Lawyered to Death

by Michael Biehl

  “Hey, look,” said Wickwire. “A deal’s a deal. Mrs. Hayes agreed to seventy-five thousand.”

  “She didn’t adjourn the depositions, though, did she? Before you stand pat on the deal, Gary, look this over.” Matt shoved a copy of the settlement agreement across the smooth surface of the table.

  “Ninety thousand?” said Wickwire. “Maybe I remembered wrong.”

  Matt Stoker reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a check. He held it up by the corners, showing it to Wickwire. “You can have this in your pocket within the hour, or you can try to enforce an oral settlement of a claim that hasn’t even been filed for fifteen thousand less. Your choice.”

  Wickwire looked back and forth between Matthew and Karen, virtually broadcasting his thoughts with his eyes. He was thrilled to get the bonus, but he was worried there was a catch. You might as well play along, thought Karen. You’re no match for Matt Stoker and you know it.

  “You get the ninety thousand,” said Matt, “regardless of what your clients testify, even if Shari admits there was no harassment, so long as they answer the questions and don’t make any statements that are demonstrably false, based on documents we already have in our possession. I won’t take more than ten minutes with either one of them. You can’t quarrel with that.”

  “We don’t have a court reporter,” said Gary.

  “We can videotape,” said Matthew, pointing out the camera perched atop a tripod at the end of the table. “My secretary is a notary. She’ll administer oaths.”

  Wickwire waited just long enough to make the point that he was not a total pushover and then said, “All right. Go ahead.”

  Matthew asked Karen to bring Shari to the conference room, leaving Duane with Emerson for the time being.

  “I’M A RECEPTIONIST at Shoreview Memorial Hospital,” said Shari. “I mean, I was a receptionist. Now I’m a runner.”

  Gary had explained the ground rules of the deposition to Shari, and Matt had started the camera. He described the context of the deposition on the tape and had Wickwire concur. Shari had been sworn and Matt moved through the name, age, address and other background questions faster than Karen had ever seen it done.

  “What does a runner do?”

  “I take things from one part of the hospital to another, like a messenger.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Anything. Memos, lab results, specimens. I deliver meals to the patient rooms.”

  Shari had excellent witness demeanor. Composed, straightforward, no squirming. She kept her green eyes fixed on the examiner, which would have unnerved anyone less self-possessed than Matt Stoker, which was almost everyone. Shari’s faultless hair and makeup made Karen wish she had done more to repair her own appearance.

  “How about medical records?”

  “Yes.”

  Wickwire was gazing out the window, not taking notes. He was undoubtedly aware of the charges against Arthur Winslow, but he seemed to be under the impression that Matt was still doing background questions. Karen could see where Matt was headed, but apparently Gary could not.

  “Does your husband ever visit you at work, Mrs. Billick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he ever visited you while you were delivering medical records?”

  A slight pause. “Yes.”

  “Has he ever visited you while you were delivering meals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Wickwire. “What is the relevance of these questions?”

  Matt pointed at the camera and asked Gary if he wished to make an objection on the record. Gary said no, and Matt continued.

  “Did your husband ever visit you while Lorraine Winslow was a patient at the hospital?”

  Shari paused. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes.”

  Matt lifted the Sleepy Time Motel register from one of the two large black trial cases next to his chair and set it on the table. Wickwire cradled his chin in his hand and tried to look unfazed.

  “Mrs. Billick, I’m going to show you a document I’ve marked Exhibit A.” Matt opened the cover of the register and pulled out the Mercury Messenger Service order form. He showed it to Gary and had Shari read the heading on the document, and the date.

  “What time does it say the order was placed?”

  “11:40 A.M.”

  “What name appears on the customer signature space?”

  “Arthur. Winslow.” Karen heard the confusion in Shari’s voice.

  Matt leaned over the table toward Shari and pointed at the sheet of paper in her hands. “Mrs. Billick, are you able to say, of your own personal knowledge, whether the Arthur Winslow who is the respondent in this case signed that form?”

  Shari’s brow furrowed. There were a few beads of moisture at her temples. Outside, it was as dark as nightfall. Raindrops pelted the windows.

  “No. He couldn’t have signed it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was with me at that time. Here in Jefferson. De Kalb is like thirty miles away.”

  Wickwire had a pained look, waiting for Matt to ask what Shari and Arthur were doing at 11:40 A.M. on June 16. Gary had to be fretting about whether Matt would stand by his deal after the harassment claim was shown to be a sham, on videotape no less. Matt turned to Gary.

  “I’m done. Do you have any questions?”

  Wickwire looked surprised and relieved. He actually smiled. “No questions. Thank you.”

  Matt asked Karen to escort Shari to his office and bring in Mr. Billick. Karen responded with the most horrified look she could muster, hoping that Matt would understand that she did not want to ride with Duane alone even one floor on an elevator. Matt quickly said, “On second thought,” and used the conference room phone to call Emerson.

  As Emerson led Shari from the room, Duane slowly sat down across from his interrogators. As he surveyed the lawyers, his face blanched and his mouth hung open like his nose was plugged. He moved his lips soundlessly, mouthing the words “son of a bitch.”

  Yeah, I bet you’re surprised to see me here, thought Karen.

  Gary explained to Duane that the amount of the settlement had been increased by fifteen thousand, and that all Duane had to do to get the money was to answer a few questions, on videotape. He could not give any answers that could be proven false by documents the defense attorneys already had in their possession. Other than that, it didn’t matter what he said. Piece of cake.

  Duane shifted in his chair and tried to bite his mustache hairs with his canine teeth. He looked at the table, on which rested a thin sheet of yellow paper, a large book covered in fake leather and a check for ninety thousand dollars. He sniffed from the back of his throat. “Roll ’em.”

  Name, age and address went smoothly. Then Matthew asked, “Occupation?”

  Duane fiddled with his mustache. “Businessman.”

  “What business are you in?”

  Duane shrugged. “Different stuff. I’m an entrepreneur.”

  Matthew picked up one of the two trial cases from the floor and placed it on the table. He opened the case and pulled out a stack of manila folders of varying thickness.

  “Mr. Billick, how many times have you been a plaintiff in a lawsuit in the past ten years?”

  Duane eyed the stack of folders. He sat up a little straighter and lifted his chin. “A bunch.”

  “More than six?”

  “Yep.”

  “In fact, Mr. Billick, isn’t that your business? Making personal injury claims and collecting damages?”

  Duane took his time answering. Karen supposed he was asking himself whether a denial could be proven false by documents.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Duane.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t,” said Matthew. “When did you come up with the idea of having your wife accuse Mr. Winslow of sexual harassment? About the time that multimillion-dollar judgment against Kirk & Houston was in the news?”

  Wickwire showed he was still paying
attention. “Object as to form.”

  “You’re right,” said Matt graciously. “Mr. Billick, was it your idea to have your wife accuse Mr. Winslow of sexual harassment?”

  Duane turned to Gary and cupped a hand over his mouth. Karen picked up enough to get that Duane was asking if the videotape of Shari’s deposition was a “document.” Gary nodded.

  “Yeah. My idea.” Was that pride in his voice?

  Matthew hoisted the other trial case from the floor and plopped it on the table. It was apparently quite heavy. He removed a stack of gray photocopies, the top one of which bore the heading “Weyawega County Library.” He tipped the trial case on its side and opened the lid. The case was full of books.

  “Mr. Billick, are you an expert on how to cause food poisoning?”

  “What’s the relevance of that?” said Wickwire.

  “Oh, you’ll see in a minute,” said Matthew. “Mr. Billick?”

  “Nah. Not a expert, really.”

  “You’re being too modest, Mr. Billick. Haven’t you thoroughly researched how to grow the organisms that cause food poisoning, and the effects on the human body of those organisms?”

  “I read some books.”

  “And a few years ago you were able to use what you learned to give yourself food poisoning, and make it look like you got it from a frozen pizza. Isn’t that right?”

  “Nah. The jury messed up.” Matt started sorting through the manila folders, obviously looking for a document that would disprove Duane’s denial. “Yeah,” said Duane. “I guess so.”

  “Okay,” said Matthew. “Now, Mr. Billick, do you remember the meeting yesterday with Ms. Hayes here?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Do you remember telling her that your wife’s case against Mr. Winslow was worth a lot of money because he was in jail on criminal charges?”

  “I don’t remember saying that, exactly.”

  “Words to that effect?”

  Duane looked around the room. He was in full-blown paranoia now, apparently scanning the room for microphones. He eyed the camera as if it were an opponent in a knife fight.

  “Yeah, words to that effect.”

  “Thank you. Now I’d like you to try to remember the morning of June 16. The Friday before last. Do you remember where you were between eleven and noon that morning?”

  Duane rubbed his fingernails against his chin stubble and tongued his mustache. “Uh, let’s see. Friday before last. I was at home.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Sure. My wife can. I called her at work. She . . .”

  Gary grabbed Duane by the wrist and gave him a stern look. “Think about your answer, Duane.”

  Duane sat quietly. He had to be able to figure out why Gary had interrupted the lie. The motel guest register was sitting right in front of him. Gary was jerking his head toward it. Duane’s lip twitched.

  “Nah. Nobody can verify.”

  “Because your wife was with Mr. Winslow that morning at a motel, wasn’t she?” said Matthew.

  “Why don’t you ask her that, asshole?”

  “I did. Which would you say was your main reason for poisoning Lorraine Winslow—to boost the value of your sexual harassment claim or to get revenge on Winslow for having sexual relations with your wife?”

  “I didn’t know Winslow was . . .”

  “Object as to form,” said Wickwire.

  “. . . fucking my wife.”

  “Shut up, Duane,” said Wickwire. “Can we go off the record?”

  Matthew paused the video camera.

  “If Duane takes the Fifth on this line of questioning,” said Gary, “does it void our settlement?”

  “No,” said Matt Stoker. “Not if he takes it on the record.”

  Gary and Duane huddled together, whispering to each other behind cupped hands. Karen could make out nothing Wickwire said, but she heard Duane call him a “weasel.”

  “Back on the record,” said Gary. “I have advised Mr. Billick that my practice does not include criminal defense and I do not represent him with respect to any criminal matter. That said, Mr. Billick, you may refuse to answer Mr. Stoker’s question if you believe it may incriminate you.”

  “I refuse to answer,” said Duane.

  Matt said he was done, and Wickwire had no further questions. Emerson brought Shari back to the conference room, documents were signed and Matthew handed Gary the check. Everyone rose and the Billicks moved toward the door. Karen gravitated to the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was smoke and charcoal, with a thin line of glowing ocher along the horizon.

  While Gary Wickwire held the door open for his clients, Karen looked at their faces. They didn’t seem very happy for people who had just received $90,000 they didn’t deserve. As the door fell shut, she heard Duane say, “Rat fuck.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Matthew Stoker held a videocassette in one hand and a telephone receiver in the other. He hunched over the phone like a quarterback awaiting the snap. Karen had never seen him look so intense, and she remarked on it to Emerson.

  “I’ve seen him like this before,” said Emerson with a cynical tone. “Usually when he’s about to do something amazing.”

  Karen hoped Matt was not planning to do anything more that day, amazing or otherwise. The yellow glow along the horizon had turned into a pinkish orange. As understanding as Jake was, he would lose patience if she failed to come home before dark on the first three days of her new job.

  Matt strode over to them with a look of restless determination in his eyes. “Emerson, take this tape to the AV room and make a copy. I’ll be waiting at the Illinois Avenue exit. I’m meeting with the DA in fifteen minutes, so step on it. Take the other copy to Detective Lopopolo’s office at the station house and wait for him.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” said Emerson, no longer faking enthusiasm for the “gofer” work Matt handed him.

  “Karen,” said Matt, in a decisive snap that dashed all hope that she was done for the day. “You’re off to the county jail to see Arthur. It’s right next to the police station and Emerson can give you a lift. Just sit with Arthur in the visiting booth until I get there. Shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  Or so. Another interminably long day. Karen’s head ached. Her toe throbbed. Everything in between hurt. Why wasn’t she more excited about what was happening, this apparent break in Arthur’s case? She just wanted to go home and be with McKinley, before he started saying “Mama” to Jake.

  Matt was out the door without another word. Emerson shrugged and said, “Big doin’s.” He offered to help Karen with her things, but she reminded him that he had orders to “step on it.” She hobbled out to the parking structure and managed to make it to within thirty feet of Emerson’s car before fumbling her briefcase. While attempting to recover it, she dropped her purse and both crutches.

  She stood on one leg like a flamingo, fighting tears, until Emerson showed up.

  IN THE VISITING booth, Arthur embraced Karen crutches and all, which drew smirking glances from a couple of the men in the holding cell. Arthur had been incarcerated for little more than two days, but he had a damaged look about him, as if he had been trapped in a collapsed mine for several weeks. Karen reported that she had visited Amy as promised. Arthur nearly sank into a stupor at the mention of his daughter’s name.

  Karen quickly decided another topic was in order and launched into a description of the depositions of Shari and Duane Billick. She told Arthur that Matt Stoker was at that moment showing tapes of the depositions to the DA and Detective Lopopolo. Arthur said haltingly, “Well, I guess that’s something.” His face looked dark and troubled. He did not seem to grasp how the depositions helped his case.

  Karen watched Arthur’s eyes as she explained how the order form from Mercury Messenger established that the person who had sent the chocolates to Lorraine was in De Kalb at 11:00 A.M. on the day she was poisoned. She then described the entry she found in the register a
t the Sleepy Time Motel. Arthur showed no satisfaction at how well these pieces of evidence worked in his defense. On the contrary, Karen’s discussion of the motel register only seemed to add acute embarrassment to his obvious depression. He stared at the floor instead of at his lawyer.

  Why wasn’t Arthur elated at the possibility of his release and Amy’s exoneration? Karen wondered. Perhaps he was thinking that if Duane Billick was as guilty as he looked, Arthur would live the rest of his life knowing that his faithlessness had led to Lorraine’s death. A heavy price to pay for a sexual fling.

  Another possibility was that Arthur knew Duane was not, in fact, guilty, and that knowledge would cost him a heavier price.

  Finally Arthur looked up at Karen and spoke. “The day before Lorraine died, I met with Shari Billick privately. My intention was to confront her about the bogus harassment claim. I thought I could persuade her to drop it. But I never got around to discussing it. It’s hard to explain what happened.”

  “You don’t have to explain, Arthur.”

  “And I can’t. Karen, from the moment Dr. Treacher gave me Lorraine’s diagnosis, I was in constant pain. Unbearable. The only time the pain backed off was when I was with Shari Billick. I don’t know why. Even Dr. Moyer couldn’t explain it. I know it’s no justification for my behavior.”

  No justification, thought Karen, but it seemed to cast a different light on Arthur’s misbehavior, one that softened the edges.

  DUANE BILLICK SAT on the brown velour sofa in his basement rec room, nibbling at his mustache, watching a baseball game on ESPN Classic that had been played before he was born. A six-pack had not made a dent in Duane’s agitation. Thirsty for sedation, he opened another beer and gulped it down without pausing to take a breath. Whitey Ford was clinging to a one-run lead and had walked the bases loaded. The announcer said Ford was in trouble. Crap, he didn’t know what trouble was, the asshole. Duane switched off the television.

  He felt like he needed some company, but he wasn’t sure Shari would be in the mood for conversation. They had words on the way home from the lawyers’ offices. Or rather he had words while Shari sat in stony silence. Duane’s throat was raw from screaming at her; he had used some pretty rough language. Now he felt remorseful. Who was he to get on his high horse, given the spot he was in?