“Unless we beat him to it,” Nina said.
“You see the beauty of it. Slip the big gun away before he even notices your fingers in his pocket.”
“Mom!” Bob yelled from the bathroom. “Bring a towel, quick! Bring a bunch of towels!”
“Hang on, Sandy,” she said. “What’s the matter?” she shouted holding her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Oh, man,” he said, “too late. Oh, man, oh, man.”
An hour later, after the flood in the bathroom had been cleaned up and Bob was finally in bed, Nina threw on a sweater and took the dog out for his last walk. The moonless night blazed with stars, a sight she had forgotten about while living in San Francisco in the days before she became downsized and divorced. She could hardly believe that she was into her second year of solo practice, hanging in there and even developing a reputation.
Hitchcock ran with his nose to the ground, nuzzling at the foot of the tall trees and around the bases of the dark cabins. His black fur blended into the dark. Cassiopeia and Orion splashed across the sky. She gazed up, waiting for a shooting star with the same feeling of anticipation she had been fielding all day. Why was it when you wanted to see one of those silver streaks lighting up the black sky, you never saw it? That kind of thing liked to tickle and tease the corners of your peripheral vision, and never gave any warning.
At the door to her house, she hurried in to catch the phone.
“Nina,” Lindy said, “I couldn’t wait till morning. A friend gave me your home phone number. I know it’s late. I promise I won’t talk long.”
“A friend, eh?” A flinty-eyed friend built like the Rock of Gibraltar, Nina bet. She had a strict rule about giving out her home number, but Nina was beginning to understand about how it must be for spectacularly successful people like Lindy. The usual rules did not apply to her. She assumed a smooth pathway over obstacles and found one, or threw money down to create it. “What can I do for you?” she asked, trying to insert the brisk professional note back into her voice that a barking dog awaiting his ball had a way of dispelling.
“I borrowed some more money,” Lindy said. “Five thousand. Could we start with that? I may be broke, but I still have my friends. Alice Boyd just took out her checkbook and wrote me a check, and some other women have offered to do what they can.”
“But Lindy, I’m a sole practitioner. I’m really sorry but that won’t be enough.” She felt terrible. She really wanted to help Lindy but five thousand wouldn’t scratch the surface of the kind of expenses they would incur. Nina didn’t see how she could take the case under the circumstances without bankrupting herself.
“I believe I can get my hands on at least another twenty thousand, maybe even thirty before the trial. And then, when we win . . .”
“You mean if.”
“When,” Lindy said firmly, “we win, I’ll pay you ten percent of whatever I’m awarded by the court.”
The words rang in Nina’s ears. Ten percent. If the court awarded her half the Markov assets, that would be in the realm of ten million dollars. Cut that in half to be realistic, and you still came up with an unbelievable figure.
Her fingers clenched the phone. She was unable to speak. So here it was, streaking across a black sky. Her big chance. A case with a heart to it, and issues that were unresolved in California law. Something that might set a precedent for other women like Lindy, who had worked behind the scenes only to be left with nothing. A case that might make her rich.
A case with one big flaw: a client with no money.
Even if she could somehow scrape together the money to keep them afloat as they prepared for a trial, how could she justify taking such a risk? If Lindy lost, Nina could lose everything.
But an opportunity like this one wouldn’t come knocking again. She had lived long enough to know that.
She had some assets left. And there had to be lots of ways to get the money they would need. Maybe she could associate someone else in who would assume some of the risk for a big payoff. . . .
Lindy was talking. “People are so amazing. Everyone’s doing what they can for me.” She sounded moved. “I treasure my friends.”
“I guess they treasure you, too.”
“If that’s true, I’m lucky,” Lindy said. She didn’t say anything else. She waited for Nina.
“Meet me at my office at nine tomorrow morning,” Nina said. She hung up, pushing away a nasty little feeling that told her she had no business taking this case.
4
Fifteen days later, Nina stood up as Judge Curtis E. Milne of the Superior Court of El Dorado County materialized from the wall behind his dais. Or so it appeared. Actually, a nondescript, burlap-textured partition extended out in front of his personal back door to the courtroom, and he merely came out and sat down behind his tall desk, but the effect was that of a magical manifestation. A Baraka chief from the Congo would have appreciated this encouragement of superstitious respect.
Unfortunately, many California judges these days got no respect from the office they held—they had to put up with lawyers who no longer bothered to control their tantrums and defendants who dissed them to their faces.
Judge Milne, an ex–district attorney with fifteen years on the bench, was an exception. His bailiff, Deputy Kimura, had toured the courtroom, meticulously collecting bubble gum and newspaper litter before Milne came in. Any disturbance or other breach of protocol while Milne’s court was in session meant expulsion or worse. “The Judge,” as he was called by the little community of Tahoe lawyers who appeared before him on a regular basis, was actually a small, balding senior citizen, but in Nina’s mind he stood ten feet tall in his black robes and his voice erupted like a volcano.
When the judge came in the courtroom fell silent except for the interminable noise of the ventilation system, and all rose. Although the Order to Show Cause had been taken off the morning Law and Motion calendar and had been specially scheduled for two o’clock, the place was packed with reporters and other community members. Photographers lounged in the public hallway outside the courtroom, and several TV vans waited outside the courthouse. The Markovs were private people, but they were monstrously rich. Everyone wanted to watch the action in this particular family feud.
At the plaintiff’s counsel table, Jeffrey Riesner stood in a thousand-dollar suit with Mike Markov, while Nina had taken her place at the other table with Lindy at her side.
Nina had spent several days after her conversation with Lindy trying to get Riesner on the phone, to set up the meeting Lindy had requested. All she got was Riesner’s secretary, who was so sorry, but Mr. Riesner was unavailable.
Markov, barely contained by a charcoal suit stretched tight across the upper arms, hadn’t even acknowledged Lindy when she came in. Dressed in a simple burnt-sienna-colored suit over a soft beige blouse, she had tried to talk to him but Riesner had taken his arm and led him firmly to his chair.
It was just as well. Markov had brewed to a boil; his clenched jaw and bulging eyes made that clear. He had been served with Lindy’s responsive papers just a few days before. Obviously, he hadn’t liked what he had read.
Rachel Pembroke sat in the front row of the audience seats, close enough to Markov to whisper back and forth with him. Her legs in an extremely short skirt were crossed in that very uncomfortable way that makes legs look their best, and she was enjoying the attention of the reporters who took up most of the other seats. A long-haired man nearby had riveted his eyes on Rachel’s face.
“That’s Harry Anderssen,” Lindy told Nina in a low voice, “the model for our new ad campaign. Rachel’s old boyfriend.”
Nina recognized him as the man on the boat who had called out to Rachel when she went overboard during Mike Markov’s party. His hair was shorter and darker than the supermodel Fabio’s, but there the differences pretty much ended.
The judge took his seat with a flourish of his robe. As everyone sat down, Nina noticed her hands were trembling; from the extra cup of coffee a
t lunch, she told herself. Next to her, Lindy stared straight ahead, her posture proud, her hands folded tightly on the table. Making a show of her support in the first row behind Nina’s table, Lindy’s friend Alice, the one Nina had seen on the boat, turned her thumbs up at them, flashing a smile. Nina stole a look at Riesner. Instantly his eyes swerved to hers, as if programmed to respond to the mildest contact.
He smiled a smile both malicious and somehow smutty. It always made her feel that he had some kind of sexually sadistic feeling for her; that he would enjoy degrading her. At least he couldn’t stare through the counsel table at her body right now. “Ugh,” she murmured, dragging her eyes back toward Milne.
“Markov versus Markov,” Judge Milne said, looking down through his half-glasses at the file on his desk. “Appearances?”
“Jeffrey Riesner of Caplan, Stamp, & Riesner representing Petitioner Mikhail Markov, Your Honor,” Riesner said, jumping to his feet. The weighty firm name contributed to the desired illusion that he and his client had an army behind them.
“Nina Reilly, Law Offices of Nina Reilly, representing Mrs. Lindy Markov, the respondent and cross-complainant,” Nina said, rising. She had two offices if you included Sandy’s.
“Well, let me see what we have here in this blizzard of pleadings,” Milne said. “As I understand it, Mr. Markov has filed an action to eject Mrs. Markov from a residence located at Thirteen Cascade Road. He says she is merely a guest and invitee in his home, or at most a tenant at will, and he says she has threatened him. Am I right so far, Mr. Riesner?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor. Let me clarify an important point at the outset. This lady who calls herself Mrs. Markov is not now and never has been the wife of my client—”
“In a moment, Counselor. Now, Ms. Reilly. You have filed on behalf of your client a Response to the eviction proceeding, alleging that your client cannot be evicted because she is part owner of the premises. You have filed a rather detailed declaration by your client in support of that contention. I understand that. It also appears that you have filed a cross-complaint in the eviction proceeding which has caused the whole proceeding to be kicked upstairs to the Superior Court.”
“That’s right, Your Honor. If I may—”
“Now, this cross-complaint rather widens the scope of the issues, if I am reading it correctly. Your client appears to be suing Mr. Markov for wrongful termination, fraud, breach of fiduciary duty, constructive trust, breach of contract, intentional infliction of emotional distress, quantum meruit, suit to quiet title, partition for an accounting and appointment of a receiver, declaratory relief . . . is that it? Have I stated all the causes of action?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Of course, the cross-complaint may be amended to add additional causes of action later.”
“I would have thought we had plenty,” Milne said to a ripple of laughter. He treated the audience to a throat-clearing that continued long and loudly enough to silence them, then said, “I note you allege that the sum of approximately two hundred fifty million dollars is in issue.” That instantly curbed the chuckles. All activity in the courtroom momentarily ceased.
Nina let the deferential hush linger for a moment, then spoke. “Markov Enterprises has a current value somewhere in that realm,” Nina said, keeping her voice steady. “Our primary contention is that Mrs. Markov is a half owner of all assets the couple has acquired during a twenty-year relationship, including various real property and the assets of Markov Enterprises.”
“So it’s only about a hundred twenty-five million dollars we’re talking about?”
“That’s the approximate figure, subject to proof.”
“That’s a lot of money, Counselor.”
“No shit,” Mike Markov said audibly from the other counsel table. Milne looked over, and Riesner shushed him.
“If I may, Your Honor,” Riesner said.
“Go ahead, Mr. Riesner. Please explain what we can accomplish in the half hour available today.”
“It’s simple,” Riesner said. “I urge the Court not to let the filing of this massive and quite frivolous cross-complaint cause any confusion. What my client needs today is a temporary order of the court, pending any final judgments or orders, that Ms. Markov must leave the residence forthwith. Both of them can’t live there anymore, Your Honor, that’s clear from our supporting papers, and the house belongs to Mr. Markov.
“Our only other request is that the Court order Ms. Markov to stay a reasonable distance from Mr. Markov and from her former workplace, and that she refrain from contacting Mr. Markov. There’s nothing special about this situation, Your Honor. A relationship ends, and one of the people can’t let go. That’s all it is.”
“Ms. Reilly? Do you agree? Are these the issues before the Court today?”
“I agree that some temporary orders are all that’s needed at the moment, Your Honor. But those aren’t the orders the Court should issue. Mrs. Markov is requesting that she be given sole possession of the parties’ residence pending further order of the Court. Also—”
“Let’s talk about the house, then. Mr. Riesner?”
Riesner charged into his argument. He granted that it was a long relationship, but all good things must end. Ms. Markov had stubbornly refused to leave the house, and it belonged to Mr. Markov. She had never paid rent, so that was not an issue. Mr. Markov needed immediate relief from the Court because much of his businesses was conducted from an office in the house, as well as in the workshop in which he was working on a new product with a tight production deadline.
Milne nodded his head, following along. These strong, objective reasons expressed quite logically the grounds for putting Lindy out on her rear.
Riesner went on. Mr. Markov, out of the goodness of his heart, had been prepared to pay for Ms. Markov to stay in an apartment or hotel room in town for the next six months, but it was obvious Ms. Markov was out to get Mr. Markov, so that offer was no longer feasible. Mr. Markov was willing to allow Ms. Markov forty-eight hours to remove her personal effects, but due to Ms. Markov’s jealous and aggressive state of mind, which had caused her to attack a friend of Mr. Markov’s, and Mr. Markov himself, a supplemental order should be issued forbidding her from, well—to be blunt—trashing the house. A security detail from Markov Enterprises could supervise the packing.
In a glib flurry of catchphrases, Riesner constructed his image of the case. The spurned, unpredictable, jealous girlfriend. The important businessman. The clutching, tearful scenes, followed by threats when she realized he was serious. Sloppy female emotions that had no place in a court of law.
“All right,” Milne said. “Ms. Reilly? I note that your client does not claim to be married to Mr. Markov. Nor do I see any written evidence in the paperwork to indicate she has any ownership interest in the house. Would you please address those points first?”
“Although the parties never took out a marriage certificate, they did consider themselves married, Your Honor. Mrs. Markov has been Mr. Markov’s wife in every sense of the term except the technical legal one for twenty years.”
“But the technical legal one is the one we’re concerned with, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Nina said. “There is another basis for the claim. Mrs. Markov is half owner of the house because the parties agreed twenty years ago to work together as partners in building Markov Enterprises, and to share the fruit of their labor fifty-fifty. The house was built by the parties together, and Mrs. Markov has lived there just as long as Mr. Markov. She, too, pursues her life and business interests from the house.”
Riesner broke in. “Saying it doesn’t make it so, Your Honor. She hasn’t produced a speck of written evidence that her client had some kind of partnership agreement with Mr. Markov. And, again, I hate to be so blunt, but exactly what business interests does this lady have? Since she no longer works at Markov Enterprises . . .”
“That remains to be seen,” Nina said.
“Since she’s unemployed at the moment,” Riesn
er said, raising his voice and drowning her out, “exactly what business interests are we talking about, besides the obvious one of soaking Mr. Markov through the good offices of Counsel here—”
“At least I’m not trying to destroy the woman who helped and supported me and made me what I am,” Nina said loudly.
“Oh, please. Your Honor, are we going to have some sort of emotional outburst now? Is Counsel going to cry until she gets her way?”
Nina held on to the counsel table so tightly that her knuckles hurt, so choked with anger that she couldn’t dislodge a word.
It didn’t matter. Milne had already made up his mind. “Counsel,” he said in an unusually kind voice to Nina, “all I have in front of me in the way of evidence of ownership is a deed to the real property. A deed has to be accorded great weight. It has to be given precedence over mere words. That’s one of the basic tenets of real property law. Clearly, the parties cannot continue to live together. At least until there is a final resolution of the claims you have made in this cross-complaint, one of them must go. The one that stays has to be the one with the deed to the house.
“The Court will grant the petition based on the Order to Show Cause. I’ll also grant the restraining orders to keep the peace in what seems to be a rather volatile situation. Now, let’s move on. What else have we got?”
Without fanfare, Lindy worked a gold band off of her finger and dropped it into her purse. From the table across the way, Mike Markov watched. Nina said, “We’re asking that Mrs. Markov be permitted to continue working at Markov Enterprises pending final resolution of the litigation.”
Milne raised a hand to stop her and said, “I don’t think we need to spend much time arguing that here, Counsel. I’ve read your arguments and I find them unpersuasive. If Mrs. Markov was wrongfully terminated, she will have her remedy at law in due course, up to and including back pay.”
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