Show No Fear

by Perri O'shaughnessy

“You really think he’s doing this to look better for her?”

  “That, and—he didn’t like how you ended it with him. He prefers to leave people, not the other way around.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The wine was hitting her. She asked for a glass of water, thinking about the drive back over the hill. Was there more to learn from Perry? “How can I get Richard off our backs?”

  “My kids and family mean everything to me,” Perry said, off-point. “I’d do anything for them.”

  “If that’s so, why aren’t you home?”

  “Money problems. Communication problems. Problems that will be resolved when I make partner. But to return to your problems instead of mine, don’t you want your son to have a father?” Perry turned slightly unfocused eyes on her. “It’s not right, all you women raising children without fathers.”

  “Of course I want my son to know his father. Even Richard, I suppose. Maybe when Bob’s older and can handle it, in a few years, with supervised visitation. That sort of thing. Tell Richard to get lost and maybe come back when Bob’s twelve or so.”

  “One thing I’ve learned. You can’t control everything. You can’t control the results of a paternity test. He’ll assert his rights.”

  “Unless and until the court makes some orders, he and his mystery girlfriend have no rights as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You can’t fight the truth.”

  “I have to go, Perry.” She stood and scootched her stool back under the bar.

  “Wait. I haven’t told you the secret.”

  “So tell me now.”

  “Can’t you stick around awhile? How about dinner?”

  “You’re married, Perry. Remember how much you love your wife and kids?”

  Blearily he nodded. “Okay, just lean your head down. I’ll tell you. Come on. Don’t be that way. Come closer.” She exhaled in exasperation, then leaned her ear toward his mouth.

  Before she could spring away, he planted a big, wet kiss on her lips.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have no idea how dreary my life is.”

  Following an unpleasant visit from an unwelcome visitor, Richard said, “Fuck it,” out loud, even though no one was there to hear him, pried his Bianchi track bicycle out of a crowded closet, slipped into some spandex and better shoes, stuffed his work clothes into a backpack, and locked up his office.

  Out on the street, feeling the holiday spirit, magnanimous for a change, he tossed a couple of bucks at an unconscious street guy, then clamped his helmet tightly below his chin and took off, pushing hard through the evening traffic, sweating and happy. The cycle took his mind off things. He concentrated on working his legs and heart, and how the blood felt pounding through his veins.

  He planned to enjoy Thanksgiving in his own way, with a long bike ride through Monterey’s empty streets, maybe swing past Nina’s mom’s house in Pacific Grove to see what was cookin’.

  That used up a few hours. Not that he was lonely; he expected company that night.

  At home, showered and changed, he slammed down a few beers on the balcony, enjoying how the big seagulls circled and scraped with each other, a civilization up there in the sky, almost unnoticed by the civilization down here in the dirt, but very likely just as complicated.

  He watched sports on television until bedtime, crawled into bed nude, and fell into a dark sleep.

  She materialized in the bedroom and climbed into bed without fanfare. He loved the curve of her hip, and the soft skin of her thighs, and he showed her how much he loved them.

  She didn’t stay long, but slipped away after the usual murmuring and the silly promises women enjoyed so much postsex.

  Calm, happy, sated, he fell promptly asleep.

  Somewhere around dawn, when the dull gray light of the ocean eased toward golden, someone knocked on his door insistently.

  She had a key. She never knocked.

  This early morning, Thanksgiving, he put on his silk boxers and a robe and peered through the peephole. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  He opened the door.

  CHAPTER 24

  PAUL HAD DRAWN THANKSGIVING DAY DUTY AT THE SHERIFF’S office. He got to his desk at six thirty in the morning, not too bleary considering the quantity of Olde English malt liquor he had imbibed the night before. Around him, telephones rang sporadically and a marching band of people passed loudly by his cubicle. The noise level here was manageable for now, though later the raucous after-dinner crowd would be ushered in for alcohol-related arrests. Encircling him were cardboard boxes full of paperwork he needed to organize, mostly research materials on law and evidence he consulted often and tried to keep up-to-date. On the desk’s surface sat a telephone, a green leather blotter he’d salvaged from his home in San Francisco, and a gold pen. Through some strange miracle, his tiny space overlooked the forested area south of the courthouse. He enjoyed the luxury of seeing some sky from the office. This was nothing like his place in San Francisco, in a mosh pit of desks and people.

  Had it really been months since he had arrived? Today, and at other times like this, smothered in paperwork, he felt vaguely irritated at the relative quiet of the job. He had too much time on his hands, too much time to think. Too much time to get into mischief. This was his first day back after a four-day hiatus, during which time he had done things he now deeply regretted, but that was nothing new.

  Detective Armano Hernandez poked his head through the cubicle opening. “The chief wants to see you.” His voice held no emotion, but his face betrayed his curiosity.

  Paul’s boss sat in a huge, new green leather chair. Sheriff Carsey was in his sixties but not even close to retiring. He was first in and last out and made sure everyone knew it. “A gift from the department for twenty years of damned good work,” he began, in reply to Paul’s stare. “Which by the way, doesn’t seem a likely outcome for you.”

  Paul said nothing.

  “You know,” Carsey continued, “we checked your references pretty thoroughly before we hired you for this job. You’ve got a fine record: solved two serial murders practically single-handed. Plain old drug executions, wife killers, all the normal shit you did damn well. Now I’d like to know, what the hell’s it take to get you interested here? Sex crimes? What’s your fancy?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “From your coworkers’ and from your general attitude since you got here, I’ve had the feeling you’ve been a little busier with your personal life than with your work. A few days off here and there is one thing. But disappearing without notice?”

  “It was an urgent personal matter. I made sure I was covered. I left the request on your desk.”

  “A request is not an approval, Detective!”

  “It’ll never happen again. It was very urgent. A family thing. Armano was all set to—”

  “Armano?” roared the chief. “Armano’s no substitute, you understand? We hired you and him both. You go out in pairs. It’s a long-standing policy. I have two detectives here. It’s a small division. I. Need. Reliability. You ever want to take a leave again, you follow the procedures and clear it with me in advance. Next time you’ll be looking for opportunity elsewhere.”

  “Yessir,” said Paul, leaving the sheriff snorting.

  Returning to his desk, Paul passed Armano in the hall.

  “He loves you, in spite of how he talks,” Armano said. “Simple cure? Bring him homemade tamales. He becomes Platero the gentle burro.”

  “I had no choice.” Paul’s soon-to-be ex, Laura, had come down the previous weekend, ostensibly to discuss their pending divorce. They had driven east on a country road. They met two farm trucks going in the opposite direction; otherwise, no one. There in the filmy gray-greens of beginning winter they observed the cows and climbed a muddy hill from which they could see clear to the ocean on one side, all the way along the hilly ridges to the south.

  Laura wore a sleeveless T-shirt and got cold in the breeze. “Put your ar
m around me,” she demanded. When he did, he steered her to an oak tree and pushed her up against it. “Once more won’t hurt anybody,” she said softly, and he was kissing her eyes and her mass of curls. She smelled like lavender. He began to feel the old lust. Then she pushed him back, both hands on his chest.

  “Last kiss,” she said. “Don’t touch me. Don’t sweet-talk me. Don’t try to seduce me. We talk through my attorney from now on. That’s what I came here to tell you.”

  Just like many other times they had interacted during their marriage, Laura’s brief visitation left him feeling crazed. Steinbeck had called those hills and valleys the “pastures of heaven.” Paul wondered about that proximity now, the way he wondered about everything in his life lately. He had really needed the couple of days that had followed, when he had recovered, regrouped, and felt like a man again.

  A couple of hours later, the sheriff appeared at the entrance of his office. He beckoned to Paul and Armano, and they went in. He shut the door.

  “Don’t sit down,” he said. “There’s been a shooting in Seaside. Seaside police chief was just on the line. He’s short of detectives and I’m sending you over.”

  Paul and Armano looked at each other. “Gang stuff?” Armano said.

  “No. A prominent attorney. The guy’s name is Richard Filsen. Shot twice in the abdomen just after six a.m. this morning in his apartment. Bled out probably in a few minutes. Happy holiday. Now get moving.”

  CHAPTER 25

  GINNY REILLY AWOKE FOR THE SECOND TIME THANKSGIVING morning, this time to streaming sunlight. She checked her bedside clock. Almost eight thirty! She probably shouldn’t have tried to clear the leaves off the sidewalk last night, but sometimes she found it difficult to remember, much less to accept, these new physical limitations. In her mind, she remained the girl who could dance on after everyone else had gone to bed.

  She pulled herself up. She had better put something nice on. Nina, Bob, and Matt would be coming over later for turkey. But before she put the bird in the oven, she had an important errand to run.

  As she was only going a short distance, she drove slowly to the Pohlmann firm. The reception area was empty so she called out a hello.

  “Hello, Ginny,” Remy replied. She led her back to her office and nodded toward a client chair. “I hate interrupting your holiday, but this shouldn’t take long.”

  “It’s my fault. You’ve been great, checking on me so often. But I had to wait for a good day.” Relieved not to have to face an awkward handshake, Ginny eased herself into a hard chair with arms. She thought about her turkey, her kids, her grandson. How sad to be sitting in this office today, trying to deal with business.

  Maybe Remy just considered this another workday. Most of the world probably didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Maybe Remy was born in New Zealand or some faraway place like that.

  “People resort to the law to remedy their suffering, to extract justice from an unjust situation,” Remy said after a moment. “But—you know Clarence Darrow? He’s a hero of mine.”

  “He defended Leopold and Loeb. Lawyer in the Scopes trial—in the, um, twenties?”

  “Right. Well, he once said there’s no such thing as justice in or out of court. Sometimes that is true.” Remy was looking down, pressing the thumbs of her hands together.

  “Why be a lawyer if you consider your work futile?”

  “I don’t. It’s just not automatic, a just outcome. I like to think when justice is possible, I can make it happen.”

  They both sat quietly for a moment.

  “A problem has come up,” Remy said. “Did you know that Nina was working on medical research for your case, by the way?”

  “She told me. What problem?”

  “You remember we had to rush our investigation because the time to send the claim letter was running? We didn’t get to do the full investigation we normally would in a case like this.” Something like pity clouded her eyes.

  Ginny waited.

  “According to a specialist I consulted several weeks ago, your Raynaud’s—the blood-circulation problem—leads in a very substantial percentage of cases to infarction in the extremities and consequent gangrene,” said Remy slowly, with care, making sure Ginny heard every syllable. “He said we will not be able to separate out the medical cause of the amputation.”

  “What?”

  Remy leaned in slightly. “The problems that sent you to the acupuncturist—those were most likely the earliest signs of the infarctions. An infarction is a death of tissue caused by an inadequate blood supply. Do you understand? What happened to you probably would have happened to you regardless of the acupuncture.”

  Ginny shook her head. “The pain was different, much worse after Dr. Wu left those needles in my fingers. Dr. Wu caused me harm. That I know.”

  “I spoke with Richard Filsen after I got back from Sacramento yesterday. He has a declaration signed under penalty of perjury from Dr. Wu and from his assistant that you canceled your appointment.”

  “Lies!” Ginny felt tears of fury, frustration, and weakness roll down her face. She wiped them with a sleeve. “Nobody was there the day I went. That lawyer, Richard Filsen? He and my daughter—you know about the custody issue?”

  Remy rubbed her forehead. “I do. I’ve been very careful dealing with him, I promise you. I talked to Dr. Wu and his assistant myself on the telephone. He’s smooth, and she was quite convincing. She says she was on duty at the time of your appointment and you did not appear for it.”

  Ginny racked her brain. The receptionist’s desk had been empty. She had paid cash. She had no memory of a receipt. Had Wu given her a receipt? She didn’t think so. Damn.

  “Based on her account and on the medical research, I don’t believe we can help you with your case,” Remy went on. “I wanted to let you know personally.”

  “You’re dumping me?”

  “Not at all. You and I need to make a joint decision regarding ongoing legal representation based on this new information.”

  “You think it’s hopeless.”

  “There’s no chance of a settlement, Ginny. If we continue this fight and lose at a trial, you could be liable for Dr. Wu’s legal fees. He could even cross-sue for—”

  “I know that. But I wanted to—obviously that witness is lying!”

  Remy shook her head. “I am truly sorry.”

  “Do you just not have time for me? I’ve heard you have a lot going on right now.”

  Remy shook her head. “No. We would never decide not to move forward based on our own convenience. We have several competent attorneys on staff who could take over for me, if needed.”

  “Nina said that she had turned up some medical information that might clinch the case. ‘Pricking the fingertips in cases of Raynaud’s is contraindicated.’ She found that in a medical journal, just like what I heard that doctor say in the hospital. Oh, Nina’s going to be disappointed. She knew this was a hard thing for me in the first place.”

  “I’ll speak with Nina about this, with your permission. Of course, I needed to talk to you first, as soon as the decision was made at our most recent partnership meeting.”

  “Wait—what about that doctor I went to while Dr. Wu was gone? Dr. Chase?”

  “He saw bandages, nothing more. Of course, there’s a record of the surgery you had later. But Dr. Chase only heard your report of needles. The hospital noted that you complained of pain in your fingers. They diagnosed the gangrene and recommended surgery. They did write down what you said, but we have no verification.”

  “I was in pain. I told Dr. Chase everything.”

  “He can’t verify your story, Ginny.”

  Her story. Better than any she had ever read. “Everything I’ve told you is true. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you. But the underlying question remains, will a jury? After assessing the medical evidence and the witness’s testimony, I’m compelled to advise you to drop this claim. If you have further questions, that’s
what I’m here for.”

  “What happens if I drop my claim?”

  “No financial consequences at all. All you have to do is sign this letter indicating the Pohlmann firm has withdrawn in this matter.” She gave Ginny a short letter and a pen. Ginny read the letter, then signed her name.

  “If you have any doubts or want to seek advice from another attorney, please call me. We have a lot of background on this case, and of course, I’ll refer you to someone reputable. It’s dangerous to pick someone out of the blue.” Remy stood up. She looked warm, her cheeks colored a bright pink, matching Ginny’s blouse.

  “I’d like to keep my options open.”

  “I’ll make sure Astrid calls you with referrals tomorrow. Ginny, I’m so sorry. I really hoped we could help you.”

  As soon as Ginny unlocked the door to her house and entered, the phone rang.

  “Hey there.”

  Harlan. Trust him to catch her off-balance.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, cutie. How are you? Nina and Bob coming over? Matt?”

  He sounded slightly forlorn, which gave her pleasure and made her dislike herself. “What do you want?” Why tell him about the malpractice case? He would write it off as just another loss for her. Loss of pride, loss of family, loss of her good health; chalk up another one in the series. What more was there to lose, except her life?

  “Just wanted to hear how you are doing.”

  “I’m getting along. Why are you really calling?”

  “I did have another reason for calling. Did Nina talk to you about my new circumstances?”

  “You mean that your baby-doll wife’s pregnant? She mentioned it.”

  “Whatever you think, I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “Really?”

  “Aw, Ginny.”

  Now he called her Ginny, not babe, not honey pie or sweet cheeks. His happiness sliced through her. She sat down.

  “Ginny?” His voice seemed remote. “I can’t keep up the current level of support. We’ll have to renegotiate. How’s two hundred a month sound? I could swing that.”