“And if someone saw us together today and asks you why you were meeting with me, tell them you were trying to arrange a radio station promotion with one of my clients.” I mentioned a baseball player I represented.
“Wow, you represent him?”
I nodded. “Understand?”
“Got it. My lips are sealed.”
“If you think of anything else, or if someone asks you about our meeting, call me immediately, okay?
“Definitely.”
“Thanks, Gail.”
“Good luck, Rachel.”
***
Mr. Goddard will see you now.”
I looked up from the transcript of the deposition I’d taken of Charlie Blackwell several weeks ago. I’d been so engrossed in making notes for cross-examination that it took me a moment to get my bearings. I was seated in the swanky reception area of Goddard, Jones & Newberger. Don Goddard’s secretary, a tall silver-haired woman with a British accent, was standing before me.
“Great.” I closed the transcript and legal pad, capped the pen, and put everything back in my briefcase.
“This way, please.”
I followed her down the hall to the large corner office of Don Goddard. The great man himself was seated behind an antique Queen Anne library desk in a high-backed leather chair large enough to double as a throne. He stood to greet me.
“Good morning, Rachel.” I let him take my hand. “What a delight to see you.”
“Thanks for meeting me on short notice.”
“It is my pleasure.”
There was a gleam in his eyes that I recognized. Goddard assumed that I was bringing him a new piece of legal business. When I’d called on my drive to the Ritz that morning, I told his secretary that I needed to talk to Mr. Goddard about some significant corporate and real estate matters involving a client of mine. That was true, of course, although its meaning was open to varying interpretations.
“I’m just a litigator,” I’d told her, explaining that I hoped Mr. Goddard would be able to help me out. She put me on hold a moment and came back on the line to tell me that Mr. Goddard would be delighted to squeeze me in at nine-thirty.
As I took a seat facing him, his phone rang. He hesitated, gazing longingly at it.
“Go ahead,” I told him.
During my years at Abbott & Windsor I’d learned that to a rainmaker a ringing phone was more alluring than the song of the Sirens. Indeed, one way to ascertain the pecking order among the partners at any big law firm is to figure who is the inflictor and who is the inflictee in what came to be known among the associates of Abbott & Windsor as “doing a Ma Bell.”
Goddard lifted the receiver and was quickly into full smoothie mode. I could almost hear the honey oozing through the phone lines. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I stood and looked around his office. There was the usual trophy wall of framed photographs of a tuxedo Goddard posing with various local and national luminaries, including former president Jimmy Carter, Congressman Richard Gephardt, Senator Ted Kennedy, local radio personality Jack Buck, and Stan Musial. Although Goddard’s three years at Washington University’s law school had been noteworthy primarily for their lack of anything noteworthy, he’d apparently dedicated the past decade to gilding that connection, as attested by the plaques, certificates, and photographs lining one of his other office walls. It’s amazing—or sad—what money can buy at an institution of higher learning.
The telephone call came to end and I returned to my seat.
“I apologize for the interruption, Rachel.” He offered what he must have assumed would resemble a sincere smile. “Now let’s talk about your client’s concerns.”
“Great. First off, though, I’d like to get a better sense of the kinds of services your firm can provide in the corporate and real estate area.”
“To coin a phrase, you’ve come to the right place, Rachel. We provide our clients with three interrelated areas of specialization: corporate, real estate, and tax. We dedicate all of our energies and talent to those three areas of the law.”
“So if I had a client who needed to form a corporation, that’s something you could handle.”
“Absolutely. We form new corporations every day of the week.”
“And if I had a client who wanted to use that corporation to buy a piece of property—say, a two- or three-flat in the city—is that something your firm could handle as well?”
“Rachel, not only could we handle that type of transaction; we actually do them all the time.” He leaned forward, giving me the full bedside manner. “Rachel, I sincerely believe that there’s not another law firm in this town with more experience and skill in these two areas. That enables us to give value-added service to our clients and, just as important, cost-effective service as well.”
“Tell me a little more about that, Don. I’m just a litigator. I have no idea what those kinds of services even cost.”
“Rachel, we are interested in a long-term relationships with our clients. The client who forms a corporation to buy a piece of rental property today may very well blossom tomorrow into a national real estate concern. So while other firms may try to gouge such a client for what they believe is a one-time transaction, we price our services with an eye toward the future.”
“Help me there, Don. What do you call gouging, and how does that compare with your firm’s billing practices?”
“Certainly. Now fees will vary on a case-by-case basis, of course, but there are firms in this town that would charge six to eight thousand dollars to form a simple corporation and draft the deal documents for the purchase of a small rental property. We’ll do those tasks better and we’ll do them more efficiently and we’ll charge less than three thousand dollars.”
Time to see how far out on the limb I could lure him. “When I was an associate in the Chicago office of Abbott and Windsor—”
“An outstanding law firm,” Goddard said.
I nodded. “Agreed. Anyway, the partners at Abbott and Windsor used to have the firm’s lawyers handle their personal corporate and real estate matters. That always seemed a pretty good testimonial to the quality of the firm’s services in those areas.”
Goddard chuckled. “Far be it from me to draw parallels between our humble firm here and that great national legal institution, but I can state without hesitation that the partners of this firm consistently rely on the expertise of their fellow partners in personal business matters, especially in the real estate area.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Now,” he said, giving me that avuncular smile, “tell me about your client.”
“Her name is Angela Green.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Fascinating. I take it, then, that she has some business affair to attend to?”
“In a way. It’s kind of a sensitive situation.”
He lowered his voice. “My firm can be quite discreet, Rachel. We understand the importance of client confidences.”
“That’s good to know. Actually, the business matter has more to do with her husband than her. You knew Michael Green, correct?”
“Well, I knew of him. Fellow attorneys and all. We may even have served together once on an alumni committee.”
I frowned. “Actually, I thought you knew him better than that. You were a client of his, weren’t you?”
Goddard leaned back. “A client? I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“It is kind of confusing. At least to me. But the records I have clearly show you were one of his clients. According to those records, Michael Green formed the Sevens Corporation for you and did the deal documents for the purchase of a three-flat in the city of St. Louis. Does that ring a bell?”
“Vaguely.”
“The services he performed for you are exactly the types of services you just told me your firm does for its partners. Right?”
“Wel
l, yes, in certain cases, right.”
“And I think you said that for those types of services your firm would charge a client less than three thousand dollars. Right?”
“Well, so long as there was nothing unusual about the deal, yet.”
“But you paid Michael Green twenty-five thousand dollars for those very same services. Why?”
“Why?” he repeated.
“Why did you pay him all that money?”
He pursed his lips, his eyes blank. “I don’t recall at this point in time.”
“Maybe it’ll come to you later. What happened to the three-flat you bought? We’ve checked some of the real estate records at City Hall. Your company owned it for only nineteen months.”
He was staring at me. “What is this all about?”
“That’s what I came here to ask you.”
“What are you trying to pull here?” The charm was gone.
“Some answers out of you. I assume that there’s also a connection between the real estate deal and that Sebastian Curry painting you bought.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his face suddenly flushed. “We have nothing further to discuss. It’s time for you leave.”
“Don, you’re not the only one. There are at least twenty-two others who did the same thing. You’re the first person I’ve talked to. I’ll talk to the others, one by one. One of you is going to talk to me, or, if not me, then to the police. And you know how that works. It’s just like that inventory accounting system—FIFO. First in, first out. Same here. First one to talk is the first one out. Why not let it be you?”
“This meeting is over. Out.” He was glaring at me. “Get out of my goddamn office, you sneaky little bitch.”
I stood up, shaking my head. “Sticks and stones, Don.”
“You better leave now, goddammit, or else.”
I started toward the door and then turned. “Or else what? You’ll call the police? Think about your situation, Don. Think about it carefully. It still makes more sense to talk to me. You have my number. Call me.”
I turned and left.
Chapter Twenty-seven
We were in chambers—the final pause before opening statements. Jimmy, the judge’s elderly bailiff, was standing by the door, waiting. Judge Parker buttoned his judicial robe.
“Counsel,” he said, “Jimmy’s about to bring in our jury. Sure there’s no chance of getting this thing settled?”
I looked at Armour. “Our demand hasn’t changed. Give my clients their money back and we’ll drop the other claims.”
Armour chuckled. “That’s a no-brainer. Let’s raise the curtain and bring on the dancing dykes.”
Mack Armour’s opening statement was every bit as misleading and offensive as I expected. He rambled from New Testament quotes wrenched from context to an animal behavior “study” published in a supermarket tabloid. He ended with a jab at what he labeled the “fem-Nazi cult of political correctness.”
“What next?” he said, feigning astonishment. “Does the animal kingdom come flocking to our courts, one by one, seeking redress for their place in God’s plan? Will the heirs of the male black widow sue Big Momma for wrongful death because she killed Daddy after they mated? Will the mare sue the stallion for assault for biting her on the neck during sex? And what about that poor praying mantis?” He paused, hand on his heart in mock sympathy. A few of the jurors were smiling. “As soon as he ejaculates the female bites off his head and eats it. Talk about bad sex. Gotta be a claim there, eh?”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Of course not. We’re all God’s creatures. Each of us does what God designed us to do. It’s called natural reproduction—a path, ironically, that Miss Gold’s clients spurn in their own lives. If these two women are looking around for someone to blame, someone to hold accountable, then I suggest they look in a mirror.” With a triumphant about-face, Mack Armour turned from the jury and gave me a satisfied wink as he returned to his seat.
“Miss Gold?” the judge said.
I stood and faced the jury. “Mr. Armour and I will agree on little during this trial,” I started, aiming for a low-key tone, “but we do agree that Mother Nature has devised some amazing reproductive strategies. The black widow, the horse, the praying mantis, and, as you will soon learn, even the ostrich—each species performs the sexual act in a way that seems strange or shocking to us. But what Mr. Armour ignores is that the end result of each of these mating rituals—every single one of them—is the creation of new life. Here, though, the end result was terror.”
I paused, trying to read the jurors’ facial expressions—about as helpful as trying to read tea leaves. At least they seemed to be listening.
“Here,” I continued, “the end result was serious injury. And in one case, death. Not once did this ostrich engage in the mating dance of his species. Not once did this ostrich complete a sex act with any hen. Not once did this ostrich create new life.”
I moved back to counsel’s table and stood behind Maggie and Sara, resting a hand on each one’s shoulder. “These women,” I said, “paid a lot of money for a breeding ostrich. Blackwell Breeders agreed to sell them a stud. Instead, it sold them a dud. And a lethal one at that. They’re entitled to compensation.”
I came around from behind the table and stopped in front of the jury. “Mr. Armour talks about God’s creatures flocking to this courthouse with frivolous claims. As the evidence will demonstrate, only one of God’s creatures tried that ploy here.” I turned toward counsel’s table and gestured at Charlie Blackwell. “And that creature is sitting right there.”
***
I cross-examined Charlie Blackwell late that afternoon. Armour had run him briskly through his paces in what was obviously—to me, at least, and hopefully to the jury—a well-rehearsed two hours of direct. As I got to my feet, I could see Blackwell hunker down for what he assumed would be a marathon cross-examination.
I had other plans.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Affer-noon, ma’am,” he answered in his high-pitched nasal twang. MAY-yam.
Charlie Blackwell had spiffed himself up considerably since I’d taken his deposition a month ago. Today he was wearing a starched white cowboy shirt stretched tight against his belly, black Sansabelt slacks, a bolo tie, and black cowboy boots polished to a high sheen. His gray hair was slicked back, his face clean shaven, and his complexion ruddy. With his long beak of a nose, small dark eyes, and receding chin, he bore some resemblance to a bird himself, although more of a vulture than an ostrich.
“Let me make sure I understand your earlier testimony, sir. You believe that the sexual practices of the humans who handle an ostrich during its formative years will affect its future behavior, correct?”
Eyeing me warily, Blackwell nodded. “Yes, ma’am. At least in part.”
“And you believe that the formative years for a male ostrich are the first two years, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Even though they’re basically full-grown after twelve months?”
“On the outside, yep. But they still got some growing to do on the inside. Your males are particularly sensitive, you see. They gotta be brung along careful or they’ll go bad on you.”
As he spoke, I had moved along the jury box toward the back, resting my arm against the railing. Now he’d be forced to look at the jurors when he answered my questions.
“Nevertheless, your company raised that ostrich for the first fourteen months, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Getting back to the sexual practices of the human handlers. You claim that they’ll influence the ostrich’s behavior even if he doesn’t witness the people having sex?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, yep.”
“The ostrich just kind of senses it, eh?”
“You could say
that, yep.”
“But what if the ostrich actually witnessed the sex act?”
He chuckled. “That’d be even worse.”
“Oh? And why is that, Mr. Blackwell?”
“To actually see an unnatural act, well, that could mess him up real bad. Matter of fact,” he mused, his eyebrows raised, “I bet that happened here. Sure could explain a lot, yep.”
Mack Armour snickered behind me.
“You say that could explain a lot?” I repeated.
“Yep.” Blackwell was grinning. He glanced over at his attorney and then back at me. “Sure could, ma’am.”
“What if there was violence, too?” I asked.
“You mean during the sex act?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, boy, now you’re talking a whole sack of trouble.”
“Really?”
“Mess him up real bad, yep.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell.” I looked up at the judge. “No further questions.”
The judge looked over at Armour. “Any redirect, counsel?”
Armour was grinning. “I should say not, Your Honor.”
“You’re excused, Mr. Blackwell,” the judge said. He turned toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be in recess until tomorrow at nine a.m.”
***
Jacki, God bless her, had left dinner for me at the office before heading off to night school. I was happily munching on a Mediterranean wrap from Crazy Bowls & Wraps and sipping a diet Dr Pepper as I reviewed my trial notes and outlined tomorrow’s testimony and exhibits. It was almost seven o’clock and the light was fading outside. I still had two to three hours of trial preparation ahead of me, which was at least an hour too much for now, since I was meeting Benny and Milly Eversole at Martha Hogan’s office at eight-thirty tonight. Martha had picked the time and place. Given my role in getting that particular relationship under way, I really couldn’t beg off.
There was a knock at the front door. I looked up, puzzled and mildly irritated. My office was in a converted Victorian mansion in the Central West End, and thus the front door really was a front door. Although the stenciled sign on the door read RACHEL GOLD • ATTORNEY AT LAW, each year a dozen or so strangers would show up after hours by mistake—everyone from deliverymen with packages for someone else to couples arriving at the wrong address for a party to an adorable elderly man last month carrying a dozen long-stem red roses for his dinner date. I wiped my mouth and hands with a napkin, got up, and walked past Jacki’s desk and the reception area into the hallway leading to the front door. I peered through the eyehole.
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