Accidental Lawyer_A humorous peak into Baltimore's legal community, with a thread of mystery

by Kim Hamilton

  Mark approached. “It’s clear she didn’t have the proper equipment.” He looked at me with that same smile he gave me last week. He came closer, real close, and took the extinguisher from my hand. He winced. “This thing dates back to the Truman administration.”

  “It’s all I could find.”

  He laughed. Then with a more serious demeanor, looked into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You know you’ve got some white stuff on your face.” He waved his gloved hand across his own face as a visual aid. I reached up and touched my cheek. The stuff had dried and formed a speckled crust all over my face.

  “Not a good look for you,” Kari said. Turning to Mark, she said, “It’s the humidity that does that to her hair. It doesn’t normally look like that.”

  I started to back away. “I better go get cleaned up.”

  Mark stepped toward me with a smirk. “You’ve been at the scene of two fires in the last three days. Is this a lucky coincidence or do you have pyromaniac tendencies?”

  “It’s a lucky coincidence, all right,” Kari said. “We were planning another toaster fire, and now we don’t have to.” Mark tilted his head, looked at Kari, then back at me like he was trying to figure out what to make of that comment.

  His fellow firefighters called to him.

  “I better get back to work, and you should go clean up. That stuff’s toxic.” He hustled off to join his crew.

  We wished Paulette luck with the insurance company. I gave her my card and told her she could list us as witnesses.

  As we walked back to the car, Kari said, “That was a productive outing. We got the scoop on Olivia, and you got to see Mark again.”

  “Look at me. I’m a disaster. I didn’t want to see him like this.”

  “You’re getting hung up on the details. You made another connection. That’s the important thing.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back at the office, I scrubbed the white crust off my face and changed into my workout gear. Kari and I drove to the Pilates studio in her car. I was the only one in the class who did not refresh her makeup, coif her hair, or don a cute, sporty, matching exercise outfit to pant and sweat in front of Juan Carlo. Some of these women were shamelessly flirty with him. The remodeled studio had a soft color palette, large windows, and beautiful plush carpeting. We were not allowed to sweat on the carpet, so we brought our own mats and towels.

  The studio was a huge room with Pilates reformer machines on the perimeter. On the first day of class, my classmates and I were admonished not to use the reformers, not to go near them, not to touch them. In fact, we weren’t allowed to even look at them. The penalty for breaking this rule was to have your ID photo blown up to an 8 x10 and posted on the community board under the heading Rule Breaker. It would remain there for a full week. If you broke the rule a second time, you were escorted out of the building and banished for life, or until you signed up and paid in advance for the next series of classes.

  It was a system of humiliation designed to encourage Pilates 101 students to quickly progress to the intermediate level, where using of the Reformers was required. We 101 people were not yet worthy.

  “Okay ladies, are you ready to get started?” Juan Carlo asked with his sexy Latin accent. He entered the room wearing biker shorts and a tight spandex T-shirt with the slogan Do The 100. The ladies all jumped to attention while adjusting their clothing and painting on smiles. “Yes, Juan.”

  “Now let’s take three big cleansing breaths.” He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, crisscrossed his arms in front of his privates, then lifted them out to the side and up over his head. “Breathing in, and now out.” He released his arms back to their starting position. This was a familiar warm-up during which I rarely lost my balance. I could hear the women in the front exaggerating their breathing.

  As I followed along with Juan, I scanned the room and found Olivia. She was front and center, following Juan’s every move with precision in her black-on-black mourning spandex, not a hair out of place. I could see her and Juan Carlos exchanging glances. There was a sudden change in her movement. She slowed her momentum and walked off without a word. She entered a room marked Office and closed the door behind her. Juan’s worried eyes followed, but he continued to guide us through our workout.

  I kept an eye on the office door. Olivia was still in there when the class came to an end. Several women approached Juan, but he tore himself away from his bevy of admirers and rushed off to join Olivia. I left to find Kari.

  It was a beautiful Baltimore evening. The sun hovered low in the sky, leaving a soft glow about the city streets. Kari’s car was parked in front of the studio, but she wasn’t in it. Scanning the streets, I found her standing near the metro bus stop among several people. I could see her chatting with them and handing out business cards. She looked at me and said something to the small crowd. They all waved.

  Kari joined me at the car. “Those were some nice folks. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give them your card. You know, spread the word. Get your name out. Hey, what happened in there?” she pointed to the Pilates studio. “Was Olivia there?”

  “She was there, but she was upset. A few minutes into the workout, she left the floor, went into his office, and stayed there.”

  “So now what?” I asked Kari. “Do we wait and follow her?”

  “You bet we do. While you were in class, I went over to Brenner’s and got us a couple of chef salads and a bag of crab chips. Olivia’s Mercedes is parked right over there.” She pointed across the street. “We can sit in the car and eat dinner while we wait for her to come out.”

  I found myself enjoying being an unofficial private detective with Kari. We had no idea what we were doing, but I think we were faking it pretty well. Kari had enough confidence for both of us.

  About midway through our salads, we saw Olivia emerge from the studio. She looked up and down the street before heading to her car, passing the front of Kari’s Camry on the way. She didn’t notice us. Her eyes were puffy and red like she’d been crying. We closed up our salads. Kari put the Camry in gear and followed her.

  “They say you’re supposed to leave a couple of car lengths between you and the car you’re tailing,” Kari said as she maneuvered behind a gray sedan which was behind a black minivan which was behind Olivia’s Mercedes. Then Olivia’s car changed lanes. Kari had to move directly behind her. “This is harder than it looks on TV.”

  “Don’t worry. Fall back a little, but stay close enough so we can see which way she turns.”

  Olivia headed up Charles Street and merged onto Route 83 North out of the City. It was the tail end of rush hour, so it was easy for Kari to stay a few cars back and still have Olivia within our sight. The Mercedes signaled to get into the right lane and headed up the exit ramp onto Northern Parkway. Olivia’s route brought us into Mount Washington—my parents’ neighborhood. Mount Washington has two faces. The block I grew up on was aggressively average with mid-sized homes, postage stamp lawns, and sidewalks sprinkled with kids on bikes and dogs on leashes. The street we followed Olivia to was distinctly different. At first glance, I counted six gabled roof lines on her three-story, tutor-style home, plus a single-story addition off to one side. The house sat amongst Volkswagen-sized azalea bushes with bright pink flowers. Two monstrous magnolia trees brandishing blooms the size of dinner plates stood on either side of the front entrance. All of it rested under an umbrella of oak trees.

  It was almost impossible to believe a murder had been committed here, yet the eclectic fleet of media vehicles, television cameras, and satellite dishes that crowded the street were a stark reminder that something newsworthy had happened behind those walls.

  Olivia turned into the circular driveway and stopped in front of the walkway and porch leading up to her front door. The media crowd sprang into action, cameras flashing. To her credit, Olivia emerged from her Mercedes with her head held high. She kept her mouth shut, waved a disinte
rested hand at them, entered her home, and shut the door.

  “She’s a cool cucumber,” Kari said. “Why didn’t we see this coming? The TV people being here, I mean?”

  “Because we’re amateurs.”

  “We may be amateurs, but we’re smart. Come on, let’s go talk to these vultures. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

  Kari and I approached the first reporter we saw. At least we assumed he was a reporter. He was wearing eyeliner, an excessive amount of bronzer, and an air of self-importance.

  Kari got right to business. “What do you know about the Metzger murder?”

  He took a step back and looked at us like he feared we’d steal his lunch money. “Just like that? Just like that, you think I’m going to give my work product over to two strangers.” He snapped his notepad closed and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “This is journalism, ladies. It’s cut-throat, okay?” He gestured toward the other media crews. “Look at the competition. We’re all looking for that newsworthy nugget that will get us on the front page, and you think you can simply put your hand out and I’ll give it to you?” This guy was strung a little tight.

  “We’re not reporters. We’re curious, that’s all,” I said.

  An exasperated exhale fluttered past his lips. His camera-ready bravado deflated. “I’ve got nothing. The police aren’t talking. The securities regulators aren’t talking. And, as you may have noticed, the wife isn’t talking either. My only other lead is a local attorney named Dawson Garner who was questioned. You must know him from his advertising. He’s an ambulance chaser. Sleazy by nature, you know the type. We’re going to follow up on him now.”

  This guy didn’t recognize me. I needed to keep it that way and get him off the Dawson trail. Avoiding direct eye contact and keeping my advertising-smile at bay, I said, “That’s a dead end. He was cleared about an hour ago.” The lie rolled off my tongue with disturbing ease. “His alibi panned out.”

  This guy was a day late on the Dawson angle but got in early on the Olivia investigation. He’d follow any lead that was dangled in front of him. I decided to have a little fun.

  “Surely you’ve heard about Harvey Metzger’s mistress?”

  “No! He had a mistress? Who is she?”

  This was too easy. I smiled at Kari, who gave me an encouraging wink. “Her name’s Chantel Devista. She works for Stuart Milligan.”

  “The lawyer? The other accident guy?”

  “That’s the one. Metzger was paying for her condo, bought her a cute little Prius convertible, promised to always take care of her, then pulled the rug out from under her. Her condo’s being foreclosed and they repo’d her car.”

  The reporter was taking notes without asking for details or verification. He grabbed the cameraman. They jumped into the conspicuous van bearing the name and logo of their network and sped off, burning rubber.

  Kari buckled over with laughter. “I thought you weren’t supposed to make shit up.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I got to the office early to work on a couple of things before the filming of the commercial began. My first call was to Tony. He’d been discharged from the hospital soon after my initial visit. His diagnosis was a bruised coccyx and mild concussion, both of which required no further medical intervention. Time would heal all. And once it did, I could negotiate a settlement with Franco Giovanni. I got Tony’s voicemail and asked him to call or stop by to let me know how he was feeling.

  Yesterday had been so busy I hadn’t checked my email. I sat down to run through it. There was the usual spam: loan offers, discount solar panels, secrets to maintaining a youthful appearance, and offers for penis-enlargement apparatus. I scanned through and found one from mjenkins@wagnerbeamlegalteam. The subject line said, “We’d like to Schedule an Interview.” My pulse quickened. I glanced at my door to make sure no one was coming into my office. This was a private matter. I did not recall applying for a position at the Wagner & Beam. The truth was, I’d never heard of them. I scrolled down for an address. They were in Towson, north of the city.

  The content of the email said that they had an entry-level position and would like to interview me for the job. I closed that window, opened another one, and googled them. According to their homepage, they were an intellectual property firm. That meant they worked with cases involving patents, copyrights, and trademarks. All very interesting stuff. I sent them an email stating that I would be interested in an interview and asked them to give me a few dates and times to choose from. I hit send and sat back in my chair.

  Wow. A real law firm was interested in me. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but I visualized a world where my face would be absent from buses and billboards. A world where I never had to hear the word ambulance chaser directed at me. A world where my mother could proudly say her daughter was an intellectual property lawyer and people would be impressed, even though they wouldn’t know what the hell it meant. It just sounded smart and cool.

  “What’s that dumb look on your face?” It was Kari. I hadn’t seen her in my doorway.

  I rolled my eyes. “I was concentrating. What’s up?”

  “You ready for this commercial thing?” She studied me. “Stand up. Let me see what you’re wearing.”

  I stood and spun around. I had on a simple blue suit with a snug, but not slutty, fit, a short skirt, but not too short, and, of course, sensible shoes.

  “You pull off that boring blue suit pretty well. Let’s hope the camera stays high and doesn’t catch those grandma shoes you’re wearing.”

  There was some commotion as Sal arrived with the camera crew, lighting people, and everything else needed for a low-budget commercial. I stepped out to witness the action. They were setting up in the conference room. Our extensive collection of law books would serve as the backdrop. Kari hustled in and started dusting and polishing the table. Sal was conversing with the camera crew. Marty and Dawson were standing together looking over what I assumed was the script. It impressed me that business proceeded as planned despite the pending charges against Dawson.

  They didn’t look like themselves. Dawson had shed his khakis and bowling shirt and donned a dark-gray suit, collared shirt, and a bow tie. His graying hair was trimmed and styled into place. It surprised me to see he was wearing makeup. So was Marty. It was subtle, but I could see a matte foundation covering their faces and a single swipe of eyeliner under each eye. Marty’s usually disheveled hair also appeared to have received extra attention this morning. It was parted to the side and combed back without a strand out of place.

  “Good morning,” I said. “You two are looking sharp. What’s your secret?”

  “She’s in my office waiting for you,” Dawson said.

  “Who’s in your office?”

  “Paulette. My hair stylist.” Dawson waved his hand about his head.

  “Paulette from House of Hair?”

  “That’s the one. Go see her. We’ll get started as soon as you’re done.”

  I grabbed Kari. “Did you know Paulette was going to be here?”

  “Yeah. Dawson asked me to call her last week. I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise.” She paused and read my face. “Surprise!”

  We entered Dawson’s office and found Paulette. Her hair was still a pinkish hue, but she had added orange tips. Today, her black t-shirt had an orange sequined Orioles mascot. She looked up from her magazine, smiled, and gave me the once over with her eyes.

  “Come sit. Dawson said to give your hair some sex appeal.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked, touching my head.

  “It means we leave it long, soften the ends with some gentle waves, and puff up the top a bit.”

  “I don’t want sexy hair. I’m a lawyer. I’m not supposed to look sexy. I’m supposed to look smart. I want Sarah Palin hair. She looks smart. Give me Sarah Palin hair.”

  Kari winced. “You want to look like a hockey mom?”

  “No. I want to look like a strong, educated woman.�
��

  Paulette motioned me to the chair. “I’ll give you a young, sexy Sarah Palin. Sit.”

  Her skilled hands moved about my head. She pulled and twisted and shoved bobby pins into my skull.

  “How’s the shop looking after the fire?” I asked.

  “It’s coming along. It could have been a whole lot worse. On the upside, I’ll be able to make some improvements with the insurance money. The front of the shop was spared, so I can see clients while the work is getting done. Hey, you two still interested in Olivia Metzger? I may have some information for you.”

  Kari closed in. “Yeah, we’re still interested. What’d ya hear?”

  Paulette continued her tugging and turning and bobby pinning as she spoke. “She came in so I could touch up her roots. I was running behind so she was waiting in the waiting area talking on her phone. She was talking in Spanish. What she doesn’t know is that my stepfather is from Ecuador and I picked up the language from him. It sounded to me like she was talking about travel plans. From what I could piece together, she had purchased two one-way tickets to Barcelona.”

  When all the hair was off my shoulders, she shielded my eyes and dispensed a thick fog of hairspray onto her creation. She and Kari looked at me and nodded their approval. Paulette handed me a mirror.

  I didn’t hate what I saw. Paulette had managed to soften my hair and give it some gentle waves. I looked polished, mature, and almost sexy.

  “Nice work,” I said, admiring my hair in the handheld mirror.

  Paulette took the mirror out of my hand. “Now let’s do your makeup.”

  “Not too much. Make it look natural. And no eye shadow.”

  While Paulette covered my face with a series of cosmetic products, I tried to piece together what Olivia was up to. We knew her husband was dead and he had lost a lot of people’s money. She planned to leave the country. She and her lover should be suspects in the murder. All signs pointed to her and Juan Carlos, but Detective O’Mallory didn’t seem anxious to explore that angle. He’d arrested Dawson on very little evidence. Why?