Motion to Dismiss (A Kali O'Brien Legal Mystery)

by Jacobs, Jonnie

  “Only what Grady told me. She apparently has a friend who works at ComTec.” I hesitated a moment. “Did you ask him about her?”

  “He says he can’t even remember what she looks like. He met her at the office party and she asked for a ride home. End of story.” There was a moment’s pause, then Nina pulled herself straight and smacked her open hand against the bedcover. “How could Grady do this?”

  I shrugged noncommittally. I didn’t think she was looking for an answer.

  “If nothing else, it’s just plain stupid.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Grady might be a hotshot in the world of computers and marketing, but that didn’t mean he was immune to stupidity. Particularly male stupidity.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Nina added, “I don’t believe he raped her. Grady is a lot of things, but not that.” She shook her head, as though to convince herself.

  “I’m glad you’re on his side,” I told her. “He’s going to need your support.”

  She shook her head again, more emphatically. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think he raped the woman, but I’m not naive. There’s more to this than the innocent lift home that Grady claims. You don’t cry rape for nothing.”

  That’s what troubled me. If the sex had been consensual, which I was inclined to believe it had been, why would she later say she was raped?

  “If you don’t mind my asking—” I hesitated, uncertain whether I was speaking as lawyer or friend. “You said something last night about Grady having had an affair.”

  Nina swallowed, then nodded. “It was a couple of years ago, right after you moved to Silver Creek. His secretary, of all things. I mean, how trite. She was practically young enough to be his daughter.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I was numb. And as soon as I found out, Grady broke it off. He said he was sorry, stupid, ashamed. And I think he really was.”

  Nina’s fingers grazed the comforter, tracing the outline of a pink rosebud. “I fell in love with Grady because he’s generous, compassionate, intelligent, funny—although that’s a side of him most people don’t see. He’s someone I enjoyed being with, and I still do. But he’s also someone who needs to have his ego indulged. He needs to know that he’s somebody.”

  The intricacies of human relationships always amaze me. “So you forgave him,” I said, thinking how difficult that must have been.

  “I don’t know that forgave is the right word, but we moved on. I was terribly hurt. He promised me it would never happen again.”

  Nina ran a hand through her hair, pulling the top section back in a knot. She looked at me. “Why? Do you think he was having another affair?”

  This was the moment to come clean if I was going to. Tell her that affair might not be the right word, but that Grady had cheated on her. Get it out in the open. I could feel my pulse racing as I debated.

  Finally, I shook my head. “Just asking.”

  With a sigh of exasperation Nina let the hair fall loose again. “What do you think really happened that night?”

  Once again the friend in me warred with the lawyer. I hedged with a shrug.

  We’d probably never know what actually transpired that night. Two people, two different versions of the evening’s events. Most likely, one of them was embroidering the truth, at least a bit. Perhaps both of them. It was even possible that each honestly believed the evening had unfolded the way they claimed it had. The hardest thing of all was to predict which variant the jury would accept.

  “On the bright side,” I said, leaving the slippery slope of half- truth, “the jury in the Sandborn case came back today. We won. Sandborn didn’t get a cent.”

  “Good work, Kali.”

  “You’d done all the work. All I had to do was follow the script.”

  The flickering television screen caught Nina’s attention. She reached for the remote and turned up the volume. “I bet Grady made the evening news.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

  She glared in my direction. “Don’t patronize me, Kali.”

  The arrest of Grady Barrett was, in fact, the evening’s lead story. His picture—the same one I’d seen splashed across the business section on several occasions—flashed on the screen while the newscaster reeled off a summary of the arrest.

  The screen cut away to footage of a woman. She was small-boned but amply rounded in the manner of an eighteenth-century beauty. Her face was dotted lightly with freckles and framed with waves of coppery red hair.

  “A man shouldn’t be allowed to get away with rape just because he’s rich and influential,” she was saying. “I’m a person too. I deserve respect. That’s why we have laws, to even things out.”

  Nina rocked forward with a gasp. “Shit. That’s Deirdre Nichols.”

  “You know her?”

  She brushed the air with her hand, shushing me. But Deirdre Nichols had had her fifteen seconds of fame for the day. The station cut away to a car commercial. Nina aimed the remote and flipped off the television.

  She looked at me as though the breath had been knocked from her lungs. “That’s the woman who says Grady raped her?”

  I nodded. “How do you know her?”

  “Her daughter’s in school with Emily.”

  “Deirdre Nichols lives in Piedmont?” The address she’d given the police was Oakland.

  “Her sister lives here.”

  If that was an explanation, it fell somewhat short of its mark. “She lives with her sister?” I asked.

  Nina shook her head. She seemed to be breathing again. “Deirdre uses her sister’s address to get Adrianna into the local school. Not strictly kosher, but the girl usually spends a couple of nights a week with her aunt anyway. Deirdre stays there sometimes, too.”

  “What’s Deirdre like?” I asked, curious to know what sort of witness she’d make.

  Nina flopped forcefully back against the bed pillows. “I don’t know her very well, but she seems nice. She’s a single mother. Not phony like a lot of the women in this town. She’s kind of a lightweight in the smarts department, but she has a good heart.”

  A lot like Madeleine had described her. She’d probably tell a convincing story at trial.

  Nina’s fingers drew a pattern of fresh scratches across her neck. “I can’t imagine why she’d make up a story about being raped if she wasn’t.”

  Chapter 7

  The six o’clock exercise class at the Y had been my goal for the past five evenings. Once again it carried on without me. I headed for the comforts of home instead of the rigors of health, unfortunately forgetting that Friday was bridge night.

  I arrived home to a chorus of good-time howls and cackles echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. My kitchen.

  “Is that you, Kali?” Bea called. “Come have some spanakopita. Not low-calorie by any means, but scrumptious.”

  Six women, average age close to seventy, were perched at various spots around the room, nibbling spanakopita as well as a variety of other delicious-looking finger foods.

  “We’re waiting for Helen,” Dotty said, balancing her squat frame on the edge of a kitchen stool. “But we’ll still be one short. We couldn’t talk you into joining us, could we?”

  “I don’t play bridge, remember?”

  “We’ll teach you.” The words sounded as a chorus, six voices speaking in unison.

  Bea and Dotty had been renting my house in Berkeley while I was living in Silver Creek, three hours away. When I’d come back recently to fill in for Nina, I’d moved into the downstairs room—a subtenant in my own home. Surprisingly, it was an arrangement that worked well for all of us. But I usually tried to make myself scarce on bridge nights.

  “Sorry,” I said, sampling a triangle of golden brown puff pastry. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re always working,” Dotty chided. “It’s not healthy. You’ve got to learn to enjoy life.”

  “I do,” I protested.

  “Not enough.�
�� She scowled at me for emphasis.

  “She goes more for young fun,” Bea said, “not old fun like us. Besides, her work is interesting. No men’s underwear for her.” Bea was referring to her own part-time job with J. C. Penney.

  “Such work,” Dotty muttered, “defending rapists.”

  I spread sour cream on a wedge of roasted red potato. “How did you hear about that?” I asked.

  “We heard all about it on the television,” said one of the other ladies.

  A second chimed in. “He doesn’t look like a rapist, does he?”

  “Maybe he’s not,” I offered.

  “Well, dear, I certainly hope not. It can’t be much fun taking the side of someone who’s guilty.”

  I delivered the evening’s civics lesson with a smile. “Representing someone is not, strictly speaking, the same as taking sides.”

  “What she meant,” Bea explained, “is that it’s harder to be a white knight under those circumstances.”

  Actually, I found it pretty hard to be a white knight in most situations. And the burden of representing someone who was truly innocent was a heavy one indeed.

  “Anyway,” I told them, “it’s not really my case. I was just helping out because the actual attorney couldn’t be at the bail hearing.”

  “Oh.” They seemed oddly disappointed.

  “You got a call a bit ago,” Dotty said suddenly. “A Mr. Sandborn.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  She gave me a coy smile. “Only to wish you sweet dreams. Is he a new beau?”

  “Hardly.” I choked at the thought. “He was suing one of my clients. He lost.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Bea poked her. “That means Kali won.”

  “Oh, well, that’s wonderful . . .” Dotty smiled broadly, then looked confused. “Why is he calling with good wishes?”

  “I imagine he was being sarcastic. He can’t be happy about losing.”

  The ladies made another attempt at persuading me to join them. I ducked out with protests of work. Taking a sampling of food and a hefty glass of wine, I headed downstairs.

  When I’d lived in the house as owner rather than subtenant, I’d used the two downstairs rooms primarily for storage and occasional out-of-town guests. But I was discovering they made a comfortable and cozy retreat.

  Not that I was considering making the arrangement permanent. If I moved back to the Bay Area for good, and if I could afford to, I’d reclaim my house for myself. It was the “ifs” that were the stumbling blocks.

  After years of belittling my childhood hometown of Silver Creek, I’d returned for my father’s funeral. I’d found myself staying on, drawn by the same slower pace and small-town surroundings I’d run from more than a dozen years earlier. I’d set up my own law practice there, a practice I was now trying to keep alive long distance.

  I’d also gotten involved in yet another not-so-smart relationship. It was because of Tom, as much as the town, that I’d decided to stay on initially. And now that part of the equation had changed. Tom and his wife had decided to reconcile.

  Or, rather, she’d decided and he’d acquiesced.

  I felt the familiar welling up of heartache and anger in my chest. It wasn’t as if Tom and I had talked seriously of the future, or made any promises to each other. I’d known about Lynn from the beginning, and Tom’s devotion to his kids. So why did it hurt so much?

  Stop it, I told myself, dumping my briefcase onto the bed. Time to let go of what you can’t change.

  I set my plate and wineglass on the dresser and kicked off my shoes. Feeling guilty about the exercise class I’d skipped, I did a hundred sit-ups, thirty push-ups—women’s variety—and touched my toes, barely. Then I plopped on the bed, picked up my wine, and called Marc.

  “Did you happen to catch the evening news?” I asked without preliminaries.

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “Quite a show, complete with footage of Ms. Deirdre Nicholas herself.”

  “They didn’t waste any time, did they?” His voice sounded more nasal than usual, and he was breathing quickly, as though he’d been doing exercises himself.

  “What did you think?” I asked.

  “About the news? It was hardly unexpected.”

  “About Deirdre.”

  “She’s a flake.” Marc stared coughing and turned away from the phone so that his voice was faint.

  “You got a cold?”

  “Allergies.”

  “What makes you say she’s a flake?”

  “She just is. You saw her, she’s not going to have any credibility at all next to a guy like Grady.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed. “Nina knows her. Turns out their daughters go to school together. Nina says Deirdre has a good heart.”

  “No offense, but Nina’s not the best judge of character. She thinks everyone’s a saint.” A pause for sniffles. “How’d it go with Madeleine Rivera. You weren’t by any chance able to convince her to drop the case?”

  “Not a chance. No plea bargain either, but I’ll try again. Maybe we can settle on sexual misconduct.”

  “Grady won’t go for it. If the charges aren’t dropped, he wants to go to trial. Clear his name.”

  Or wind up behind bars. “Did you talk to him this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. I set up him up with Salmon & Sexton. They’re nervous as hell over this.”

  Salmon & Sexton was the venture capital firm that had funded ComTec’s most recent expansion. They stood to lose even more than Grady if the stock offering tanked.

  “We’re going to issue a press release aimed specifically at the investment community. Hopefully we can contain the damage by taking action up front.”

  “Did Grady say anything more about the rape charge?”

  Another cough. “We didn’t get around to that.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t get around to it? Isn’t he worried?”

  “Right now he’s more worried about the company.” Marc’s voice was throaty, as though he were congested.

  “Maybe you should see an allergist,” I suggested.

  “It comes and goes. Why don’t you tell me about Madeleine Rivera? I’ll pass the word along to Grady.”

  I filled him in on my conversation, and on the contents of the police reports. “I’ll go over things again tonight and get them in order for you. I’ve got a few ideas, avenues you might want to pursue. I’ll get a summary to you by morning if I can.”

  There was a moment of dead air. I waited for another fit of coughing, but instead Marc’s voice was smooth as silk.

  “Actually, Kali, I was thinking it would be better if you took the lead on this.”

  “Me?”

  “I’m going to be tied up with the Siefert case as well as running damage control on the ComTec offering.”

  “But I’m—”

  “There’s the woman angle to consider, as well. Those things count, especially in a rape case.”

  “I’m not the right attorney for this. Nina is my friend.”

  “And you won’t be helping her by keeping her husband out of jail?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “With Madeleine Rivera on the other side, we need a visible female.”

  I started to protest again, but Marc cut me off.

  “I’ll help out. Give you all the support you need. But I think you should be the attorney of record.”

  There was pressure building above my right eye. I took another sip of wine. “Is that an order?”

  “We’re on the same side here, Kali. Don’t make things difficult.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Hey, it’s a marginal case at best. I can’t believe they’ll really go through with it.”

  “Rape is a serious crime.”

  “This wasn’t rape. You know that as well as I do. Grady Barrett is an important name. That’s the reason Ms. She-Bear Rivera is trying to make an issue of it.”

  I didn’t like the snide edge to his tone, but in essence I agreed
with him. “She does have a tendency to see things from her own perspective,” I conceded. And to infuse them with passion.

  “From what I’ve heard, fur is flying downtown. There’s talk Madeleine is taking this on in order to show the cops who they’re dealing with. She’s pissed that they were pussyfooting around with the investigation.”

  “They were?”

  “I doubt it. But the cops are steamed about something. I doubt she’ll get much support from that quarter.”

  “Ought to make the prelim interesting.”

  “You think you’ll be able to knock the wind out of her sails?”

  I was beginning to feel the effects of the wine. And, the case wasn’t airtight by any means. Grady’s word against Deirdre’s. Especially if he’d agree to let me argue consent.

  “I just might,” I told him smugly.

  Chapter 8

  For the day of the hearing, Madeleine Rivera had selected a dark blue power suit with a light gray shell and simple silver jewelry. I was favoring black and cream, without shoulder pads. We were pretty evenly matched in terms of serious professional attire.

  By contrast, Deirdre Nichols was like a breath of spring. The loose-fitting jumper of teal and lavender paisley did a remarkable job of enhancing her soft femininity while hiding her generous curves. The billowing red hair was tied at he nape of her neck with a black grosgrain ribbon, and her makeup had been applied with such a light touch that I could see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

  I offered her a smile, a trick I’d picked up early on in my career. Deirdre returned it spontaneously. I knew that if the case went to trial, which seemed at this point increasingly likely, Madeleine would coach her to respond with more reserve in the presence of “the enemy.”

  With each witness the prosecution had paraded to the stand that morning, I’d felt the momentum of their case gathering. I was sure that Grady, seated next to me, felt it too. His posture grew more rigid, his expression a little more hardened as the morning progressed.

  Officer Sylvester, who’d taken the initial report, spoke of Ms. Nichols’ highly charged emotional state at the time she’d reported the crime. “As though she spoke from the heart,” he said.