“Don’t let the simple name fool you,” Brightfield had said. “Roberts Engineering is a holding company for a conglomerate of subsidiaries. That group’s always looking for the next acquisition. Good management, sharp investments. They own copper and silver mines all over the world, some natural gas pipelines, offshore drilling rigs in Norway, South America, and here in the Gulf.”
So she should be thrilled right now. She was the billing partner on a new transaction for a large company that could—if she handled things right—turn into a long-term client. She should be sitting on the edge of her seat right now, wheels spinning in her head pumping out ideas, questions . . . she should be flashing her smile and controlling the conversation.
But now that she and Peter were home and back at work, she’d begun wrestling with the problem of the career woman’s eternal conundrum, how to work full time and raise a child. She was certain that she was carrying a little girl—a woman’s instinct, she’d decided. For fun, privately, she called her daughter Daisy. But Amalise was right. She would have to make some choices.
So now, instead of the excitement she should be feeling at this meeting, the shining star that was Rebecca was suddenly in danger of collapsing in upon itself.
Case Roberts was looking at her. She forced herself to tune back in. “The strike was unexpected,” he was saying. “We’re a little worried about that, too. Already got our geologists on it.”
“You’re worried about the assays? Salting?” Brightfield tapped his pen lightly on the yellow legal pad on the table before him.
Warren Williams, the chief financial officer, chimed in. “We just want to make certain they’re clean. The company’s planning to list the shares soon and then make the announcement. If we’re going to invest, we’ve got to move quickly.”
“They’re listing on the penny exchange?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes.” Roberts frowned. “So we’ll need the due diligence handled quickly. We’d like you both to handle this preliminary work personally, though—especially on the litigation, Bill.” His eyes stopped on Brightfield. “We’ll need your analysis of the lawsuit before we make a move.”
He leaned across the table, looking at both of them. “Once we’ve heard back from the two of you, we’ll make the decision. If we go forward, we’ll need to have the purchase agreements drafted right away. We’ll finance the purchase. It’ll be a rush project. Our bank group’s already been notified.”
This is what Rebecca loved, a fast-paced, interesting transaction. “That’s not a problem,” she said. All thoughts of babies and her career disappeared for the moment. She didn’t know a thing about mining, but she could learn. She loved finding out how different companies worked, their operations, their products, learning how management solved problems.
Warren Williams pulled a small stack of papers from a file on the table before him and handed these around. “These will familiarize you with our corporate structure.”
Rebecca looked at the chart, a matrix of companies below the parent company at the top—Roberts Engineering. As Warren began explaining the organization, she picked up a pen and began taking notes. She realized the meeting would extend into the evening. Beneath the table she rested her hand over the baby. She’d call Peter and let him know. Meanwhile, Rose Marie could order dinner for the group in the conference room tonight. And she’d have to cancel that follow-up appointment with Dr. Matlock, too, she supposed. Guilt pricked her at that last thought.
But she smiled and picked up the new file that Warren tossed across the table. Time was ticking for the company, but it was also ticking for her.
It was ten o’clock at night and the meeting with Case Roberts and Warren Williams had just concluded. Feeling exhausted, Rebecca had returned to her office for her purse. Once Brightfield finished his analysis and gave the go sign—if he did—this transaction would move forward quickly. She pulled the purse from the desk drawer and slung it over her shoulder, then stood.
“Got a minute?”
Standing behind the desk, she turned to see Brightfield in the doorway. “Sure,” she said.
He carried a thick file folder under his arm as he walked in and lowered himself into the chair before her desk. Then he looked at her. “Ever hear that old saying—Mark Twain said it, I think—a gold mine’s just a hole in the ground with an idiot on top?”
She laughed. “Warren said they’d be sending boxes over tomorrow. I’ll go through them first and send anything pertinent up to you.”
He nodded. “That’s fine. Congratulations. You’ve brought in a good client, maybe a real keeper.”
“I hope so. Thanks for your help, too, Bill.” Her eyes touched on the file folder.
“Glad to oblige,” he drawled, sweeping his hand toward her. “I’m here to collect, though.”
“Collect?”
“Quid pro quo.” He grinned and tilted back the chair. “I need some help. I’ve got a proposition for you, Rebecca.”
She sat back, clasping her hands over her middle, suppressing a sigh. This was all she needed now, more work. But she smiled and said, “Okay. Shoot.”
“I want you to write an appellate brief on a case I’ve been working for two years.” As she opened her mouth, he held up his hand. “Hear me out. Just hear me out.”
She would hear him out, of course. But she knew nothing about writing an appeal.
He told her about his case that had just gone through trial. A verdict had been rendered against the firm’s client, an energy company charged with fraudulent pricing. Daisy chains, they called it. When he’d finished talking and the room went silent, she leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped under her chin.
“Look, I’d like to help you out, Bill. But I don’t think I’m who you need. I’ve never written an appellate brief in my life.”
He shook his head as he lifted the file and plunked it down on the desk. “You’re smart, Rebecca. I know your work, and I know that you can do this. You write better than most lawyers in the firm.
He leaned back in the chair. “Listen, there’s an opportunity here for someone with foresight and talent. The firm’s got no one specializing in appellate work. I’ve seen what you can do, the way you dig into things . . .” He flicked his wrist toward the file, now before her. “You have, what some might call, a convoluted mind. But I like how you work things out, and that sort of thinking is what I need to clarify the issues in this case.”
“Bill, I don’t have the time right now.”
“You’re just what the firm needs, Rebecca. Someone smart, young enough to stick around for a while, and if you like it . . . perhaps develop an expertise.”
She looked at him, stunned. He was talking about pure research and writing. She was a transactional lawyer. She loved dealing with people, clients. That was her milieu.
“Anyway,” he added, heading for the door. “Give this one a crack. One good turn deserves another. If I’ve got to trudge around those mountains in Nevada looking for a gold mine, the least you can do is help me out on this.” At the doorway he paused and turned, one brow arched high. “Correct?”
“Sure,” she said. Raymond had been right; she was on the bottom of a whole new food chain.
When he’d gone, she dropped her head and groaned.
17
When Peter arrived home that night, as soon as he opened the front door he knew that the house was empty. When Rebecca was home, every light in the house was on. He glanced into the study to his left, at the overstuffed chair that she usually occupied near the fireplace and the handy table, with a good reading light.
With a flash of disappointment, he walked on through the living room and into the kitchen, switching on lights as he went. He opened the refrigerator door and stood before it for a moment, inspecting the contents. Then he pulled out a package of ham, and jars of mustard and mayonnaise, and the loaf of bread t
hat Rebecca insisted on keeping in the refrigerator instead of on the counter. He disliked cold bread. He stuck two pieces of the bread into the toaster, put the rest back into the refrigerator, and pulled a plate down from the cabinet overhead.
When he’d put it all together, releasing a long sigh, he sat down by the window and picked up the sandwich. He bit into it and chewed, gazing at nothing as the images he’d bottled up until this moment slowly emerged.
He’d managed to push aside thoughts of Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint since he’d left his office for the hearing that morning. As usual he’d spent most of the day in court on one thing or another, working his way through the docket. He often thought of his caseload as a train rattling down the track, cases up for trial soon were in the first car, those still in preliminary proceedings and investigation and motions and depositions and negotiations were in the other cars, each according to their schedules.
Glory Lynn Chasson’s case was still in the caboose and he shouldn’t be spending so much time on it right now. She’d made a complaint and Mac was leading the investigation. The investigation would take awhile. But still he couldn’t banish those autopsy photos from his mind. What on earth was happening at that clinic?
He shook his head at the entire range of legal possibilities raised by an accidental life and bit into the sandwich again. Never in his wildest imagination had he considered the possibility that an infant could survive an abortion. In fact, he reflected, he’d bet that no one on the Supreme Court when Roe v. Wade was decided nine years ago had ever contemplated this situation.
The telephone rang. He lifted the receiver and heard Mac’s voice on the other end. In the background he could hear clattering dishes, the hum of conversation, some laughter, music from a jukebox.
“Listen, I’m over here at Cisconi’s with someone you should meet,” Mac said. “Come on over. I’ll buy you a pizza.”
Peter glanced at his watch. “It’s nine thirty, Mac, and I’m beat. Just tell me what you’ve got.”
“Can’t, my friend. Get over here. This won’t take long. It’s important.”
“Not tonight.”
Mac’s voice took on an urgent tone. “Peter. I’m at the payphone in the hallway and Clara Sonsten’s here with me. She’s waiting at a table and she’s got a lot to say about that night and Glory Lynn. Sonsten wants to talk. Wants to waive her rights.”
“What? Back up. Are you talking about the nurse from the clinic?”
“That’s right. So, get over here quick.”
Peter grimaced and shook his head. “What are you doing, Mac? Does she know Chasson’s filed a complaint?”
“Yeah. We’re okay. She understands what’s going on and she says she just wants to tell us what happened.” Seconds passed and he heard Mac’s exasperated sigh. “Just get on over here. Give her immunity in exchange, but I’m telling you, you’re going to want her on that witness stand.”
Peter was silent. An offer of immunity could be arranged.
“Look, right now we’re having a friendly conversation. I’ll fill you in later. Just get over here. You know where this place is?”
Peter rubbed his forehead. “Yes, sure.” He knew the place, the usual red and white checked plastic tablecloths and Chianti bottles covered with candle wax. “Give me ten,” he said, looking at the half-eaten sandwich on the plate.
“Got it.”
Walking toward the front door, he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his collar. He’d call Rebecca if this took more than a half-hour.
Through the large plate glass window in front of the restaurant he could see Mac inside, talking to a nice-looking woman about fifteen years his junior. Mac sat at the end of the table with the woman he assumed was Clara sitting beside him.
They hadn’t noticed his arrival, and for a moment he stood near the door, just inside, assessing the nurse as a potential witness, envisioning her as a jury would if she were seated before them. Her plain brown hair barely touched her shoulders, curling under at the ends. Her head was down as she listened to something Mac said. She wore a flowered dress with long sleeves, a straight skirt, and a belt at the waistline, instead of a nurse’s white uniform. Beside her, Mac had shed the jacket and tie he usually wore. Between them was a large, half-eaten pizza.
When Mac finished talking, Clara straightened and nodded. Peter started toward the table then. Mac saw him first. With a word to Clara, he pushed back his chair and stood, extending his hand. From the corner of his eyes Peter saw the nurse giving him the once-over.
“Peter,” Mac said. “Glad you could make it.” He turned to Clara and introduced them.
Peter shook Mac’s hand and said hello to Clara. He pulled out an empty chair across the table from them and sat. Mac slid the pizza tray toward him. “Have some. It’s still hot.” He twisted around. “Where’s the waitress. We need another plate.”
“No thanks,” Peter said. “I just ate. But I’ll take a cup of coffee.”
The waitress approached and Peter ordered the coffee. As she departed, Mac leaned toward Clara, jabbing his thumb at Peter. “Clara, Peter here is the district attorney I was telling you about.”
Clara studied him in silence.
He turned to Peter. “I’ve explained everything to Clara, Peter—advised her of her rights. She wants to waive them. She wants to tell you what she knows.” He glanced at Clara and she nodded, then turned to Peter.
Arms on the table, Peter leaned forward, eyes fixed on Clara. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“Sure I am. I know what I’m doing. Immunity for my testimony, right?”
He nodded.
“All right then.” She picked up a piece of pizza from the plate and took a bite. Chewing slowly, she held her eyes on Peter. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t have all night.” She dropped the pizza onto her plate, picked up a napkin, and wiped her hands.
“Glory Lynn is convinced that baby was born alive,” Peter said. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“Glory Lynn was a sweet little thing.”
Mac turned his eyes to Peter. “Clara here was on duty that night.” He looked at Clara. “Just go ahead and tell Peter what you’ve told me.” He picked up a glass of water and took a drink. “Just tell it the same way.”
Clara Sonsten pushed her own plate back, away, and knotted her hands together before her. When she finally spoke, Peter had the impression that she was choosing each word.
“Eileen Broussard was the assisting nurse that night,” she said, looking at Peter. Mac leaned back now, one arm stretched to the table, listening. “She and Dr. Vicari were in the procedure room with Glory Lynn.”
“What was the procedure?” Peter struggled to infuse some warmth into his voice.
She shrugged. “I wasn’t assigned to the case—she wasn’t my patient. So I wasn’t there at that point, but I assume it was induced labor. That’s usual when the patient’s so far along. It’s safest for the client.”
“The clinic performs late-term abortions?”
“Sure they do. Well, if the fetus isn’t viable. And even after that if the woman’s health is involved.” She glanced at Mac. “Like high blood pressure, or depression, or . . . whatever.”
“And how far along was Glory Lynn?”
She lifted her chin and her voice rose. “I don’t know. I already told Mac. She wasn’t my patient. You’d have to look at the records.” Frowning, she swung her eyes from Peter to Mac, and back again. “Listen, I was only in that room a couple times. It was the last time when Eileen rang for help that I was telling Mac about.” Her voice caught on the last few words.
Peter nodded, softening his expression. “Okay. Just tell me what you saw.”
Clara’s eyes pooled with tears. Peter pulled a napkin from the holder on the table and handed it across to her. “I know this is hard for you, Miss Sons
ten.”
“Clara.” She dabbed her eyes.
“Okay. Just tell me what you saw. Start from the beginning.”
She nodded. “The first time Eileen rang I went into the room and Glory Lynn was in labor.”
“Was she awake?
“Yes.”
“Having a hard time?”
“Not too bad. It’s not like that when the fetus is so small . . . not like at full term.” She looked down, twisting the napkin in her hands. “Eileen needed some instruments and I went to get them. Brought them back, and handed them to her.” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “Dr. Vicari was beginning to deliver at that point, I think.”
“What time was that?”
Fingertips pressed against her mouth, she looked off. “About six fifteen at night, I think.”
“All right. Go on.”
“So I went back out. Started down the hallway, and then I heard a scream.” She looked at Peter. “It wasn’t the kind of sound you’d expect to hear in the clinic. It wasn’t a series of cries, like you might hear during hard labor or anything. It was just . . . one loud scream.”
“I stopped when I heard that scream, and then kept on down the hallway. I was going to get a Coke-Cola or something out of the fridge in the kitchen when I heard the bell ring again.” She glanced at Mac, and he nodded. “So I went back into the room, the delivery room, and there was Glory Lynn and she was half off the table, trying to sit up and she was crying, just sobbing, and Eileen was struggling with her.
“Dr. Vicari was still on the stool at the end of the table, and I saw he was holding something in his hand. On the delivery towel in his left hand. And then I heard the cry.” Her voice broke, and bending her head, she pressed her hand over her forehead. “I looked again, and then realized he was holding an infant, and that I’d heard it cry.” She looked at Peter. “He’d cut the cord, but the baby, it was alive!”
An image of Rebecca’s gently swelling belly rose in Peter’s mind. And then, the autopsy photos rose and, swallowing, he forced those thoughts away; forced himself to concentrate only on Clara’s words. This was critical. Clara was corroborating Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint.
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