Motion to Suppress

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Just before five the phone rang. "Jeffrey Riesner, returning your call."

  "Thanks for calling back."

  "Sure. Welcome to the Tahoe legal community. Let’s do lunch sometime." The voice was commanding, wary, and brusque.

  "That would be fine," Nina said. "I’m calling about one of your employees, Sandy Whitefeather."

  "What’s she done now?"

  "Nothing. I mean, she’s applied for a legal secretary position with me. She says she’s a file clerk and you are her supervisor. I wondered if you could give me some idea about her qualifications for the job."

  "She told me she was looking around. I can’t imagine where she got the idea she could do legal secretary work. She just alphabetizes papers and sticks them in the files."

  "She says she’s used Windows."

  "I wouldn’t know. She doesn’t use computers in our office." He waited for the next question.

  "How would you rate her as an employee generally?"

  "Can you keep this confidential, Ms. Reilly?" Riesner said. When she said yes, he went on, "She’s a troublemaker, but we get points for having her around."

  "Troublemaker?"

  "She doesn’t know her place."

  "Which is?"

  "Keep her mouth shut and do what she’s told. I can’t recommend her, to be honest with you."

  "Well, I appreciate the information."

  "Anytime. So what brings you to Tahoe?"

  This seemed too hard to try to explain, so Nina said she had always loved the area.

  "Practicing law up here is hard. But hey, there’ll be some gals who need divorces who would prefer a woman. You’ll be all right, if you keep your expectations down. Criminal law is my thing. I do the big felonies up here."

  "I do criminal work too," Nina said. "Thanks again. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a call on another line." She hung up, thought a minute, and then called Riesner’s office again, asking for Sandy Whitefeather.

  "Great," Sandy said, when she offered her the job. "I’ll be there Monday morning."

  "Shouldn’t you give notice?"

  "Leave that to me. See you Monday. By the way, I lined up some people coming to see you at ten on Monday. You said you wanted some divorce work, right?"

  "Yes. Thanks," Nina said.

  "You’re welcome," Sandy said. "Her name’s Michelle Patterson. Everybody calls her Misty. She’ll haul Tom Clarke along, I bet," she added before hanging up. Like everyone knew him already. Well, Nina guessed by Monday she’d know him too.

  4

  THE SUN SHONE on a light layer of new snow on the mountains above town on Monday morning. Nina erased her lonesome weekend from her mind and eased into her work. At the door to the office, decked in the same clothes she had worn to her interview, Sandy waited, arms folded. "Nine o’clock," she greeted Nina, her expression a lecture on early birds and worms. Nina led the way in and showed her the marital dissolution papers she had drafted.

  "Just fill in the originals like I did the copies, then bring them in and I’ll look at them. Have you ever seen these forms? Judicial Council Forms? When we’re finished, we file them at the courthouse."

  "Mm-hmm," Sandy said. Nina went into her office. A few minutes later Sandy came in with hot coffee.

  "I thought you don’t do that."

  "I don’t do it as part of my work. I do it because it’s a good thing to do," Sandy said. "I take care of you. I take care of your clients. Both of them."

  As Sandy turned away, they heard a knock on the outer door. "Once they come through that door, they’re ours," she said, and went out, pulling the office door halfway shut.

  Outside Nina’s town-side window, the cars slogged through the slush on Highway 50 on their way to Heavenly Valley, full of people on vacation from reality in Sacramento or San Francisco, from jobs for which they sat in traffic jams half the day, in which they slaved away fifty weeks a year. Up here in Tahoe, they could forget the mortgage and the taxes, adopting the current uniform of the rich and carefree: neon spandex. No money? No problem—fake it with credit, enjoy the clean, forgiving air and the fun of heading for the slopes at—she looked at her watch—nine—fifteen on a Monday morning. Nina heard some chatting, something about Sandy’s kids.

  Michelle Patterson came in first. Young, early twenties. A real Barbie doll, the original, politically incorrect Barbie with long, pale hair and impossible boobs, a ridiculously tiny waist and an invisible tummy. Nina’s first reaction was disbelief. Looking more closely, she saw the face was not Barbie’s, not by a long shot. Straight, dark brows and a stony expression hardened the heart-shaped face, and a long cigarette hung out of the luscious little mouth. Tom Clarke, Nina assumed, followed, wearing the first suit and tie she had seen at Tahoe.

  "Please sit down. Can we get you some coffee?" she said. They said sure, frowning. They had cast a swift glance at the office and settled down into their chairs. The girl’s hand reached out and found Tom Clarke’s hand. He pulled it away with a slight movement.

  Sandy brought in the mugs, taking her time with the setup.

  "Got an ashtray?" Michelle Patterson said. Her voice was high and girlish, with an edge.

  "Sorry, but smoking gives me cancer," Nina said. "Mind putting it out in the outer office?" The girl’s eyes narrowed, but she got up and went back out the door. When she returned, she stretched out her long legs and sprawled in her chair.

  Something about her didn’t quite jibe. She wore no makeup. Her white T-shirt was rumpled and frayed at the neck and that long, Scandinavian hair needed washing. She was braless and cold enough so it showed. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. It didn’t matter. There was too much grade-A basic equipment there for the bad maintenance to detract much.

  "I’m freezing." she said. "Tom, give me your coat. C’mon." Clarke took off his suit jacket and hung it around her shoulders. His own shoulders were massive, leading down a barrel chest to a tight stomach and a nicely filled pair of gray flannel slacks. Aviator glasses and a well-trimmed beard framed a red face, sensual and fleshy. He smelled like cherry pipe tobacco. She’d have to do something about the ventilation system, Nina noted, wondering if they could smell the chocolate Easter egg she’d had for breakfast.

  According to the intake sheet, Michelle Tengstedt Patterson, who called herself Misty, had come for a consultation about a divorce from her husband, Anthony Patterson.

  "Thanks for fitting us in," Clarke said. "Sandy told us you were booked weeks in advance."

  "No problem."

  "Sandy said you are a top-notch family law attorney. We’re lucky to have you here in town."

  "I’m pleased to be here."

  "I’m the principal at Pineacres Elementary. Misty is a barmaid at Prize’s. The casino. She needs some advice."

  "The initial half-hour consultation is free." The local attorneys’ ads said so, and Nina could do no less.

  "The Tahoe attorneys are all good old boys. I want Misty to retain somebody who will try to understand her situation. She’s in real trouble."

  "Tell me why you aren’t looking for a good old boy," Nina said to Clarke. "What can I do to help you?" She sat back in her high-backed chair and waited.

  "Well, I know most of the other lawyers, and I can’t afford to have my name bandied about. Misty wanted to talk to a woman family lawyer, and you seem to be it. I should mention right away, since we made the appointment to see you last week there’s been a new complication."

  He hesitated. Misty Patterson’s face was turned toward him, her hair swinging down to obscure any expression.

  "Misty’s husband is missing as of Friday." His left hand rose to caress the beard, then moved as if it couldn’t help itself to the girl’s shoulder.

  When he stopped there, Nina said, "Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Patterson?" And then, when the girl remained silent, "Is Tom here with you as a family friend?" She looked directly at the young woman.

  "No," Tom Clarke answered.

  Nina ignored h
im. "Tell me about it," she repeated.

  The girl sat up straighter. "Okay," she said. "First of all, call me Misty. Second, I’ll try to explain about my husband. His name is Anthony. He and I ... we had a fight Thursday night. It never went this way before. I hit him. He ... I guess he left home during the night. I was very scared, so I slept in a down bag in my car the past three nights, hiding from him. I called in sick at work. I couldn’t let him find me." Her head tilted toward the floor, and her hair made it hard to see her face.

  "How did you hit him?" Nina asked.

  "Good and hard. Just one time. Bad enough so he bled a little, but his eyes were open after. I didn’t think I hurt him all that much." She added something under her breath that Nina couldn’t hear.

  "What?"

  The girl twisted in her chair, looked at Clarke, then turned back to Nina. "He was hurting me with his hands, trying to ... you know ... force me...." Tom Clarke puffed up and looked explosive.

  "You fight often?"

  "He pushes me around, that’s all I mean. He doesn’t beat me or anything. I get him mad sometimes. And it all depends on how high he gets on the drink-o-meter."

  "I’ve seen bruises," Clarke said.

  "Why would he just take off like that?" Nina asked, flicking on her desk recorder.

  "I don’t know," Misty Patterson said. "It’s not like he’s gonna let me off the hook for whacking him. My guess is he’s got something special planned for me. He’s not a guy that forgives or forgets."

  "Tell me exactly what happened the night he disappeared," Nina said, and she started to fill up her tape with the story of the fight the Pattersons had on Thursday night. Her new client’s voice was emotionless as she talked, but her face set itself in the lineaments of fear.

  Tom Clarke sat back, no longer interrupting and not touching her either.

  "Okay, Misty. First of all, why didn’t you call a doctor? You said you were going into the kitchen to call a doctor."

  "I woke up in my bed. I don’t remember after the kitchen. "

  "Have I got this right? You have a furious battle with your husband. You tell him you want to leave him. He attacks you. You hit him so hard that he bleeds and falls to the floor. You’re terrified that he’ll retaliate, so you head straight for the bedroom and fall asleep?"

  The girl shook her head. "I have trouble remembering things sometimes. I block things out. I’ve been seeing a therapist. It’s weird, I agree."

  It wouldn’t do for an answer, but she seemed to have nothing further to offer on the point. "Have you checked at Boulder Hospital?" asked Nina.

  Misty nodded. "I called his doctor. He said he hasn’t seen Anthony in the last couple of days. He’s not in the hospital. As far as I know, he hasn’t filed any charges against me, not that that surprises me. He always says the law’s not for players. It’s for wimps who can’t take care of themselves. Guess that’s one reason he made a crummy cop."

  She lifted a long leg and slid it over another, seemingly oblivious to Clarke’s flushed stare. "His parents are dead. I called the only guy I know Anthony hangs out with, Peter La Russa? He’s a pit boss at Prize’s. He wouldn’t even talk to me. I couldn’t tell if he’d talked to Anthony or not. Oh, and I called his ex-wife, Sharon Otis, in Sparks. She told me to go to hell. Not the first time." She rubbed her nose.

  "Okay, let’s look at other possibilities. Where else could he be?" Nina said, struck anew by the girl’s physical impact, the long, slim fingers waving gracefully in the air, the curve of cheek, the blush of blood pulsing under her skin. Too much woman. Nina felt like a dried flower arrangement.

  Tom Clarke said, "Dead. Misty hit him, and he crawled off someplace." He sounded pleased. "He deserved it. The son of a—"

  "Dead," Nina repeated. "That’s an extreme prospect. You’ve checked all around the property?"

  "The yard’s mostly scrub, not like an acre of trees," Misty said. "The house fronts on one of those canals leading out onto the lake."

  "What about Prize’s? You say he works there too?"

  "He’s missed the whole weekend. They told me when I called in sick, so I told them he hurt his back," Misty said.

  "It’s uncommon, but occasionally people get amnesia from blows on the head," Nina said.

  "Or maybe she hit him just right and he’s a goner," Clarke said.

  Nina turned to him, her brown eyes staring into his.

  "He abuses her," he said.

  "I have to go get a cigarette," Misty said. She left. Nina listened for the hall door to close.

  Clarke jumped up and started pacing around the office. Nina was reminded of the jungle cats alone in small cages at the zoo in San Francisco, tense, captive, and impotent. She stopped her thoughts and waited for him. "We have been seeing each other," he said.

  "You’re married."

  "Very. Happily, I thought. And I have three kids. But when I met Misty, I was knocked out." He walked back to the desk and leaned over Nina. Now the tobacco smell mingled with English Leather. An aftershave wearer. Maybe his wife bought it for him. "I never intended for anything to happen. But Misty wanted me and she let me know it...."

  He stopped at the picture window, glowering out at traffic moving slowly through a green light. Nina took the moment to examine him, wondering how he stayed so fit, what he did with those hands, why he was endangering his career and marriage with an affair. "I hate this," he said.

  "You must be worried her husband will find out."

  He turned back and she saw fear and anger in his face. "Not only is he the violent type, he’s the devious type. He could ruin my career, my whole life. Easily. Meanwhile, where is he? I’m hoping this ends with him dead."

  "Before you hope that, you’d better hope it won’t end with Misty in jail," Nina said. Misty opened the office door and slid into her seat. "What do you think the chances are your husband knows about the two of you? I mean, my assistant knew."

  "Sandy only knew because I told her when I said I wanted to see you. I know her from one of her kids who works at Prize’s. She’d never blab about it," the girl said. "I’m very careful." Clarke said nothing. He was busy contemplating Nina’s file cabinet. She wondered what he wasn’t telling her.

  "Do you want to stay married to Anthony?"

  "No."

  "That makes it easy. We can get a divorce proceeding started," Nina said. "Give me authority to apply for some standard restraining orders for you, to keep Anthony away from you and the house. Report him missing."

  "Problem is, how do I make it, up here? Cocktail waitresses make six bucks an hour and tips, and it’s off-season. The checking account is in his name. He handled everything. And I can’t go back home."

  "Half the property and money is yours. I can help you with that. How long have you been married?"

  "Three and a half years," Misty said.

  "I gotta go," Tom Clarke said. "I have to work this week even if the kids are on Easter vacation."

  "Sure, Tom, you go ahead," Misty said. She stood up and handed him his coat.

  He pushed his chair back. "Glad to have you on board, Miss Reilly. This conversation, our visit, is entirely confidential, of course?"

  "Of course. There’s a back door that will take you directly out to the parking lot."

  "Misty, I’ll call at lunch. Don’t worry, now. You’re in good hands." As he moved to leave, he cast Nina a look that Misty could not see, a look that said, "She’s all yours."

  "Bye, Tommy," Misty said, waggling her fingers like one of his schoolgirls.

  As soon as Clarke left, Misty Patterson straightened up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Nina told her she would need a thousand dollars for a retainer for the divorce, less than half what she would have requested in San Francisco. Misty said her parents in Fresno would pay for it. They talked about moving her into a motel for a few days. Sandy must have been listening, because she buzzed Nina. She said she knew a safe place and called Art Wong, the manager at the Lucky Chip Motel right at the
Stateline—Lake Tahoe border. He said he could put Misty in a single for twenty-five a night, under any name she liked.

  Sandy brought in the petition and the application for the restraining orders.

  "Okay, let’s get your date of marriage."

  "Three years last September twentieth."

  "Children?"

  "God, no." She paused. "Anthony’s not the daddy type. He wants all my attention."

  "Do you have friends, relatives around here?"

  "I talk to some of the girls at work. Other than that, just old boyfriends. I’ve been waitressing a year and a half. I wanted to work, and Anthony wanted to keep an eye on me."

  "For good reason?" Nina said gently.

  She shrugged.

  "Where are your parents?"

  "Fresno. We moved there from the Subic Navy Base in the Philippines, where we lived until I was ten. No brothers, no sisters, just me."

  "Do you see them much?"

  "Anthony and my father argue so much ... and then my mom gets all upset and goes to her room. Sometimes my dad comes up and rents a boat and he and I go fishing. We get along better now that we don’t live together. I didn’t like my dad as a teenager. He really overinflated when I started getting interested in boys." She gave Nina a little smile: defiant, shamefaced, and secretive.

  "Earlier, you said you didn’t think Anthony knew about your ... friends," Nina said.

  "I told you, I’m careful. And I try to do whatever he wants, otherwise. That protects me. At least, it did till last week." She closed her eyes, then opened them and smoothed her forehead with bare fingers. Noticing Nina’s eyes, she said, "Tips are better if you skip the wedding band. We all do it."

  "Let’s get a quick listing of your assets and debts for the petition," Nina said. They spent ten minutes listing the maxed-out credit cards, the cars, the VCR and the stereo, the jewelry and the ski equipment. No IRA’s, no Keogh Plan, no stocks, no retirement. Anthony Patterson was the sole signator on the checking account statement Misty had brought. It showed a balance of over forty thousand dollars, an amount that Misty couldn’t explain. Nina made a note to ask for a court order accessing the account. She explained that the judge required specific facts to support the request for restraining orders, and asked if Anthony hit her frequently.