by Diane Capri
Maybe George is right. Maybe our relationship is seriously co-dependent. I need to rescue her as much as she needs the help.
Knowing that doesn’t change it.
My thoughts started to wander down the well-trodden path of my feelings for Kate, who had been my mother’s best friend and like a mother to me since Mom died when I was sixteen.
I jerked myself back to the present.
No point in going over that ground again.
Wherever my relationship with Kate’s daughter had gone wrong, rehashing history wasn’t going to change it. The only reason to relive history is to avoid making the same mistakes. Otherwise, you’re just wallowing in the past—an indulgence I know from experience won’t get me anywhere.
If I had back all the hours I’ve spent trying to figure out how to make Carly stop acting like a spoiled child, I’d be at least three years younger.
I picked up the phone and dialed Carly’s office number.
“Good morning, MedPro,” the receptionist answered the phone. I asked for Carly Austin and was put through to her office. Carly picked up on the first ring.
“Carly, its Willa.”
“Judge Carson! I’m so pleased you called me back.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Some hesitation. Then, cryptically, “I’d like to see you for an hour or so. Would it be possible for me to meet you somewhere?”
I felt the frown lines between my eyebrows, and consciously tried to relax them. I remembered Dr. Aymes’s comments on age lines. No point in getting needles punched in your face before you have to.
Carly sounded cheerful, almost normal. Not the nervous, timid woman who sat across the table from me yesterday. She’d always been confident and self-assured. Even when she was fired by the prosecutor’s office, she hadn’t seemed cowed. Yesterday, she did. Now, she didn’t.
Confused, I wanted to strangle her and put us both out of my misery. “Look, about Dr.—”
She jumped in. “Let’s talk when I see you, shall we? How about your office? Maybe three o’clock? Thanks.”
My protest fell into empty space.
Annoyed, I dialed Frank Bennett. If they’d identified the body, I could put Carly’s mind to rest this afternoon and bow out completely. He answered after the first ring.
“Frank, Willa Carson here.”
“Willa! How nice to hear from you. What’s up?” Frank has a nose for news, obviously. I’d never called him before. The direct approach wasn’t always best.
We talked about the fund-raiser, Senator Warwick, and George’s disappointment that Elizabeth Taylor no-showed last night. Frank was covering the Warwick campaign, and asked if I knew when the senator would be in town again.
Finally, I worked into the real reason for my call.
“Frank, since our talk last night about that body they pulled out of Tampa Bay, I’ve been curious about something, and I haven’t seen anything on your newscasts about it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You said something about the guy being dead already when he hit the water—” I tried to sound tentative, unsure. Not easy for me.
“Yes?” He volunteered nothing. Rather unlike Frank, I thought. Maybe he’d been told to report anyone asking questions about the body. I wished I’d thought of that before I called him; too late now.
“I was wondering how you knew that?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been missing some of my reports?” He teased me.
“I guess I must have,” I said, stifling impatience.
“A bullet to the front of his head blew the back of his skull off. There’s not much chance he survived that. And the coroner’s report said no water in the lungs, which means he didn’t breathe in the water and die by drowning.” He explained patiently, but seemed to asking questions at the same time.
I was tempted not to answer the unspoken, but I didn’t want Frank poking around in my life trying to find out why I wanted to know about this particular crime.
“Well, that explains it then.” I told him. “George and I were having a conversation at breakfast this morning and he said the police couldn’t possibly tell whether anyone had drowned or been killed before they were found in the water. I told him I was sure that even more complicated things had been determined forensically, and I would just call you and ask.”
Tsk, tsk. A marital squabble. And too much for my pretty little head. Frank Bennett knows I’m not so vacuous, but he accepted the explanation, no doubt for his own reasons.
Then, he said, “While I have you on the phone, Willa, let me ask you something.”
“Okay.” Wary.
“I looked around last night, but I never found Michael Morgan. I talked to Peter, and he said he didn’t actually see Morgan come in. Are you sure Morgan was there?”
My good mood vanished. Neck hairs tingled.
Even tone, slow cadence, total control. “Like I said last night, Frank, I wouldn’t know the man if I saw him.”
“Well, ask George, will you? Right now, I’m assuming he’s still missing.”
“Sure, I’ll ask,” I said. And I meant it. I didn’t say I’d reveal George’s answer.
We rung off with the appropriate farewells, and I made a mental note not to ask Frank anything else about the case before checking all other sources.
Frank Bennett had been an award-winning journalist for too long. Instincts would bring him back around asking questions, and I hoped I hadn’t already sparked his curiosity too much.
I couldn’t figure out what to do next without talking to Carly first, so I spent the remainder of the morning revising proposed orders drafted by my clerks, preparing matters scheduled for tomorrow, and reviewing next week’s trial calendar.
Every ten seconds or so, questions about Dr. Morgan and the murdered man refused to stay in mental storage, questions Carly would answer this afternoon if I had to sit on her to make her tell me.
At one o’clock, I left to meet Kate at the Tampa Club for lunch, happy that I’d put on something besides chinos and a chambray shirt this morning.
I walked briskly to the Barnett Bank building, took the elevator to the 42nd floor and then skipped quickly up another flight of stairs to The Tampa Club. I had joined The Tampa Club when it first opened because I wouldn’t join The Captains’ Club.
The truth is, the “C Club,” as it’s known, would not admit women until a few years ago. When they started to admit women and invited me to join, I refused. I’m pleased to report that many other women did the same and now the “C Club” is having difficulty making ends meet.
On any given day, you can still find the old rich and long powerful at their club. I guess not getting my dues and membership fees hasn’t put them into bankruptcy and, in the meantime, all the women who want to be on the inside are still on the outside.
If you won’t come in after you’re invited, what more can they do?
That’s the trouble with Ghandi’s method of political protest; it’s so easy for the targets of peaceful resistance to miss it.
As I feared, Kate was already waiting in the Grill Room, the club decorator’s idea of a cozy, paneled enclave on the south west corner of the building. I kissed her cheek.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
Kate kissed me back, and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I enjoy the view of the Bay from here. It’s almost as nice as the one from Minaret. And I haven’t been waiting long. Just long enough to order this glass of Chardonnay. Why don’t you join me?”
I took Kate’s suggestion. Crisp Chardonnay and Greek seafood salad accompanied our lively discussion of George’s party.
“I was looking forward to seeing Jason. It’s been too long since my oldest son came to see me. I’m disappointed that he wasn’t there.”
“I was disappointed, too. He called, but I didn’t get the message until this morning. He left for Romania earlier than he expected because of Senator Warwick’s trip to resolve the financial situa
tion over there. He apologized. Said he’d call next week.”
Leave it to Jason to disappoint his mother through a message to me. By tacit consent, we ignored the fact that Jason hadn’t been coming to the fund-raiser to see his mother, but rather to support the senator, who is also his boss. Kate has a soft spot for all her children, each for different reasons. Jason she loves as her firstborn and she avoids his shortcomings, just like she does with her other son Mark, and Carly. And me, too, for that matter even though technically I’m not her biological child.
“Well, it was a lovely evening, even if I did have to spend it with the Warwicks. And speaking of Victoria, did you know that her mother has been very ill recently? They think she has Lupus.”
“You’re kidding! Mrs. Mendel is about the healthiest woman I’ve ever known. When did this happen?”
Kate smiled. “About the same time Christian Grover signed her up as a plaintiff in the breast implant litigation.”
“You mean Mrs. Mendel has breast implants?” I couldn’t believe it. “What for?”
“Apparently Dr. Morgan implanted her years ago after she had a mastectomy for precancerous fibroid tumors. Of course, she never told anyone. It used to be that people kept their medical conditions to themselves. Now, I think she’s planning to be a guest on one of the talk shows.”
This last was meant to be facetious. I think.
Kate’s right, though. Health concerns used to be private matters, particularly health concerns over breasts and other semi-sexual body parts. These days, it seems everything is public knowledge.
We exhausted this topic and I was trying to figure out a tactful way to bring up Carly when Kate saved me the trouble.
“You know, I really wanted both Jason and Carly to come last night. It’s been a long time since she’s seen her brother.”
“It would be even nicer if they could both be in the same room without snarling at each other. And you don’t have to give me the ‘disapproving mother’ look, either. Jason isn’t the only one Carly doesn’t talk to. Have you heard from her?”
I could tell from Kate’s expression that she hadn’t, and she was trying to come up with some acceptable excuse besides the truth—Carly doesn’t talk to any of us. I wouldn’t hurt Kate’s feelings for anything in the world. So I said, “You know I love Jason and Carly as much as if they were my brother and sister, but they’re not perfect.”
“No, and neither are you and Mark, as much as you both like to think so.”
This wasn’t going well. I tried another tack. “Carly called me this morning and left a message. If I talk to her, I’ll invite her to Minaret, and you can come over, too.”
This got the result I wanted. Kate promised to come, and she was happy. I do love Kate. She’s been a great mother to me since my mom died. I love my dad dearly, but he’s never around. I haven’t seen him in a year. So it was important to me to keep the peace with all the Austins.
We finished our salads, ordered cappuccino and a sinful dessert, and parted half an hour later.
I went back to my office and dictated a few orders on yesterday morning’s motions, looked over tomorrow’s case load and took care of a few other odds and ends. It was almost 4:30 when I remembered the call from the CJ. While I could have ignored it completely, there was no reason not to return his call and I asked my secretary to place it. CJ hates getting calls through a secretary.
Margaret came back to tell me that the CJ was gone for the day. She’d left a message and he’d likely call in the morning. I smiled to myself. This game of wills I’d been playing with the CJ was humorous. He calls me in the morning because he knows I don’t come in before nine o’clock; I call him in the afternoon because I know he leaves early. My amusement evaporated when I realized I’d need the CJ’s support to avoid the Justice Department’s public integrity unit if I didn’t get this thing with Carly resolved soon.
It was then I realized Carly had never showed up for our appointment. I’d worked right through.
I picked up the phone and called her again. Her secretary said she’d gone out about one o’clock and never returned.
I should call Chief Hathaway, report what Carly had told me and forget it. Not knowing the extent of her involvement kept me quiet. I couldn’t throw her to the wolves, even though it made me a dog in the road: Just a matter of time before a speeding truck flattened me, too.
Margaret reminded me that I was expected at the Federal Rules meeting ten minutes ago. Too late to cancel, and too late to spend time catastrophizing. I’d have to leave that for later.
But I determined to find Carly and shake the whole story out of her.
Then, I’d fix it, like always.
Or so I thought.
CHAPTER NINE
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 5:00 p.m.
January 7, 1999
THE FEDERAL RULES SUBCOMMITTEE of the local chapter of the Federal Bar Association, a committee I’ve been on for a number of years, was scheduled to meet this month at the offices of one of our newer members, Charles Smyth. Instead of taking the time to get my car, I asked Margaret to call another committee member for a ride. It really hadn’t registered with me where the meeting would be held until we arrived at the Landmark Tower offices of Able, Barnes & Worthington, where Smyth is a junior partner. Able and Bennett are dead. Elliott O’Connell Worthington is the senior partner here.
The Landmark Tower building, the most expensive office space in Tampa, sits at the corner of Florida and Jackson and takes up an entire city block. It is one of the newer “A” buildings in downtown Tampa, and it’s the most architecturally interesting. The building is over 40 stories high and topped by a white lighted dome. The dome’s lights are changed to red and green for Christmas and red, white and blue for the fourth of July. It’s easily seen for miles around after dark, and finding your way back to town is not as difficult as it used to be before the building went up.
The walk to the front door is lined with grey granite pillars and in the lobby sits a larger than life size, multicolored metal sculpture of Don Quixote on his horse. This was the first time I had ever been in the building and it certainly had all the indicia of high-priced real estate.
The offices of Able, Bennett & Worthington were on the top four floors. As the elevator whizzed up, I was reminded of my lunch. After a 35 second ride, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby—less than one second per floor. I stepped out into the lobby the same way cartoon characters leave an out of control carousel.
I’ve been in some extravagant law offices but it’s not an exaggeration to say that the lobby of AB&W, as it’s known around town, was the most ostentatious lawyers’ lobby I’ve ever seen. The floor was granite in three colors, with “AB&W” inlaid under foot. Windows at right angles gave one the feeling of standing on air outside, 420 feet above the ground. Glass walls allowed a floor-to-ceiling view of the Port of Tampa, Harbour Island, Davis Island, Plant Key and the Bayshore on the south side and the city, the University of Tampa and north Tampa opposite. The office was furnished in museum-quality antiques, the likes of which George’s Aunt Minnie would have been proud to own.
The receptionist was a statuesque blonde Barbie look-alike selected for her acting ability. She played the receptionist part perfectly. When we entered the lobby, she greeted us both by name, said we’d been expected and someone would be out to escort us to the meeting shortly.
After about sixty seconds, Smyth’s secretary, another exceedingly attractive and briskly competent greeter, escorted us to the meeting in the main conference room.
When we arrived, the meeting was already in progress and we slipped quietly in and sat down. A review of the last meeting’s minutes was being concluded. While the familiar recitation droned on, I took the opportunity to look around. This room had a spectacular view of north and east Tampa. The conference table was made in the same shape as the building, of grey granite and various shades of wood inlay. The firm logo was again inlaid in the center
of the table. The chairs were mahogany leather and the walls were lined with grey, granite-topped cabinets upon which were perched china cups and crystal glasses in patterns I recognized.
Oil paintings of the firm’s named partners lined the long wall opposite the windows and above the paintings in large brass script were the words “The Founder’s Room.”
The decorating budget for this room alone must have exceeded the cost of a private college education.
After the meeting adjourned, Smyth said, “Mr. Worthington wants a few moments with you, Judge Carson, if you can stay.”
“I have a transportation dilemma. I caught a ride over. If I don’t leave now, I’ll have to walk.” Everyone knew walking around downtown Tampa after dark wasn’t a wise choice.
Smyth said, “We’ll get one of the firm’s cars to drive you to your garage. This way, please.”
I followed Smyth to O’Connell’s office.
Winding through the corridors, Smyth delivered a running tour. Each wide hallways was lined with original work by artists I’d admired in places like the Smithsonian and the Metropolitan Museum. Vases and antique pottery was displayed in alcoves under spotlights.
Smyth said, “The firm believes in investing in art. One of our partners is quite knowledgeable. He travels to New York galleries and auction houses. Our collection adds significantly to the firm’s net worth.” He sounded like a docent. Was the entire firm was populated by the law office equivalent of Stepford wives?
“That’s a rather unique practice isn’t it?”
“Unique for Tampa. Firms in major cities invest in art. Here we are.” He knocked on a large mahogany door, grasped the crystal doorknob and pushed simultaneously.
O’Connell stood to greet me and dismiss Smyth while my mouth hung open.
The opulence was awesome.
O’Connell’s personal office was on the south west corner of the building, the best view the building had to offer. He had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Harbour Island, Davis Island, Plant Key and the Bayshore. I could see our Minaret clearly in the distance. The floors were hardwood, with antique Iranian rugs under the desk, the coffee table and the conference table. Navy and Burgundy leather upholstery covered most of the room. On the credenza and several of the walls were pictures of O’Connell and Cilla at various milestones: their wedding, their children’s weddings, their 45th anniversary party and last year’s awards banquet where O’Connell was named Lawyer of the Year. The opposite wall was O’Connell with the governor, O’Connell with our Senators, O’Connell with our last four presidents.