“Oh yes, Helen. It’s just that we see so little of her these days. She’s become . . . very introspective,” she said, throwing her hand up dramatically. Both she and Jean laughed.
“What do you mean?”
“Actually, we’re being unfair. Helen had something of a nervous breakdown after Gloria Jaffee’s death and went on medication. She’s into therapy, but she’s a wonderful, kind person, and very attractive,” Norma said.
“Gloria Jaffee?”
Norma and Jean looked at each other quickly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jean said. “I just assumed you knew about the Jaffees.” She turned to Norma. “Put my foot in my mouth again, huh?”
“Seems you did, partner.”
“Who are the Jaffees?” Miriam asked.
“I don’t see how you wouldn’t find it all out very soon anyway. It’s just that I didn’t want to be the one who threw some cold water on the fires of excitement and happiness here,” Jean said.
“That’s all right. I need something to bring me down. It’s naive to think everything will always be peaches and cream,” Miriam replied.
“Very good attitude,” Norma said. “I like that. It’s about time we had someone in our group who had some perspective. Jean and I get carried away sometimes, and with Helen so depressing these days, we just tend to avoid anything unpleasant.”
“Tell me about the Jaffees,” Miriam insisted.
“Richard Jaffee is the attorney your husband is replacing. He killed himself after his wife died in childbirth,” Jean said quickly.
“My God!”
“Yes. They had . . . everything to live for. The baby was born healthy, a son,” Norma said, “and Richard was brilliant. Dave says Richard was the sharpest attorney he’d ever met, including Mr. Milton.”
“How tragic.” Miriam thought for a moment and then looked up quickly. “They lived in our apartment, didn’t they?” The girls nodded. “I thought so . . . the nursery . . .”
“Oh, I feel so bad about depressing you,” Jean moaned.
“No, it’s all right. How did Mr. Jaffee die?”
Norma smirked and shook her head.
“He jumped off the patio,” Jean said quickly. “There, now I’ve told you all the horrible details, and if you’re unhappy, Ted’s going to blame me.”
“Oh no, I’m sure . . .”
“Dave’s not going to be ecstatic about my part in this, either,” Norma said.
“No, really, it’s all right. I’ll deal with it. Kevin should have told me right away, that’s all.”
“He’s just trying to protect you,” Norma said. “Like a good husband. Dave and Ted are the same way, right, Jean?”
“Right. Can’t fault them for that, Miriam.”
“But we’re not children!” Miriam exclaimed. Instead of being upset with her response, the two laughed.
“No, we’re not,” Norma said. “But we’re loved, cherished, protected. You might not realize how important that is just yet, Miriam, but believe me . . . believe us, after a while, you’ll see how wonderful it is. Why, Jean and I don’t even ask about the grisly details of our husbands’ cases anymore, and the boys don’t talk about them around us.”
“Isn’t that thoughtful?” Jean added.
Miriam looked from one to the other. Then she sat back. Maybe it was thoughtful; maybe if she hadn’t been so involved in the details of the Lois Wilson case, she wouldn’t have been so upset about the way Kevin had handled it, and she could have taken more pleasure in his success, a success that had contributed to all this.
“After all”—Norma continued to pound home the point—“they’re working hard to make things wonderful for us.”
“The least we can do,” Jean concluded, “is make it easier for them to do so.” They laughed in unison and sipped some wine.
Miriam said nothing for a moment. “Tell me about Helen Scholefield,” she said. “How is she?”
“Oh, she’s improving. Therapy has helped a great deal. Mr. Milton recommended someone as soon as he heard she was having problems,” Norma said.
“She’s been painting again, too, and that’s helped as well,” Jean added.
“Oh yes. And she’s good. I’m sure she will be happy to show you her work.”
“Actually, it’s very good. Reminds me of Chagall, but with a touch of Goodfellow. You remember that abstract artist we saw over at the Simmons Gallery in SoHo last month,” Jean said. Norma nodded.
Miriam shook her head and smiled at them.
“What’s wrong?” Jean asked.
“You two seem . . . so cosmopolitan,” she said, thinking of Kevin’s words. “You take everything so calmly and you’re not afraid of doing things. It’s wonderful. I admire you both.”
“You know, I think you’ve actually been the one kind of cloistered out there in your Long Island world,” Jean said, her face growing calmer and more serious-looking. “Am I right?”
Miriam thought for a moment. Sometimes she felt that way. Her parents had sent her to a private school when she was twelve and from there she went on to an exclusive junior college and then to college and modeling school, always pampered, always protected. Kevin had certainly treated her that way since they were married. Now she even believed he had joined Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler and designed a life for them in Blithedale only because she had wanted it. Had she been holding him back? Could he have gotten them into this world even sooner? She hated to think that she had been selfish, and yet . . .
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Not that either Norma or I have had a rough time. Norma’s father is a plastic surgeon on Park Avenue. She’s lived on the exclusive East Side all her life, and I come from affluent parents in Suffolk County.” She sat back. “My father’s a broker and my mother’s a real estate agent who probably could sell the Brooklyn Bridge,” she added.
“She could. I met her,” Norma said.
“But don’t you worry,” Jean said. “In a matter of days, you’ll be just like us, doing many of the same, crazy things. Whether you want to be or not,” she added prophetically. There was a moment of silence and then Norma laughed. Jean joined her, and just as Jean predicted, Miriam started laughing too.
6
Outside the conference room, the associates parted, each off to work on his own case. Kevin said his goodbyes and walked to his office while he looked over the case file Milton had given him. He sat down in the comfortable leather desk chair and continued reading through the folder, formulating tactics and making notes as he went along. Close to an hour later, he sat back, shook his head, and smiled. If the others had known what Mr. Milton had handed him, they hadn’t shown it. It was the kind of case that could make a young attorney’s reputation overnight because it would draw a great deal of media attention. And John Milton had decided to give it to him.
To him! Even his swollen ego and continually thirsty ambition didn’t prepare him for such an opportunity, especially with three other attorneys in the firm, each much more experienced in criminal law than he was.
No wonder John Milton wanted him to begin work immediately. This case was just beginning to make the headlines. In fact, what John Milton was doing in the preface of this file was anticipating who his client would be, expecting him to be charged with the murder of his wife.
A little over twenty years ago, forty-one-year-old Stanley Rothberg had married Maxine Shapiro, the only child of Abe and Pearl Shapiro, owners of one of the biggest and most famous Catskill Mountain resort hotels, Shapiro’s Lake House, located in Sandburg, a small upstate New York community not far from where Paul Scholefield first had practiced law. In fact, it occurred to Kevin that Paul would have been a more logical choice to take this case, since he was familiar with the area. However, Shapiro’s Lake House had developed a national reputation because of the celebrities who performed there, the hotel’s longevity, and the introduction about ten years ago of the Shapiro’s Lake House Raisin Loaf, the recipe supposedly Pear
l Shapiro’s. It was a popular item in supermarkets and well advertised on television.
Both Abe and Pearl Shapiro were now dead. Stanley Rothberg had started as a busboy and then become a waiter in the Lake House dining room. He had met and romanced Maxine and (no secret from anyone), without Abe and Pearl’s initial blessing, married Maxine and eventually became general manager of one of the biggest hotels in the resort area.
Maxine turned out to be a sickly woman, eventually developing brittle diabetes. She lost a leg and was confined to a wheelchair during the last few years. She had a full-time nurse. Last weekend she was found dead, as the result of an insulin overdose. Mr. Milton was positive Stanley Rothberg would be charged with first-degree murder. Everyone seemed to know that he had a girlfriend on the side. The Rothbergs had no children, so he was the sole heir to the multimillion-dollar tourist facility and bakery enterprise. There was clear motive and clear opportunity.
Kevin sensed John Milton’s presence in his doorway and looked up quickly from the folder. One of the things that was beginning to amaze him about the man was how he seemed to change appearance every time Kevin saw him. Right now he looked wider, taller, and even a bit older. He saw lines in his face that he hadn’t seen before, or was that just the trick of lighting?
“Got right into it, eh? That’s good, Kevin. I like it when one of my associates grabs on tenaciously,” he said, making a fist. “Keep that edge, keep that hunger, and you’ll always be formidable in court.”
“Well, I saw this story in Sunday’s paper. As far as I know, no one’s been charged yet; but I gather from this you expect Stanley Rothberg will be.”
“No question about it,” John Milton replied, stepping farther in. The lines lifted from his face. “My sources tell me an arrest is only days away.”
“And obviously Mr. Rothberg is anticipating it, too. When did you meet with him?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen him yet, Kevin.”
“Pardon?”
“I wanted you to be familiar with the case when he arrived. He’ll be a little nervous about someone as young as you taking his defense, of course; but once he sees how competent you are . . .”
“I don’t understand.” Kevin closed the folder and sat forward. “You’re saying we don’t actually have this case yet?”
“Not formally, but we will. Why don’t I go ahead and plan a meeting between us and Stanley Rothberg early next week. It’s my understanding that he won’t be arrested until then anyway. I’ll handle the arraignment and bail.”
“But how do we know he’ll come to us? Did he phone?”
John Milton smiled confidently, his eyes changing again to that shimmering rust, only a little brighter this time.
“Don’t worry about where he will go when he finds himself in trouble. He’ll know. We have mutual acquaintances who have already spoken to him. Trust me. Anyway, you should go through the medical data concerning his wife.”
“Yes,” Kevin said, staring, his thoughts complicated by a static of confusing impulses. Kevin was excited by the prospect of such a case, but he was also uneasy about it. Why had Mr. Milton given him, a new associate, an important case so quickly? Shouldn’t he take something simpler, build up to a case like this?
“I bet you already have an idea for his defense. Something popped into your head?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . after reading how Maxine Rothberg suffered. She and Stanley had no children; she was confined to a wheelchair and a restricted life in the midst of a glamorous and exciting world. She must have been terribly frustrated and unhappy.”
“Precisely my theory . . . suicide.”
“According to what we have here, she did inject herself occasionally, even though she had a full-time nurse.”
John Milton smiled again and shook his head.
“You’re a very sharp young man, Kevin. I know I’m going to be more than satisfied with your work. Look into the nurse, too. There’s a lot we can use, you’ll see.”
He started to turn away.
“Mr. Milton.”
“Yes?”
“How did you get all this . . .” He ran his palm over the closed folder. “. . . this detailed information already?”
“I have private investigators on full-time duty, Kevin. I’ll be introducing them to you from time to time so they can make direct reports, and I keep some things on my computer files.” He laughed, a short, quiet laugh. “You’ve heard of ambulance chasers; well, we’re crime chasers. It’s important to be aggressive out there, Kevin. It pays, in more ways than you can ever imagine.”
Kevin nodded and watched Mr. Milton leave. Then he sat back.
He had been right. The urban world was different and far more exciting. This was New York, where the best competed with each other, and only the best could compete. Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler paled before such a firm as John Milton and Associates, and to think, at one time during his neophyte legal existence, he had thought they were something special, they and their mesmerizing upper-middle-class existence. They were soft; they were actually dying, wallowing in comfort. Where was the challenge? When were they really on the edge, taking risks? Why, Kevin was already heads and shoulders above them. None of them had the guts to represent Lois Wilson, and now they were upset because their lily-white reputations might have gotten stained. The biggest adventure of their lives was going to a new gourmet restaurant. And he had almost become one of them!
John Milton had saved him; that’s what he had done: saved him.
Kevin got up quickly, squeezing the folder securely under his arm, and started out.
“Oh, Mr. Taylor,” Wendy called, ascending from behind her desk like some mermaid rising out of the water as soon as Kevin emerged from his office. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you go in.”
“That’s all right. I had just intended to stay for a few moments but got lost in some reading.”
She nodded, her chestnut-brown eyes darkening as if she had an instant understanding of what would seize his attention so firmly. She brushed back her hair and looked at the folder under his arm.
“Oh, wait.” She turned and hurried back to a cabinet behind her desk and took out a ruby leather attaché case. “I was going to give you this when you officially started, but since you’ve already begun . . .” She handed it to him. One side was engraved in dark brown script, the color of dried blood. It read, “John Milton and Associates.” In the lower right-hand corner was printed, “Kevin Wingate Taylor.”
“This is beautiful.” He ran his fingers over the raised lettering.
Wendy smiled. “All the associates have the same one. Present from Mr. Milton.”
“I’ve got to remember to thank him. And thank you, Wendy.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes. Work up all you can on diabetes and find out whatever you can about the history of Shapiro’s Lake House, the Catskill resort.”
Wendy’s smile widened. “That’s all been done, Mr. Taylor.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Milton asked for that last Wednesday.”
“Oh. Great. Well, I’ll drop by and start reading it. Thank you.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Taylor.”
He started down the corridor, looking in on Ted McCarthy, who was on the phone. Ted waved, and Kevin continued on. Dave Kotein’s office door was closed, so he went on to the reception desk and asked Diane to call for the limo.
“It will be waiting for you right outside the front door, Mr. Taylor. Use it as you wish. Charon is not due back here until the end of the day.”
“Thank you, Diane.”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Taylor.”
“You too.”
He was practically bouncing over the thick carpet. The secretaries weren’t just beautiful and pleasant, they were warm, sincere . . . titillating. Everything about this place was pleasing: the colors, the lushness, the newness. He hated to leave.
Kevin hummed in
the elevator and waved to the security guard in the lobby, who waved back as if they were already old friends. As soon as he came through the revolving doors, he paused and squinted. The heavy cloud cover had thinned considerably, and rays of the noonday sun reflected off the glass, the sidewalk, and the shiny surface of the limo. Charon opened the limo door and stepped back.
“Thank you, Charon. I’ll be heading back to the apartment first and then we’ll be going to the Russian Tea Room for lunch.”
“Very good, Mr. Taylor.” He closed the door softly, and moments later they were on their way. Kevin sat back and closed his eyes. He had so much to tell Miriam that he was sure they would both be talking a blue streak at lunch and all the way back to Blithedale. And when he described his first assignment as a John Milton associate . . .
He opened his eyes and ran his hand over the attaché case, snapping it open and gazing in at the folder. It would soon grow in size. That was for sure. Kevin laughed to himself. Talk about well-prepared attorneys. All that material already worked up and waiting for him. What an office—private investigators, a computerized library, efficient secretaries . . . Kevin sat back, his self-confidence growing. With such a support network behind him, he had to do well.
Then something Wendy had said triggered a curious thought. He must have heard it wrong, he thought, but he opened the file and looked at the dates associated with some facts to be sure.
Had she said Mr. Milton had asked for the information on diabetes and Shapiro’s Lake House last Wednesday?
Maxine Rothberg had been found dead in her bed just this past weekend. Why would Mr. Milton be interested as far back as last Wednesday?
Wendy must have been mistaken, or maybe he hadn’t heard right, he thought, and closed the briefcase.
After all, what else could it be?
“More wine?” Norma offered. She tilted the bottle toward Miriam’s glass.
“No, I think I’d better get back to my apartment. Kevin will be looking for me.”
“So?”
“Let him find you,” Jean said. She looked at Miriam and shook her head. “I can see we have some work to do here, Norma.”
Judgement Day Page 37