Crystal tossed the file folders onto the red velvet sofa behind her and considered her thoughts. “Well,” she said, “a trip to Mexico is expensive for one thing. And couldn’t that sort of backfire on you?” She leaned forward, her steno pad resting on the edge of Bernie’s desk, pen in hand, ready to record the long list of instructions her boss would fire off in a torrential pace once she got settled in to work and really going.
“The costs will be covered when we settle, so that’s no big deal, but tell me, why do you think it can backfire?” Even though Bernie always questioned her secretary’s opinions, she liked hearing Crystal’s take on things, the occasional quirky feedback that might surprise or even anger her with inadvertent racism and misogyny, but almost always proving helpful somewhere down the line. It helped her predict the swing of a jury pool.
“Well, their life is pretty meager down there. It’s not like here.”
“I’ve been to Mexico. I know what it’s like,” Bernie said.
“Some of them live in huts, and a lot of them don’t even have indoor plumbing. It wouldn’t take a whole lot of money to change their life. I mean fifty-grand in Mexico is probably like a million here. Doesn’t that kind of lower the bar? You know, a jury will think ‘Why give them all that money when it takes so little to live there?’” She tapped her pen on her notepad for emphasis. “Aren’t you, I don’t know, kind of shooting your own case in the foot? You know, feeding that idea to Reilly.”
“No, no, no, I don’t think so,” Bernie said, flipping through the pages of her casebook, pausing to give full attention to her answer. “First of all, plenty of people are just as poor in Fresno County and plenty of people in Mexico live quite well. But, that aside, you’re forgetting that Carlos Luna is a U.S. citizen. He was born here. He lived right here until his grandmother took him back with her after his parents died. His mom and dad worked for the same guy for eight years with no indication they would ever return to Mexico. Carlos is entitled to the same amount of compensation as any white American boy. His life and his parents’ lives were just as precious and just as valuable as any little blonde family in Clovis.”
“And,” Bernie said, continuing her argument, “Carlos would be living here now if Mr. Simpson hadn’t plowed his truck into the Lunas. That little boy lost his mom and dad and the only life he knew. Just because he’s living in Mexico with his grandmother doesn’t make the loss of his parents worth any less.”
Crystal twisted the corner of her mouth, scooted back in her chair, and looked down at the notepad in her lap. “Okay. I’m sure you’re right,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She nervously flipped a couple of pages as if she was looking for some note, scribbled “Bitch” then quickly crossed it out so that a small blue inky square was all that remained of her blasphemy.
Bernie turned to her left and hit the power button on her computer, avoiding her secretary’s wounded gaze. Crystal was the best assistant she’d ever had, and Bernie needed her, so she turned to her and smiled, vowing to compliment her at least five or six times before lunch. “Yes, well, you’re right too. That’s my biggest worry, actually, that a juror will think like that. There’s plenty of racism to go around, so I have to make sure they see it my way. Besides, I’m still hoping we can settle this thing at mediation. So,” she swiveled back around to look directly into Crystal’s unblinking eyes, and said as sincerely as possible, “we have our work cut out for us. I can’t do it without you; you know that. We’re a team.”
Crystal nodded and flashed a brief smile; her frosty mask cracking, her jaw softening. “So, you really want to go to Mexico for deps?”
“Absolutely.”
Crystal began to write as Bernie turned to the computer and logged on, quickly typing in her username and password, Birdie, her Dad’s pet name for her when she was a kid. No one called her that anymore.
“Call Lance Parker and see if he can help us out with numbers. We’ll need a structured settlement plan.” She spoke without looking at Crystal, her eyes focused on the monitor, her mind racing.
“Parker’s not taking any new cases for a while. I talked to his secretary yesterday and she said his wife’s sick, so he has his nephew working with him now. Want to give him a try?”
“Sure. Give him the basic facts: five-year-old child, mom and dad were farm workers—but stable, working for the same man—you know what to say. And he’ll need details like the specific ages of the parents, what they earned, so make sure you look all that up before you call. Ask him if he can give me some preliminary numbers on damages and structured settlement figures. I’d like to know that before we take the deps.” With the click of the mouse a long list of e-mails appeared. “Actually, see if he can come in. I want to meet him, go over this one in person.”
“Okay, I’ll call him this morning.”
“You know, another thing, Reilly won’t want to travel to Mexico himself—I’m sure he’s afraid to drink the water. That guy might act all tough, but he’s really a pussy about some things. He’ll send some lackey in his place, which is a really good thing. Reilly would probably scare poor Carlos and his grandmother to death; he’s so intimidating.” She gave a shudder at the thought of his constant neck popping, bulging biceps, shoulder rolls, and jutting chin. “When you call his office, tell them we can’t bring the Lunas here before ninety days—immigration issues, border problems, and oh, I don’t know, they’ve been through enough this year; it would be too much on an old woman and small boy to travel out of the country—something genuine. But be very nice about it, like we’re unhappy about having to make the trip, too.”
Bernie popped open an e-mail, read the content and hit delete as if she was squashing a bug. “I hate when people send me this crap.”
Without taking her eyes from the screen, she talked to Crystal while reading, eager to lighten the mood, or at least change it, with the latest story of their resident ghost. “Hey, did I tell you Mrs. Gordon paid us a little visit last night? She found a file for me.”
“What file?”
“Jenkins. I looked everywhere for it, and I mean everywhere. I wanted to take it home, but I couldn’t find it. When I came in this morning, there it was on the floor, just inside my door, lying on the floor. How weird is that?” Smiling big, she wiggled her fingers in the air and lightly moaned, “hooooooo.”
Crystal didn’t laugh, but she did give a hint of a grin. “You must have dropped it on your way out, had it all along or something. I really don’t think ghosts are much into litigation these days.”
“Nope. I swear I didn’t.” Bernie cast a mischievous glance to her secretary, knowing how much the poor girl hated Mrs. Gordon ghost stories. “It has to be Mrs. Gordon. She’s nosey, or bored, likes to read our files when we’re not here. It’s kind of like gossip for her. Actually, I think she wants us to start handling some juicy divorces.”
“Stop it. You know that stuff creeps me out.” Crystal shuddered as if she were freezing, but her smile had returned. “I’m afraid of ghosts and I’m the one who has to stay here by myself all day when you go to court.”
Bernie ignored Crystal’s pleas, further humoring her to lighten the mood. “You know, Crystal, she was a rich doctor’s wife. And they certainly didn’t have computers when she was around, so she probably won’t erase important documents, but she might look over your shoulder to see what you’re doing, or pace around upstairs, make a little noise, just enough to make us all nervous. Maybe we should have a séance and see if we can contact her. I could bring in my Ouija board and some black candles. You’ve got to do it by candlelight.”
“No thank you,” Crystal said, shaking her head, smiling again. “Leave the Ouija board and candles home. Can we just get on with work now?”
“Yes, you’re right. Lunas. Let’s talk about that.” Bernie felt better knowing she had melted the earlier tension. Stressful work was one thing, and she could handle plenty of that, but personal stress and relationships left her drained and empty.
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“You know, I doubt there’s a decent hotel in the village where Mrs. Luna lives. Tell them we’ll bring Mrs. Luna to Mexico City if they pay for her and Carlos to spend the night there. Make sure we get a nice hotel with a conference room and a swimming pool. Oh, and let’s take our own court reporter. We’ll need an interpreter, but you can find one there.”
Crystal tapped the end of her pencil on the steno pad. “Got it. What else?”
“We need to subpoena Simpson’s cell phone records. I need to prove he was talking on the phone when it happened.”
“I already did; I ordered his driving record too. They should be in any day now,” Crystal said, clearly pleased with her initiative.
“You’re so good; I told you, I could never do this without you,” Bernie said. Another compliment, she noted, certain it took at least five times as many compliments to offset any single hostile remark. Six was even better for building up a nice reserve to quash any future ruffled feathers a difficult day might deliver. Bernie placed the palms of her hands down on the pile of folders in front of her. “Okay, I’m going to tackle this stack here. You let me know about dates and when the numbers guy can come in.”
Crystal stopped in the doorway on her way out, opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head and turned away. She grabbed the doorknob and was just ready to pull the door closed when she finally spoke. “You know, at the risk of sounding unusually cruel, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but it would almost be better for Carlos if he didn’t have a grandmother.”
Bernie couldn’t help but flinch involuntarily at the comment. “Why would you say that? So that he’d have no family at all and be completely alone in the world? Wow, Crystal, I thought you were the nice one.”
“Well, if the grandmother hadn’t taken him to Mexico, he’d still be living here.” Her shoulders lifted and lowered as she spoke, as if it was a foregone conclusion. “You know, in the States, where he’s used to living, where he would get a good education.”
“That doesn’t mean he’d have a better life—living with strangers. He’d probably be in some foster home. The fact is, Crystal, he has a grandmother and she loves him, so it’s up to us to make sure he’s taken care of, and educated, even in Mexico, where, by the way, they love their children and grandchildren just as much as we do.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird, though, you getting this case? I mean, how many lawyers out there lost their own parents in a car accident?” Her eyebrows lifted as she pressed her lips tight, her face forming the question mark. “You’re the only one I know of, and you end up with a case where the parents both die in a car accident.” She took a deep breath, opened her eyes wider than usual, and whispered, “Kind of freaky. Stranger than any lost file if you ask me.”
“It’s not as unusual as you think. People die all the time, even young parents.”
“Not like that.”
“No, sometimes even worse. Really shitty things happen all the time, even to nice folks like you. And me. And Carlos. Just read the paper.”
Bernie narrowed her eyes and turned back to the computer screen, avoiding the discriminating gaze of the woman who had come to know her well, but not nearly as well as she believed. There were things that Bernie didn’t share with anyone. Except Noni.
With her back turned to the door and Crystal, ending any further discussion, she picked up the first phone message and started pushing buttons. At the soft click of her door closing, she set the phone down. With the tips of her fingers, she gently massaged her forehead and breathed in and out, slowly counting, and waited for the flush to fade from the tops of her glowing ears and across her burning chest. This case is going to cost me a lot of compliments, she thought.
By the time Bernie finished going through the morning mail and ventured out of her office in search of a coffee refill, Crystal had arranged for the new economist to come in for a meeting. “He’ll be here tomorrow at three,” she announced.
Bernie was barefoot, the pantyhose she’d worn to court that morning tossed in the garbage can under her desk. “Who?” she asked.
“Parker’s nephew, Don Fielding.”
“Oh, good. That was quick work; thank you.”
Bernie poured her coffee and sipped it thoughtfully as she sauntered back to her office, tugging her blouse free from her waistband, slowly unraveling to get as comfortable as possible for the rest of the day. Crystal, busy flipping through the calendar, the phone tucked between her shoulder and right ear, flagged her down, handing her another phone message, multitasking with her usual calm. She might be irritating at times, Bernie thought, but in the end, she made it all happen.
Crystal was in charge of running the office: worrying about things like deadlines, scheduling, transcription, and even how much money was spent on each case. Five years ago, when she came to work for Bernie, Bernie didn’t trust anyone else to handle her calendar, let alone her company checkbook. During her first week, Crystal showed Bernie a picture of her husband, Denny, a baseball player for the local farm team, and said she could hardly stand to look at it he was so cute. Bernie was convinced she’d never last a month at the job. But she was wrong. Crystal was smart, extremely organized, and kept the practice running smoothly, even though Bernie still cringed inside when she saw the girl occasionally reach out and gently touch Denny’s picture, knowing he was out on the road somewhere playing ball, still hoping for the big time, drunk on dreams.
The two women worked well together, though their views of the world were not only through different lenses, but through different lenses facing in completely opposite directions.
Crystal believed in lifetime soulmates, recreational shopping, glossy fashion magazines and regular manicures. She never missed Sunday morning services at People’s Church where the parking lot was filled with BMWs and big shiny SUVs—all things Bernie scoffed at openly and frequently, but Crystal simply smiled at her jaded comments. If they bothered her, it didn’t show.
Bernie was more interested in trying to do something to fix those situations where destiny screwed up and real lives were damaged, even if the only repair came in the form of a dollar sign. She put her trust in things she could control and manipulate on command, like hard work, recycling, and responsible voting—not monolith churches run by guys with expensive suits and bad hair, singing pop song hymns and passing the gold offering plate.
It’s not that she didn’t believe in God; she just didn’t think any one group of people had a special claim to their idea of God. What made Catholics or Baptists think they knew more than Presbyterians or Jews or Muslims, for Christ’s sake? They all seemed to think they had a fix on this elusive spirit, God. She preferred to think of God as this force that lives way out there, quietly peering through a small crack in the sky, quietly watching the daily struggle on this lonely planet and probably a few others, too. Sometimes he laughs at man’s folly and blows a kiss on a soft breeze; other times man’s cruel recklessness makes him angry and sad, so instead of a whisper of love, he sends a deadly hurricane or tidal wave as punishment. And then there are the times he simply turns away, leaving the crack open for private wishes, prayers, and dreams to drift through to the other side where they float around unnoticed. Of course, that tiny gap between worlds also allowed unseen spirits, angels and minions alike, to slip through for some earthly fun. But, even when it seems the small fracture line is abandoned and still, the two worlds existing as distant strangers, a timbre of light shines through. Bernie was certain that the light was the most important part.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in love or lifelong relationships; it just hadn’t happened for her, not in any real way. Most people longed for the passion that fuels stars, but Bernie knew where such passion could lead. She knew how the end of that passion could rip your heart from your chest and everyone in its path. Distance, emotional distance, allowed partings to simply slough away. There might be a little sting, but no permanent damage.
The very idea of only one
soul mate was preposterous, like only one flavor of ice cream or religion for everyone. There were, she was certain, many possible mates for people. Her one semi-long-term relationship had ended painlessly three years earlier when her boyfriend got a job with a firm in San Francisco. Weekend visits became further and further apart, and slowly they learned to live without the other, sometimes forgetting to call, forgetting to answer messages. Their final break-up took place on the phone, both of them agreeing that whatever they’d had was no more. They remained friends, still exchanged occasional phone calls and funny e-mails, but a casual friendship was all that remained, like a fading suntan at the end of summer.
What Bernie had come to realize and appreciate was that Crystal’s romantic and often prudish nature was often the same view of local juries, people who were shaped by the nightly news, Sunday sermons, and popular sitcoms. Even though her secretary could make her dizzy with questions and mind-boggling philosophies, Bernie had come to rely on her for more than her clerical skills. After one year, Bernie gave Crystal a ten-percent raise. The second year, she got another ten percent and a fancy title, Firm Administrator. The third year, Bernie started a profit-sharing program and invested $7,000 in a mutual fund for her secretary.
When Bernie suggested one day that Crystal go to law school, even offered to help pay for it, Crystal laughed out loud as if the very idea was ludicrous. “No thanks, I want a life,” she said.
Later that night, as she worked at home, crafting an opposition to a motion for summary judgment, Bernie stopped and thought about Crystal’s comment. What was wrong with her life? She had a life, damn it, and a good one too. She just wasn’t married with two kids and a dog. She knew better than anybody that being married didn’t necessarily mean a happy life. Marriage could be tragic.
The Circle Game Page 2