Sheer Gall

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. I lifted the receiver and placed my hand over the mouthpiece. “Around one-fifteen?”

  “Perfect.”

  I uncovered the mouthpiece and waved good-bye to Benny. “Hi, Neil,” I said. “You back at the paper?”

  “No. I’m calling from the police station.”

  “Ah, you found her report on the attack?”

  “Not yet. But there’s been a new development in the case.”

  “Really? What?”

  “They just arrested Neville McBride.”

  Chapter Four

  Jacki came into my office with the morning mail. “Who was that guy?” she asked.

  “Barry Morrison.” I took the mail from her and started sorting through it. “He’s with Laclede Trust Company.”

  New client?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do they want you to do?”

  I looked up from the mail. “To be their lawyer in the administration of Sally’s estate.”

  Jacki raised her eyebrows in surprise. “No kidding? How did they come to you?”

  I explained the roundabout route. Sally’s will, which had been drafted two years ago by an attorney at Neville McBride’s firm, appointed Neville and Laclede Trust as co-personal representatives. Neville obviously couldn’t serve while the murder charge was pending, and neither could anyone else at his firm. When a trust company finds itself as sole personal representative of an estate, it will often retain as its counsel someone who represented the decedent. In Sally’s case, there were only two possible choices.

  “Who was her divorce lawyer?” Jacki asked.

  “Sammy Soule.”

  Jacki giggled. “Hollywood Soule is probably a little out of their price range.”

  “It’s more than that. Sammy represented Burt Vinson’s wife in their divorce.”

  “Who’s Burt Vinson?”

  “The CEO of Laclede Trust. By the time Sammy got done with him in court, Burt would rather pose naked for the next issue of the American Banker than allow Sammy to receive a penny of fees from his bank.”

  “That could be a good client for you.”

  I looked up at her and shrugged. “I told him I’ll think about it.”

  Jacki studied me with concern. “What’s wrong, Rachel?”

  I gave her a frustrated sigh. “I’m overdosing on Sally. I’m probably going to be a witness at the criminal trial. Then I’ve got her lawsuit against Neville, which obviously has developed some major evidentiary problems with her death. And now this. I just don’t know how much deeper I want to get into this mess.”

  Jacki nodded. “I understand.”

  “Speaking of Sally’s lawsuit, will you have time for some research tonight after class?” Jacki was attending night law school at St. Louis University.

  “Sure.” She picked up a pen and legal pad from my desk. “What do you need me to look at?”

  “The Dead Man’s Statute.”

  The so-called Dead Man’s Statute, enacted in most states back in the 1800s, was the lawmakers’ response to one of the knottiest problems in the law of evidence: who, if anyone, can testify when one of the parties to the lawsuit dies? Although dead men may tell no lies, the courts have long worried that the survivors might. Accordingly, the typical Dead Man’s Statute establishes a blanket rule that, at least in theory, places the dead and the living on equal footing by excluding all testimony from the living about any interaction they had with the deceased. Over the years, however, the rule has generated so many unanticipated inequities that the courts have been forced to fashion numerous exceptions, and then exceptions to the exceptions, and then exceptions to the exceptions to the exceptions. As a result, in those infrequent situations where the issue arises in one of my cases, I end up spending hours in the law library taking soundings before I can locate my case within the evidentiary labyrinth of the Dead Man’s Statute.

  “What’s the issue?” Jacki asked.

  “Sally gave me a detailed description of what Neville did to her on the night of the attack. In fact, after she left I dictated a memo summarizing what she told me. Can we get her statements to me into evidence? If not, is a statement she made to someone else about the assault admissible?”

  “Statements to whom?”

  “The police. The photographer who took pictures of her injuries. One of her friends.”

  Jacki finished scribbling her notes and looked up. “Speaking of the police,” she said, “the guy from the Post-Dispatch called. He told me to tell you that he checked again and there is no police report.”

  I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “That makes no sense. I specifically told Sally that it was a condition of my taking her lawsuit.” I looked up at Jacki and shook my head. “Sally was a smart lawyer. She understood the evidentiary value of filing a police report.”

  “Maybe she got tied up.” Jacki winced. “No joke intended.”

  “Brother,” I mumbled, “I just hope she had someone to take photos of her injuries.”

  ***

  I walked Vincent Contini to the hallway outside the courtroom.

  “They have a final settlement proposal,” I told him.

  My white-haired client straightened his back skeptically. “What now?”

  I peered through the windows of the courtroom door. Cissy Thompson and Milton Brenner were huddled in conversation near the empty jury box. I turned to Vincent. “You’re not going to like it.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his face stern. “Tell me.”

  “Cissy is willing to drop the suit if you agree to give her ten free dresses and a written letter of apology.”

  He stiffened, his eyes blazing. “Never,” he said loudly, shaking his head. “That woman is nothing more than a common thief.” He raised his right hand, pointing his index finger toward heaven. “Vincent Contini apologize to a boorish nouveau riche swindler?” He shook his head indignantly. “As God is my witness, that I shall never do.”

  Several heads turned to stare at the diminutive, elegantly attired gentleman. Although I doubted whether any of them recognized him, I’m sure many sensed that they should have, that they were in the presence of a notable figure, perhaps, say, an Italian duke. He wasn’t, but among the more stylish wives of the St. Louis ruling class, Vincent Contini occupied a special spot in the pantheon of fashion deities. He was the haughty proprietor of Vincent’s on Maryland, an exclusive designer dress shop in the Central West End. For nearly forty years, my imperious client had been one of the key fashion arbiters in town.

  “I understand, Vincent,” I said calmly, “and I don’t blame you one bit. But I want to make sure you understand that a trial could be expensive, and that if you lose you have the added risk of a big verdict. This is a libel case. She’s asking for a million dollars in actual damages and a million dollars in punitive damages.”

  He shook his patrician head gravely. “I have been an American citizen for fifty-one years, Miss Gold. I understand my constitutional rights. I chose to exercise them here. I demand my day in court.”

  I smiled and squeezed his arm affectionately. “Okay, boss. Let’s go see the judge.”

  As we entered the courtroom, Cissy Thompson and Milton Brenner looked over. I gestured toward Brenner, who told his client to wait.

  “Wait over there,” I said to Vincent, pointing him toward the rows of benches in the gallery.

  Brenner approached with a big smile. He was a stocky man in his early sixties with a ruddy complexion, a shock of gray hair, crinkly blue eyes, and a crooked smile that revealed tobacco-stained teeth. Ironically, Brenner had made a name for himself defending media defendants in libel cases, although a good portion of that work was now handled by another firm in town. But with Cissy Thompson involved, it wouldn’t have mattered if Brenner had been on retainer as special libel couns
el to the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Los Angeles Times. That was because Cissy Thompson happened to be the wife of Richie Thompson, who happened to be the founder and chairman of Pacific Rim Industries, which happened to account for 32 percent of the annual billings of Brenner’s law firm, Harding, Cooper & Brandt. Although that firm was an old-line establishment organization that purported to have a lofty commitment to genteel professionalism, when the wife of your biggest client is pissed off, your loftiest duty is to make her happy, and if that meant tarting up Milton Brenner as a plaintiff’s libel lawyer, so be it. Business is business.

  “Well, Counselor,” Brenner asked with hearty good cheer, “do we have a deal?”

  I shook my head. “No dresses, no apologies.”

  He frowned. “Jesus Christ, Rachel.” Pulling on the skin on his neck, he asked, “Does your client understand his exposure here?”

  I gave him a plucky smile. “Last time I checked, Milt, truth is a complete defense to a libel claim.”

  He gave me a grudging chuckle. “You drive a hard bargain, Rachel. Okay, what’s your counteroffer? I probably can whittle her down to five dresses.”

  “No counter, Milt. Let’s go see the judge.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Judge LaDonna Williams leaned back in her chair and stared down at her desk with a scowl. Judge Williams had been on the bench for just two years, having previously served for sixteen years in the city prosecutor’s office, where she had been a respected, hardworking attorney. During her years as an attorney, she had also been a guiding force of the Mound City Bar Association, the association of black attorneys, of which she had served two terms as president. Now in her mid-forties, Judge Williams was a plump woman with a gentle Aunt Jemima smile that masked an astute legal mind.

  She frowned at me. “Now let me see if I have this straight, Rachel. The plaintiff, Mrs. Thompson, bought a dress from your client, and when she attempted to return it your client refused to take it back. Correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And the reason being?”

  “My client examined the dress and concluded that it had been worn,” I explained.

  “I see.” Judge Williams turned to Milton Brenner. “And how does this incident become a libel claim, Mr. Brenner?”

  “Very simple, Judge. When Mr. Contini refused to take back the dress, there was an argument.” Brenner shook his head, feigning indignation at the very thought of it. “He accused my client of fraud. He accused her of dishonesty. He accused her…of theft. These scandalous charges were overheard by three other women in the store, all three of whom knew my client on a social basis.” He paused to shake his head sadly. “Judge, my client’s reputation, her most precious asset, her most treasured possession, has been maliciously trashed by Mr. Contini’s false and defamatory accusations.”

  Judge Williams snorted. “Please, Mr. Brenner, let’s save the violins for the jury.” She turned to me. “Settlement prospects?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t look promising. We have a pair of stubborn litigants, both of whom believe their honor is at stake.”

  “Honor.” The judge shook her head impatiently. “That’s what makes lawyers rich. Well, let’s pick a trial date, folks.” She opened her calendar. “Is this on the jury docket?”

  I turned to Brenner. “Milt?”

  “Judge,” he said, “our first priority is to get this case to trial. My client desperately needs to clear her name as soon as possible. If that means waiving a jury, so be it.”

  Judge Williams turned to me. “Rachel?”

  “We’re prepared to do that as well, Your Honor.”

  Given the size of the jury verdicts in several recent libel cases, I was more than willing to try the case solely to Judge Williams and without a jury. Although I had obtained Vincent Contini’s consent to waive a jury, I hadn’t thought the opportunity would arise, since libel plaintiffs tend to love juries and juries tend to love libel plaintiffs. However, upon reflection I could see why Brenner’s client, whose net worth easily exceeded $20 million, might choose speed over greed. Cissy Thompson was an indefatigable social climber. She certainly needed the money far less than she felt she needed to remove this blemish from her reputation.

  Although I had never tried a case before Judge Williams, she had a reputation as an impartial and thoughtful jurist. Moreover, she was far more likely than a jury to resist Milton Brenner’s closing-argument histrionics.

  “Let’s see,” Judge Williams mused as she studied her calendar, “this case is only two months old. You won’t get on a jury docket for at least twelve more months, and I can’t promise it’ll be reached then.” She looked up. “How long will this case take to try?”

  Brenner rubbed his chin. “Oh, two days?”

  Judge Williams turned to me. “Rachel?”

  I nodded. “Two days.”

  “Two days,” the judge repeated. “Well, you’re in luck. I have an opening a week from next Thursday. How’s that?”

  “Well,” Brenner stammered, “that’s fine with me, Judge, but I’m sure Rachel could use a little more time to get her case ready.”

  He was right. I could use a little more time, but I also couldn’t ignore that momentary hitch in Brenner’s voice. That seemed far more important than additional time.

  “Not at all, Your Honor,” I said with an easygoing wave of my hand. “A week from next Thursday is perfect. We’ll be ready.”

  “Excellent,” Judge Williams said, entering the date on her calendar. She looked up with a smile. “We’ll start at nine. I’ll see you then.”

  Out in the hall a somewhat uneasy Milton Brenner said, “Are you going to want to take Cissy’s deposition before trial?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “What for, Milt? We’re already loaded for bear.”

  We weren’t, but bluffing is part of the trial game.

  ***

  “I don’t blame her,” I said to Benny. “I’d have booted you out of my house, too.”

  “What?”

  “Benny, you violated a basic law of the universe. When you’re trying to impress a woman, you never never never make fun of Sleepless in Seattle. Never.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, giving me an incredulous look as he picked up his chili dog. “You’re telling me you liked that chick flick?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. It made me cry.”

  He paused in midbite, staring at me with astonishment. Then he gazed up toward the ceiling and shook his head. “Lord have mercy.”

  We were having lunch in a booth at Llewelyn’s Pub. More precisely, I was having lunch: a plate of red beans and rice and an iced tea. Benny was devouring one of his typical gorge-o-ramas: two jumbo chili dogs with extra onions and a side of jalapeño peppers, a huge platter of Welsh chips doused in vinegar, an order of onion rings, a plate of dill pickles, and a pint of Guinness stout (the most appropriately named of Benny’s favorite beverages). It was the sort of cramfest that he would conclude with a satisfied belch and that any normal person would conclude with an ambulance ride to the emergency room.

  “By the way,” he said, leaning forward with raised eyebrows, “it’s looking a little dicier for Neville McBride.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’ve got the initial test results on that puddle of semen.”

  “His?”

  “They can’t say for sure, but he’s definitely in the running.”

  “How so?”

  Benny paused to take a big gulp of beer. “To begin with, he has the same blood type as the perpetrator.”

  “That narrows it some.”

  “There’s more. According to my source, the mystery man was firing blanks.”

  Firing blanks? I repeated to myself. It took a moment. “He was sterile?” I asked.

  “Technically speaking, yes. There wasn’t a single sp
erm cell in the semen.”

  I looked at him with a frown. “Which means?”

  “It could mean several things, but the frontrunner is that the killer had had a vasectomy.”

  “And Neville McBride has had a vasectomy?”

  Benny grinned. “He most certainly did.”

  “Brother,” I mumbled. Over the past two days, the lurid details of the murder had faded in my mind. This information jerked them back into appallingly sharp focus.

  Benny chuckled. “Sounds to me like old Neville may be headed for an extended stay at the buttfuck motel.”

  I gave him a long-suffering stare and sighed. “You actually eat with that mouth?”

  Our waiter came over to the booth. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Rachel Gold?”

  I nodded.

  “Your secretary is on the phone. She says it’s important.”

  I gave Benny a puzzled look as I stood up. The telephone was at the end of the bar. Harry the bartender, a burly man with a full red beard, smiled as I approached.

  “Here you go, Rachel,” he said, handing me the phone.

  “Thanks, Harry.” I took the phone from him. “Jacki?”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I have an obnoxious lawyer named Jonathan Wolf on the phone. He says he’s representing Neville McBride. I told him you were at lunch but he demanded that I find you and get you on the line. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “That’s okay. Put him through.”

  There was a clicking noise on the phone, and then Jacki said, “Go ahead.”

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hold for Mr. Wolf,” a woman’s voice answered.

  After nearly a minute—a long time to wait on hold—he came on the line.

  “Rachel?” he snapped.

  Classic alpha-dog tactic, I told myself. Leave your adversary on hold long enough to make her uneasy, and then attack with a snarl. As a final rude touch, be sure to use her first name even though you’ve never met her before. I shook my head with irritation. Welcome to the Wild and Wacky World of Testosterone.

  I paused a beat. “Excuse me?”

  “Rachel Gold?” He was on a speakerphone, which made his voice boom.