The Jezebel Remedy

by Martin Clark

  She leaned closer to the speaker. “Not involved,” she said under her breath. “Only me.”

  “Sketchy,” he said, following her lead, almost mouthed the word without sound. “Illegal.”

  “Fight fire with fire.”

  “Why the deadline?” he asked. “So quick?”

  She spoke more normally, but still stayed below the music, which sounded electronic and spacey, cocktail hour for the Jetsons, a sixties prediction of what would be hip and swinging decades into the future. “The law has something called discovery. It allows each side to learn the substance and details of the other side’s case. It prevents surprises at trial and helps frame the issues. Unfortunately for us, once you receive what are known as interrogatories, you have only twenty-one days to respond. The responses are done in writing, under oath.” She took the papers in front of Hansen, folded them and put them in her purse. She planned to shred them as soon as she returned to her office. “Phil wrangled a short extension from their lawyer, but we’re down to only a few days before our answers are due. I hope we can get another delay from the judge, but even so, time is suddenly my enemy. Also, as part of discovery, you’re able to request a deposition, a witness’s oral statement under oath. The notices for deps have been served, and while we can use the excuse of busy schedules to cause some reshuffling, we’re under pressure there too.”

  “I already knew what a deposition is,” Hansen noted. He wasn’t snide or haughty. His tone and expression signaled he understood the dilemma.

  “So?”

  He scratched his cheek again. “You’re positive we’ll win in court?”

  “Yeah, as positive as you can be in a system that relies on seven random variables to reach an accurate result. But I need to have this before we show our hand. Need to know precisely what I’m winning or we’ll be screwed.”

  “Okay,” he whispered. “You can count Overbyte in. This should be much more fun than breaching Mrs. Helms’s computer, especially at five hundred an hour, which strikes me as a fair wage given my tricky new responsibilities. And I’ll need a letter from you confirming it.”

  “Sure,” Lisa answered. “Deal. Do not mention this to my husband or our lawyers. Not a peep.”

  “The letter also should state it’s kosher. If I take a fall, I’d prefer to have a warm body underneath me to cushion the blow.”

  —

  The same evening, Lisa, feeling stressed and preoccupied, treated her elementary school student, Montana Triplett, to a Najjar’s pizza and a child’s manicure from the mall nail salon, so it was almost seven-thirty before she arrived at the farm, where she found Joe sitting on the front porch, still wearing his pin-striped pants and pressed white shirt, his collar unbuttoned. He was drinking the top-notch bourbon, the Van Winkle, just a highball glass and ice, no mixer, the brown liquor a rarity for him during hot weather, usually stored at the rear of the cabinet until the leaves turned color. He was in a sturdy white vinyl rocker they’d bought at Lowe’s hardware, part of a matching pair on sale for ninety-nine dollars, and he’d removed her fern from its small table, dragged the table closer to the rocker and propped up his feet. His horse, Sadie, was in the front yard, grazing, let loose from the pasture, experienced enough she wouldn’t bolt or cause trouble, happy to eat the clover patches and lush lawn grass.

  “Good idea,” Lisa said. “I’ll get a glass of wine and join you. Okay?” There was still plenty of summer daylight in the sky.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She kicked off her shoes almost as soon as she was inside. She shed her bra in the kitchen, draping it across a chair. She pulled her hair out of her face and fastened it with a plastic clip, then poured a glass of cold white wine from a bottle in the fridge she’d opened two days ago. She left a necklace on the counter, beside Joe’s tie.

  “How’s the Van Winkle?” she asked as she was settling into the other rocking chair.

  “The best. Even though it’s too hot to be drinking it. I’m still under a roof, so at least there’s no heresy in that regard.”

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “I am,” he said miserably. “And I’m seriously worried they might whip us in this thing, Lisa.”

  “They won’t.”

  “You keep repeating that.”

  “Because it’s true,” she answered.

  “I’m like the doctor who discovers his own tumor,” he said quietly. He was watching his horse. “All of a sudden it’s not about billing codes and tee times. I can’t believe the friggin’ legal system’s so wide open and so…so…such a street brawl that you can turn the law into a damn cudgel and just raise holy hell with it.”

  “Seriously? Really? Come on, Joe. We work off principles and documents and ideals that were created by men with wooden teeth, blunderbusses and knickers. Slaveholders whose state of the art was medicinal leeches. Men who’d for sure condemn a microwave oven as a witchcraft box but probably worship a remote-control model plane as a divine messenger. Men who’d never seen a basic telegraph or a black-and-white TV and set store by Poor Richard’s Almanack. Guys who died from syphilis. It’s a system that prides itself on being static and never changing. And even better, we trust the politicians to properly calibrate it.”

  “I doubt any system can keep pace with every advance and invention. And basic good ideas remain basic good ideas. You have a better suggestion?”

  “I for sure could improve the moldy dinosaur we have. I could.”

  “Truthfully, I’m most concerned about losing my law license. The state bar investigator has referred my case to the district committee—the letter came this morning. They have a pack-of-lies affidavit from dipshit Neal to go along with the forged will, the video from the Bahamas, the fake agreement with Benecorp and a bullshit deposition from our pal Seth Garrison detailing how I tried to extort him, which dovetails nicely with the recording of me fudging about the possibility of a trust or foundation owning the formula. How would you rate my chances? The fucking hearing’s set for October tenth. And against all that, I say, what, you have my solemn word I didn’t do any of this? Please believe me? I know that’s me lying on the phone, and the expert says that’s my signature on an extortion agreement, and the will I handed Vicky is a fake, but hey, listen, I’m innocent. Shit. Good luck.”

  She set her glass on the stone porch, made certain it was steady, the rocks not completely level or smooth. “Okay.” She exhaled, patting her hair. “Here’s a plan, the best I can come up with. I know you’ll throw a fit, but let’s think about something unconventional. We have no chance if we play this according to traditional rules. None. You should realize that by now. It should be obvious. We’ll get our butts handed to us even though you’re innocent and Garrison’s a damn scoundrel. We’re heading into a fight with a rules pamphlet and some misguided sense of justice, and Benecorp is showing up with a bazooka. Hell, you’ll be standing there lecturing them and wagging your finger, and they’ll blow you to smithereens, Joe. Goliath has a Glock in this version, and no matter how virtuous and principled you are, you’re naïve to think that honoring some impotent lawyer code will do anything for you, that the system can’t be hoodwinked or scammed and you’ll never lose so long as you stick to Lord Mansfield’s noble instructions. You’re standing in the martyr line, for no reason.”

  “And you’ll correct this how? We’re going to leap into the mud with them and become thugs and beat them at a game they understand and we don’t? But, yeah, absolutely, you’re right—I’d fucking prefer to be disbarred and be able to live with myself.”

  “Here’s the plan, or at least the start. Don’t interrupt me. Let me explain it before you have a conniption. The big picture is we replace Lettie if—and only if—we can’t locate her.” She pushed her hand in his direction. “Just let me finish. We agree that if Lettie isn’t dead, none of this matters, especially if she exonerates you. If she says she wrote the will you gave the clerk’s office and she’s alive anyway, this nightmare is over and d
one with. There’s no basis for a civil suit, no basis for you to lose your license, and the crux of Garrison’s case—that you forged a will—is no longer viable. Everything will crumble from there.”

  He laughed. “While we’re at it, let’s conjure up the Green Hornet, Kato, a couple vampires, the Invisible Man, General MacArthur and a time-travel machine. We’ll definitely kick their asses. This is genius—why would I be upset?”

  “You don’t have to be a dick, Joe.”

  “Who will we cast as Lettie’s understudy?” he asked.

  “Simple. We dupe a legal system that’s been left behind technologically but makes forensic evidence a deity. We exploit an overwhelmed antique that’s creaky and feeble, where we know all the trapdoors and pressure points. DNA and fingerprints and all the CSI marvels are gods—especially to juries—but we realize they have major clay feet and can be compromised a thousand ways.”

  “I’m all ears.” He sipped his bourbon.

  “Remember when Lettie was pissed at me because I wouldn’t sue her neighbors for coaxing away ‘her’ finches and cardinals? Remember? She spoke to me only because you were on a hunting trip. She was furious because she couldn’t afford birdseed and the Gardner family could, and they were using it to bait the birds and ‘steal’ them from her. She wanted an injunction—no more seed so her birds would return. Bedbug crazy as usual. I finally got tired of her mouth and told her the birds probably sensed she was part serpent and that’s why they left. Not to mention the gang of cats at her trailer.”

  “So?”

  “To be spiteful, she sent me a letter, and the gist was that I’m not worth a bucket of warm spit. In fact, I didn’t even rate a bucket. She sent me a thimble of spit. Her spit. Covered and sealed with what looks like plastic wrap.”

  “Right. You showed it to me.” Joe was balancing the glass on his thigh. “Another proud day for Lettie.”

  “We still have it in the file from that meeting. Betty’s meticulous and a pack rat, especially where Lettie was concerned. She kept the letter, my notes, the spit.”

  “We’ll clone her? Yes! Brilliant.” He lowered his head, peered at her impatiently. “I’m liberated.”

  “I also have the elaborate curse she tossed on my desk a year or so ago. Among the feathers, sticks, dead flowers, beads, yarn and other voodoo is a braided section of her filthy hair.” Lisa leaned closer and touched Joe’s knee. “We have her DNA, Joe. What a huge advantage if we use it correctly.”

  “Correctly?”

  “Here’s the plan. We tell the court that Lettie’s alive but in hiding, fearful of Benecorp. Look at what they did to her friend, Dr. Downs. This is all perfectly true. We arrange to have Neal tested. The judge can pick the lab so there’s no room for cheating. If we drop a net on Lettie or she appears on her own, we’re home free. If we can’t get the real Lettie there, our spit and hair will match. Either way, the recorded will becomes a nullity, and the heart of the case disappears.”

  “Uh, I don’t think they’ll just let Barney and Andy drop off some samples down at the Mayberry malt shop. They’ll want to see Lettie and her ID, the whole nine yards. Hell, the division of child support is more strict than that. I seriously doubt a lawyer as smart as Edwin Nicholson will sign up for your program.”

  “Exactly. We’d have to be very careful about how we arrange the testing. Only the judge and the technician would be present, along with Lettie and Neal. We emphasize she’s mentally fragile and scared and that Benecorp is a threat to her—again, all true. Everybody else can watch by video conferencing.”

  “I’m sure Nicholson would happily agree to that condition as well.”

  “Let’s consider another advantage we have: Who knows her better than you and me?”

  “Probably no one,” Joe said.

  “Right. Which is why I could be convincing if need be.”

  “Great fucking googly moogly, Lisa. For heaven’s sake—you’re going to pretend to be Lettie? Seriously?”

  “Possibly. Maybe. If I have to. It would be too risky to bring in a ringer; the fewer people who could screw us, the better. We have your will video, so I could replicate her tattoos. I’ve spent a lot of time with her, and only a handful of people really are familiar with her. I never said I had every detail nailed down. Point is, I’d give it a try if it’s our best option.”

  Joe laughed derisively. “The most beautiful woman in ten states is going to transform herself into a hag and fool everybody?”

  “Listen to me: Obviously we need to keep Neal and any Lettie impostor separated, even though he’s such a nervous dunce he might not know the difference. We tell the judge that Neal’s in league with Benecorp and Lettie’s scared to be in the same room with him. Nobody else will’ve ever seen her before. Not the judge, not the lawyers, not the lab tech, not Garrison, not Pichler. She’s brand-new to all of them. With the exception of the Henry County cops and the local politicians, who has actually spent much time with her hateful ass? We could send in just about anybody. As long as the DNA matches, we win. And we’re really not cheating or being dishonest—Lettie’s alive. I saw her. We’ve heard from her. If she shows up after we’ve used her hair and spit to influence the court outcome, well, we’ll deal with any of her complaints then. Since you’re her pal, I’m sure you could convince her it was for her benefit.”

  Joe raised his glass from his leg and swallowed bourbon. He took in an ice cube as well, and Lisa could hear him crunching it. “This truly is from the Wile E. Coyote playbook. Lord, next thing you know I’ll be buying an ACME anvil and a length of stout rope and we’ll be trying to lure Garrison into a narrow canyon.” He stared at her. “No. Nope. No way. It’s just asinine.”

  “Why?” she quickly asked. “It’s unorthodox and risky, but it’s not asinine.” She leaned back in the chair and began rocking, made tight, compact strokes. “Go ahead. Tell me the flaws.”

  “The spit—you’re planning on handing them a thimble and they’ll simply accept it without any chain of custody or proof of when it was produced and where it came from?”

  “I’m still working on that. We’ll need some type of dental device or some fairly creative sleight of hand. Or help on the inside. I didn’t say I had it totally figured yet.”

  “Putting aside the…the equipment and dexterity issues, I suppose you’re planning to Magic Marker your tooth gold, and they’ll be fooled by that? The school play, Raggedy Ann effect? Maybe add some big red circles on your cheeks?”

  She paused, waiting a moment before she answered. A few tree frogs were beginning to chorus, a tractor-trailer’s Jake brake popped and belched out on the highway, three-quarters of a mile away. A hummingbird buzzed by and hovered above an orange hibiscus bloom, needling nectar from its center. Lisa recalled—saw it in her mind, clear, bright, vivid—standing in the Nassau customs line, studying her own passport photo, waiting to be admitted, then walking through a checkpoint without turning around, the immigration officer’s accented “enjoy your visit” and a three-man airport band’s tourist music the soundtrack for her selfish failure. She shook her head. “How hard is it to have my tooth tricked up with some gold? People do that at the freaking mall. I’ll wear a wig and a hat too.”

  Joe set his highball glass on the porch. He stood and stared down at her. “Are you making this up as you go along? You’re planning to cover your front tooth with gold, paint yourself with tats and take a one-in-a-million shot at fooling an experienced lawyer and a judge—assuming we can keep Lettie’s flesh-and-blood son out of the picture?” He stepped to the side and leaned against a post. “The best I see coming from this is both of us winding up disbarred. We’ll both lose our licenses. Sweetie, Benecorp isn’t the bear-suit mall lawyer you can jive and bluff. This isn’t the usual cast of characters you’ve been able to delicious or outsmart your whole life.” He eased his tone. “I understand you’re the risk taker, but this is flimsy and insane. It won’t work. It won’t. I appreciate the…the effort, the offer, the fact yo
u’re trying to fix our problem, but there’re way too many moving parts and way too many trip wires and way too many glitches we can’t solve just sitting here on the porch bullshitting about it. Believe me, I wish it were viable, do I ever, but this is officially the worst idea in history.”

  “I’d rather take the chance than see something happen to you, even if it’s a long shot and even if I risk getting in trouble too. Can’t win if you don’t play, and small odds are better than no odds at all. And it may never come to this. I think sooner or later we’ll find Lettie.”

  “I know. I understand. But let’s give the system a chance. I’m not sure how, but I believe sticking to the law will serve us better.”

  “I love you, Joe,” she said, her voice fading. She dabbed at her eyes.

  “I love you too. But that’s not a reason to do something suicidal and stupid.”

  “You remember Lloyd Burnette?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure. The biker. Why?”

  “He’d do anything for me, he admires you and he’s reliable as can be. We saved him years in jail when I had the certificate of analysis pitched in his case. He never ratted on his buddies, though, even when it would’ve saved his own skin. He’s solid. Close-lipped. He’s legit now, does tattoos in Greensboro. They’d be temps, Joe, not permanent. He’d never breathe a word.”

  “No.”

  “We’ve invested twenty years into people, done right by them, been honest, helped them, taken jars of sourwood honey and boxes of tomatoes and sacks of corn as fees, carried tabs for years at ten bucks a month, never cheated or cut corners or failed to press as hard as we could for a client, and maybe now’s the time to redeem those favors. Cash in the goodwill we’ve earned. I did Dr. Beasley’s divorce. Three years it lasted, and he’d call all rattled, and I’d hold his hand and reassure him—never charged him an extra nickel. I feel positive he’d wrap my tooth after hours and off the record. Maybe he could build the container for the spit too. Those are the only ingredients. Some tats and a tooth—that would be a start.”