an opaque mocha from the storm runoff.

  She pulled up her e-mail on the computer screen. It was mostly trivial announcements and spam, except for a message from “mstoker.” Karen had sent Matt Stoker an e-mail after her successful settlement of the Billick claim, describing what went on at the meeting and the terms of the agreement. Matt had responded with congratulations and confirmation that he would have an associate draft the settlement agreement. She was reading his message when she heard the man’s voice from the doorway.

  “What happened to you?” He was immaculate in white and his usual shades.

  “Stubbed my toe.”

  “Did you stub your face, too?”

  “Mosquito bites,” said Karen. Next to Matt, she looked like a shlub. As much as she did not care to relive the events of the previous night, what had happened might be related to Arthur’s case. She had to tell Matt about it. He dropped gracefully into a chair and sipped coffee from a Van Dyke ~ Eddington mug while Karen filled him in, including her theories about who might have chased her.

  “The Department of Motor Vehicles won’t give out car descriptions if you give them the name of the owner,” said Matthew. “I’ve tried. Would the hospital be able to tell you if Dr. Treacher has a black SUV?”

  “Yes, if he parks it in the hospital’s parking garage.”

  “Would they have any record of the kind of car Clifford Gooch owns?”

  “No, they don’t get that from patients. I wonder if Shari Billick rents a space in the garage. Of course, she and Duane might drive different cars.”

  “Are you able to drive a car with that thing?” he said, abruptly pointing at Karen’s white-stockinged foot.

  “No. Both of our cars have a stick. Which is too bad because I had planned to drive to De Kalb this afternoon to interview the clerk at Mercury Messenger who took the delivery order for Lorraine Winslow’s chocolates.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Matthew. “Duane’s unemployed. His lawyer, Wickwire, says Duane hangs around the house all day. Why don’t we just go take a look-see? I’ll drive.”

  “Don’t go spying on Duane Billick . . . alone,” Jake had said. This wouldn’t be alone, and Matthew had a very fast car. Karen’s curiosity was aroused. “I have to be back by 11:30 A.M. to meet my father.”

  “I’ll pull the Jag around to the front, so you won’t have so far to walk.”

  The rain had backed off to a mist and, with each stroke, the intermittent wipers on Matthew’s Jaguar squeaked like a badly bowed cello. The sky was exactly the same color as the concrete lions bestride the bridge over the Weyawega River, water dripping from their fangs, their eyes squinting as if to keep out the drizzle.

  “I’m afraid I may have tarnished your image with Van Dyke,” said Karen. “He’s had it with me, and he blames you for hiring me.”

  Matt waved a hand. “Nah, I’m golden with Trevor. And we’ll bring him around as fa
r as you’re concerned, too.” He pointed a finger at Karen. “The one you’ve got to worry about is Shirley.”

  Karen had not had time to analyze it, but her instincts told her the fiasco with Trevor this morning had been deliberately set up by Shirley. She described the meeting to Matt and confessed her suspicions about Shirley’s treachery.

  “She knew how I’d react to the proposal, and how Trevor would react to my reaction. It was diabolical.”

  Matt chuckled quietly. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I should have seen it coming and warned you.”

  “What’s she got against me?”

  “You have way too many IQ points,” he said, “and one too many X chromosomes. You threaten her. Shirley thinks there’s only room for one queen in the hive.”

  This was not the mentality Karen expected from the first woman to achieve a management position at one of the top firms in the area, and she told Matt so. Matt chuckled again.

  “You misunderstand Shirley if you see her as a liberated career woman,” he said. “She got ahead, all right, but she got there the old-fashioned way,” he made an upside-down fist, “by getting hold of a powerful man by the you-know-whats.”

  His interpretation seemed accurate, even if it was as depressing as the gloomy, wet day. “I wondered how she got where she is,” said Karen. “I never heard one thing come out of her mouth that wasn’t obvious or clichéd.”

  “Or mimicry of Trevor,” said Matt.

  Karen was loosening up. Ripping Shirley Roach could be fun right now. “Yeah, I noticed that. Frankly, I don’t see how she can have such a hold on Trevor sexually, either. Let’s face it, any ‘come hither’ she may have had has gone thither.”

  They were stopped at an intersection, waiting to turn onto Route 23. The turn signal of Matt’s Jaguar had a much meatier sound than Karen’s old Volvo. Matt cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to imply that Shirley’s hold on Trevor was sexual, in that narrow a sense. What she’s got is more durable than good looks.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A couple of things,” he said. “Shirley has worked closely with Trevor for years. She knows where all of the bodies are buried. The downside of the ‘lawyer versus client’ model of practice is that you tend to generate a lot of bodies that need burying. I know about a few of Trevor’s myself. Like the Stein Art Foundation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A charitable foundation Trevor set up years ago for the firm’s wealthiest client, Herb Stein. Herb was an art buff, so Trevor set up the foundation with the ostensible purpose of preserving and promoting fine art, some totally vague BS like that. Then Trevor gets the foundation written generously into Herb’s will, and Trevor puts himself, his brother and Shirley on the foundation board. Then Herb dies, and it’s party time. You can buy a lot of nice things with the income off $80 million.”

  Karen remembered the artwork in Trevor’s office. “The Miro . . . ?”

  “Paid for by the Stein Art Foundation. And the rest of Trevor’s office art, and the paintings, sculpture, oriental rugs and tapestries in his house and in his brother’s house. Plus, the board members traveled first-class all over Europe, scouting acquisitions for the foundation’s collection that ended up in their homes. Plus, they paid themselves by the hour for making those European trips, on top of huge directors’ salaries.”

  Outside the car, tract suburbs of large houses on small lots had thinned to exurbs of small houses on large country parcels, some of them still planted with crops. The rain had formed puddles on the flat, soggy land that looked like small lakes, complete with paddling ducks. The story of the Stein Art Foundation had left Karen slightly nauseated, as much by her naïveté as by her contempt for Roach and Van Dyke. She was not sure she could stand to hear any more law firm secrets. As always, her curiosity won out. “You said a couple of things.”

  Matt drummed on the steering wheel with his thumbs and smiled. “The other is something I’m sure a lot of people in the firm know, but nobody ever, ever talks about. Shirley has three children, ages eighteen, fifteen and twelve.”

  “Nice spacing.”

  “The fifteen-year-old looks just like Trevor. Oh, here’s the Billick domain.”

  Matt slowed as they neared a small raised ranch house on the left, about one hundred feet back from the road. It had brown lap siding, a hipped roof and no garage. A blue pickup truck was parked in the gravel driveway, next to a side door. Near the front door was a folding lawn chair with broken webbing. No black SUV.

  “Maybe Shari drives the SUV to work,” said Karen. Matt slowed further, almost coming to a stop directly in front of the driveway. There were no other homes nearby, and Karen felt conspicuous. “Keep moving.”

  “Wait,” said Matt, pointing. “What’s that?”

  A row of trees ran down the edge of the Billicks’ lawn, apparently planted as a windbreak when the property was part of a working farm. On the other side of the tree line stood a small outbuilding, its chipped and faded red paint visible through the trunks of elm and ash. Its roof sagged and plywood was nailed over the windows. A grill and bumper protruded from the far side of the structure.

  The Jaguar crept forward until it was opposite the outbuilding and the vehicle next to it came into full view.

  “That it?”

  Karen’s jumpy stomach and sweat on her palms answered the question. “Yes. Let’s get going.”

  Matt sped up and drove a mile down Route 23 until they passed a brown wooden sign that said, “County Park, ¼ mile.” When the turn to the park came up, he took it.

  “Maybe we should stop and call the police,” he said. “I’ve got my cell phone.”

  Karen thought for a moment. “What would I report? That I think Duane Billick might have followed me last night, and I ran away from him and stubbed my toe? The police couldn’t do anything with that, and I’d just be giving Billick another reason to be ticked off at me. But thanks for driving me out here. It’s better to know.”

  Matt pulled into a parking space and shut off the engine. The park consisted of a few acres of grass on the banks of the Weyawega River, with picnic tables, pit toilets and a well with a rusted hand pump. It was deserted, there being no one interested in picnicking in the rain at 10:30 on a weekday morning.

  “You’re shaking like a James Bond martini,” said Matthew. “It’s not cold. Are you okay?”

  Karen looked through the windshield at the swirling brown water lapping over the riverbank. On the other side of the river a red-winged blackbird disappeared into a cattail marsh. “The river looks cold.”

  She felt Matthew’s hand come to rest on her left knee, which, owing to her inability to pull a nylon over her bandaged toe, was bare. The hand felt warm and comforting. The little squeeze, however, was not as comforting. Should she brush the hand away? She hesitated. Matthew was the only friend she had at Van Dyke ~ Eddington.

  “Relax, Karen. It’ll be all right. We’ll get Duane Billick. Guys like him are cowards.”

  Karen turned in her seat and looked at Matthew closely. He had a soft, caring look in his eyes and a reassuring smile on his lips. Lips, she realized, that were slowly moving in the direction of hers. When they were about four inches away, she said, “What are you doing?”

  “Karen, I find you very attractive.” She smelled his highend aftershave.

  I should be appalled, she thought. But she wasn’t. It had been a long time since a charming, good-looking young man had made an overt pass. It was flattering and a little exciting. There was nothing the slightest bit awkward or threatening about Matt’s approach; he had made it seem like the natural thing to do at the moment. Still, she had an impulse to giggle. Maybe she had been a little too chummy with Matt, and, self-confident as he was, he had misinterpreted. She tried to fend him off by making light of the situation.

  “How attractive can I be with bug bites all over my face?”

  “Hey. I like the outdoorsy t
ype.” His face and lips moved closer.

  “I’m a lot older than you.” She thought of turning away.

  “You don’t look it.” Another little squeeze on the knee. Higher up.

  “What is this? My chance to be the next Shirley Roach?”

  “You could never be like Shirley Roach.”

  He was really moving in. Enough with the light touch. She pulled her head back. “Matthew, I’m married.”

  He sat back. “I like Jake,” he said. “But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “But he will know. There’s no fooling Jake. Besides, I’ll tell him, next time I see him. I tell Jake everything.”

  Matt turned and faced forward. He dusted his rugged jaw-line with his knuckles and let out a deep breath. “Too bad. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  Karen looked away. All manner of flotsam was sweeping past on the muddy river. The engine started and the car began moving.

  Hard feelings? She felt some anger, a little betrayal, a touch of embarrassment. But none of it really felt hard. She couldn’t lie to herself. Her feelings were sugarcoated with self-satisfaction and gratitude.

  “‘TIS NOT SO deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve,” muttered Arthur Winslow. “Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.”

  It was recreation time at the Weyawega County Jail. The cell doors were open and the inmates talked, played cards or loitered in the dayroom. Arthur hated the dayroom, with its constant threat of interaction with the other inmates, even more than he hated his cell. The cell was dismal, ten by twelve, with cement block walls, steel bars, a narrow cot and a toilet with no seat or lid. But at least in the cell he had but one criminal from whom to keep aloof, his morbidly obese cellmate.

  “I am peppered, I warrant, for this world,” said Arthur. “A plague on both your houses!”

  Every thought he had in the past two days was depressing, every memory filled with anguish. He seriously considered smashing his head into the wall, just to achieve unconsciousness and stop the agony for a while. Thoughts of Lorraine were the most insistent and the most painful, but those of Amy were almost as distressing. Recollections of Shari Billick also haunted him. Thinking of her at least enabled him to figure out why he had done the worst thing he had ever done, and understanding had brought a little, very temporary relief.