She turned the radio on to a song with a lot of bass and let the music travel through her, all the way down to the toes in her high-heeled shoes. All her life she had climbed a ladder routinely and without thought, slipping more often than she wanted. For the first time, she had glimpsed the top. And there, in that upper region, shiny and bright, was the payoff, a glorious mountain of gold, the Markov money.
A share of that kind of money would set her up for life. She could buy her house outright, or a bigger, better house, and finally create the kind of stable home life Bob needed. She could work less, be more available to him, maybe even be more available to a relationship that would put a man in her life and in Bob’s on a more permanent basis. She could buy Bob all the things she couldn’t afford now, the fancy athletic shoes he wanted, the computer software that was out of her price range, all the tickets he wanted to visit his father in Europe. She might even turn into the parent she wanted to be, patient, generous, and undistracted.
Pulling up in front of the hotel that housed the Yamashiro Restaurant, she handed her keys to the parking valet.
The maître d’ was expecting her. He led her past the regular restaurant, where silverware and glasses clinked and people talked in muted tones, where sounds and colors were as discreet and perfectly balanced as in a Japanese temple, into a private room of bamboo and scrolls.
A black man about six feet four, at least a foot taller than she was, stood up and held out a big hand with a diamond band on his ring finger.
“I appreciate your making time for me,” she said.
“You’re so very welcome.” She got a brief whiff of spice and starch before he stepped away. “It takes my mind off the case in progress. We’ve been in trial for two weeks. I’d forgotten there was an outside world and beautiful women with propositions for me,” he went on, “even if they happen to be the legal kind.”
With a deep, compelling voice and a solid, athletic body, Winston Reynolds inspired total confidence. He wore metal-rimmed glasses and a navy-blue suit with a crimson tie, standard trial attire. About forty-five years old, he had hair that receded a little to expose a broad brown forehead. Notes scribbled on his napkin revealed that he had kept himself occupied while waiting for her, no doubt recording things to remember after a long day in court, but he didn’t seem as wiped out as she would have expected. In fact, his eyes had caught and held hers as she came through the door. She saw his interest and brushed it aside. He had too many impersonal reasons for turning on the charm with her tonight.
“It’s a lovely restaurant,” said Nina, adjusting her skirt and setting down the ever-present attaché beside her.
“It is, isn’t it? This is a real treat. Please thank your generous client for me.” He had already ordered wine. He poured her a glass, studying her openly, approvingly. “Let me say right now how much I appreciate you flying down here just to take me out to dinner tonight.” He took a sip of his wine. “My mama would get a kick out this situation, a woman like you wooing me. Dad, too, God rest his woman-loving soul.”
A waiter silently arrived before she could respond, and they ordered. The restaurant featured fresh fish of every kind. Nina wanted shrimp but it could get messy, so she ordered beef, figuring she should concentrate on Reynolds, not on whether she was dripping sauce all over her best suit. Reynolds went for the duck.
He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine in the glass, and looking into its red depths gave a half smile. “Tell me about the Markov case,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what I can without violating the attorney-client privilege. Lindy Markov lived with Mike Markov as his wife. She worked alongside him for over twenty years, building a business from scratch. Those two crucial facts are undisputed.”
“I understand everything is in his name. Your secretary mentioned a few things to my assistant. I hope you don’t mind.”
“He put everything in his name and she agreed to that, because they had a deal to share everything equally.”
“So she says.”
“Yes. And so she will testify in court.”
“Has she got anything in writing?”
“You must understand we can talk more about her position when you commit to taking the job.”
“I see. You want me to get involved without letting me have a chance to evaluate the case?”
“Not at all. Here are the basic pleadings and a summary of the issues and the basic facts about the Markov relationship.” She pulled up her case as she spoke, opened it, and passed over a manila folder. Reynolds spent a few minutes looking it over, sipping thoughtfully from his glass from time to time. He was a fast reader.
“You got any rabbits in the hat?” he said when he had finished. “Because you’re gonna need lots of magic to win this.”
“Well, there is one case that has enough in common with our situation to be potentially useful,” Nina said.
“Maglica versus Maglica,” said Winston. “That’s been news for years around here. We’re all waiting to hear how she does on appeal. But I believe the lady in that case was older. She devoted her adult working life to building that business. The relative youth of your client might adversely affect your outcome.”
Nina smiled, happy he had passed his first test. “Yes, but Mr. Maglica had already established something of a track record as a businessman. The Maglites venture was his second undertaking. I think Lindy’s primary role in developing this, the Markovs’ only successful business, will be easier for us to demonstrate.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Winston.
“And while we haven’t found much in the way of legal precedents to encourage us yet, we’re confident Lindy Markov is entitled to a substantial share of Markov Enterprises. We’ve sent out our first set of Interrogatories and we’ve already scheduled Mr. Markov’s deposition for December.”
“Moving right along.”
“The Superior Court is very efficient in El Dorado county, Mr. Reynolds. We’ll be in trial in six or seven months in spite of the magnitude of this case. Mr. Markov’s chafing under the receivership the court ordered, and Mrs. Markov is in financial difficulty.”
“You don’t think you can settle it?”
“Mr. Markov has hired Jeffrey Riesner. I believe you know him?”
“I do.”
“Then you know what we’re up against. He’s hard-line and uncompromising.”
“And that’s just the beginning with him.” He was teasing.
“He hates to settle. And my client wants something she’s not going to get.”
“Which is?”
“Mr. Markov. She wants a reconciliation with him, but I don’t believe that’s a possibility. The lawsuit will drive them further apart.”
“So it’s a battle. Palimony cases are very difficult to win,” Reynolds said, “but you knew that, didn’t you, Ms. Reilly?”
“Yeah,” Nina said, feeling disappointed. She knew, but she hoped she hadn’t blown her evening and a thousand bucks just to hear a final nail being driven into the coffin of her case. “I know it, but I’m going to fight it with or without you, Mr. Reynolds.”
He laughed. “Well, at least you don’t come down here talking trash. I appreciate that.”
“You don’t think the case is winnable?”
“I didn’t say that. Every case is winnable but only if it gets to the jury. That’s the hard part. Get it to the jury and you always have a chance. Actually, a couple of our colleagues, and I won’t name names, have been in touch with friends of Mrs. Markov to offer their services to her.”
“Really? If her case is so hopeless, why?”
He stared at her as if scrutinizing an idiot for some small hint of intelligence, then shook his head. “Money. All that money up for grabs! Enough money to make a sane man mad with greed. Enough money to get big firms all over the state wondering how to steal your case. You understand?”
She nodded. For the first time since considering the case, she felt the sheer power
that so much money exercised. Well, she had felt some of it, too, on the drive over, the tickling of her own desire for money, for what it could buy, for the freedom it represented.
“It’s a big case,” he said. “Too big for you, but you know that. That’s why you’re here.”
“Well, now,” Nina began, but Reynolds wasn’t finished.
“So you know what I overheard today at the racquetball club? I heard what Mrs. Markov did when the other guys came knocking,” he said. “She told them to go piss up a rope. She said she already has excellent representation.” He laughed heartily. “She may be right. You’ve made a good beginning in court, and you’ve got a loyal client. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Nina lowered her eyes, so he wouldn’t see the mingled relief and pleasure she felt. That other lawyers would want this case should not surprise her, but it did. She had actually thought she was doing Lindy a favor. Now she was starting to see the Markov case in a whole new light.
“Have you ever handled a really big piece of litigation, Nina?”
“I’ve handled jury trials in homicide cases,” Nina said. “I doubt that it gets much worse than that.”
“Have you ever had a jury trial in a civil case?”
“No,” she said.
“I’m not trying to undermine your confidence. I just want to see if you appreciate what I can do for you. I do jury trials in civil cases. Cases a lot like the one you have. That’s all I do. You know how they used to call Mel Belli the King of Torts? Well, here they call me the Prince of Palimony.”
“I wouldn’t be here all dressed up in a restaurant in L.A. when I ought to be home putting my kid to bed if I didn’t appreciate what you can do for me,” Nina answered.
“Well, then. What do you have in mind?” He ran his thumb absently around the rim of the wineglass, his brown eyes gazing steadily at her. “You want me to handle the trial?”
“No. I want to handle the trial. I want to associate you in as a cocounsel, but I want to have the final say as far as strategy. I realize you don’t usually play second chair, Mr. Reynolds, but even second chair could make you a rich man if we win this case. I’m operating on a reduced hourly fee basis with an additional contingency fee of ten percent of the final recovery. I’ll give you half the ten percent, plus pay your hourly billings each month at the rate of a hundred dollars an hour.”
Reynolds had knit his brows and sunk his chin into his shirt. He usually charged three hundred an hour, she knew, but he didn’t usually have such a massively abundant pot of gold waiting for him at the end of the rainbow. Nina let him think about what she had said for a moment, then added, “If we ask for only half of the value of their business, our claim is for over a hundred million.”
He was nodding. “Now that’s what I call money,” he said. “Five million for each of us if we won that much. I could pay all those back taxes the IRS is asking for. I could pay off the place in Bel Air and the alimony. I could take that vacation my doctor’s been ordering. But . . .”
“But?”
He spilled a drop of the wine into his plate. “There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,” he said. “Somehow, with all my wins, the amount of money I really need to solve all my problems always seems to hover just out of reach. Have you noticed that? It’s like a dark force out there that steps between us and our just deserts, leaving us to salivate and starve and wonder why. Even if we win at trial, appeals take years. And nobody ever comes out with any money on appeal.”
“Not this time. Working together, we can make it happen if anyone can. Everyone tells me you’re the top attorney in this field.”
“Those are kind words,” he said. “Thank you. You’ve probably guessed, I like being flattered, even when it is necessary.”
He was mocking her. She refused to be waylaid. “I doubt Jeff Riesner’s made an offer as generous,” she said.
“Ah. So you’ve guessed. Yes, Jeff and I worked together on a case last year out of Sacramento. He has called my office several times in the past few days.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“No.”
“You knew it was about the Markov case?”
“That’s what the message said.”
“So . . .”
“I can’t abide the guy,” Reynolds said, smiling. “Even if he’s going to be the one on the winning side.”
Now she felt offended. “Mr. Reynolds,” Nina said, “am I wasting my time? Because I get the feeling you’re not listening. And if you can’t take me seriously, I should probably leave.”
“Now, hold on,” he answered, “I’m hanging on every word. You’re offering me the chance to spend time at Lake Tahoe, which I love, and to take a gamble on big money, which involves a minor weakness of mine, as you may already have surmised. And I think we have something in common. We’d both rather represent the underdog. I apologize if I’ve given the wrong impression. It’s a bad habit that comes from keeping people off balance as a matter of course. Even playing second fiddle, I’d kill to get on this case.” He raised his glass. “A toast,” he said, “to you.”
Nina raised her glass, too. “You’re in?” she asked.
“You betcha.”
By the time the food came, presented so artistically on exquisite plates she hated to disturb it, they had finished the wine, started using first names with each other, and hammered out the beginnings of a deal. She offered him an office across the hall, and he said he would come up for a meeting as soon as his trial was over.
“I’ve got a jury consultant for us that might just be available. Young and the hottest ticket in town. Her name’s Genevieve Suchat,” he said, as they started on their green tea ice cream.
“I think I’ve heard of her, but . . .”
“Now, this is no time to scrimp on help. You’ve got to spend money to make money.”
“Winston, I . . .”
“She’s got a slight hearing problem, but that doesn’t slow her down for a second. Wears a little thing in her ear but you don’t strike me as the type who’s going to hold that against her.”
“Well, of course not!”
“She worked with me on a case down in Long Beach. Just as smooth and cool as this ice cream.”
“Did you win?”
“We did. She has won almost every case she’s been associated with.” He took a sip of water and pushed the ice cream saucer away. He had finally slowed down.
“Jury consultants spend a lot of time on research, don’t they? I have to think about keeping our expenses down,” Nina said.
“Now, wait a minute here. It doesn’t make financial sense to use them in every civil litigation, but with so much money at stake in this case, you’d be nuts not to use one. I’ve never heard of a case of this size that didn’t have jury consultants on both sides. Nina, you want to be a winner, you have to leave no stone unturned. And you know our friend Riesner’s going to get the best.”
He didn’t say “again,” although they both thought it. He knew how to play her already, didn’t he?
“Why not talk to her?” he went on.
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll talk to her. Maybe we can limit her involvement. . . .”
“Bold strokes,” Winston said. “No limits. This case is too big. We go for broke, with Genevieve, with everything. Because that’s what real winners do. You know I’m right.”
He was right, but the “go for broke” line had chimed louder than everything else he’d said, and continued to ring in her ears. Her dad used to say that all the time, and one day he had woken up flat broke.
“I’ll call your office and arrange a meeting right away,” he said, then ordered another bottle of wine. He talked about his background, his football scholarship to UCLA, the shock of his teachers and coaches when he walked away from it and immersed himself in academics, his law school studies at Yale, the two ex-wives and the three children he supported. He was full of himself, but maybe he had a right to be. She coul
dn’t help liking him.
The coffee came, and the frightful check. Her watch said eleven o’clock. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got a plane waiting. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She paused, then said, “I’m thrilled to be working with you, Win.” She stuck out her hand.
“Cinderella,” he said, taking her hand between both of his, “better find both dancing slippers, fast. We’ve got a long way to go if we’re gonna avoid getting stuck with a pumpkin.”
6
The next morning, Nina called Sandy to tell her she might not get into the office until after lunch. Sandy said that Genevieve Suchat, the jury consultant, was due in the afternoon. Apparently determined to convince Nina to hire her, Winston had made the arrangements with impressive efficiency.
After taking two white pills to quiet the pounding in her head, she drove straight to the Markov house on Cascade Road. Rain slammed the road outside and her wipers slapped a quick, useless path through the river flowing down her windshield. An unexpected skid around a hairpin curve forced her to slow as she wound along a dirt road that hugged the lake’s edge.
Iron gates with gilt-tipped arrows on top stood open, and behind them a massive stone mansion met her eyes, turreted like a castle, surrounded by grounds so well-groomed the plants looked manufactured.
She pulled into a spot close to the house, awed at the ostentation and thinking how very, very much money it would take to build such a thing in California, on the shore of the state’s most desirable lake.
No umbrella presented itself in the box of emergency items on the floor of the littered backseat, so she rushed to the front door and rang the bell, narrowly avoiding a fatal slip off of the slick doorstep. In the relentless rain, the gigantic house loomed over her like a pile of boulders ready at any moment to give way in a landslide. Even the lake, merging its gray into the sky, had a leaden pull to it, as if the heavy gray water exerted more gravity than the rest of the earth.
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