She turned away and marched down the hall toward Weissman's office. "Let's just get this over with."
Alan R. Weissman had flown a fighter jet in Vietnam; his wings and battle ribbons hung in a glass case on a wall of his office. He had been a president of the Florida Bar, and there were photos of that. There were also photos of Weissman shaking hands with Jimmy Carter, Golda Meir, Frank Sinatra, and Arnold Palmer. There was Weissman lined up with other members of the Miami Beach Chamber of Commerce, cutting a ribbon. Alan Weissman looking tanned and fit, his suits shining like fine silk armor in the flashbulbs. He was a handsome guy with a big grin, a high forehead, and curly gray hair receding to show more of it.
He had burned up the track in his thirties and forties. He still knew people. The judges would call him by his first name in court. His clients were mostly on Miami Beach, mostly elderly. Weissman and a few other mid-fifties attorneys would congregate in a bar up on Collins Avenue in the afternoon and drink. Of his three partners, one had died last spring of a heart attack on the fifth tee at the LaGorce Country Club. The firm hadn't gotten around to changing the stationery. Another kept himself busy with real estate deals, and the last—Lauren Sontag—was a good bet for the Circuit Court bench. Weissman was her campaign manager. There were rumors they were having an affair, and mmors that this was the reason his wife had left him.
Weissman was a prominent attorney because he had been around for a long time, and because he had once been good at it. Several complaints had been made by clients who said he had neglected their cases, but the Bar had let him quietly settle with each of them. How would it look, a former Florida Bar president, disciplined for ethical violations? They made him go to a clinic in Boca Raton to dry out. His wife, Mona, had already hired a divorce lawyer. She had closed their joint accounts, and now she was going after the real estate. His younger son was in jail in New York for securities fraud, and his only daughter had converted to Catholicism.
Gail had found all this out in the last week or so by asking the right people. Know thine enemy.
In her car this morning, driving to the Beach, she had played out this version in her head: Alan Weissman must have wept with gratitude that Rudy and Monica Tillett showed up, asking his advice on the matter of their deceased stepmother's will. They couldn't find it. It was gone, burned, torn into pieces—God only knew. The consequences were beyond terrible: Patrick Norris, her only heir, would get their parents' house, their mother's art, everything! So perhaps Mr. Weissman would help? He would be well compensated, and surely the risk would be small.
What luck that Althea had come to see him just the month before. No problem using that date. No problem inventing a new will. After all, it would be the same as all the other wills—except for the provision giving Rudy and Monica the house and the art collection.
But then Patrick Norris showed up screaming forgery.
Alternate version: It had been Sanford Ehringer who had contacted Weissman. Dear Althea is dead; there is no will and my charity stands to lose God-knows-how-much money. Can you think of a solution? Irving and Jessica will be happy to help. And we'd better pay off Rudy and Monica to keep them quiet.
Gail had to feel a Utile sorry for Alan Weissman. He probably liked doing probate, except that his clientele were dying off. Not much stress to filing an estate. You fill out the right forms and have a CPA check behind you to make sure you don't screw up on the taxes. But the Tillett case! A bog, a swamp!
What didn't fit, Gail had decided, was the part Lauren Son-tag had played in this little drama. Why would she risk her career for Alan Weissman? Friendship? Love?
Love. Alan Weissman was a handsome, broken man. A tragic man, in a way, and didn't Lauren possess her own streak of tragedy? There was an elegant, wistful, even a noble sadness to her that Gail, in the years of knowing Lauren Son-tag, had never been able to fathom. So she'd had a bad marriage. Lots of women had survived that. She had a daughter, a smart and pretty girl finishing her last year of high school, planning to go on to Radcliffe College. That was cause for happiness, surely.
How fascinating that the cool and distant Lauren Sontag had lied for love. And yet she had said there was no sex between them. What, then? Truly, there were mysteries to this relationship, and the ways of love were exceedingly strange. Was there such a thing as sexless passion? Gail could not imagine it with Anthony Quintana.
And there her thoughts had broken off, and crossing the causeway to the Beach again, Gail had felt a stab of loneliness, of panic, knowing she was losing him.
She had driven the rest of the way to Alan Weissman's office with her radio turned up high, blasting into the silence.
Now Gail and Larry Black faced him across his desk. Weissman was sliding his hands along the edge of it, fingers flat, thumb underneath as if he might suddenly flip the desk over or rip it down the middle.
The desktop bore burn marks near the overflowing marble ashtray. He had put out his cigarette when they came in. The room was carpeted in brown shag and wallpapered in beige vinyl that had frayed around the light switch. Open-weave curtains hung limply on either side of metallic miniblinds, tilted shut against the morning sun.
Weissman laughed disbelievingly. "Ten million dollars? Larry, where'd you get this woman? She's out of her fucking mind."
Larry moved in his chair. "Alan, there's no need for anyone to become personal. What Gail is trying to say—"
Gail shut him up with a glance as she rose from her chair and began to walk—jacket open, hands in the pockets of her skirt. The platform pumps she had chosen for today put her just over six feet tall. "Look at the evidence, Alan. The leading document examiner in South Florida says Althea Tillett didn't sign the will. The alleged witnesses can't agree on what happened. They're going to crash and bum on the stand. You know this."
Larry said, "I'd settle it for ten, Alan."
"And you're fulla crap, both of you." He waved a hand.
Gail said, "Althea Tillett's will was forged. I believe that it was done in this office, either directly by you or with your knowledge and cooperation. If this case goes to trial, you're going to have some problems."
"I forged a client's will?" He poked the front of his knit shirt. "I should be so stupid?" A bit of gray hair curled from the open collar. He picked up his red appointment book. "Here's something for you to mull over, Ms. Connor. My secretary spoke to Althea. She wrote down that Althea would come to see me on Saturday, August third, at ten a.m." He let his book drop on his desk with a thud. "And guess what. Althea showed up."
Arms folded, Gail said, "Fine. She was here on August third. Was it to sign her will? Or did you pick that date for the will because her name was already in your appointment book?"
Larry continued to gaze at Weissman without a flicker.
Gail asked, "Were you aware that the woman who notarized Althea Tillett's will was in New Jersey on the third of August?"
Alan Weissman's high forehead was flaming. He opened his arms and laughed. "Go for it. File your case. You'll get bupkis. Make a complaint to the Florida Bar while you're at it. I'll look like an idiot for a few months, which I admit I was. An idiot for doing Althea Tillett a favor. But you think other attorneys haven't done favors for their clients? It's done, Ms. Connor. It is done." "Not by my firm,"
"Your firm? You're nothing over there." Alan Weissman, gathering some steam now, stood up, hitching his trousers around his waist. "Ten million dollars! You people are nuts. We'll give him two. That's it. Patrick Norris should take it and be grateful. Althea would die all over again if she could see this."
Larry's head turned slightly toward Gail. What next?
"How much did Lauren Sontag pay the notary?" Gail asked.
Weissman lit a cigarette. "Lauren wasn't here."
"That's not what she told me," Gail said.
"I don't give a damn what she told you." He tossed the lighter to his desk, and the smoke boiled out of his lungs.
"Irving Adler also says Lauren was here,
" Gail said.
Weissman said to Larry, "I made you people an offer. I'd like a response."
Larry looked up at him and started to speak, but Gail broke in.
"I'm taking the notary's deposition. I want her to tell me under oath how much Lauren Sontag paid her to commit a felony."
"You're going to get sued for slander, you and the fucking partners of Hartwell Black and Robineau." Weissman glared down at Larry.
Gail spoke to him over Larry's head. "Once this case is filed, Alan, I can't keep it out of the news. What's the Herald going to do when it hears that a candidate for the Circuit Court is involved in a forgery?"
"Discussion's over." Weissman raised his hands. "That's it."
Larry stood up, hesitating. Gail followed Weissman to his desk, where he took another long drag on his cigarette. She played her last card.
"Lauren asked me—begged me—not to let you get hurt. She said you would try to protect her. She said you would lie for her and say she wasn't involved. But she was. She helped you. Now you're going to watch her torn to shreds by the State Attorney's Office? The Judicial Qualifications Commission?"
"Get the fuck out of my office." Alan Weissman swept a hand back over his forehead.
"I'm going to find out the truth, Alan. Count on it. Are you going to lose your license for Sanford Ehringer? Are you going to ruin Lauren Sontag to save your own ass? You can do better than two. Two's an insult."
He swung on her. 'Ten million is insulting, Ms. Connor."
"So give me another number."
Alan Weissman walked away, smoothing his hair back with both hands, again, again. Smoke spiraled from the cigarette between his fingers. Larry followed him to the windows. "Alan, maybe we can work something out. Nobody wants this to get nasty. We can find a way."
Gail said, "Ten's a bargain, Alan. I want an answer by tomorrow."
"I'm not talking to you!"
Larry said, "Gail. Let him have the weekend. He has to discuss it with Ehringer and the major beneficiaries. What can it hurt?"
For a while Alan Weissman stood with his back to the room, smoking his cigarette. Then Gail heard him say, "Get her out of here. I don't want her in here."
Larry looked around at Gail. She silently picked up her briefcase and left the room. She took the elevator down, leaning against the back wall, shaking. In the mirrors her reflections went away to infinity, a woman in a neat gray suit.
She stashed her briefcase in her car and waited inside with the door open. Larry came out a few minutes later. Pale. Tearing at the ragged flesh on his thumb, which had begun to bleed.
By now Gail was steadier. She got out of her car. "What did he say?"
"He'll let us know Monday."
"What do you think?"
His eyes wouldn't meet hers. Larry said, "He'll try to pull something together. Patrick will probably get his four million. I guess you won."
"I don't feel like it."
"But it's quite a victory." Larry was angry, she realized, because of his part in it. "Paul Robineau will be pleased as punch."
"I wouldn't have really done it, Larry. Sacrificed them like that, I mean."
"Why not? Can't be the kind of lawyer who's all talk and no action." He took out his car keys, looked at them. "I used to enjoy my profession. Now I don't know. I don't know if it's me or the age we live in. I'll never be much good at cutting people's hearts out. Even pretending I will." He found the right key. "I'll see you back at the office."
She nodded, and a black wind ran through her, howling.
Larry gave her a final, icy look. "I want this case closed."
Chapter Nineteen
As Patrick and Gail walked slowly toward Biscayne Boulevard discussing a possible settlement of the case, Eric Ramsay followed close behind. He had protested the danger on these streets, but Patrick had assured him some friends were looking out for them. Now, as they passed a row of boarded-up, graffitied storefronts, Gail saw what he meant: a young man watched from the comer, his foot propped on the bumper of a car. Another kept pace on the opposite side of the street, and a third brought up the rear. All of them wore sunglasses. She wondered what they might be carrying under their loose jackets.
Just past a tavern, where a faded green sign announced that pool was played within and the thud of rap music came through the high, barred windows, Patrick stopped walking. The next lot was vacant, and broken glass glittered among the scrubby weeds. At the back of the property two palm trees leaned drunkenly together, and toward the front a pile of trash was accumulating—palm fronds, rotting lumber, an old mattress, a smashed toilet.
"This is what I wanted you to see," Patrick said to Gail. "The city took it for taxes a few years ago. They'd let it sit like this forever, but we've started cleaning it up. I want you to negotiate the purchase." He was referring to the informal group that had already come together to work on the community renewal project—all of it contingent, of course, on Patrick's winning the case, or at least getting several million in a settlement.
Gail stood on the cracked sidewalk for a minute trying to visualize rows of vegetable plants and tropical fruit trees. Two blocks beyond, on Biscayne, was the garish yellow paint of the triple-X movie theater, the Reel Stuff.
Eric Ramsay said, "I don't see how you can grow enough here to feed the neighborhood."
"Not just one garden," Patrick explained. "Dozens. One for each block, everyone helping out. Kids, old folks, parents. All it takes is organization and some cash."
"And you think people will want to do this?"
"Of course they will," Patrick said. "People want to believe in something again. They're tired of handouts and hopelessness."
He walked farther into the weeds, and the breeze fluttered the hem of his white shirt. "It isn't only a garden, it's a metaphor. It represents the possibility of creating something from nothing. Using our own hands to sustain ourselves. The real enemy here isn't violence and drugs. They're only symptoms. The real enemy is outside: mass consumer culture. It tells the people they're meaningless so often that they believe it. Nobody lacks meaning who works in his own garden, so to speak. Or when he uses his own hands to create the things he needs for himself and his family. Or her family, as the case may be. Violence isn't natural to the human animal. It's a product of despair."
Eric bit the inside of his cheek, and his eyes danced with amusement. Hands in his pockets, he swung the toe of his wing-tipped shoe at a crushed beer can. It clattered into the weeds.
Gail looked at him coolly. "Check with the city. See what they want for the property. Okay?"
"Sure."
Patrick turned around, exultant. "Gail, we're going to do it! Miami is the perfect place to start. There's so much life here, so much renewal and possibility."
He had bought a new pair of glasses, wire-rims like the pair that Rudy Tillett had smashed across his cheekbone, which still had a Band-Aid on it. The glasses were the same but the clothes were different. The khaki trousers were gone, replaced by loose cotton slacks. They added weight to his tall, thin frame. The shirt, which had neither cuffs nor collar, was embroidered around the vee neck and down the front with white-on-white Arabic designs. A grandmother up the street had made it for him. Madame DeBrosse, his landlady, was doing his laundry for him now, and a pair of sisters brought him dinner.
Gail hoped that they would not be terribly disappointed if Patrick didn't harvest a crop from his metaphorical garden. She hoped that the three young men in sunglasses would understand.
"So what do you think, Patrick? The beneficiaries are meeting as we speak. To be honest, I doubt they'll go more than three million on their first offer."
He walked back through the weeds. Thistles stuck to his pant legs and his brown leather sandals. "No good. See if you can get them up to five, and make them pay the taxes."
"Hold it. Patrick, you told me on Tuesday that you would settle for four, and you didn't say anything about net. You're not a charity. You have to pay taxes. That me
ans they'll have to give you over eight million dollars for you to come out with a net of four."
"Gail, if I have to pay taxes on four, I'll end up with less than two. That isn't enough. I've worked it all out. It's going to take five million—net—to do a first-rate job here."
His back to the empty lot, Eric Ramsay was studying the treeless, trash-strewn apartment building across the street. 'Two million is a lot of money. I'd be happy with two. But with five you could bulldoze everything north of Flagler Street."
"Eric, for God's sake."
"No, it's okay," Patrick said, smiling. "Not all the victims of society live in this neighborhood. We each despair in our own way."
Eric smiled back. "Not me. Count on it."
"The surest indicator of despair is not to know that you despair," Patrick said softly.
"Yeah? Well, you live your life, I'll live mine."
"You can't insulate yourself from the rest of the world, Eric." Patrick went on, "You grew up privileged, didn't you? Not a worry. Do you ever look around you? Most of the world isn't so lucky."
"Hey, that's not my fault, is it?" Eric's face was getting pink. "You try to make people feel guilty. I'm not guilty, I was born into this world like everybody else. And I see things for what they are. This city is a cesspool. If I were you, I'd take the money and get out. Nothing you do is going to make any difference."
Patrick was still smiling. "But, Eric, this is the exact response that society creates in some of the young people here. If you were poor, you wouldn't be a lawyer, you'd be robbing tourists or looting electronics stores."
The muscles in Eric's neck tensed, and his broad face flushed.
"Would you both stop it?" Gail said. She frowned at Eric and grabbed Patrick's elbow, turning him back toward the counseling center. They walked. "Listen, Patrick. You've got to be reasonable. Going to trial is risky."
"I don't want to back down, Gail. They forged Aunt Althie's will. There are principles involved here, you know."
"So we go down slugging."
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