Caught Read-Handed

by Terrie Farley Moran

  In no time at all, he put his pen back in his pocket and held up the paper. As I well remembered, George was always most confident when he had a list. Nothing made him more satisfied than crossing off his accomplishments one by one.

  “Okay, I have to visit Alan, contact the Veterans Administration on his behalf and most importantly, find him a lawyer who can get him out of jail. Alan won’t do well if he is confined for very long.” George leaned back in his chair but in seconds his confidence began to slip. “How am I going to find a lawyer? A good one? Alan needs a savvy lawyer who knows the ropes around here.”

  “I may be able to help with that.” I pulled the wrinkled receipt from my pocket, and pushed it toward George.

  “Still saving your receipts like a good little accountant, I see.” George smiled at his own joke and then looked at what I had written. “How do you know this Goddard Swerling?”

  Of course I didn’t know him. I told George how Cady had highly recommended Swerling, and George seems satisfied. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  George had to spend time negotiating with intermediaries but he was persistent and eventually Goddard Swerling got on the phone.

  The lawyer’s voice was so loud I could hear him from where I was sitting opposite George. I stood, planning to go in the living room to give George privacy, but he waved me back into my seat. Swerling played the mildly interested card while George pressured him to take interest in his brother’s case. Apparently a high fee would solve all problems. After they agreed on a number, George asked, “When can I see my brother?”

  Swerling told him that they could meet at the sheriff’s office in about an hour. “You and I will conclude our business and then I’ll make sure they let you visit your brother.”

  George hung up and gave me a tight smile. He seemed satisfied that he was making progress. He leaned across the table. “Sassy, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, for all you are doing. Look at this place. Plenty of room for Alan to join us once he is out of jail.”

  I smiled and wished I were as confident as George that Alan would ever see the light of day.

  O’Mally and Regina came back with enough groceries to feed a hungry football team. O’Mally had her priorities in order. She put on a pot of water and set about making George a cup of tea while he filled them in on the current plan.

  Regina asked about the lawyer’s fee and even I blanched when George said the number out loud. “And he made it clear that is just for starters.”

  I decided to interrupt rather than listen to a family conversation about money. “I’d be happy to drive you to the sheriff’s office to see Alan. It’s on the mainland and might be tricky for you to find.”

  George nodded at the wisdom of my suggestion. “Thank you. We can leave as soon as I finish my tea.”

  I took the opportunity to call Bridgy and let her know I’d be gone longer than planned. She didn’t pick up, so I left a voice mail and a few minutes later we were all in the Heap-a-Jeep heading back toward the San Carlos Bridge.

  I was still throwing the gearshift into park when George opened his door and jumped out. He headed right for the front door of the sheriff’s office and then stopped and turned, realizing he had to wait for the rest of us.

  When we got to the door, gentleman that George is, he opened it and stepped aside so Regina, O’Mally and I could go in first. As soon as the door was opened the tiniest crack, we could hear lots of voices. One overshadowed the rest. He was screaming something about his wife. Regina and O’Mally shrank back but I took a couple of steps inside, curious to see what the ruckus was about.

  A gray-haired man in a blue pinstriped suit was banging on a desk. The deputy behind the desk was standing and trying to soothe the man while gently refusing his request. Two younger men, dressed more casually, were also trying to pacify him. One took his arm and said, “Come on, Dad, this isn’t the best place for you to be.”

  The man banged his hand again and screamed, “I want to see the man who murdered my wife.”

  Regina gasped and George quickly put one arm around his sister and the other around his wife. We all knew the man was Tanya Lipscome’s husband and he was demanding to see Alan.

  I suggested we go back to the parking lot and wait for the deputies to get everything calmed down. George nodded. The second young man decided to try. “Dad, please. This isn’t doing anybody any good, least of all you. Think of your health.”

  Lipscome nodded his head as he took a step back from the desk. I noticed he had an odd look on his face, almost like an actor who was pleased the audience had bought his performance. He rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re right. Nothing I can do now will help Tanya. Let’s go home.”

  He muttered a half-apologetic thank-you to the deputy he’d been harassing and turned to leave. That’s when he saw George standing next to the doorway.

  Lipscome tightened his lips, then opened them wide and let out a scream. “You. Why aren’t you in jail? I saw your picture in the newspaper. I’m Barry Lipscome. You killed my wife.”

  Hands outstretched, he pushed forward and pounced on George, who was too stunned to react. O’Mally intervened, grabbing Lipscome by the nose and twisting.

  It took four deputies to break up the brouhaha.

  Lieutenant Frank Anthony was right behind the group of deputies who came running from the back of the building. He sized up the situation and immediately took charge, ordering two deputies to bring Mr. Lipscome into his personal office. Lipscome’s sons followed along behind.

  The lieutenant noticed me standing next to Regina and flashed those crinkly blue eyes of his. “I should have known. If there’s chaos . . .”

  Before I could offer a smart retort, a man carrying an elegant alligator briefcase stepped through the doorway and demanded, “What is going on here?”

  He was so imperious that for a second I thought he was the actual sheriff, the one we elect every few years, but then he asked a second question. “And where is my client?”

  Chapter Ten ||||||||||

  Frank Anthony stepped forward. “Can I help you, Counselor?”

  “I’m meeting . . .” The lawyer looked past the lieutenant, his eyes scanning the room. “Er, thank you, Lieutenant. I believe I’m here to meet that gentleman.” He pointed to George and asked, “Mr. Mersky?”

  George half nodded, still dazed by the incident with the victim’s husband.

  Frank stepped out of the way and the attorney moved closer to us. I noticed he was wearing a shiny gray sharkskin suit that looked expensive, yet seemed dated. But then, what did I really know about men’s clothes? Still, he wore it with flair and confidence. Ophie, the empress of “strut your stuff” would be proud.

  He thrust a business card at George and stuck out his right hand for a hearty shake. “I’m Goddard Swerling. I believe you and I had an arrangement to meet here.”

  George thanked him for coming and for agreeing to represent Alan.

  Swerling took a step back. “Not quite, Mr. Mersky. Not quite. I merely agreed to talk to your brother. He may not want me to represent him.”

  He gave us all a condescending smile and shook his head slightly as if no one in his right mind would decline to be represented by Goddard Swerling.

  “But I thought . . .” George was flustered; clearly he thought the issue of representation was resolved.

  “Please, please, Mr. Mersky. You, George, are the one who guarantees payment, but your brother, Alan, will be the actual client. He is the only one empowered to make decisions.”

  Then he shrugged, lifting his padded shoulders well past his chin as if to say, “That’s the deal, take it or leave it.” And he put out his hand for still another handshake.

  His attitude was so grating that I wanted to smack his arrogant face, and I noticed O’Mally take a slight step forward probably with t
he same thought in mind. George grabbed her hand, and I guessed it was to stop the explosion he could feel building up inside her. Then he firmly took the lead. “Mr. Swerling, for now, I’d be grateful if you’d talk to Alan, let him know you are on his side and let him know that his family is here. We can work out the details later.”

  The two men shook hands for what seemed like the third or fourth time, but it was the first time the gesture helped George visibly relax, as though he finally believed they’d reached a gentleman’s agreement. Swerling, on the other hand, grinned like a Cheshire cat. George was going to pay the bills and Swerling had figured out how to keep him happy—access to his brother. George must have forgotten that Frank Anthony had assured me there was a procedure for family visits, or perhaps he thought of Swerling as added insurance.

  “I’ll do so much better than telling him you’re here. I’ll get you in to see him—as soon as Alan and I have a private word—I’ll demand your right to visit. First I need you to sign this agreement.” He handed George a few sheets of paper and a pen. “Right there at the bottom of page three. Once your brother signs, we’ll be fine.”

  As George scribbled his signature, Swerling said, almost as an aside, “And the amount is flexible you realize. It may increase. Depends on how much work is required to, ah, straighten out this little misunderstanding.”

  The lawyer looked at the signature and brightened with approval. “Okay, now you wait here and I’ll go speak to your brother, and then I’ll get you in.”

  George was antsy, as he had every right to be. “Will it take long? We’ve come a long way and we’re anxious to see Alan.”

  The lawyer looked at the flashy gold watch on his wrist. He mugged an “I don’t know” face and snapped. “It will take as long as it takes.”

  Now that he had George’s signature, he had no reason to be agreeable. Turning his back on us, he presented himself at the desk and asked for a deputy to escort him inside to meet Alan.

  At that precise moment the Lipscomes, father and sons, walked back into the vestibule. I hoped they were leaving the building. One son had a firm grasp on his father’s arm, and Barry seemed calmer. His eyes glazed over when he looked at us, as if he was reminding himself that George was not Alan. Then he saw Goddard Swerling, and chaos started anew.

  Barry shook off his son’s hand and pointed his arm, stabbing the air over and over again. “You! Of course you’d defend that killer. You’re on everybody’s side except my poor wife. Why do you hate her so?”

  His choking up at the end of his rant sounded phony to me but I heard Regina actually breathe, “The poor man.” And a deputy, who jumped in front of him before he could reach Swerling, raised his hand like a stop sign. “Tough times, Mr. Lipscome, but remember what the lieutenant said. We can’t allow violence. It only causes more trouble.”

  Barry Lipscome raised his eyes to the ceiling and then he crumpled into an exhausted heap. He let his sons lead him out the front door and into the Florida sunshine without another word.

  Goddard Swerling turned to us. Once again he gave us his most Cheshire cat–like grin, and he followed a deputy into the nether regions of the sheriff’s station.

  The last few minutes had taken its toll on the entire Mersky family. George was red-faced and sweating profusely. Regina was pale and leaning heavily against the wall as if she couldn’t stand without support. O’Mally went digging in her sparkly oversized purse and came up with a protein bar, which she broke in half and forced her husband and sister-in-law to eat. She followed up with some wintergreen mints for dessert.

  I was trying to get up the pluck to ask the deputy at the desk if there was a machine in the building where we could buy bottled water or other drinks, when Ryan Mantoni came into the room from a side door. I was never so happy to see a friendly face.

  “Sassy, hey, what are you doing . . .” Ryan saw that I was with folks unfamiliar to him and quickly put two and two together.

  I introduced the Merskys and then asked Ryan if we could get bottled water anywhere in the building.

  “No problem. Let me take care of it. Water okay for everyone?”

  We were grateful for anything wet and cold. Ryan disappeared only to return in less than a minute with four ice-cold bottles of spring water.

  When George tried to force some money on him, Ryan smiled and told him not to worry, he was merely trading the bottles of water for a piece of buttermilk pie the next time he stopped in the Read ’Em and Eat. Then he turned to me and said, “I’m sure glad Miss Ophelia shared her recipe with Miguel when he came back to work. I’d dearly miss buttermilk pie if it wasn’t on the specials board now and again.”

  I had to smile as I remembered our “between chefs” transition. Ophie’d done a grand job filling in for Miguel until his broken leg healed. When he was healthy enough to come back, we all assumed Ophie would be eager to go home in Pinetta up near the Georgia border. Not so fast. As it turns out she’d fallen in love with Fort Myers Beach and was reluctant to leave. Bridgy and I were stunned when she announced she was selling her house in Pinetta and moving permanently to Fort Myers Beach. One thing was sure, there was no way meticulous Miguel and untidy Ophie could share a kitchen.

  It was tough for us to wrestle the café kitchen away from Ophie until we realized that the town was short one very profitable consignment shop and there was a vacant storefront a few doors down from the Read ’Em and Eat. With her love of all things decorative, Ophie rented the store, started rounding up eclectic jewelry, trinkets, collectables and she opened the Treasure Trove, but not before negotiating recipes with Miguel. It took some time but she was able to get Miguel to trade the recipe for his fabulous torrejas, a sweet toast dish spiced with a drop of Cuban rum, for her delicious buttermilk pie recipe. And in the intervening months, they’d become great friends as long as Ophie stayed out of the kitchen. Lost in reverie, I missed Ryan’s question. He asked again, “Do you want me to find a room where you could sit while you wait? Lawyer/client interview could take a while.”

  I knew everyone could use a few minutes off their feet, but George wouldn’t hear of it. He fretted that if he wasn’t standing in the same spot where he signed the papers for Goddard Swerling, the lawyer wouldn’t bother to look for him and he could miss seeing Alan. Ryan explained that the lawyer could make the arrangement for a family visit but only a deputy could escort the family inside. Ryan offered to ask the deputy at the desk to make sure George was notified when Swerling appeared in the lobby. George wasn’t having any, but it was evident he needed to rest. I got my clue when Ryan said that the lieutenant ordered him to make the Mersky family comfortable.

  That’s when I knew I’d owe Frank Anthony one. The solution was for me to stay in the lobby and Ryan to accompany the Merskys. “Ryan’s a friend. He’s on my speed dial.” I held up my cell phone. “As soon as I see the first sign of Goddard Swerling, I’ll call Ryan and delay Swerling until you get back here.”

  While George thought about it, he noticed his sister was nearly sliding down the wall, and, reluctantly, he agreed to the plan. As soon as Ryan and the Merskys disappeared through the doorway behind the desk, I punched speed dial two. Bridgy picked up on the first ring and didn’t waste a minute.

  “Sassy, Pastor John has called twice. Apparently he runs a post-traumatic stress disorder program at the church for veterans. Alan Mersky has been an on-again, off-again participant in the group. Pastor thinks that he and some of the other veterans can be of help to the family.”

  I felt a surge of relief. “George will be glad to hear that Alan has supporters. The family is so worried. They know Alan can’t go through this all alone. And, truth be told, neither George nor his sister is holding up well under the stress.”

  Bridgy, always the sociable one, told me to make sure I brought the Merskys back to the café so we could smother them with well-cooked meals and warm companionship. She ended with, �
��I’ll invite Aunt Ophie.” And she hung up before I could question the wisdom of introducing Bridgy’s flamboyant aunt to George’s vibrant wife while we’re all in the midst of the Mersky family chaos. I didn’t have even a minute to call Bridgy back because I saw Goddard Swerling striding down the hallway as if he owned the building. I punched Ryan on speed dial and he answered even quicker than Bridgy.

  “Lawyer out of the interview?”

  When I said that he was, Ryan said, “Good, I’ll bring the family right in. The lieutenant called five minutes ago. It’s all arranged. Only waiting for the lawyer to leave. The brother, the sister, even the sister-in-law are cleared to visit. A deputy will be with them but it won’t be me. And, Sassy”—he lowered his voice—“the prisoner is handcuffed and very agitated, so the visit won’t be long.” He clicked off before I could respond.

  Goddard Swerling walked into the foyer. He swiveled his head and then looked directly at me, demanding, “Where is the Mersky family?”

  I tried to explain that a deputy was bringing them in to see Alan, but Swerling brushed me off.

  “You tell your friend Mersky that the fee is going to be a lot higher than first estimated. Alan has agreed to have me represent him but is extremely uncooperative. I’m not violating confidentiality when I tell you that the entire time we were together, he barely uttered a word. Have the brother with the money call my office for an appointment. We need a new strategy.”

  He glanced at his massive gold wristwatch. “I’m running late. Don’t forget, if the Mersky family wants me to continue on this case, I’m going to need an increase in my retainer.”

  Goddard Swerling walked out the door and left me as the messenger. Bridgy’s idea of food and company was sounding more like a great idea. It would provide a bit of solace before I had to tell the family the difficult news.

  Chapter Eleven ||||||||||

  I paced back and forth, sipping my water, my eyes fixed on the oversized clock hanging above the front door. The second hand crept along but the minute hand seemed never to move. I increased the tempo of my steps and started to count each one to give me a focal point other than the clock. My anxiety was piling higher and deeper. I started marking off an imaginary rectangle—twelve steps forward, eight steps across, twelve steps back. Then close the rectangle with eight final steps across. Once more. And again.