In Her Defense

by Julianna Keyes

  “Did you get in tough with Dwight?”

  “Deceased.”

  I wince. “Really?” It’s hard to blame a dead man for not following up on Schwartz’s concerns.

  “Heart attack three years ago.”

  “Did you ask Teller to verify the message?”

  “They said they don’t store email past seven years. And there’s no record of the written notification anywhere.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Or not.”

  I sigh. I know Teller’s opposed to it, and settling is not something I enjoy doing, but this is pretty damning evidence. If we thought the picture of Laurel’s hacked-off finger was bad, Schwartz’s testimony makes it look like a walk in the park. Short of finding proof that Schwartz made up his claim, settling is the best option Teller has. If Laurel Frances wins this case, it will open the company to countless lawsuits. “Did you talk to Teller?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Arthur—”

  “That was their response. Absolutely not. In less...polite terms.”

  “Did Morgan speak to them?”

  “Yeah. They’re firm. We win this case—or get it thrown out—or they take their business elsewhere.”

  I’m not normally ready to jump onto a sinking ship, but when I open my mouth to tell Arthur I’d rather not get involved, my gaze lands on the pile of empty water bottles in my recycling bin, and I replay the monotonous phone calls, the tinned greetings, the pattern the rest of my week will follow if I don’t find something else to do. I’m not convinced this case is winnable, but I’ve got nothing better lined up.

  “Are you asking for my help?” I ask, cursing the partners for forcing me to essentially beg for an invitation to this sad party.

  “Yes.” Arthur nods reluctantly. “We have to do something about Schwartz. To mitigate the damage, somehow.”

  He’s pointing out the obvious, but at least he’s on the right track. “How about a confidentiality agreement? Didn’t Schwartz sign one when he worked with Teller?”

  “Yes. We’re going to court tomorrow, but it’s unlikely it’ll hold up. Still, Morgan thought it was worth a try.”

  “It is. Okay. Email me a copy of the deposition tape and I’ll watch it myself to see if anything jumps out.”

  “Thanks, Caitlin.”

  I frown at the damning transcript pages. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  * * *

  My network access and elevator privileges have been restored, but instead of sitting camped out in my office on Wednesday evening, I’m dutifully perched on the bleachers at Dorrie’s softball game, pretending to watch The Closers get their asses kicked while secretly reading emails on my phone. It’s a compromise.

  The night is gorgeous and balmy, and perhaps because it’s warm outside, Winona thought it was appropriate to wear an electric blue tube top with her too-short denim shorts and hefty cast. Seeing her hobble up to Eli, alternately helpless and seductive depending on her whims, annoys me, but when my phone buzzes with an incoming message from Derek Berry, one of the firm investigators, my attention is successfully diverted.

  Watching Herbert Schwartz’s videotaped deposition wasn’t much better than reading the transcript, and though Arthur could use some further help with his confidence issues, there really wasn’t a whole lot I would have done differently. The only thing that jumped out at me on the tape was Schwartz’s appearance. The man is about forty pounds lighter and five shades more tan than he was in the photos from his last time as a whistle-blower. If things weren’t looking so dire, perhaps I wouldn’t have seized on this, but something tells me this change is significant, and I’d asked Berry to find out what Schwartz has been up to in recent years.

  “I’m up next, Caitlin!”

  I shoot Dorrie an encouraging smile and catch Eli watching me, a faint frown on his lips. I give him a thumbs-up and he cocks his head slightly, as though trying to decide how to interpret the gesture. I don’t dwell on it, however, because the batter flies out and Dorrie makes her way to the plate, pausing to peer back at me. I’m ready this time and she beams at me, promptly swinging and missing the first pitch by approximately six feet. She gets hold of the next one and manages to line it into shallow left field, darting to first base and beelining it to second when the fielder accidentally tosses the ball over her own shoulder.

  I stand and clap so Dorrie can see me, then, when her attention is reclaimed by a bumblebee, I sit back down and continue to read Berry’s email. Schwartz laid low after his initial whistle-blowing case, but a year ago he moved down to Costa Rica, and only flew back into town the day before his deposition. Berry used his less-than-savory contacts to track down Schwartz’s flight records, revealing that he’d previously been in Chicago three other times this past year, including the week before Laurel Frances cut off her finger. Not exactly a smoking gun, but worth noting nonetheless.

  I hear the thud of a well-hit ball and look up to see Layla rounding first as Dorrie sprints toward home plate. I’m on my feet with the rest of the fans, hurrying over to hug Dorrie when she returns to the bench, a big grin on her face.

  “Great job!” I tell her.

  “Did you see me?”

  “I watched the whole thing. You were wonderful.”

  “There’s a really big bee out there. I was going to run even if she didn’t hit the ball.”

  “Well.” I try not to laugh, since she’s dead serious. “At least this run counted.”

  I join Eli at the fence to watch the next batter. “What’s the score?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “19—9.”

  Not as bad as usual. “What inning?”

  This time he does spare me a glance, his gaze cool. “I thought you watched the whole thing.”

  I peer at him. “I have been watching.”

  He’s not convinced, and returns his attention to the field. “Fifth inning.”

  The final batter strikes out and the girls prepare to take the field. Winona leans in extra close to ask Eli a question about the batting order and I force myself to relax. I trust in our conversation in my kitchen, where we both promised not to see anyone else until I left, and I’m not going to let Winona bother me. Though I would really appreciate it if she adjusted her shirt—

  My phone beeps with a new message, and I dig it out of my pocket, frowning when I see Arthur’s name on the display. His motion to have Schwartz’s testimony excluded based on his confidentiality agreement had been denied, and though it was expected, he’s still freaking out.

  I pat Dorrie on the head and tell her to have a good inning, then return to the bleachers. I’m prepared to order Arthur to stop whining and start figuring out a strategy, but then I stop. I look up slowly, watching Eli take the mound, telling the girls where to stand, what to do if they get the ball. Even though they’ve been at this all summer, it’s still new information to some of them, but Eli never loses his cool, patiently restating the orders, offering praise and reassurance.

  I turn back to my phone. I’m not about to tell Arthur we’re here to have fun and try our best no matter the outcome, but I suppose I don’t have to tell him he’s annoying the fuck out of me, either. I delete my current message and instead type, Let’s figure this out tomorrow.

  And then I look up in time to see Eli turn away, obviously aware of my texting, and quickly add, Take the night off, before tucking my phone in my purse.

  * * *

  On Saturday I turn down Eli’s offer of a free ticket to the afternoon White Sox game to meet with Derek Berry at a coffee shop near my apartment. I’d been on the verge of accepting Eli’s invitation when Berry texted to say he’d uncovered something interesting, but would only tell me in person. I’ve worked with him enough to know this means two things: one, he came by the information illicitly, and two, it’s
good.

  Sorry, I text Eli. Busy. I start to write, Later? but stop, wondering if Berry’s information is so good I’ll still be “busy” later. I send the text as-is, and get no response. Under normal circumstances I’d be irked by the lack of reply, but at the moment I’m too intrigued by Berry’s discovery to worry.

  “So?” I say, when I’m sitting across from him at a small bistro table on the café’s outdoor patio. It’s another gorgeous summer afternoon, and the place is packed. Working outdoors is kind of like taking it easy, I think, priding myself on the fact that I’m wearing a casual skirt and sandals. It’s actually kind of like I’m not working at all, just having coffee with a friend.

  “Did you get a tan?” Berry tips his sunglasses to look me over without the shades, and I wait him out. We’ve known each other since my first week at the firm, and I like and respect him, even if he insists on wearing a cheap fedora all the time and is a bit of a weasel. Still, when he puts his skills to good use—namely helping me win cases—I’m more than willing to overlook his sometimes questionable methods.

  “I was on holiday,” I inform him.

  “I heard. How was it?”

  “Not awful.”

  “I thought for sure we’d see you on the security feeds, sneaking in after hours, stealing office supplies and making long-distance phone calls.”

  I smirk. “If that’s the worst you expect of me, I’m doing something wrong.”

  He laughs and bites into his sandwich. “You look good.”

  “I know. What’d you find out about Schwartz? Is he working with Laurel Frances?”

  Berry holds up a finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I looked into his life in Costa Rica a bit.”

  “Okay.”

  “As much as I could without going there myself.”

  “The firm’s not going to bankroll your vacation, Derek.”

  “Can’t blame me for trying. Anyway, looks like he retired a couple of years ago and moved down to Costa Rica shortly after.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s got a house, a girlfriend, a boat. It’s home.”

  “So?”

  “Sounds like a nice life.”

  “Please tell me I bailed on my boyfriend to do more than hear you praise Herbert Schwartz’s life choices.”

  We freeze at the same time, but the smug look on Berry’s face doesn’t mirror my own horrified expression. “Boyfriend?” he asks, seizing on my slip up with the ferocity of a teenage girl and not a fortysomething man.

  “Boy...friend,” I say cautiously. “Two words.”

  “What is this, fifth grade? Who is he?”

  “You’re the overpaid investigator. Figure it out.” I try to muster up some bravado, but I’m withering inside. I cannot believe I just said that. Never in my life have I had a proper, traditional boyfriend. I’ve never used that word. And even though Eli’s not around to hear it and I know Berry wouldn’t tell him—assuming he knew who to tell—I can’t stop kicking myself for the error. Eli’s more than a friend, but with a one-way flight to the other side of the country scheduled in two weeks, it’s dangerous to feel anything more than friendly affection for him. Lust. Respect. Appreciation. Period.

  Well, maybe a bit more lust. Then period.

  “Please tell me it’s not Haines,” Berry groans, finishing his sandwich. “That guy...”

  “What?”

  “He took advantage of you.”

  “No one takes advantage of me.”

  “You had to know he was never going to leave his wife.”

  “I didn’t care if he left his wife. They were separated. Then they...reunited. And I got the Fowler class action, the biggest case of my life, and was too busy to care.”

  “And he got piece of ass way above his pay grade.”

  “Stop.”

  “It’s not him, is it?”

  “No. It’s not Haines. He’s not a lawyer.”

  “Politician?”

  “No.”

  “Professor?”

  “No.”

  “Professional athlete?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m stumped.”

  “And you’ll stay that way. If you don’t have anything more on Schwartz, I’m out of here. And you owe me for that sandwich.”

  “Relax.” He waves a hand to indicate I should stay in my seat, then reaches inside the suit jacket he insists on wearing in spite of the heat, and pulls out a folded sheaf of papers, setting them on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “This...” He taps the top page, separate from the rest of the stapled bundle, “is Schwartz’s cell phone records in Costa Rica.”

  “Any calls to Laurel Frances?”

  “No.”

  “Then...”

  He sets the page aside and shows me the next bunch: a list of calls to Teller’s customer service center. “Morgan asked me to look into the calls, see if anyone else made this specific complaint about a Teller appliance.”

  “That it chopped off their finger?”

  “That the wiring was fucked.”

  “Was it?”

  “Not the point.”

  I sigh dramatically. “Then, please. Get to it.”

  “Right here.” He taps a fingernail at the top of the page, where the call center’s contact information is listed. He’s pointing to the phone number, which has a 505 country code.

  “So? The call center’s in La Flore, Nicaragua. Is that not the country code?”

  “It is. And this...” He retrieves Schwartz’s phone records, “is Schwartz’s country code. Five-oh-six.”

  “I’m not seeing the connection.”

  “That’s because you’re not smart like me. I saw this and thought, Wow, those numbers are awfully close together.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And then I asked myself, I wonder how close La Flore is to the Costa Rican border? Any guesses?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  “Twenty-one miles.”

  “And Schwartz’s place...”

  “Eight miles on the opposite side.”

  “So Schwarz lives twenty-nine miles away from the Teller call center?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does he work there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Make threatening phone calls?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you have a point, this would be a great time to get to it.”

  “Tori Castille, his live-in girlfriend. She works there.”

  I recall his smarmy testimony. “I can’t believe he has a girlfriend. I thought he was annoying as hell.”

  Berry shrugs. “I thought he was gay, but that’s beside the point.” He points to a number on Schwartz’s phone log. “He called this one two dozen times in the same week, so I looked it up. It’s Castille’s cell. Didn’t take much digging to find out they’ve been dating for two years.”

  “Okay, so we know Tori has poor taste in men and works at the Teller call center. And we know Laurel called the center multiple times.”

  “And probably spoke to Tori.”

  “Who could have told Schwartz.”

  “Bingo.”

  “This still doesn’t prove anything. What’s the motive? Schwartz hasn’t worked for the company for nearly a decade. He’s not getting enough money from Novak for his testimony to make it worth incriminating himself in some petty fraud scheme, even if Laurel Frances gives him a cut of her settlement.”

  “Hey.” Berry finishes off his coffee and pushes the papers across the table for me to take home, then stands. “I’ve done my part. You do yours.”

  “Which is?”

  “Find the link. You know
it’s there. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  I stare at the papers, the tenuous connection. “Me either.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, I had to—”

  “Work?”

  I shoot Eli a wry smile. “That’s right, all-star.” I haven’t seen much of him since my meeting with Berry a few days ago, but my time in town is running out and I need to come up with some sort of solution for Teller before I leave.

  He turns his attention back to the baseball game and sips his beer, not looking at me again until he hears the rustle of my dry cleaning bag. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “A dress. You don’t mind if I hang it in your closet, do you? I don’t want it to wrinkle.”

  “Are you trying to move in?”

  I laugh as I start toward the bedroom. “Hardly. But I need to be in early tomorrow, and if I have to spend the night here, I won’t have time to run home in the morning.”

  There’s plenty of room in his closet to add the dress, and when I step back I’m startled to find him blocking the doorway, shoulder propped up against the frame, hands tucked in his pockets. It’s a little unusual to see him still in his work clothes at—I dart a glance at the alarm clock beside the bed—ten o’clock. Normally he changes as soon as he gets home.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, reaching up to unpin my hair. “Is the game over already?”

  “Pitching change.”

  “Is it a blowout?”

  “One run.”

  “And you dared leave your lucky couch cushion?”

  “You don’t have to spend the night.”

  I pause, stockings rolled halfway down my legs, and glance up at him. “What?”

  “You said ‘If I have to spend the night here.’ You don’t. Have to. If you’d rather be at home—or sleeping at your desk—you’re free to go.”

  I finish pulling off the stockings and straighten, holding the nylon in my hand. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did.” He looks dead serious, and I believe him.

  “Well...I’m sorry, then. I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s coming back to me now. My reason for bringing the dress. “I just had to bring something to change into because I was choosing to stay here. Better?”