"I do not believe this. The absolute balls—" It was a motion for recusal on Darden v. Pedrosa Development, asking that Judge Arlen Coakley disqualify himself and send the case to another division. George Sanchez's signature appeared at the end for Ferrer & Quintana.
Disbelieving, Gail scanned the motion. "... the close business and personal relationship between not only the court and plaintiffs in this case but between the court and said plaintiffs' attorney, prejudicing thereby the rights of the defendants to a fair, just, and equitable result in this matter." She recognized the overblown prose—definitely George. Accompanying the motion was a notice requesting that the court set a special hearing. That alone could take anywhere from three to six weeks.
Of course she knew the judge, but he wouldn't do her any special favors. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to Coakley that he was an old friend of Senator Hartwell. The motion was only going to piss him off.
Then again . . . Coakley might throw the case out of his division if he was that pissed.
"Damn." Gail tossed her pen on the desk. George had written the motion, but was he devious enough to have thought of it?
She picked up the phone and dialed. Anthony Quintana had talked about settlement. He had come to the funeral with that little double-photo frame for Irene. How nice of him. Now this.
After two rings a female voice answered—a bilingual answering machine. Gail waited, tapping her nails on the arm of her chair.
"This is the law firm of Ferrer and Quintana. Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana. You may leave a message at the tone. Deje su mensaje al sonido electrónico. Gracias." Beep.
"This is Gail Connor, Hartwell Black. Please have Mr. Quintana call me as soon as he gets in." She recited the number, then let the receiver down sharply, glancing at her watch. Eight-fifty.
After dutifully writing point-two in her log, Gail paper-clipped the duplicate time slip to the pleading. As if the firm were going to collect a dime.
"Ms. Connor?" Miriam knocked, then opened the door. "There's somebody in the lobby to see you," she said.
"I don't have any appointments scheduled this morning.
"I know, but Gwen said there's an Indian named Panther, or something like that—"
"Jimmy Panther?"
"¡Imagínate! And Gwen says he told her it's important."
"No." Gail laughed tiredly. "Tell him to write me a letter. Or come back next week."
"He says it's about your sister."
"Oh, lord." Gail let her breath out. "I suppose he wants ... I have no idea what he wants."
"Well, if it's about your sister ..."
She rolled her eyes. "All right. Bring him in. Five minutes, I mean it."
Without the dim lights and flickering candles of the funeral home, Jimmy Panther could not pull off his role as mystical shaman quite so neatly. But still, when Miriam showed him into the office, Gail noticed two paralegals walking slowly past her door, watching.
He was dressed in blue work pants and a beige short-sleeved shirt that showed dark, muscled forearms. There was only one strand of beads around his neck, green glass ones with an amulet of some kind that clacked softly when he walked.
Gail automatically extended her hand. "Good morning, Mr. Panther." The name felt strange coming off her tongue. "Sit down."
"Thanks." When he let go of her hand she saw the bone handle of a knife at his side. His belt ran through the sheath. She couldn't see the blade, only a bit of shiny steel before it disappeared into eight or nine inches of hard brown leather.
He glanced down, then up again, smiling slowly, showing slightly crooked teeth. "Miami is a dangerous place. Somebody grabbed me one time in the parking lot outside the Historical Museum."
"Really. I hate to think what you did to him."
"That was before I carried this." Jimmy Panther sat in the chair closer to the window and rested his elbow on the ledge. "I haven't had any trouble lately."
Miriam still hovered. ''Mr. Panther, can I get you a cup of coffee? Some tea? A Danish?"
"I'll pass on the Danish. Tea would be good. Some artificial sweetener. I'm trying to watch my weight." He shifted his long ponytail from between his back and the chair.
Miriam turned to Gail.
"Nothing for me. And Miriam. Would you close the door, please?"
Jimmy Panther was looking around the office, vaguely oriental eyes traveling over the books and files and furniture.
He turned them on Gail. "Renee said you were a lawyer. What kind of law do you do?"
"Commercial litigation. Some real estate. Whatever they hand me."
He leaned to his left to look through the window, which faced north. Gail knew what he would see: air conditioning fans on the silver-painted roofs of run-down stores and offices, the downtown college, the federal courthouse, and to the east a small slice of Biscayne Bay, as much as could be seen from this angle. The partners had a better view, all the way to the Atlantic.
Jimmy Panther pushed lightly on the bottom of the metal frame. "Doesn't open."
Gail said, "Mr. Panther. You wanted to see me about Renee?"
"You can call me Jimmy, okay? First, I'm sorry about what happened. I liked Renee. We got to be good friends. I never thought she'd do something like that. I'm glad it was me that found her, though, not a stranger."
Gail had to let this sink in. "You found her?"
"I run an airboat off the Trail. I went out early that day with some tourists." He let a second or two go by, as if wondering how much more Gail might want to know. Then he said, ' 'Renee liked the boat. I took her out a few times, down around Shark Valley."
"I see."
He nodded. ''We met at the Museum. I did lectures on Indian life. She supervised the kids' tours. She was good with the kids."
"Renee?"
"Yeah. We talked a lot about history. She was really into it. I guess because your family has been here a while." He smiled again, his black eyes pushed into slits. "I had to tell her, my family was here longer."
There was a soft knock on the door, then Miriam came in with a styrofoam cup. She set it down on a napkin, along with a blue packet and a stir stick.
"Thanks a lot," he said.
Behind his back, Miriam raised her eyebrows at Gail before she pulled the door closed.
Jimmy Panther poured the sweetener in, then dropped the corner he had torn off inside the little bag, and folded it neatly. His hands were heavy with calluses and nicked with scars.
Gail rocked back and forth in her chair.
"Anyway," he said. "Why I'm here. I called your mother yesterday and she said I should talk to you."
"Mr. Panther. Before you even ask. If this is about a contribution in Renee's name—"
"No." He looked surprised. "No, it's not. Renee had something of mine and I need to get it back."
"Oh?"
"I lent Renee this mask my grandmother made." "A mask?"
"Right. Made out of clay."
"By the same grandmother who made the beads?"
"Yes. She had a kiln outside in the chickee. Used to make ashtrays and ceramic alligators and stuff for the tourists." Jimmy paused, then said, "Renee liked the mask, so I let her borrow it. It's in the shape of a deer head." He spread his hands about eight inches apart. "About so tall. Reddish color. It has lines carved around the eyes, big ears. You might have seen it at her apartment."
Renee had owned a condominium in Coconut Grove on a shady street where the buildings were half hidden behind oaks and banyan trees. Gail had been there only once, to find something for Renee to wear in her casket.
"No," Gail said. "I don't remember anything like that. But I could have missed it."
"Your mother said you hadn't cleared Renee's things out yet. I could meet you over there." He blew across the surface of the tea, then took a swallow.
"Well, I doubt that I'll be going again personally," Gail said. "Forgive me for asking, but do you have some proof it's yours?"
"Only
what I tell you." Jimmy Panther's eyes showed no readable emotion. He said, "My grandmother is dead now, and I don't have much of hers left."
Gail continued to look at him.
Panther said, "Irene told me she didn't mind if I looked around, but I should talk to you first."
"She said that?"
"Yes." He smiled. "I told her it's like a piece of the old woman's spirit is wandering, and needs to come back home. And anyway, Renee promised to bring the mask back to me last week. Then this happened." He drank his tea.
Gail pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing away to hide her annoyance. She had no reason not to give Jimmy Panther the deer mask. Maybe his grandmother had made it.
"Why did you lend it to Renee?"
"She thought Indian masks might go good in the shops in the Grove, so she took it around to a few places, like a sample. We don't have many ways to make money, except with our hands." Jimmy Panther paused. "I'm telling you this in confidence. I don't want the idea to get out."
"I won't tell a soul, trust me." After a moment, Gail nodded. "All right. As far as I know, my mother is going over to Renee's condo next weekend. I might go along, I'm not sure. Either way, we'll look for the mask."
"I appreciate it."
"Please do one thing, though. Call me if you have any further questions. My mother shouldn't be disturbed."
He put his empty cup on the window ledge, then pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and gave it to her. "You can leave a message at this number. It's the gift shop where I park the boat."
Gail walked Jimmy Panther to the corridor, and Miriam took him back to the lobby.
The Indians had a few tourist shops along the two-lane highway, but Gail didn't know what they did to earn a living. She had seen the trailers and shabby concrete block houses on the Tarmami Trail—U.S. 41—near the Miccosukee Reservation. Further east, toward the city, at the intersection of Krome Avenue, in the middle of a flat nowhere, the tribe had leased out some land for a bingo hall, a building as big as a football field. Gail had been there out of curiosity. It was managed by people with Italian names, and the staff wore black vests and ruffled shirts. Not an Indian in sight, except the occasional one at a bingo table, marking the numbers off just like the tourists or the older people bussed in from their retirement communities.
The idea of Renee on an airboat, or hobnobbing with a Miccosukee Indian, was incredible.
Gail sat down again with her cassette recorder and a stack of correspondence to answer. She had almost finished when the intercom buzzed. She marked her place and picked up the phone.
"Yes, Miriam."
"Anthony Quintana said you called him?"
"Indeed I did." Gail lifted papers to find the motion for recusal. "By the way, if you've got the Darden file out there, bring it in, will you?"
Before lunch—before Jack Warner looked at her over his prime rib and Caesar salad—this had to be straightened out. Gail hit the button and leaned back in her chair. "Mr. Quintana. Guess what I found on my desk this morning."
"Hmm. I don't know. What?"
"A motion for recusal."
"Ah. George told me he mailed it Monday. Apparently he didn't call you." The soft voice had a tone of surprise that Gail didn't buy for a second.
"No, he didn't. Who's handling this case, you or George?"
Quintana let a couple seconds go by. "You asked to speak to me, and here I am."
Miriam came in with the file and left again.
Gail spoke slowly. "Mr. Quintana, I'm going to assume this is your case, all right? I don't know how they do things over in criminal court, but I can tell you this: Judge Coakley doesn't like attorneys playing around with the system. Fair warning. Don't make me bring this up on an emergency basis."
"Are you asking that I withdraw the motion? Until there is a settlement, the case proceeds. We both know how this works."
"If you prefer." Gail twisted the phone cord around her fist, imagining it was his silk tie. "You've no doubt had a chance to review the order I drafted. A courier can take the original to the judge this afternoon. And as long as we're on the subject, we may as well discuss a date and time for me to depose Ernesto and Carlos Pedrosa."
She thought she heard him sigh. "Listen, Ms. Connor — No, I won't be formal with you. Listen, Gail. We could drown ourselves in paper and procedure. But now we are speaking to each other—not face to face, but speaking nonetheless. I had hoped we could leave the adversarial relationship for the courtroom."
The man was smooth, she had to give him that much. "I'm not hard to get along with," she said. "But motions out of nowhere set my teeth on edge."
"As I can understand. All right, then. Let's talk about it this afternoon. Allow me to buy you that cup of coffee you declined before. I have a deposition to attend in your building, so it would be convenient."
Gail noticed the way he pronounced deposition: with a soft s, not the hard English z. She ran her thumb down the plastic index tabs sticking out of the Darden file. "I'll be honest with you. My clients aren't in a mood to be generous."
Anthony Quintana chuckled. "We must both beware our clients. What time?"
"I need to speak to the Dardens first. May I call you early next week?"
"Of course. Until then."
Gail hung up, then frowned at the thick file on her desk, with the motion on top still creased from mailing. She knew when she was being pushed. Most attorneys who tried it went for a full tackle. Nothing personal, of course, and afterward everybody shook hands and had a drink together. Those were the rules. But Quintana was playing another game: Get her unbalanced. Smile. Try charm instead of cold demands. If she doesn't play along, then get tough.
Just try it, amigo, Gail muttered to herself. She reached for her time log. Point-four. If she could only send a bill in this case, the Dardens would be on their knees to settle.
She opened a foreclosure file, then swore softly when the intercom buzzed. She picked it up.
Miriam said, "It's that Britton guy from Metro-Dade. He's outside."
"Who?"
"The police officer you wanted me to call, remember?"
"He's here?"
"Uh-huh. I don't think he's collecting for the P.B.A."
Typical plainclothes cop, Gail thought as Miriam closed the door behind him. Muted blue plaid jacket, a dark tie, short brown hair, gold-framed glasses. A late-thirties guy going slightly heavy around the middle. He could have been an appliance salesman for Sears. Until he handed her a white card with a gold shield on it. Metro-Dade Police Department.
"Ms. Connor, I'm Frank Britton. How are you this morning?"
She took his hand, extended across her desk. "Sit down, Sergeant. What's this about?"
He had a pleasant face. She had seen faces like that before, on expert witnesses about to testify. Settling into the witness chair, straightening the front of his jacket a little, getting comfortable.
Gail put the card on her desk. "This says Homicide Bureau."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm investigating your sister's death."
She sat down in her chair. "I don't understand."
"You might know this, being an attorney, Ms. Connor. The Homicide Bureau looks into suicides, just like any other death by unnatural causes." Britton's delivery was polite, his accent from somewhere in north Rorida, that down-home drawl uncommon in Miami.
He said, "Now, we did a preliminary investigation at the scene last Monday, after we got the report. Search of the area and so on. We did her apartment the same morning, but—"
"Is that routine?"
"Absolutely. We look to see if anybody's in there. You never know. There could be somebody injured or deceased. And if she had a roommate, we'd want to notify that person." He paused to make sure Gail understood, then said, "I want to go back and do it again. Your mother said to call you."
"Did she? Why? I mean, she is the personal representative."
"She didn't mention it. I thought you'd probably be handling yo
ur sister's affairs."
"No. And my mother didn't mention this . . . investigation to me."
"Maybe she forgot," he said. "It happens. People don't like to think about death."
"But Renee killed herself. Isn't that what the death certificate says?"
"No, ma'am. It's still pending. We're not going to release the certificate until I can look into it further, and I usually start with the decedent's place of residence. Last time we had the landlord let us in. If we go back, we're going to need a search warrant unless we have a family member along."
Gail said, "I don't see the point. Renee was found in a county park with her wrists slashed."
"Yes, ma'am, a policeman comes in, starts asking questions, when everybody is trying to get over the loved one's death. I realize it can be a shock."
Half smiling, Gail looked down at his card, aligning it with the edge of her desk. ' This is unreal. Do you do this with all suicides?"
"Lord, no. We don't have that kind of manpower. It's a judgment call, usually after somebody asks us to look into it."
"Meaning my mother."
Behind the glasses, his pale blue eyes showed sympathy. "You can kind of see her point. There was no note, for one thing, or a terminal illness. Most people who do themselves in are depressed. Your mother didn't think Renee was in that frame of mind."
"Did she tell you Renee tried to kill herself before? With a razor blade?"
"When was that?"
"About four years ago."
"Huh." Britton said, "Well, we still need to check it out. When can you come let us in?"
"Look, Sergeant, I don't mean to be difficult, but I really don't have the time for this."
The light reflected in his glasses. "Then we'll have to get a warrant. Or ask Mrs. Connor to go with us."
Gail let a few seconds go by. "All right. I can meet you Saturday morning."
"Friday's better."
"Fine. Five o'clock. It's the best I can do."
After Britton left, Gail told Miriam to hold all her calls. She sat at her desk with both feet curled under her.
Irene might have gone so far as to call the sheriff of Dade County. And if he didn't know who Irene Strickland Connor was, then she would have referred him to the Mayor of Miami. They might not pay attention to every distraught mother, but they had to this one.
Suspicion of Innocence Page 6