The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  Murphy turns the corner and sidles through the sliding hatch door, then skips down a ladder. For a short, fat man, still dragging a loose shoestring, he possesses a degree of agility that is deceptive. I follow him into the spacious interior.

  The salon is paneled in dark mahogany, the floor polished teak, and above it all is a low curving ceiling, a grid work of varnished beams beneath the open canopy of the house where shafts of light stream in through the portholes overhead.

  “Sit down. Get comfortable.” He nods toward one of the benches that line the inside of the hull as he searches and finds a small notebook and pencil at a built-in desk.

  I sit and put my drink in a cup holder.

  Murphy takes the desk and places the bottle of beer on top of an unfurled chart where the chilled glass deposits a round watermark.

  “Like I told you on the phone,” he says. “I don’t do much domestic stuff. Wouldn’t have taken the case except Fred Hawkins referred you. I do a lot of personal injury for Fred.”

  “I would think divorces would be a PI’s lifeblood.”

  “Not this one. It’s a good way to get shot. Angry husbands kill more people than the mob.”

  “I’ll put your mind at ease. There’s no husband involved in this one. I don’t do family law work myself.”

  “So what got you involved?”

  “A friend with a problem.”

  “Not the money?”

  “A rich friend.”

  This news has a leavening effect on Murphy. It generates some interest in note taking. He sweeps papers off his desk and sharpens his pencil, jamming it into the little hole in the electric device until I can barely see the eraser.

  “Tell me about your client.”

  I had sent Murphy a check for a thousand dollars, drawn against my client trust account, a retainer from Jonah. Murphy is working at two hundred dollars an hour plus expenses, mileage and meals if he has to travel, hotels if he is overnight.

  “As far as you’re concerned, I’m your client.”

  “Fine by me,” he says. “I’ll work against the retainer. Bill you after that.”

  This gives me the argument that whatever Murphy does is sheltered, privileged as attorney work-product, and not subject to discovery if I have to get into a courtroom with Suade.

  I had decided long before this moment to share information about Jonah only on a need-to-know basis. When you have the prospect of eighty million dollars sitting in timed accounts, friends and benefactors tend to crop up like mold on rancid cheese.

  “Have you had a chance to check into the woman I told you about on the phone?”

  “Some,” he says. “Made a few inquiries. Very discreet regarding this Zolanda Suade. Pulled what I could from Lexis–Nexis, the Internet. Whether what she does is legal or not I’ll leave to the lawyers. One thing’s certain: She doesn’t shrink from talking about it in the press.”

  “You found a lot of news stories?”

  “Enough newsprint to take out the Black Forest.”

  “Anything of interest? Let’s start with background.”

  “According to my information, she’s been in the area about twelve years. Out of Ohio originally, result of a bad marriage and a pissed-off husband who threatened to kill her—after he gets out of prison.”

  “He may have to get in line,” I tell Murphy.

  “Yeah, people tend to get angry when you steal their kids,” he says. “Anyway, the husband’s doing twelve to twenty for rape and child molestation. Apparently that all happened after she divorced him. She was not the rapee, though she claims he used force to have his way with her during the marriage on more than a few occasions.”

  “Any children?”

  He thumbs through his notes. “Not that turned up in any of the reports.”

  So far he’s batting .900. I can only assume that the death of her son is a sore point and the one thing that Suade does not talk about to the press.

  “According to Suade, she filed complaints with the cops about his beating on her. They did nothing. This appears to have built up more than a little resentment toward the authorities on Suade’s part.”

  He looks at me as if to see whether this is the kind of stuff I am looking for.

  “I’d heard that she has little use for the courts and the customary processes of the law. Which brings me to another subject. Has she ever done jail time?” Something I am thinking that might not be on Lexis-Nexis.

  “No record of convictions, if that’s what you mean. Closest she came, she did a few nights for contempt, before her lawyer sprang her. She wouldn’t have done that except the kid she snatched belonged to a judge.”

  “Davidson?”

  “You knew about that?” His expression sags like a child with a secret that everybody knows. “You could be wasting your money hiring me.”

  “The devil’s in the details,” I tell him with a smile.

  Brad Davidson is the presiding judge of the San Diego Superior Court. Two years ago he was on the bench hearing criminal cases when his estranged wife disappeared with his son and a pile of cash that was waiting to be divvied up in a divorce proceeding. He hasn’t seen the kid, his wife, or the money since.

  “I had heard he held Suade in contempt.”

  “He did more than that,” says Murphy. “He issued a bench warrant. Had her arrested and summarily hauled off the street into his courtroom where he did everything but wire her nipples to electrodes. All in front of his bailiff, who had a gun strapped on his hip.

  “When Suade didn’t blink, he had her put in the bucket and played hide the pea for about three days, moving her from one facility to another so her lawyers couldn’t find her. Each move was a new experience in cavity searches. Even put her in the federal metro lockup for twenty-four hours before her lawyer figured it out and sprung her on a writ. The county is still trying to deal with the fallout.”

  “What fallout?”

  “A twenty-million-dollar lawsuit for false imprisonment. Davidson had no jurisdiction for anything. The warrant was based on a lot of surmise, no witnesses who saw Suade take the kid. It’s like your kid disappears and, knowing Suade’s reputation, you check her house first.”

  “I understand the judge’s attitude. What happened to Davidson?”

  “According to the reports, he came close to losing his judicial wings. The commission that reviews such things considered his long service on the bench and the fact that his son had been kidnapped. They let him off with a formal reprimand and a few hundred hours of community service. Word is he’s still doing penance at some women’s shelter in South Bay two nights a week.

  “As for Suade, she still has her claws into the county with a team of lawyers working on contingency to push local government into bankruptcy. According to the reports, she has the rapt attention of the county council.”

  “They’re worried about the suit?”

  “You could say that. They’re self-insured. May have to take a loan from the state if she nails ’em. The board of supervisors has been doing belly dances up in the capitol to keep the lines of credit open.

  “Funny thing is, Suade doesn’t seem to be motivated by money. I checked her credit rating. There are people living in cardboard boxes using racing forms for wallpaper I’d sooner make a loan to.”

  “She’s broke?”

  “She’s got a dozen judgments outstanding. None of ’em satisfied, all of them by pissed-off husbands and their lawyers. Infliction of emotional distress. Conversion of personal property. You name it. Most of them taken by default. She doesn’t show up in court. Not to defend anyway. Everything she owns is in her husband’s name.”

  “She’s married?” Murph’s batting average is back to a thousand. Something Susan omitted to tell me.

  “You sound surprised.�
��

  “I am. From everything I’d heard, I just assumed she hated men.”

  “Apparently not this one. New addition to her life. Three years ago.” Murphy looks at his notes. “His name is Harold Morgan. She kept her maiden name, at least for publicity purposes. He’s a mortgage banker. Conservative. Christian right. Good at business. His credit report shows some considerable net worth. Heavily into real estate development. According to the reports—of course this is Suade telling the reporters,” he says, “new hubby saved her from a life of bitterness after her first marriage failed.”

  “Apparently he’s not a total success,” I tell him.

  “Can’t win ’em all,” says Murphy.

  “What does he think of his wife’s activities?”

  “Oh, he supports her. Thinks she’s doing God’s work. Saving neglected children and their abused mothers from a corrupt court system. But his support, according to the stories, is limited to the moral variety, having his picture taken with his arm around her. So far, none of the lawyers chasing his wife has been able to tag any of his assets to satisfy the judgments against her. They can’t show any involvement on his part in her business. And the business is always veiled behind a corporate shield. She operates three of these at present, all in the red. She’s had as many as eight going at one time. When they get too messy, when lawyers start climbing through the window and coming up the stairs, she chloroforms the corporation and moves on.”

  “So the plaintiffs get a bag of bones.”

  “Bleached and baked,” says Murphy. “Even the filing cabinet is rented. She only has one. She advertises the fact that she doesn’t keep many business records on paper. Sort of a disclaimer to anybody who might be looking.”

  “I’ve seen her office,” I tell him. “I can vouch for the single filing cabinet.”

  “If you’re planning on suing the lady, you’d get more satisfaction falling out of bed during a wet dream. Money is not what makes Suade run. And the threat of losing it doesn’t even register on her list of a hundred worst fears.”

  “Do you think there’s any benefit in talking to Davidson?” I ask him.

  “He might give you a lot of sympathy,” says Murphy.

  “But no help?”

  He shakes his head. “If you find the key to Zolanda, there’s gonna be a long line forming to use it. According to everything I’ve read, she hasn’t made a lot of friends in this town.”

  There’s a tap on the wooden house up by the open hatch: the waitress with our sandwiches. We take a break, talk while we’re eating.

  Murphy takes a deep swig from the bottle of Corona, like he’s sucking air from a vacuum, swallows slowly, and looks at me. With the last bob of his Adam’s apple he finally pops the question: “So who is it you want that Suade’s holding?”

  “A child. Little girl.”

  “Kid’s with her mother?”

  “We think so.”

  “I could set up on her. Suade,” he says. “Do some surveillance. There’s an outside chance she might lead us . . .”

  “No. Not yet. From everything I’ve heard she’s been surveilled by the best.”

  “The FBI?”

  I look at him. “You’ve heard the same thing?”

  “According to her, anyway. She takes delight in advertising the fact. Like a badge of honor. She’s talked about it to the press. Claims they camp outside her door morning, noon, and night. Public enemy number one. But she’s too smart. She’s snookered ’em.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is they’ve never hauled her in for questioning. Never even interviewed her.”

  “Sounds like you have sources?”

  “Some people talk,” he says.

  “FBI?”

  He’s not saying.

  “If you have contacts like that, it could be helpful.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s another facet to the case.” I tell him about Jessica, and the fact that she apparently cut some deal with the feds for a reduced sentence on state time. “She’s the mother in hiding,” I tell him. “I’m retained by the child’s grandfather. Jessica’s dad. He had legal custody at the time the kid disappeared.”

  “What’s the child’s name?”

  “Amanda Hale.”

  “Mother go by the same surname?”

  I nod.

  He makes a note.

  “Maybe your sources could enlighten us as to the specifics of the deal the feds cut with Jessica?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It could provide some leads. Her arrest was drug related. She may be running in those circles again, going places, seeing people.”

  Murphy smiles. A widening of the commercial horizon. The old revolving retainer. He makes a few more notes, the fact that it was probably heroin or cocaine she was carrying across the Mexican border.

  “Left to her own devices, she shouldn’t be too hard to find,” says Murphy.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He lifts a questioning eyebrow.

  “That she may not have been left to her own devices.”

  “Suade?”

  “Her connections will no doubt make Jessica and the child a lot harder to find. If her group’s providing cover, moving them around. Possibly down in Mexico. They may have helped in the abduction, but we don’t have any hard evidence. Anything you could turn up in that connection would be helpful.”

  “What’s Suade’s interest in all of this?”

  “Self-proclaimed do-gooder with a warped sense of justice,” I tell him.

  “No, I mean why did she take this particular kid? Mother’s a loser. Done time. What’s in it for her?”

  “Publicity. Jessica’s father gets her press.”

  “How?”

  “Read the papers. Next few days. Suade’s adding to her scrapbook,” I tell him.

  “Is he a politician? Some celebrity?”

  “In his own way. Whatever you do, don’t go near Suade. I’ve already met with her. It’s a waste of time and may cause more problems. It may be difficult for me to move freely for a while. If the press bites, I may be emitting a tail of reporters like a comet.”

  He laughs. “I understand. How old is the drug case involving the daughter?”

  “Two, two and a half years,” I tell him.

  “Pretty cold trail.”

  “It’s why we should just take it in little pieces.” Rather than waste his time and Jonah’s money drilling holes that are likely to come up dry, I want to use Murphy where he might do some good; with his federal sources.

  “I’m told the feds pitched her to the state for prosecution on the Mexican drug thing. Made a deal for a lighter sentence and easier time. But it was never clear why.”

  He looks up from his notepad. “And you wanna know what she had that they wanted?” Murphy’s looks are misleading. He’s a quick study.

  “That. And whether she gave it to them. If you can find out. Without attracting too much attention. Or giving anything up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like my identity. The last thing I need are FBI agents visiting my office. It tends to make clients nervous. Like the IRS doing house calls with your accountant.”

  “Your name will not pass my lips,” he says. “What if I stumble over her? This Jessica. It could happen. They might have a lead on her.”

  “Listen, as far as I’m concerned, they can arrest her. I’d give ’em a big kiss. It would solve all my problems.” If Jessica were taken we could enforce the custody order, get the child back, and deal with Suade after the fact.

  “And if I do find her, this Jessica?”

  “Don’t approach her. Keep her under surve
illance and call me immediately.”

  “You make it sound like she’s dangerous.” He has a look as if this could be a surcharge.

  “No, I don’t think so. Just very skittish. She wouldn’t be easy to find a second time.”

  “I see.”

  “If you find her, call me.” I give him my card. “If I’m not there, leave an urgent message on voice mail and they’ll page me immediately, night or day.”

  EIGHT

  * * *

  It was after six by the time I finished at the office, some paperwork that had stacked up, and phone calls to return. The sun had dipped behind the giant palms surrounding the Del Coronado so that it looked like a blinding orange beach ball tethered on the horizon.

  Traffic heading home had thickened in both directions on Orange Avenue. I took some back streets home, a five-minute drive.

  The sitter had picked up Sarah, and her car was still parked out front as I swung into the driveway. My daughter is eleven, but I am not yet ready to turn her into a latchkey kid. I half expected to see Susan’s blue Ford parked there, too, but it wasn’t. I wondered if she’d finished up with Jonah.

  Before I could get the car door open, Sarah was bounding down the front steps and toward the car, the sitter behind her, purse in hand.

  “You’re home early.” She greets me with a big smile and a hug, soft cheek against the stubble of my afternoon beard.

  “Thought maybe we could take in a show tonight.”

  “Really?” Her eyes light up.

  “It is Friday.”

  She’s jumping up and down, crying yippees.

  “What would you like to see?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s supposed to be a very funny movie at the mall.”

  Sarah is still heavily into slapstick. I am left to wonder when this phase passes, and at times shudder to think what may follow. I relish the dreams of childhood that in these moments seem to reside in the sparkle of her eyes. It seems that each age is a new adventure, one in which I have often thought I would like to freeze her, only to be enchanted by the next as she grows up. I have friends who tell me they would not trade places, the terrors of a teenage daughter still ahead of me. I suppose ignorance is bliss. Take each day at a time.