Lawyered to Death

by Michael Biehl

  “Annie, can’t you stop working for a few minutes, even at a country club party in summer?”

  “That was the head nurse on the psych floor,” said Anne. “Guess who’s back in the hospital?”

  Karen blinked. “Not Clifford Gooch.”

  “Yes, Clifford Gooch,” said Anne.

  “How did they bring him in? Guys in white coats with butterfly nets?”

  “They didn’t bring him in. He got in the same way he got out. Just drifted in with the visitors, sat down in the common room and asked a nurse what time lunch was. Bizarre, eh?”

  The room quieted and faces began turning toward the main entrance to the ballroom. There, teetering on his cane with two attendants hovering at his elbows like bodyguards, stood Harold Fairfax. He wore a jaunty plaid sport coat and baggy knickers that looked slightly comical on his tiny frame, but seemed to announce confidently that he alone knew what to wear before five at a country club that was actually in the country.

  The throng parted before him as he hobbled toward Arthur, and conversations hushed so that the click of Harold’s cane on the planked floor was audible. When the old man finally reached Arthur, he transferred his cane to his left hand and extended his right.

  “Congratulations, son,” said Fairfax in a high-pitched, raspy voice. “Awww” went through the room, something like the sound a movie audience makes in reaction to a puppy. Then, in a voice clearly intended to be heard by everyone present, Harold said, “I am sorry I misjudged you. Forgive me.” Arthur took Harold’s hand, there was a smattering of applause and conversation gradually resumed.

  Jake leaned toward Karen and quietly said out of the corner of his mouth, “Old dude’s got cojones.”

  “BILLICK, YOU GOT mail.”

  Duane took the envelope from the guard and sat back down on his narrow cot. Someone had sliced open the envelope. Duane hated the lack of privacy in this place almost as much as he hated the lack of alcohol. Guards reading your mail and watching your every move. Having to squat over the toilet with another guy in the room, some freaky fat fuck who sits on his cot all day muttering gibberish about smale foweles that slepen all the nyght with open eeye, whatever the hell that shit meant.

  Duane pulled the letter out of the envelope, his hands trembling from nervous excitement and three days without booze. The letter was handwritten on motel stationery.

  Dear Duane,

  I have moved out and I will not be coming back. Please do not try to contact me. Gary Wickwire is going to file divorce papers. All I want is one of the cars and half of what’s in the savings account.

  You know that this time you really went too far. But in spite of everything, I hope you are all right and that you get through this, and that you get help. Love, Shari.

  Duane stared at the word “love” for a long time, trying to draw comfort from it, like a cold beer.

  THE LIGHT FROM the chandelier glinted in the thick lenses of Dr. Jeffrey Treacher’s glasses and shone on his oily scalp like moonlight on water. He had stepped into Karen’s path as she and Jake maneuvered through the crowd to greet Arthur. The doctor had a sour, unfriendly expression on his face.

  “Nice party, wouldn’t you say, Counselor?”

  Karen had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with Dr. Treacher. “Yes, Doctor. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “But I don’t excuse you,” said the neurologist with a harsh tone. His face was flushed, and he had a glass in his hand with nothing but ice cubes in it. “You do know what this party is all about, don’t you, Mrs. Hayes? It’s an apology, recognition that it’s a terrible thing for a man to be wrongly accused. But you and I know Arthur Winslow wasn’t the only man who was wrongly accused, was he, Counselor?”

  “I never accused you, Doctor. I asked you a few questions as part of an investigation. I’m sorry if you took it as an accusation.”

  Treacher sloshed his ice cubes in Karen’s direction. “Save your apologies. Just do us all a favor and next time, before you waste a doctor’s time with one of your little ‘investigations,’ consider that he could be using that time to save lives.”

  Treacher moved on and Karen muttered, “What’s his problem?”

  Jake replied, “His problem is that he’s a mean drunk.”

  Karen finally reached Arthur, who introduced her to Harold Fairfax as “one of the lawyers who helped Matthew Stoker with my defense.” Karen resisted the urge to explain that it was she who turned up the critical pieces of evidence that Matt used to free Arthur. She also held her tongue while Harold explained why he thought that women should not be lawyers. Arthur bent down and whispered in her ear, “Harold has a touch of Alzheimer’s.”

  Karen’s conversation with the guest of honor and the water closet king ended abruptly when Matt Stoker showed up. He wore a black and white woven silk sport coat and a collarless shirt. Tanned and relaxed, he looked more like the Chicagoans than one of the locals. Arthur boomed Matthew’s name and grabbed him by the elbow to present him to Harold.

  “This is the young man I was telling you about,” said Arthur. “The lawyer who saved me from the gallows.”

  “It’s an honor,” said Harold. “And a rare one. Good lawyers are as hard to come by as prewar Château La Tache—and almost as valuable!”

  The three men laughed and launched into a lively good-old-boy conversation that Karen could not find a way to squeeze into. Then Trevor Van Dyke and Shirley Roach arrived, without their spouses. As introductions were made, Karen found herself elbowed to the periphery of the circle. Jake tugged on the back of her dress.

  “No line at the bar,” said Jake. “Do you want me to get you something, or are you looking for an excuse to bolt?”

  Neither Arthur nor Harold seemed to notice when Karen drifted away. Matt noticed, however, and for a moment he and Jake locked eyes. Jake said nothing, just looked hard at the lawyer until Matt turned away with a jerk, spilling some of his drink on Shirley Roach. It was the first time Karen had seen Matt unnerved.

  At the bar, Jake asked for two gin and tonics. Karen heard Emerson Knowles say, “Make that three.”

  “So, Karen, what do you make of all this?” asked Emerson, sweeping his hand in a gesture that took in the entire room. “Arthur Winslow is vindicated, Matthew Stoker is victorious, as usual, and Harold Fairfax is none the worse for having shown himself to be rash, treacherous and two-faced.”

  “Hush,” said Karen. “I must say, Emerson, you don’t seem to be entering into the spirit of the festivities.”

  “Neither do you.”

  Emerson’s remark brought Karen up short. He was right. She had been quiet all afternoon, she wasn’t smiling and she didn’t feel at all festive. Something about the occasion did not feel right. There was an air of unwholesomeness about it.

  “To tell you the truth,” said Karen, “I don’t know what to make of this event. I just don’t understand it. The high-fives, the end-zone dance eludes me. It seems . . . premature.”

  “You think it’s too soon after the funeral? I never thought of you as particularly hung up on etiquette or delicacy.”

  Karen looked around the room. Chicago bluebloods, exhibiting their polished manners with the same unaffected ease as they wore their designer clothes. The crew from the hospital, middle-class, midwestern middle managers and doctors, earnest and sedate. Arthur’s local cronies, who were at the country club that Saturday afternoon mainly because that’s where they were every Saturday afternoon. Emerson had a point. Compared to these people, Karen was practically a free spirit. Yet she had not gotten the sense that any of them were hung up on the propriety of toasting Arthur’s deliverance a mere seven days after burying his wife.

  “It’s not a matter of etiquette or delicacy,” said Karen. “I just feel that the whole issue of Lorraine’s death isn’t settled enough to be rejoicing over the outcome. It’s too soon.”

  Emerson accepted a canapé from a passing waitress, popped it in his mouth and washed it down with gin and tonic.
“What, you have doubts they’re going to be able to convict Billick? Read the papers, Karen. He’s toast.”

  On the other side of the windows, a towering cumulonimbus cloud that looked like the plume from a steam engine loomed over the fairways. One of the guests had wandered away from the party and was standing on the eighteenth green, studying the magnificent thunderhead in the distance. It was Jake. Karen’s focus was drawn away to the sky, to the green grass, to Jake. Absently, she said, “The scheme seems too complicated for Duane.”

  “Not if you read the files on some of the stuff he’s pulled off in the past,” said Emerson. “Billick is so devious and dishonest, he could have gone a long way in politics. Besides, it doesn’t matter if he is actually guilty.” Emerson raised his glass to the room. “What matters is that order is restored to the kingdom.”

  Karen turned back toward Emerson and took a sip of her drink. The lime wedge floating on top smelled bitter. “So why are you so sour on this event?” she asked.

  “Same reason you are, my friend. Resentment. This is the biggest victory for the Van Dyke firm in years. Dramatic. Newsworthy. I worked on the case, you worked on the case. But Matthew cracked the case, so he’s the one garnering the laurels. Get used to it. Won’t be the last time.”

  SHARI BILLICK PEELED the wrapper from a small bar of motel room soap. She held it up to her nose and smelled gardenia and lilac. Nice. Better quality than they give you at the cheap chains. She would spoil herself and stay at the Holiday Inn a few more nights. She moistened her left hand with warm tap water and soaped the knuckle of her third finger. Her wedding ring slipped off easily. She looked at it with sad resolution. A diamond that size would fetch a good price, enough money to keep her going for months. She knew she could never get back what Duane had paid for the ring, let alone what it had cost her.

  All those years.

  But she knew it was not the ring that had ensnared her in a bad marriage. What had captured her was the passion of a man who would spend his last dime on a romantic gesture. An intense, overpowering passion—for her.

  She could still see passion in Duane sometimes. Not for her, though, or he would never have talked her into going to bed with another man. He would not have taken the risk.

  She opened a black velvet ring case and switched her wedding ring for the one inside. The new ring fit perfectly. Such elegance. A simple platinum setting with the largest, most intricately cut ruby she had ever laid eyes on. A gemstone that made Duane’s flawed diamond look like something from K-Mart. She held out her hand with her fingers extended and admired the ruby. It thrilled her, as much as for what it said about Arthur’s love for her as for its beauty.

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER?” asked Jake. “You look like you got a bad clam off the hors d’oeuvre tray.”

  Karen and Jake waited on the clubhouse steps while a parking valet fetched the Mustang. It was a humid afternoon. The air was redolent of cut grass and fertilizer. The thunderhead had moved closer and the weather had turned cooler. A breeze gave Karen a tingle of gooseflesh.

  “Emerson said something that disturbed me. I should get your opinion. Why do you think I didn’t enjoy the party?”

  “Because it was a drag?” said Jake. “Because it was a lot of stuffed shirts and stuck-up twits pretending not very convincingly to like each other?”

  Karen shivered and Jake put his arm around her. “Emerson said it was because I was resentful that Matthew solved the case, so he’s taking all the bows. Emerson thinks I’m sore that I’m not getting any credit for my contribution.”

  Jake took Karen’s chin between his thumb and index finger and tipped her face toward his. “Emerson doesn’t know you like I do,” he said. “You don’t have a petty bone in your body, and you don’t give a damn who gets credit. If there’s something about the scene in there that’s bugging you, it’s something else.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t figure out what it is.”

  The valet pulled up with the Mustang. Jake gave Karen’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You will.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  “Come on, now. Come on. Come. Come on, now.”

  Karen lay on her stomach, wriggling her fingers at McKinley, who looked bored. The pediatrician had told her that the baby should be crawling more to aid his muscular development. Thus far McKinley had shown little interest in the activity.

  “Come on, now. Come on. Come. Come on, now. Come on.” McKinley responded with three saliva bubbles and a gob of drool, followed by a facial expression that sent the message, “Nuts to you.”

  Calling, cajoling and chiding all failed to spur the baby. Karen grabbed her change purse and poured the contents into her hand. She shook the coins like a maraca, and McKinley’s interest was piqued. He crawled to the sound with the dexterity of a stalking leopard and pried Karen’s hand open with surprisingly powerful little fingers. He just needs the right motivation, thought Karen. He’ll probably be a lawyer or a doctor.

  Karen fed the baby, waited out the inevitable colic attack (noting gratefully that the colic was diminishing with age), changed him and settled him down in his crib. Jake was in the studio, presumably working on his suite. Karen stopped outside the door to eavesdrop.

  The studio’s soundproofing was excellent, but Karen could hear enough to tell that Jake was not working. He was clowning, doing an imitation of Ray Charles. This was a bit Jake used to do at parties in college, singing a version of the classic “What’d I Say” with off-color lyrics. See the girl all dressed in red; she makes her living in her bed. Adolescent humor at its worst, but it never failed to get laughs because Jake’s impression of Charles was uncanny.

  Karen opened the door stealthily. Off-white egg cartons covered every wall of the studio, giving it the appearance of the padded room on the psych floor at Shoreview Memorial. Jake was at his keyboard, rocking back and forth like an inverted pendulum. The door squeaked. Jake stopped playing and turned toward the door.

  He was wearing the horn-rimmed sunglasses Karen had given him for his birthday. They did look like Ray Charles’s trademark shades with the ridiculously fat rims. Karen got the joke, but she didn’t like it.

  “You’re making fun of my present.”

  “Um, well, not really. I love Ray Charles.”

  “Why aren’t the sunglasses in your tackle box? You’re not using them.” Karen noticed the tools her father had given Jake were laid out on the floor, ready for action. The carpenter’s apron was showing wear. This was a sorry turn of events, when her parents’ gifts suited Jake better than hers. “What’s wrong with the sunglasses, Mr. Picky?”

  Jake put his arms around Karen. He made a move to pat her on the back, and she stiffened. Go ahead, patronize me, see if that does you any good.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the shades,” he said. “If we get up to Canada or northern Wisconsin, I’m sure I’ll use them a lot. But not around here. Not on Weyawega.”

  “The salesman said you could see fish with them like they were on dry land.”

  “Sweetheart, Lake Weyawega is a silt-bottomed flowage with a current, tannin stain and an algae bloom. You can’t see six inches into that water without x-ray vision.” He held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I hope you’re not too mad. I have to leave for my gig in thirty minutes. I was hoping to make good use of the time.”

  Jake had a craving, wistful look in his eyes that Karen relished. “Well, all right,” she relented. “I’ll give you a tumble. Consider that your replacement present. I’m never buying you anything ever again.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and said, “It’s a deal.”

  A half hour later, Jake whispered in Karen’s ear, “Best birthday present I ever got. I’ll take the cell phone and call you from the gig.”

  SHE WAS IN a kayak, gliding down a river toward an unknown destination that she was desperate to reach. Jake was paddling beside her, looking worried. The current turned against her and she started
moving backward. Her paddle was bent, lopsided and useless. She tried to get out and swim, but the kayak was as tight as a belt around her waist. The effort to escape put her off balance and she felt the kayak start to capsize. She was able to remain upright by painful mental effort, but only for a moment. The kayak rolled over, pinning her under the water. She had been here before, in another dream, and it had been warm and beautiful and she could breathe. This time it was dark as night, and when she tried to breathe she felt the water, cold and caustic, entering her lungs, strangling her from the inside.

  Karen awoke. “Jake? Jake!”

  Jake was gone; the house was quiet. Save for the baby asleep in his crib, she was alone. She disentangled herself from the bedsheets and stood up.

  A window was open and the bedroom was chilly. As she closed the window, she noticed that the sky was still overcast and a brisk wind was stirring the trees, but no rain yet. She felt a fluttery sensation behind her sternum. The dream, the dark, churning sky. Something was troubling her.

  She found herself pacing the room. The hardwood floor was cool on her bare feet. What had sounded this discordant note that was jangling her insides? When had it started? Not at the party. Not on the way home from the party. Not when she was playing with the baby on the living room floor. Not when she was putting him to bed. Was it something Jake had said?

  Yes. She was fairly certain something Jake said had set it off. Something she had pushed away at the time, something nettling that she had set aside while tending to the more basic and pleasurable business of lovemaking.

  Feeling a tingle at the back of her neck, she remembered. Now that she turned it over, it was obvious. She should have realized it sooner. Jake’s seemingly insignificant remark shattered every hypothesis she had about the Winslow case. Her pacing quickened as she tested a new theory against all of the data she had.

  She stopped pacing and snapped her fingers. “I knew it. Duane Billick is innocent.”