Patrick strode across the terrace, but Monica ran to position herself directly in front of the glass door. She was a foot shorter than Patrick, but orange sparks seemed to fizz and pop around her. "Stay out of our house, goddammit!"
Patrick pushed her aside and flung the sliding door so hard that the frame bounced out of the track and the glass exploded into a million crystal bits that showered like hail onto the terrace.
Gail sped through the empty frame, her shoes crunching on glass. "Patrick!"
Rudy got to him first. "You're going to pay for that door, shithead."
Patrick slammed his fist into Rudy's stomach. Rudy doubled over, gagging. His little blue sunglasses hung from one ear. Monica screamed. Patrick hit him twice in the face, then the two of them rolled across the carpet.
The replica of Winged Victory tipped on its pedestal, hovered, and swooped downward. Shrieking, Susan Stone leaped out of the way as it smashed through a glass table.
Springing up, Rudy sent his army boot at Patrick's head. Patrick grabbed his foot, and Rudy staggered into the Steinway, sheet music fluttering to the floor. The lid slammed shut and the strings thrummed and sang. Patrick pinned him in the curve of the piano, fingers locked around his neck. Blood covered Rudy's nose and mouth. Monica was hanging off Patrick's waist, and her screams rattled the air.
Throwing her purse aside, Gail went for Patrick's arm. "What are you doing? Stop it!"
She dimly heard a hollow banging noise, then shouts. Susan Stone sprinted for the front door. Patrick and Rudy toppled onto the coffee table, which groaned, then snapped under their weight. Patrick was on top, slamming Rudy's head against a skewed stack of Architectural Digests. His black hair bounced to the rhythm of Patrick's curses.
"Fucking queer faggot son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you, shit-eating bastard! I'm going to fucking kill you!"
Rudy's eyes rolled back.
"Stop it! Patrick, stop!"
Gail felt herself being pushed roughly away, felt her backside hit the overturned piano bench, saw a blur of dark blue. A male voice yelled, "Hey! Break it up!"
Police. Two of them, one black, one white. The black cop put a baton across Patrick's throat and pulled back with both hands, biceps straining his sleeve. Patrick wheezed, legs flailing the air. Gail locked onto the officer's arm and screamed for him to stop.
Rudy came after Patrick. The officer grabbed his elbow. Rudy turned and drove a fist into the cop's ribs.
"Son of a—" He swung his baton and Rudy screamed in pain. Monica flung herself onto the officer's back and drove her fingernails into his neck like talons. "Get offa me, bitch!"
Then two more of them came through the door.
Chapter Twenty
The police hauled everyone outside. Curious neighbors clustered around the end of the long driveway. Emilio was watching from under a tree, turning his straw hat around and around. Susan Stone sat on the porch with her head in her hands.
They had grudgingly cut off Gail's plastic handcuffs after Susan explained that Gail had only tried to stop the fighting. Favoring her left hip, Gail walked to where Patrick was lined up by the fountain with Rudy and Monica. The officers had read everyone their rights. Now they were going through pockets, Patrick's first.
She came around him. His new glasses were gone, one eye was shut, and his jaw was swelling under his beard. "Patrick, are you okay?"
He nodded, grimacing when one of the officers moved his arms out of the way to reach into his back pocket. "I've been beaten up by the police before." The front of his shirt was streaked with blood.
"I'll follow you to the station," she said, not knowing what else to do. Perhaps call Anthony, she added to herself, but quickly dismissed that idea. "Should I call a bail bondsman?"
The cop searching Patrick said, "Back on the porch, lady."
"This is my attorney," Patrick said quietly.
"Good for you. Now shut up." He put an Ace comb, Visine, and a wallet back into Patrick's pockets, but dropped a key chain with a Swiss Army knife on it into a plastic bag the black cop was holding. Both of them wore latex gloves. The other two cops, one male, one female, stood to one side, enjoying this. The woman was resting her hand on the butt of her gun.
Gail said, "He has the right to talk to an attorney." What she knew about criminal law and procedure came more from television than from real life; her civil practice was of no help.
The officer jerked his thumb toward the porch. "I said over there. You're in the way." He looked around when Rudy moaned.
"Somebody call Fire-Rescue, Now." Rudy sounded as if he had a bad cold. Drying streaks of red ran from his nose down his chin and neck and into his chest hair. His black T-shirt was ripped open, and his lips were swollen. "I need medical attention immediately."
The cop patted Rudy's pockets, ran his hands quickly down his legs. "Shut up, asshole."
Rudy stiffened. "You can't talk to me like that. Who do you think I am? Not one of your common criminals, you can be sure. I'm injured."
"All I know is—asshole—we're takin' you in." He put an ostrich-skin wallet back into Rudy's hip pocket.
"I didn't start this, Officer. Patrick Norris attacked me."
The cop got into his face. "Shut the fuck up!"
Monica leaned over to scream at the cop. "You shut up! We're making a complaint! We know the mayor, and you are in big, big trouble! What's your name?"
The cop pointed to his name tag. "Liebowitz. Be sure to spell it right." The black cop laughed.
Then Liebowitz said, "Whoo-ee, fellas." He popped open a tiny cloisonne" box. "We got a little pharmaceutical store here, Mr. Tillet. What's this white powder, my man?"
Rudy glared at him. Liebowitz dropped the box into a plastic bag, then returned a tube of Chapstick to Rudy's front pocket.
Her hands cuffed behind her, Monica broke into heavy sobs. "How could you do this? Look at him! My brother is hurt!" Her nose was running and she wiped it on the shoulder of her zebra-print jumpsuit, which was smeared with either Rudy's or Patrick's blood—probably both. She screamed, "I'm going to have your job!"
"Hope you like it. The pay ain't that great."
The other three cops whooped with laughter, and the female officer began to search Monica's pockets.
Furious, Gail limped over to where the sergeant was doing some paperwork in the front seat of his patrol car. He had just arrived, and the blue lights were still flashing. She looked at his name tag.
"Sergeant Taylor. This is ridiculous. None of your officers was injured. This was a private matter between—"
"Ma'am? Back off." He didn't look up from his report.
"You don't have to use that tone with me, Sergeant."
He pointed his pen at her. "You got two choices. Shut up or go with them. What's it going to be?"
Gail reached into her purse and pulled out her business card, holding it in front of his face like a shield. "I'm Mr. Norris's attorney. I have a right to discuss the charges against my client, and no, I'm not going to back off."
Taylor stood up and whistled through his teeth. "Liebowitz! Put the cuffs back on this, broad. Obstructing justice."
"You can't do that! I'm this man's attorney!"
The cops started laughing again. Liebowitz handed her purse to the sergeant, then jerked Gail's hands around behind her and slid another plastic handcuff around her wrists, pulling it tight. Gail winced. He pushed her toward where Patrick and the others stood by the fountain.
Patrick turned his head to look at her with his uninjured eye. "Even the privileges of class and education can't protect you now."
Gail exhaled. "Patrick. Just be quiet."
The sergeant finished what he was doing, then slid his pen back into his uniform pocket. "Okay, load 'em up." He smiled at Rudy and Patrick. "Put these two in the same car. Ought to be fun."
Last week, talking to Detective Gary Davis, Gail had seen the holding cells on the third floor of the Miami Beach Police headquarters but had paid them no
attention. This time, while more paperwork was filled out, she and Monica occupied one of the cells, Rudy and Patrick the other. The gray paint was flaking off the metal door, but the cells were reasonably clean. There was a bench along one wall and a stainless steel toilet and sink in the far corner behind a chest-high screen.
The detective, whose name tag said Hanlon, let Gail out fifteen minutes later and made her sign a promise-to-appear. She was free to go.
"What about Patrick Norris?"
Hanlon looked up at her from his desk. "He's goin' downtown."
"Why? Let me call a bail bondsman."
"Not here. Nobody's bonding out on these charges. They're all goin' downtown." Hanlon was a skinny redhead with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic in his holster. "You can use the phone if you want. Here or in the lobby downstairs."
"What is my client charged with?"
"Your client?”
"Patrick Norris. I'm his lawyer."
Hanlon leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly. "Rudy Tillet and his sister—battery on a police officer and resisting arrest with violence. Plus Rudy's charged with possession of cocaine. Patrick Norris—criminal trespass, burglary, battery, and resisting with violence." He added, "Those are felonies, ma'am."
"Burglary? He didn't break in. He used a key!"
"Can we call you as a witness?" Hanlon asked. She shut up.
"Like I said, you can go."
"Not while my client is here. I'd like to use your telephone."
"Over there." He gestured toward an empty desk across the room.
As she picked up the receiver, Gail saw two uniformed officers bringing Rudy and Monica past the row of black filing cabinets that blocked her view of the holding cells. She quickly hung up, expecting Patrick to be next.
When he didn't appear, Gail picked up the phone again and dialed Anthony Quintana's office. Mirta, his secretary, said he wasn't there. Gail said never mind, then told Mirta where she was, that she had been arrested after a fight at the Tillett mansion, what should she do? Arrested? Ay, Dios. Wait there, I'll beep him.
Not wanting to speculate about Anthony's reaction this time, assuming he would even show up, Gail called her own office and spoke to Miriam, who was just leaving. Where are you? I was so worried! Gail told her quickly, then said to keep it to herself. Gail hadn't yet decided how to explain this to Larry Black.
She hung up, then pulled a dangling gold button from the front of her dress. The dress was ripped at the underarm and speckled with blood on the skirt. There were runs in both legs of her panty hose. She called her mother and asked her to pick up Karen. Just say I'm with a client.
In the ladies' room she cleaned up as best she could and brushed her hair. Coming out, she went around the row of filing cabinets to check on Patrick. He was on the bench of the holding cell, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Wet paper towels lay at his feet in soggy, rust-colored wads. He had used them to wipe the blood off his hands and face.
Gail crouched down and spoke to him through the woven metal grid. "Patrick." His eyes came open. One was still puffy and red. She said softly, "I called Anthony's office. His secretary's going to try to reach him. Okay?"
"Okay."
"They're going to transport you downtown—to the county jail, I assume. I don't want you to worry. We'll get you out on bond."
"Sure." He closed his eyes.
"Patrick? Are you feeling sick?"
He shook his head.
"As soon as you're out, I'm taking you to a doctor."
"Oh, Gail." His voice was a whisper. "What I did—"
"It's going to be all right. They're charging you with a felony, but it won't stick. Once the State Attorney's Office knows what happened—"
Patrick rolled his head back and forth. "No, that isn't it. What I did to Rudy."
"If he sues you, we've got someone in our office—"
"No!" Patrick curled his fingers through the metal grid. "No. I beat him up, Gail. I called him things that I swear to you I have never called anyone. Never. I don't do that. I don't... hate like that." Patrick gulped in a breath. "But I did hate him. I wanted to kill him. If the cops hadn't pulled me off—Gail, I'd have done it. With my bare hands, I would have murdered him! I would have—"
"Shhh. Patrick, don't." He was holding the grid so tightly his fingernails were white. Gail put her hands up to his, not knowing what to say to him. "People lose their temper."
"Not like that! Oh, Christ."
Patrick broke off, looking upward. Gail turned. It was Gary Davis, whom she had last seen under better circumstances. She stood up, sucking in her breath from the pain in her hip.
"Don't let me stop you. You would have ... say what!" Davis wore a crisp green shirt, and the gray in his hair glittered like metal turnings off a steel rod. He smiled down at Patrick. "I think we're gonna want to have a chat, Mr. Norris."
"He's being transported," said Gail.
"Naah, he's gonna be here with us awhile," Davis said.
Patrick staggered to the far comer of the cell, his back to them. His angular shoulders hunched up inside his loose white shirt.
Davis said, "That woman working at your aunt's house— Susan Stone?—she said you got in there with a key. Is that right?"
Gail said, "I'd prefer that you not talk to my client."
"You doing criminal law now, Ms. Connor?"
"Yes."
"Uh-huh." Davis tapped on the cell. "Mr. Norris? I had one of my officers go back over and try your keys in Mrs. Tillett's door. And you know what? One of them fit. It sure did."
"Don't say anything, Patrick." Gail's hands were shaking. She looked angrily at Davis. "He has a right not to answer any of your questions."
"Yes, ma'am." Davis's attention was still on Patrick. "Remember a couple of weeks ago I asked you about a key? I asked if you had one. What did you tell me? You said, 'Why, no, Officer, I don't have a key.'"
Patrick turned around far enough to mutter "Fuck you."
"Skinny as you are, you don't look like you could have broke Althea Tillett's neck. But you're strong. You took care of Rudy Tillett. My, my."
Gail stepped closer. "Detective Davis, leave my client alone."
"Mr. Norris is gonna visit with me in the interview room. You want to stick around?" He looked at her torn, smudged, rumpled dress. "We gonna talk about Althea Tillett some more. A looo-o-ong talk."
Detective Hanlon stepped around the row of cabinets. "Gary?" He jerked his head toward the main area.
Davis smiled at Gail. "I'll be right back. Y'all don't go away."
When he was gone, Gail clutched the metal grid of the cell. "Patrick! You mustn't talk to him!"
"I know that, Gail." His voice was hollow. "I've had some experience with the police."
She dropped her head. "I'm not doing you much good, am I?"
He came back to where she stood and poked a finger through to touch her cheek. "Sure you are."
"I won't let them push you around, Patrick. I won't."
"You're my buddy."
She smiled, and his face grew blurry. "You bet." Davis reappeared but stayed at the end of the cabinets. "Ms. Connor? Come out here, please."
She wiped under her eyes. "Why?"
"You've got company."
Gail followed him past two desks, then saw Anthony Quintana standing by Davis's office. His hands were in the trouser pockets of his suit—deep blue with micro-thin red lines that formed a subtle plaid. His hair was precisely combed. There was a visitor tag clipped to his lapel. His dark eyes took a quick inventory, but he made no move to touch her.
"Why are you limping?" he asked.
"I fell. During the fight, I tripped over the piano bench."
"Ah. What is this blood? Yours?'
"No."
"Are you all right?"
"I'll live."
"I made some phone calls from my car," he said. "They say you can go. Where is your purse?"
Gail said, "But they want to keep Patrick h
ere."
"For what?"
"More questions about Althea Tillett. He had a key to her house and they found it on him. They want to give him the third degree, I don't know. They're charging him with burglary! He needs an attorney."
"He can find one in the yellow pages."
"I won't leave him alone in this place," she said. "I can't."
Anthony let out some air between his teeth. "Wait here."
"Where are you going?"
'To speak to the detective. Stay here." He walked to where Hanlon sat. Davis came over, and the three of them talked. Then Davis and Anthony went into Davis's glass-walled office and closed the door. She could barely hear their voices over the top of the partition, with the other conversations in the room, phones ringing, somebody telling a joke.
She detested Anthony Quintana at this moment with a force that made her want to weep with rage. She glanced toward the holding cells, which she could see from this angle. Patrick was sprawled on the metal bench again. In Davis's office, Anthony sat casually in one of the chairs, his legs crossed, not a bit of calf showing under the neatly pressed hem of his trousers.
She wondered if she ought to go in there. Then she realized who she was—the client. She had often told her own clients to stay where they were while she went down the hall to speak to the opposition. They always stayed without a murmur of protest because they knew it was her show. She knew what she was doing.
Here Anthony knew what he was doing. And like it or not, she needed him.
Awhile later the door opened and Anthony motioned for her to come in. She sat down gingerly in one of the chairs at Davis's desk. Through his windows she could see that the sun had set.
Anthony said, "I've told Detective Davis about your case with Patrick Norris. The forgery and who you suspect did it. They'll send the paperwork through because they have to, but with a recommendation that the case not be filed. You are very fortunate."
Her hands were shaking, and she twisted them together in her lap. "Thank you."
"As for Patrick, he'll be transported immediately. I'll send a bondsman to meet him at the jail." Anthony added, "I'm representing him. For now."
Suspicion of Guilt Page 25