by Amanda Brown
“I think they still wear powdered wigs over there,” Eugenia whispered. “Maybe if he wore one here we’d be able to see him.”
At least Hightower was aware of the language barrier that separated baffled students from the vocabulary of centuries-old English property law. He would often dart to the chalkboard midsentence to scribble peculiar words that formed, he insisted, the “law’s living lexicography.” By the end of class, the board looked like a Christmas tree decorated by children on only the low branches, an exotic language scrawled in the space within Hightower’s reach.
Elle felt her head spinning as she copied down the phrase Quicquid plantatur solo, solo cedit.
Wizened Barrister Hightower popped suddenly from the podium and tapped his chalk on the board. “Whatsoever is affixed to the soil, belongs to the soil. An estimable maxim. Why, my apprentices, does this not end our dispute?” Elle rolled her eyes. They had been through this last week.
Larry Hesterton and Gramm Hallman were already battling with Drew for primacy with Hightower, the only professor at Stanford caught in their medieval time warp. Today Gramm edged Larry out.
“Both the fox and the land, Barrister Hightower, are wild.”
“The land, Counselor? Wild?”
“More accurately, Barrister, the land is public. As we discussed last week, the vested rights of the landowner are inapplicable to this case. At any rate, the fox being wild, it is not affixed to the soil.”
“Born free,” mumbled Elle, wondering what she would learn about marital property from the law of fox hunting. She was right to have skipped this class last week to get her hair highlighted. One scrawny fox was nothing to go to court about. When class ended, Elle gathered her belongings and headed for Christopher’s office with nervous anticipation.
Chapter Thirty-two
Thank God for the Tight Skirt Button in her Range Rover, Elle thought, surveying her reflection in the elevator door. This button adjusted the driver’s seat to minimize skirt wrinkles, especially important during the warmer linen-wearing months.
The Vandermark case was becoming more complex every day. Witnesses and details were coming out of the woodwork. Elle felt a slight shiver, excited to be a part of it. Her parents had never pushed her toward one career or another, but the cardinal sin of the Woods family was to be “boring.” Elle considered this case to be definitely cutting-edge.
The elevator door opened to the sheer moneyed luster of Miles & Slocum. The floors of the enormous grand entrance were marble of the smoothest silver-gray; the furniture was modern and beautifully crafted, and its scale was perfect. The room was bathed in light, which streamed in through an entire wall of huge vaulted windows that gave a fabulous view of the bay.
“I’m Elle Woods. I have an appointment with Christopher Miles,” she said to the prim-looking receptionist.
“Elle Woods.” The librarian-like receptionist repeated Elle’s name with disdain as she looked Elle up and down through eyeglasses perched at the end of her long nose. “I saw your name on Mr. Miles’s appointment calendar. Is this a personal appointment?”
“No, no,” Elle protested a bit too quickly. “I’m working on the Vandermark case. I’m one of the interns from Stanford.”
The secretary looked dubiously at Elle and asked her to take a seat in the waiting room while she rang through to Mia, Christopher’s secretary.
Elle gazed out a vaulted window overlooking the water and remembered the spread on Miles & Slocum in Architectural Digest. “Best-looking firm in the country,” Christopher had said in reference to it. Looking around, Elle didn’t doubt it.
Christopher’s secretary joined Elle moments later, greeting her with cheerleader enthusiasm.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Mia said. “Martha”—she glanced toward the receptionist—“is a bit of a mother hen when it comes to Christopher.”
On the way to Christopher’s office, Mia conducted a brief tour, dashing with Elle through halls decorated with stunning contemporary art.
The interns’ office was a stark contrast to the rest of the suite. It was barren, with the exception of a Keith Haring print, four standard black desk chairs, and two heavy wooden desks, one of which was covered with documents. Elle glanced uneasily at the surroundings.
“Don’t worry, that’s Sarah Knottingham’s pile.” Mia seemed to have read her mind. “She’s coming back in later for document review. Her secretary is on vacation, so I’ve had to walk her through her schedule.”
Elle tried to maintain a poker face as she noticed a bottle of Advil on Sarah’s desk, thinking of the throbbing headaches that Sarah had caused her.
“You’re to wait for Mr. Miles in his office. He called from the car. He’ll be here shortly. He’s expecting you.”
Mia led Elle into a sitting room adjoining Christopher’s corner office. Elle wondered if she would get her own secretary like Sarah. She sat in a low armchair with a curving black back and leafed through a Rothko art book, the only book on an exquisite coffee table. When she heard Christopher approaching, she pulled out her Wills book and opened it to a page in the middle.
“Have important calls forwarded to my car. I’m running late for the deposition,” Christopher Miles barked at Mia as he swept into the office. Elle stood up to greet the lawyer, who was busy packing thick files into an accordion litigation bag.
“Elle.” He looked up, startled. “You were so quiet I didn’t even know you were here. We have to leave now, so gather whatever you need and let’s go.”
Elle quickly shoved her Wills book inside her suede Cartier briefcase, a present from her parents, who thought that if she was going to be a lawyer she should look the part.
“I’m glad you’re going to sit in on this deposition,” he said, locking his briefcase. “I just wish it weren’t at Henry Kohn’s Los Angeles office. This is the third deposition he’s taken in L.A. I think he does it just to annoy me, since his main office is only five blocks from here. I’ll be glad when I’m deposing the witnesses and I can do it right here.” He surveyed the office as if completing a mental checklist. “Right. Come on, Elle, we’re running late.”
Elle caught a glimpse of Cari looking up suspiciously from behind a paper mountain as she and Christopher flashed through the hall. Elle waited until they stepped into the elevator to mention the other interns.
“Cari seems to have a lot of documents to read,” Elle said.
Christopher smiled. “I have Cari researching a venue issue. She was probably reading cases. As for you, Elle, I want to make sure you meet all of the witnesses. With your background, I think you’ll have the best handle on the facts.”
“I thought I went to law school to learn the law.”
“You might be right, but cases are won and lost on the facts.”
The elevator opened to the parking garage. Christopher opened the passenger door of his racing green Jaguar convertible and Elle slid into the low leather seat. She noticed that he was thoughtful enough to put up the top before he started the car. She felt the car lurch forward as Christopher sped out of the garage.
Christopher weaved from lane to lane, speeding toward the freeway. “I’m worried we’ll miss the flight,” he said, narrowly missing a car in the next lane as he forged ahead of it.
“Not with you driving,” Elle said. Christopher was tracing figure eights through traffic. “If Chutney’s lawyer likes to hold all of his depositions in L.A., why isn’t the whole trial being held in L.A. anyway?”
“Because the old man’s broker, and most of his assets including the Vandermark Vineyards, are in Northern California. They could have offered the will for probate anywhere in California, so Chutney filed suit in San Francisco. Under advice of counsel I’m sure.”
“Why, is the judge better up here for her or something?”
“No, better for her lawyer. Henry Kohn, Chutney’s lawyer, has a branch office in Century City, but his main office is in San Francisco. I’m sure he gave the kid sound legal
advice to keep the proceedings convenient to his corner office at Kohn & Siglery. He’ll bill her for all of his flights and time to and from L.A. anyway.”
“Sleazy!”
“Welcome to private practice, Elle. And speaking of private,” Christopher added quietly, “let me tell you about our witness, while we’re still in confidence.”
He sighed at the thought of the scheduled witness. “The good news first: it should be brief. The witness despises Brooke, and what’s worse, he speaks flamboyantly, tends to use the word “murder” a lot, on the record. He was Brooke’s interior designer, until he quit. He says she’s got ‘murderous’ taste. According to him, she ‘murdered’ the sitting room, ‘ravaged’ the library, and ‘had intent to kill’ the foyer. You name the room and he’ll say she killed it. Trenton Davis, the name gives me nightmares.”
“Trent? Not Trent Davis. He is an absolute doll! I’ve known Trent since I was a little girl,” Elle said. “My mother owns an art gallery, so she works with a lot of designers. Trent is her absolute favorite designer and mine too! Our only regret is that we don’t get to see enough of him. He’s not only the best designer around, he’s absolutely charming! Clients are always jetting him off…Paris, Hong Kong…you name a cosmopolitan city and he’s a designer and a dinner party guest in demand.”
Christopher leaned over to turn up the volume of the car stereo, as if he were unable to stand hearing any more. Elle just spoke louder.
“You’re just lucky you’re not deposing one of the new breed of designers who insist on being called ‘interior dramatists.’ They usually carry small dogs with them, which they use like Kleenex, crying into their fur that something is missing or lacking.”
“I can’t believe you know Trenton Davis!” Christopher shook his head as if he felt sorry for Elle.
“Know him? He is a perfect gem! He redid our house in Bel Air after the earthquake, and I thought at the time that I might be interested in becoming a designer, so he took me everywhere with him to let me get a real view of the business. I remember this one completely wild woman…oh, what’s her name…” Elle frowned briefly. “Anyway, she had him on an absolute yesterday deadline to move all of her furniture out and stage the scene with theme furniture because she was giving this party. Trent, caterers, florists, artists, party and art consultants…you name it. Everyone was working day and night. She was having a theme party—Tequila Sunrise—so she wanted the wallpaper stripped so she could have the walls of the house painted like a sunrise. What’s worse, the woman had a terrible sense of direction and insisted that the sun rose in the west. So for her party at least, it did.”
Christopher stopped his chatterbox passenger. “Art consultants?”
Perplexed, Elle wrinkled her nose at the lawyer. “Of course she had art consultants! What a weird question to ask. Anyway, this lady told everyone working on the house to bring their swimsuits. She insisted. She liked to swim, but hated to swim alone. So at exactly noon, she had everyone from Trent to the painters suit up and splash around with her for an hour.”
“And I thought lawyers worked hard for their money.”
“Well, on this case you certainly have,” Elle said.
“Trenton Davis is going to make me work a little harder, Elle. He may have adjusted to his other clients’ idiosyncrasies, but not to Brooke’s. Right now he is an ideal plaintiff’s witness.”
“Chutney is the plaintiff, right?” Elle wanted to make sure.
“Well, she’s attacking the will in probate, and we’re arguing that the legacy to Brooke stands. Wills procedure is a little different, since the interested parties are not strictly adversarial. I’ve thought of her as the plaintiff out of habit.” Christopher glanced at Elle. “You keep me on my toes, Miss Woods.”
He looked back at the road and his smile disappeared. “I don’t know if being on my toes is going to be enough for this case,” he admitted. “It was high-risk to begin with, but plaintiff’s witnesses just keep coming out of the woodwork, Elle. Her entire household staff, her personal shopper, her personal trainer, even her shrink.”
“Her psychiatrist,” Elle gasped. “How horrible! What about doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“The court can subpoena those records,” Christopher said grimly. He pulled into the valet parking lot, worriedly checking his watch. “Grab one of these files, Elle, would you?”
Elle hopped out of the car with the case file and dashed after Christopher, making a mental note never to trust a psychiatrist, much less a personal shopper.
Chapter Thirty-three
A waiting car and driver used surface streets to whisk Elle and Christopher to the law office in record time, but Trent, arriving from Laguna Niguel, called from his car phone to complain that he was “stuck on the 405 parking lot.” Even after he arrived, Henry Kohn was tied up in a conference for another twenty minutes. So as it turned out, their driver had risked the wrath of the California Highway Patrol for nothing.
Kohn & Siglery was no Miles & Slocum, Elle thought. Although the soaring modern architecture of the building was impressive, on the inside it was horrendous.
Elle overheard Trent talking to the receptionist from the waiting room, where she was sitting in an itchy Louis XIV chair covered in zebra skin. “I’ll let your attorney know that you’re waiting for him,” she said, pointing the cherub-faced designer around the corner.
Short, pudgy Trent had gained another few pounds, Elle noticed.
“Elle Woods!” Trent was surprised to see her. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned widely. “Are you in trouble, you little devil? Or maybe here to sign a prenup?” he asked, kissing both of Elle’s cheeks, a lock of nearly white blonde hair brushing his forehead.
Elle jumped up, happy to see him and anxious to get out of the itchy throne. “No, Trent, I’m actually here with the lawyers, not to see one,” she said, and laughed.
“Coco Chanel would turn in her grave! Your mother told me about law school, but I simply cannot believe my eyes.” He covered his lively blue eyes and peeked through his fingers like he was watching a horror movie and was too afraid to look at the full screen. “You, with all of your creativity, my darling…a lawyer?”
“Well, not yet. I lucked into helping a lawyer,” Elle admitted humbly, indicating Christopher, who introduced himself as Brooke Vandermark’s attorney. She went on, “I heard about the murder”—Christopher cleared his throat audibly—“uh, the alleged murder,” she corrected herself, “over Christmas. Mr. Miles is kind enough to give us law students a little real-world experience through an internship.”
“And you’re still doing pinks.” He eyed Elle’s light pink Escada suit, noticing the details, the white collar and cuffs and chunky gold buttons. “Thank heavens you still find fashion exciting.” Trent breathed a long sigh of relief. As always, he was as interested in what Elle was wearing as in what she was saying.
Elle smiled and glanced down at her narrow Manolo slingbacks, which were already killing her feet. She motioned to the black leather Roche Bobois couch, which wouldn’t make her itch. “Let’s sit down and get caught up. Are you working in Laguna now?” She loved Trent’s stories.
Trent gave the couch a disapproving once-over and perched himself on the edge as if he didn’t want the offending object to contaminate his aesthetic sensibilities. “Elle.” He threw his arms skyward like a televangelist and then brought them down, hiding his face in his plump hands. “My stars! This home is an atrocity. And what she wanted me to do…it was even worse.” Trent rolled his eyes. “I say it should be a crime!”
“What did she want, Trent?”
“This woman, I kid you not, was in love with this notion of bubble-gum pink tile over black grout. Not just in the bathroom, which would have been bad enough. She led me around the house wearing a purple turban like she was something out of The Arabian Nights and told me that she wanted this bubble-gum explosion to cover the entire house and the garage! She wanted me to murder this house. Elle, I
would never have decorated in this town again!”
Christopher cringed visibly at Trent’s use of the m word.
“So you turned her down?” Elle said.
“Absolutely. I told her she had such vision, that she was so fabulously talented, that I would only serve to hinder her creative process.”
“Trent, how do you make a living if you only design when it suits you?”
“Elle, I have my standards. With the exception of Brooke Vandermark’s monstrosity, I’d have to say it was the worst idea I’d ever heard.”
“Be nice,” Elle chastised. “Was Brooke’s place so awful? I thought it was written up.”
“It was. Her house was written up under the ‘Enough Already’ column in L.A. Whispers. As she kept adding more square feet, it became a preposterous joke. The house was approaching the size of Candy Spelling’s, and the only thing bigger than the Spelling house is Brooke Vandermark’s ego. I never should have taken the job, even the walk-through. I was the sixth designer. All of the others had quit or been fired. The woman’s impossible.”
“Well, at least she didn’t make you go swimming,” Elle said.
“True.” Trent cringed at the memory. “But Brooke’s house was swimming in black lacquer. I could have drowned! The walls…I had to get rid of those murderous black lacquer walls. They nearly killed me! She said they were from her ‘reflective phase.’ Some little Shinto book from one of her support groups had struck her fancy so, she insisted on turning the place into Shogun! She butchered what could have been a lovely foyer with gargoyles and vases and horrendous bonsai trees. Oh, Elle, it’s indescribable.”
Henry Kohn and Chutney entered the waiting room. Elle glanced at Chutney’s tight black dress with gold lettering around her waist, which read, “Waist of Money.” She looked more confident than her lawyer, who in his rumpled, stained suit looked as if he had been pulling a lot of all-nighters.
“You shouldn’t talk to lawyers about the case until I’m present,” Henry Kohn cautioned Trent, exchanging a weary handshake with Christopher.