Sweetheart Deal

by Claire Matturro

  If my heart didn’t explode from the Zomig, and my head didn’t explode from the migraine, I had a lot of work to do today.

  chapter 38

  Bonita’s voice over the phone reverberated with an anxiety that cued me to lead with the news that Armando was safely in the house of my brother, already adopted by a known pack of teens, and fast falling in love for his first time.

  “Your son, Armando, just showed up at my brother’s door. He’s fine. He and my nephew are already friends, and I think he’s got his first crush on a girl, a friend of the family.”

  “He is not hurt?”

  “No, he’s fine, really, honest. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

  “I will send Henry for him immediately after Mass,” Bonita said. “They need time alone, just the two of them. They can spend the night in Tallahassee, and come home on Monday.”

  So, okay, for a really smart woman, Bonita was missing something here.

  Like, Henry alone with Armando.

  First, in a hotel room in Tallahassee. Then, on a five-hour drive. In an uncool van.

  I figured if Armando didn’t assault Henry and steal the van the night in the hotel room, they wouldn’t make it much past Tallahassee before Armando ran away, or tricked Henry out of the van. I could see it now, all Armando had to do was wait till Henry stopped to use the bathroom, and he could steal the van, leaving Henry stranded. And then sell the van, buy a cooler car, and head for California. Bonita would blame Henry for Armando’s disappearance into the great wilds of the West Coast, and they would break up. Armando would get a job as a bodyguard for one of those blond girl-singers. Bonita would marry someone else, and Henry would be left to grow old alone.

  I couldn’t let that happen to Henry, my friend, the man who fed me malpractice cases and who had taught me, more or less, how to break into buildings using a set of lock picks he himself had selected for me. No, friends don’t let friends drive with dangerous teenagers.

  “Congratulations on your wedding plans,” I said. “I’m really happy for you and Henry.” Then I added what seemed pretty darn obvious to me, but then I don’t have the mother hormone, “Let Armando stay here, really. You and Henry need some time alone, I mean, without Armando trying to…you know, er, sabotage things. Why not let him stay here with me? It’s just a couple of days, really, till I’ll get all this straightened out and come home. And a couple days away from…well, away from you and Henry might do Armando some good.”

  Bonita no doubt had just flashed on what had happened the last time she had entrusted one of her sons to me. Okay, okay, so I almost got Benicio arrested, not once but twice, and there was that thing with the dead body, but in the end he was a stronger kid for the experience.

  But what I said was: “Henry would have to miss work Monday, and it’s a long drive. Really, let me bring Armando home. He’s cool here. Dan has two empty bedrooms now that his oldest boy is off at college, and they always had the extra guest room. And Bobby is a great kid, and, like I told you, he and Armando have already really hit it off. And there’s plenty of room—”

  “The girl he has a crush on—”

  “Just left for church. She and her mother are close friends of the family. Look, I promise to take care of Armando until we leave. He’ll be fine. He can go to school with Bobby, I promise. Really.” I left out the fact I was in one spare bedroom and the grieving wife of the missing chief of police was in the other. A kid like Armando could sleep anywhere, and there was a big couch in the living room.

  “Are Patti and Dan there?”

  “Oh, yes. And they’ll take good care of him. You know what a great mother Patti is.”

  Of course, that was a reach, given that Bonita saw Patti once a year for about two minutes when she and Dan stopped by my office on their way to the beach or Disney World, on their annual trek to visit me and, not incidentally, all the tourist hot spots, but I think I’ve said positive things about Patti over the years.

  There was a long pause. I let Bonita think; I kept my mouth shut.

  “Let me speak with Patti,” Bonita said.

  “Oh, she’s at church. I can have her call you first thing when she gets in.”

  “Church?”

  “Oh, yes, and Armando and my nephew Bobby are just heading out to Sunday school and the eleven o’clock service.”

  So, yeah, in the end, I convinced Bonita to leave Armando in the care of Patti, and that I would bring him home in a day or two.

  After I hung up with Bonita, I wandered back into the kitchen, where Armando and Johnny were eating like they’d walked all the way from Sarasota with no food.

  “Your mom says you can stay here a couple of days with me, and Dan, Bobby, and Patti, but—”

  “Cool,” Armando said with a full mouth.

  “Cool,” Becky said with a big smile.

  “Whatever,” Bobby said with a look of concern.

  “Oonk, oonk,” Johnny said with a jowl full of raisins.

  After that was settled and Armando and Johnny were done eating, and it didn’t look like I was leaving them alone, the kids pretended they were going to Sunday school and would take Armando, ferret and all. I pretended to believe them. The three of them, with Johnny in tow, trotted off down the sidewalk while I watched.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. But I never said I was good mommy material.

  chapter 39

  One thing about the law is this: it often refuses to make sense.

  This is what I concluded as I read case law off an intolerably slow Internet connection to Lexis. On the one hand, I had an ethical obligation to rat out Idiot Client to the judge, because he was planning to defraud the court by submitting falsified medical records in an ongoing medical malpractice case.

  That was fraud, no doubt about that, and the case of blah blah versus blah blah held me to a high standard to protect the integrity of the court, a higher standard than that of protecting my client from further trouble with the same court. Thus, not only could I, I was in fact required to tattle on him.

  And, as Bonita had already reminded me, the ethical rules were equally clear that I must disassociate myself from a client who would engage in fraud. That is, that I must file a motion to withdraw.

  Okay, so far so good.

  But then there was this whole string of cases all holding that I could not violate my attorney-client privilege by ratting him out. That is, I must not tattle on him for doctoring his patient’s records and showing me the altered file. I could not even say in my motion to withdraw as Idiot Client’s attorney why I wanted to rapidly distance myself from him.

  So, what the hell did that mean? I reduced this to the bottom-line query: Could I testify against him or not, in his suit against Henry and Henry’s company?

  Splitting hairs, which is what most of modern appellate practice is, I decided that I could not testify that Idiot Client had in fact already altered the records. He had completed that act while I was his attorney, and the privilege prevented me from exposing him.

  Yet I could testify—maybe—in Henry’s breach-of-contract lawsuit that Idiot Client asked me to submit falsified records into his malpractice court proceedings. That is, this was a fraud he was planning to commit, with my help, still in the future.

  The little part of my brain that the Zomig had not yet calmed down pulsated behind my eyes like a whole marching band trying to hack their way out of my skull from the inside with tubas. Phrases like actual fraud, constructive fraud, extrinsic fraud, and fraud-in-fact, with their nuanced distinctions, once would have charmed me for hours as I constructed one of my famously overly detailed and ruthlessly analyzed memoranda of law to prove whatever point I wanted to prove.

  Now, I had absolutely no interest in testing this theory of split hairs in a protracted round of litigation in which I might end up a party myself. All I wanted with regard to Idiot Client and his proliferating mess was to be done with him. And to help Henry. Years of legal wrangling and motions and arguing in the circuit cou
rt, to be followed with a year or so in the appellate courts, plus fielding complaints against me to the Florida Bar’s Ethics Committee, while Henry dangled at the end of a knotted litigation rope, did not in the least appeal to me. I might be up for that kind of protracted legal battle, but Henry was not. Especially not with wedding plans looming.

  I had another idea.

  If Idiot Client would falsify medical records, he was, at his root core, a fraud.

  And a fraud would do other fraudulent things.

  And I knew just who could catch him at whatever other fraud was lurking in his personal history.

  As much as I hated to pay directory assistance, I did so, and got Philip’s Cary Grant–cool commercial spy guy client on the phone. Thank goodness he was home.

  The first thing I asked was whether his phone was tapped.

  After he assured me he’d swept it that very morning, I spun out my tale of woe in abbreviated, layman’s terms. That being I wanted info that would put Idiot Client’s lawsuit against Henry under the courthouse, forever. Despite Cary Grant’s assurances about no phone tap, I tried not to overtly solicit criminal acts. But I got the basic idea across: triple-check Idiot Client’s résumé and credentials, his IRS records, and all bills submitted to either insurance companies or Medicare. Frankly, I didn’t care whether Spy Guy had to hack into Idiot Client’s computer, his head, or his house. My directive was simple: Find something so bad that Henry could kick Idiot Client’s butt out of court, and out of practice.

  I hoped this request indebted me only financially, and not for a date or anything, and left the exact payment arrangements for a later, face-to-face moment.

  Sure, it was not a textbook example of “zealously representing the interests of my client,” which was a key phrase in a paramount provision in the ethical rules. But hey, Idiot Client had started this by suing Henry.

  Thus, technically speaking, with a precise eye on the Professional Ethics Code and the criminal statutes of Florida, what I had just put into play was a tad suspect. But when unfounded litigation buzzed inexorably toward my friend, ready to mow down, grind up, and spit him out, I couldn’t let a little sissy gray area of the law stop me from saving him.

  Henry’s interests were crucial to me.

  chapter 30

  While it’s true, as Hank Williams sang, that none of us gets out of this world alive, I did hope to get away from the hospital alive.

  Perhaps that was overly optimistic.

  Too weary to be alert in the dim hospital parking lot, I fumbled in my purse, looking for my Honda key, and wondered why a place that charges $20 for a $2 pill couldn’t afford better lights.

  Before I could quite get my fingers around my keys, someone grabbed my purse off my shoulder, shoved me hard enough that I crashed to the ground, and took off running. Stunned, I sat for a second in a puddle of gravel before I struggled to my feet and shook myself off.

  My purse, damn it. My keys. My money. Nobody steals my purse without at least getting a fair fight, I thought, and charged after the shadowy figure, screaming my lungs out. Despite his head start, I would have caught him too, but another man grabbed me. As I tried to fight my way out of his grasp, I finally recognized the voice. It was Hank, and he was trying to calm me down.

  “Lilly, Lilly, stop. That man might have a gun. Or a knife. I’ll call 911, but nothing in your purse is worth getting hurt over.”

  Only a man would say that, I thought, and gave one more big struggle before Hank’s calming voice and strong grip made me give up.

  Of course, my cell phone was locked in my car and my mugger now had my car keys. And of course, Hank didn’t have a cell phone. So, by the time he pulled me back to the hospital entrance and dragged me inside, the thief had had enough time to get across the Florida state line, and I was not happy that big, strong Hank had not chased the man down with me instead of stopping my pursuit.

  While I sputtered and cursed and voiced my myriad complaints without one whit of reserve, Hank dialed 911. Then practicalities began to surface in my consciousness. I hoped the credit card companies had all-night 800 numbers to report lost cards. Quickly, I did an inventory. Worse than losing my cash and credit cards, the tape of the Deer Den manager offering me a modest menu choice of illegal turtle eggs or illegal fish eggs was in my purse, and now gone. And the camera.

  I had officially nothing to give to Demetrious, and nothing to show for a very long night.

  Oh, except for a really fine dining experience at Annier’s Courtyard, where they had let me inspect the kitchen, and where they did have vegetarian dishes that even I liked, topped off with an excellent wine list. Even Simon’s incessant adverb abuse hadn’t ruined my meal.

  While I was still grumbling to Hank about his utter lack of warrior spirit, Demetrious drove up. No siren. Just a tired, unhappy-looking man. Dragging. I knew the feeling.

  All I wanted to do now was get the police thing over with and go home, shower, and collapse into bed. But first we had to go through all that pointless stuff about the purse snatching, I had to confess I’d lost the Deer Den evidence, and then I had to ask Demetrious for a ride home, since I didn’t have my car keys.

  “Well, let’s ride over and check on the car, and then I’ll take you home, and we can get a locksmith out here tomorrow. No point calling one this late,” Demetrious said, and I had to admire the man for not fussing at me for failing to bring the recorder and camera straight to him, instead of first finishing up my share of a couple of bottles of wine and a fine meal with Simon, plus getting a foot rub.

  Hank, who had hovered discreetly enough to pretend to give Demetrious and me some privacy, popped back into our space. He said, since his car was parked near mine, he’d ride over with us for the company. As if we were chipper. As if the parking lot was that vast.

  But at my car, a bigger problem presented itself.

  Every door to the vehicle was wide open, and the trunk lid was up.

  “Damnation and hellfire,” I shouted. The thief had quickly put my stolen car keys to good use, and right under Demetrious’s nose.

  “You sound just like your granddaddy used to,” Hank said. “That’s what he always said.”

  Ignoring that nostalgic footnote on my family history, Demetrious said not a word, but got out his flashlight and humped around the car from all directions, as if the thief might be hiding somewhere in the shadow cast by my Honda.

  This was bigger than losing my purse. Much bigger, I thought, as I looked into the now mostly empty Honda trunk. The hiding place of the original set of Willette’s most important papers.

  Just in case I’d missed them in my first look, I grabbed Demetrious’s flashlight and I stuck my head way down into the trunk.

  But Willette’s papers were gone.

  While Demetrious took his flashlight back, and asked what was missing from the trunk, I had the satisfaction of thinking: Good thing two sets of copies of Willette’s important papers were hidden at Dan and Patti’s house.

  Then I realized my doubled-bagged collection of Willette’s prescription-pill bottles, which I had stashed in the trunk, was also missing. Damn, damn, damn, I thought, now Jubal wouldn’t be able to help me find the person supplying my mother with drugs.

  For good measure, I rooted around in the glove compartment, discovered my cell phone and lock picks were still there, as were my wet wipes and detailed Honda-maintenance records.

  So what was the thief after? Pill bottles, tape recording, camera, important papers—or just my pocket change and my credit cards and whatever might have been in the car and trunk the thief could hock for money?

  Uh-oh, like an unmerry little parade, still another unhappy thought pranced toward me.

  What if Jubal really had been Willette’s drug dealer and just volunteered to help me poke into the Tru Blue computer as a means to hide his own trail? I mean, I know there are regulations, federal, state, and no doubt local, that make pharmacists practically have to take a video of every narco
tic pill they handle or sell or dispose of, but there was a cunning criminal element that was very adept at getting the kind of pills they wanted for personal consumption or black-market sales.

  Maybe Jubal had a business on the side.

  Maybe he didn’t want me finding out he was Willette’s dealer, and he had been after those pill bottles.

  “Where’s your father?” I asked, staring hard at Hank.

  “Over there, badgering Simon about something. Probably that resort. He’s got a bug up his…sorry, ma’am. Daddy’s just in a snit and he’s seeing if Simon, being a nearby landowner, has any ideas.”

  I looked over where Hank had pointed. In the shadows of the front door of the hospital, I could see two men talking, one waving his hands all about.

  If I could see them from my Honda, then couldn’t they see my Honda? I mean, why hadn’t they noticed someone breaking into my car and done something to stop it? Was the much-touted Southern chivalry dead, or what? “So they were pretty helpful while somebody was emptying out my trunk,” I said, possibly a bit more snippy than Hank deserved.

  “Simon just stepped outside a couple of minutes ago. Daddy caught up with him after you and Demetrious finished up. By that time, I reckon your purse was already stolen, and the car gone through.”

  Well, okay, it was an excuse of sorts.

  “Let’s walk over and chat with them,” I said, and started walking.

  So, that’s what I did, despite the protests of both Hank and Demetrious.

  Naturally, neither Jubal nor Simon had seen a thing, heard a thing, or suspected a thing, and both were just really glad I wasn’t hurt, et cetera, et cetera. And nobody knew how to hot-wire my Honda so I could drive it back to Dan’s house, not even Demetrious. You’d think they’d teach how to hot-wire at the police academy, but no.