* * *
Monday, May 19, 2014, Hugh Mahoney’s Office, Goldstein, Miller, Emerald Shapery Center, San Diego
“She’s hiding something!” Hugh insisted, throwing a pen onto his polished expanse of desk in frustration. Kathryn had refused an invitation to lunch with him and Mark after the hearing.
“I did my best to get it out of her,” Mark countered.
“I know, I know. I’ll find an excuse to talk to her again, one-on-one.”
Mark realized he was being dismissed, but he wasn’t ready to go. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”
Hugh raised his eyebrows in that irritating way that said you’re an idiot for bothering me. “What’s on your mind?”
“Bill Hays called me on Friday about the fee split in Besser.”
“I don’t want to talk about Bill Hays. The money’s already been divided up.”
“Hugh, Bill’s a good lawyer. And Hays, Price is a good firm. Surely you remember we researched firms in Raleigh-Durham before we offered them a piece of the Besser case.”
“So what?”
“So we may need them again some day. Stiffing Bill Hays three million dollars after all the work they did for us on that case is not a good idea.”
“Bill went behind my back.”
“No, he didn’t, Hugh.”
“Don’t argue with me. The split’s been made, and that’s that. Bill needed to learn a lesson.”
“But it’s a lesson his firm can’t afford.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bill called me on Friday to say they’d committed so many resources to Besser, as we asked them to do, that they’re struggling now financially because their client-base has dropped off. In other words, they put all their eggs in our Besser basket.”
“It’s Bill’s tough luck if he made a bad business decision.”
“Not if it’s a decision you asked him to make. You asked him to devote his entire firm’s manpower to our case.”
“Yes, but I asked for loyalty, too.”
“Bill is loyal to you, Hugh. That’s my point. Come on, another three million to Hays, Price will let them survive as a firm. And that sum is nothing to Goldstein, Miller. We’ll never miss it.”
Hugh shrugged. “Bill betrayed me. The answer is no.”
Mark stalked to his office and closed the door a little too hard, a show of temper he could indulge because Hugh was too far away to hear the angry bang. He sat down behind his desk and took deep breaths to control his rage.
He and Hugh had hit it off almost immediately the summer Mark had clerked for the firm as a third-year law student. And as Mark had developed as a trial lawyer, Hugh had realized that Mark’s reasoned, gentlemanly courtroom presentations were far more appealing to jurors than his own. Hugh had no sons, and at times Mark felt a bond with Hugh similar to the one he had with his own father. But Mark was never blind to his mentor’s faults; and Hugh’s unbridled arrogance, along with his womanizing, sometimes irritated Mark so much that he had to do what he was doing now: go into his own office, close the door, and remind himself that Bill Hays wasn’t his responsibility even if he truly believed Hugh owed Bill and his firm every penny of that three million.
* * *
Monday, May 19, 2014, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Kathryn came home at six that night to find a mixed bouquet of pink orchids and white roses on her doorstep. Intrigued, she carried it inside, placed it on the coffee table and opened the card.
“Please forgive. Paul.”
She threw the card down on the table without putting it back in the envelope and went to the kitchen to microwave a bowl of last night’s mac and cheese. She poured herself a glass of red wine and carried her food back to the living room where she curled up on the sofa and studied the flowers. He had called constantly since the night they’d had dinner, but she had refused to answer. She’d focused only on her anger as she pictured over and over again the red Corvette in his driveway. But as she ate, she thought about the consequences of not answering his calls. He was the only other person who knew Tom as well as she did. He was her only living link to the years of her marriage. Was she willing to give up that link because of Shannon? Why did it always come down to Shannon, she thought angrily. When, if ever, would she be out of Kathryn’s life?
* * *
Monday, January 17, 2011, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Although Martin Luther King Day was a court holiday, Kathryn had to go to the office anyway because she had a trial beginning the next day. But Tom had the day off, and he’d promised to fix the leaky faucet in the half-bath and pick up some groceries after a morning run. The waves weren’t good enough for surfing, and Kathryn had sat in the deserted Public Defenders’ office preparing for trial, relieved that he had no reason to be with Shannon that day.
She came home at five, hungry and tired, and hoping Tom would be in the mood for an early dinner at The Yellow Café. As soon as she walked in the front door, she heard male and female voices in the living room.
She took off her coat and dropped her briefcase in the hall and went to see who was with Tom. He and Shannon looked up in surprise when she walked in. They were seated on the sofa. Two half-full glasses and a bottle of wine were on the coffee table between them.
Tom stood up and crossed the room to give her a kiss on both cheeks. “Hey, sweetheart. Shannon dropped by to talk to me about a problem she’s having at work, and I opened some wine. I’ll get you a glass.”
Kathryn sat down on the chair opposite the sofa and worked to keep her jealousy in check. How long had this conversation about Shannon’s supposed problem been going on?
Tom was back from the kitchen with a fresh glass within seconds. He poured some wine for Kathryn and handed it to her.
“How did trial prep go?”
She shrugged. “Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She looked over at Shannon.
“What happened at work?”
“Oh, nothing, really.” Shannon fidgeted with her wine glass, slowly turning it as she held it. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on some paper lying on the coffee table.
Tom picked it up and handed it to Kathryn. “Take a look at this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a contract,” Shannon asserted defensively. “A guy came into the bar last night, claiming he was a hotshot L.A. photographer and talent agent. He wants to sign me for some headshots. He says he can get me work as a model in L.A. I was skeptical, so I asked Tom to take a look at it.”
“What did Steve think?” Kathryn tried to keep the barb out of her voice.
“Oh, I haven’t talked to him about it, yet. I wanted to make sure the offer was legitimate before saying anything. He won’t like the idea of me in L.A.”
Kathryn looked over at her husband. “So was the guy a con artist?”
“Apparently not. We researched his company together this afternoon, and he checks out. Robert Harris, Photography and Talent Management.”
She tried not to focus on the words “we” and “together.” “So are you going to do it?”
“Tom suggested letting him take the headshots before I sign a contract to see if they are any good.”
“The contract terminates if her photos aren’t any good,” Tom explained. “There’s no point in signing anything if he ultimately decides he’s not going to represent her.”
Kathryn could not imagine Shannon taking a bad photograph. She was the archetypal model: thin, tall, beautiful eyes, perfect mouth, perfect nose, long blonde hair.
“I should go.” Shannon put her wine glass on the table and stood up. “I have to be at work at six. Thanks, Tom.”
“Glad to help. I’ll walk you out.”
Kathryn had to fight down a particularly strong surge of jealousy when Tom put his arm around Shannon as they walked toward the front hall. It was no more than a friendly gesture, but even that display of easy intimacy made her uncomfortable.
But that n
ight, Tom insisted on taking her to dinner at the expensive and romantic Marine Room in La Jolla. And afterward, they came home and made love as if Shannon Freeman did not exist. Kathryn dearly hoped they’d make a baby that night, and the headshots would take Shannon to Los Angeles and out of their lives for good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, June 3, 2014, Conference Room, Emerald Shapery Center, San Diego
“The video camera makes me very uncomfortable,” Kathryn said. She was sitting at the mahogany conference table in the Goldstein, Miller conference room with Mark Kelly and Patty Fox facing her. She was learning how to be deposed.
“Sorry,” Patty said. “It makes everyone uncomfortable, but we have to use it. There’ll be a camera running during your actual deposition, so it’s a good idea to practice in front of one. And Mark and I need to go over these tapes of the practice runs so we can tell you how to improve.”
Kathryn realized she had just squirmed in her chair like a kindergartener. No one said anything, but she was pretty sure that behavior was out at a deposition.
“There are just a few basic rules,” Patty went on, “and I expect most of them are the same things you say to your clients before you put them on the stand at trial.”
“So we apologize for telling you things you probably already know.” Mark gave her his reassuring smile, but Kathryn still felt nervous. The pair had all the ambience of good cop/bad cop, even though they had shed their high-priced suit jackets and were appearing in less intimidating monogrammed custom shirts and thousand-dollar silk blouses. She laughed inwardly at the fiction that all lawyers make seven-figure incomes. She didn’t.
“Listen carefully to the question,” Patty began. “If you don’t understand it, ask for it to be repeated.”
“And don’t be afraid to say you don’t know. Above all, don’t guess or speculate,” Mark added.
“Right,” Patty jumped back in. “And pause for five seconds before you begin your answer to give us time to put an objection on the record if we need to.”
“And there will be lots of objections,” Mark said. “Bob McLaren does not play fair. He is going to try to push your emotional buttons whenever he can, and he will ask a lot of questions that we will have to instruct you not to answer.”
“And you will need breaks,” Patty said. “I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it. This will be an hours, and probably days, long ordeal. So whenever you need a time out, let me or Mark know. Don’t go on when you are upset or too tired to think before you speak.”
“That latter point is crucial,” Mark agreed. “Think before you open your mouth. Don’t just blurt out answers.”
“Now,” Patty said, “and this is the hardest part, so I apologize in advance. We have to find out what the weak points in your story are going to be because obviously these are the things Bob McLaren will be probing for.”
“Weak points?” Kathryn frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Bob wants you to make his case for him,” Mark said. “He’ll be looking for facts that will prove Myrabin had nothing to do with Tom’s death. He’s sure to ask you a lot of questions about how much Tom drank.”
“Tom had a beer or two, now and then. But nothing more.”
Mark nodded and typed a note into his laptop. “McLaren will also be pressing you to admit you or Tom or both of you were involved with other people. He’s really going to press you hard on that one because even if we can show Myrabin caused Tom’s death, you won’t recover much in damages if your marriage was on the rocks when Tom died.”
“I realize he’ll be after that kind of information. But there isn’t any!” Kathryn tossed her head contemptuously.
“Okay,” Patty agreed. “That’s good. That’s fine. But don’t let that kind of emotion into your voice and body language. That would let McLaren know he’s touched a nerve. And if he finds a spot like that, he won’t back off. He’ll push you to tell him more.”
“Well, there isn’t any more.” Kathryn worked to keep her voice even and her head still. She was angry with herself for making such a classic mistake. She was a lawyer. She should know better. “Tom and I were happily married. That’s all there is to it.”
“Did Tom take Myrabin as prescribed?” Patty asked. “He didn’t double up on the dosage on his own, did he?”
“No, he took it exactly the way Dr. Myers told him to. The insurance paid for 30 pills at a time, one each day for a month. I picked up his refills once a month.”
“How old was Tom when he was diagnosed?” Patty asked.
“Forty.”
“Did he have a family history of hypertension?”
“No.”
“What about stress?” Patty continued to ask the questions, but Kathryn felt Mark’s eyes on her, studying her face for cracks in her story.
“Tom was a Senior Public Defender. His clients were all facing sentences of life without parole or the death penalty. And like everyone in the office, he was overworked. We all have more cases on our dockets than we can really handle.”
“Any other major stresses in his life?”
“No.” She kept her eyes steadily on Mark’s so he could not tell she was lying.
* * *
Late February 2011, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
The headshots were far from being the ticket to removing Shannon from her world. Steve was incensed when he discovered Shannon had gone to Tom for advice and even more incensed when he learned Tom had encouraged her to give modeling a try. Kathryn heard the two of them arguing one morning as they got off their bikes after surfing.
Steve was so angry he could barely speak. “She’s just a kid with two years of junior college who knows how to do two things: surf and tend bar! L.A. is not the place for her! The sharks up there will chew her up and spit her out in a heartbeat! What were you thinking, telling her to go for headshots?”
“She asked me to look at the contract to see if it was a real offer. It was. The decision to pursue it was hers alone.”
* * *
June 2011 - 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Kathryn came to bitterly resent Tom’s support for Shannon’s modeling foray. Because her head shots were successful, Shannon had to travel to Los Angeles for modeling jobs, sometimes several times a week. She and Steve began to fight regularly, and Shannon turned to Tom for advice and support. She spent more time with him than ever before, and Kathryn felt more and more uneasy about what that meant for their marriage. Finally, one Saturday morning in late June after she had been awakened by Shannon and Steve squabbling as they returned from the beach, she decided to confront her husband.
It was nine-thirty. He was alone in the kitchen in board shorts and a t-shirt, making coffee. He turned when she appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, robe cinched loosely around her waist. He looked guilty the minute he saw her.
“Sorry. I think Shannon and Steve woke you up. Sit down, and I’ll make some breakfast. The coffee will be ready in just a second.”
Kathryn watched him bustle around the kitchen. When he put the coffee mug in her hands, she drank several long sips before she said, “Now that Shannon and Steve aren’t getting along, I don’t think you should spend so much time with Shannon.”
“What?” Tom was so surprised he dropped the spatula he was using to turn the bacon.
“I said, I don’t think you should spend so much time with Shannon. You need to let her work things out with Steve on her own.”
He stared at her. “But she’s my friend, too. She needs my help.”
“No, she doesn’t. She’s using her problems to get close to you, and that’s coming between you Steve.”
“That’s ridiculous!” He turned back to the stove and began to scramble the eggs. A few minutes later, still silent, he refreshed her coffee and put two plates on the table. He sat down and took a thoughtful bite of egg. “She hasn’t come between me and Steve!”
“That’s not true. I’ve heard the pair of you arguing over Shan
non and her modeling career. And you’ve been meeting Shannon for lunch or drinks at a moment’s notice whenever she’s upset about something Steve has said to her.”
His beautiful blue eyes studied her for a moment. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes. And I expect Steve is, too.”
He took a long drink of coffee as he considered what she had said. “Thanks for being honest.”
She said nothing while he drank more coffee and ate a few more bites of egg. Finally he said, “So you think I’ve been wrong to let Shannon cry on my shoulder?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“Would you have listened?”
“No.”
“Why are you listening now?”
“I’ve got a gut feeling you’re right. And Steve might be right as well.”
“What is Steve right about?”
“He thinks the modeling stuff is a waste of her time. Harris paid her a big signing bonus, and she bought the Corvette instead of paying off the loans she took out for junior college. She thought the money was going to start rolling in, but it hasn’t.”
“Isn’t she getting modeling jobs?”
“Yes, but by the time she travels to L.A., does the job and pays the agent his cut, she could have stayed here and given surf lessons or tended bar for a night and made more money.”
“And she hasn’t figured that out, yet?”
“She gets mad at Steve when he tells her.”
“And haven’t you told her?”
“I told her to go back to school and get a four-year degree so she won’t have to be a bartender for the rest of her life. She’s twenty-eight. We’d been Public Defenders for three years by the time we were twenty-eight.”
“Since she likes modeling, why doesn’t she move to L.A. where she can do it full time?”
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 10