Accidental Lawyer: A humorous peak into Baltimore's legal community, with a thread of mystery

by Kim Hamilton

  “Are you here to question Metzger’s mistress?”

  “What’s the connection between Stuart Milligan and Dawson Garner?”

  O’Mallory’s partner responded with “no comment” to all questions as he shoved his way through the swarm of reporters, O’Mallory right on his tail. They entered the building, and the reporters retreated to their former positions on the sidewalk. We moved away from the windows and regrouped on the sofas in the reception area.

  “I’m enjoying this,” Dawson said. “The negative attention is on Stuart, at least for the time being. Have we had any more clients calling to fire us?”

  We each replied in the negative. “Then I think we’re in pretty good shape. I spoke with the others who wanted to leave and convinced them all to stay. Everyone except Marjorie Howard. That woman has a trashy mouth for an elementary-school teacher. You’d think she could expand her assault vocabulary beyond the words asshole and douche.”

  “It’s time we let her go anyway,” I said. “I got an email this morning. The insurance company is denying her claim. In short, they can’t accept liability because they have two witnesses who say Marjorie was the one who ran the red light.”

  “Don’t we have a witness that says otherwise?” Marty asked.

  “Yeah, but what Marjorie didn’t tell us is that he’s her half-cousin from her mother’s side, so he’s biased. Also, there’s a bit of history with him that won’t play favorably in court. He’s been convicted twice of drug possession and has a pending indecent exposure charge.”

  “Let’s dump her fast,” Dawson said. “Send the file across the street as soon as the dust settles over there.”

  “I’d’ like to personally deliver it so that I could tell Stuart what a sleazebag he is,” I said.

  “You better take Kari with you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell him where he can put that file.”

  #

  By the time the street was clear of the news vans and reporters, it was approaching four o’clock. Kari and I wanted to deliver Marjorie’s file before the end of the day.

  I went through the paperwork and pulled out all correspondence and documents pertaining to our own efforts to resolve Marjorie’s claim. I gave Kari what remained, which was all Marjorie’s medical records and the denial letter from the insurance company. In short, Marjorie’s claim wouldn’t settle out of court. It was no longer easy money. I had Kari hide the denial letter within the stack of medical documents so Stuart wouldn’t see it right away. She put the half-inch pile of paper inside a giant envelope and we headed out across the street to make our delivery.

  Stuart’s office building was another converted row home. I was disturbed to find the setting quite different from our own. Even though our practice areas were similar, Stuart’s offices were worthy of the cover of Architectural Digest. I hated to admit it, but the place was gorgeous. A tribute to the legal profession. The back wall of the reception area was covered from floor to ceiling with integrated wood panels. In large, gold-colored letters were the words Law Offices of Stuart Milligan, Esq. Chantel was seated behind a custom workstation made of the same wood adorning the walls. It had a granite transaction ledge on which sat a vase of fresh flowers. Kari and I walked through the small waiting area, past the matching leather chairs that surrounded a coffee table. The table was made out of the same wood as the walls and the reception desk and had a granite top.

  Kari leaned in and whispered, “It all matches.”

  Chantel looked up from her computer screen with a toothy smile and welcoming eyes. A practiced look that faded when she recognized us.

  “What do you two want?”

  Kari responded. “That’s no way to greet us, but I’ll let it pass this time. I bet you’re a little shaken up by the cops and the press getting in your face and all.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Jess and I are helping the detectives investigate the Metzger murder. We’re on the inside and have access to that kind of information. Plus, we could see it from across the street. They decided not to take you in for questioning, huh?”

  “There’s nothing to question me about. I never even met Harvey Metzger.”

  I decided to stir the pot. “Didn’t Stuart have his money with Metzger, too?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” She was trying to file some paperwork as she spoke, but her hands were shaking so much, her bracelets rattled.

  Her nerves were shot. I almost felt bad about steering O’Mallory’s investigation toward her. She always appeared tough skinned, but apparently, O’Mallory had gotten to her.

  “If you two came here to interrogate me, you need to turn around and leave now. I didn’t know Harvey Metzger, and I wasn’t having an affair with him.”

  “Calm down. We’re here to give Stuart the file he requested,” I said, holding up the envelope.

  “Which file?”

  “It’s Marjorie Howard. The others are staying with us.”

  “How long does it take you people to copy a file?” She reached her hand out to take the envelope.

  “No, I need to deliver this to Stuart myself. Is he in?”

  “Yeah, he’s in, but he’s busy. You can’t walk in here and demand to see him.”

  “Fine,” Kari said. She grabbed the wrist of my right arm which was holding the envelope. “Tell your busy boss that as soon as his schedule frees up, we would like to deliver this file to him ourselves. We’ll be across the street.”

  “You can’t take that file. She’s our client now.”

  I was sure, like me, Chantel didn’t know at what point in time a client becomes a former client to one attorney and a new client to another. Like most of the law, there’s a lot of gray area to play around with. Even though normal business etiquette would suggest I comply with the client’s request and leave the file there, I didn’t want to make it that easy. I needed to say my peace with Milligan. “There is a matter of our expenses that needs to be discussed before you get the file,” I said. It was a lie, and it didn’t bother me a bit.

  “What expenses?” Stuart appeared in his office doorway wearing an expensive looking suit. “I’ve got a few minutes. Come in.”

  When he turned his back to reenter his office, I gave Chantel my most professional sneer. Kari smacked her hand on the reception desk and put her finger in Chantel’s face. “Don’t mess with us.”

  Stuart’s personal office space was as impressive as the reception area. His dark wood desk had polished-brass details. There was a conference table with six upholstered chairs to the right of the doorway. The difference between here and the reception area was the clutter. There was clutter everywhere. Files and random papers were strewn across his desk, accented by a few Styrofoam carryout boxes. There were bags and boxes on the floor. One end of the conference table was covered with clothing and a pair of running shoes. He made no apologies for the mess.

  “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the two leather chairs across from his desk. “What’s this you said about expenses on the Marjorie Howard file?”

  “There are no expenses worth discussing. I wanted to sit face to face with you and tell you what a conniving disgrace to our profession you are.”

  “And you’re a slob,” Kari added.

  He sat poised in his chair with his arms resting on the desk, hands folded. The elbows of his silk suit came close to what appeared to be the gooey remains of an egg-and-cheese sandwich.

  “I’ll make no apologies for the way I conduct business. I’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “You sabotaged Dawson by calling the press.”

  “You have no evidence that I called the press.”

  I turned to Kari and nodded. She reached into her purse and pulled out one of Helen Holman’s old business cards and handed it to Stuart, “She’s with WTTG. She took the call and had it traced here, back to you.” Of course, none of this was true, but he didn’t know that.

  Stuart took the card, gave it a quick glance, and then
flicked it back at Kari.

  “I’m tired of you two amateurs. Give me Marjorie’s file and take your wild accusations elsewhere. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  I handed him the file. “We’ve notified Penn Casualty that we’ve withdrawn representation, so she’s all yours.”

  “What about the others? I’ve got four more of your clients wanting to jump ship.”

  “No, you don’t. They’ve decided to stay with us.”

  Stuart’s face reddened, and he raised his voice, pointing to the door. “Get the hell out of here.”

  As we passed Chantel’s desk, we saw her picking at a hangnail and mumbling to herself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mrs. Bianco and I swung in her glider, sipping port in comfortable silence. The same young couple that we saw the other night strolled by again. She had her arm linked around him and leaned on his shoulder. A thoughtless display of love and romance, given my chronic singledom. Mrs. Bianco saw them, too.

  “What a lovely young couple,” she said. “That reminds me. Did you run into that handsome fireman again?”

  “Yeah, but it was not under very social circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a fire at the House of Hair. I tried to put it out with an old fire extinguisher and ended up with white crusty stuff all over me. I was speckled with white splotches, and my hair was frizzed out from the humidity when Mark and his crew showed up. I was a mess.”

  She winced. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think. Don’t give up.”

  “I’m taking it as a sign that maybe it’s not meant to be.”

  “No. I don’t think so. I think the third time will be ... what is it they say? The third time will be charming.”

  “You mean the third time’s the charm.”

  “Right. Third time will be the charmer.”

  I changed the subject. “Do you know a Ms. Trudy?”

  “Sure, I play canasta with her mother, Theresa.”

  “So you heard about her accident?”

  “Yes, poor dear. Theresa says she uses too much elbow grease.” She moved her arm in a back and forth motion.

  “The thing is, I don’t think the accident was her fault, and I’d like to get word to her. I have another client who had a similar injury.” I told Mrs. B about Marshall, the defective toilet valve, and the many reports of exploding toilets. “So you see, she may have a claim against the manufacturer.”

  “I will call Theresa in morning and give her your number.”

  “Thank you.” I said good night to Mrs. B and walked down her porch stairs and up mine. I planned to binge watch Law & Order and was anxious to get to it. As I reached for the door, Mrs. B said in a hushed voice, “Jessica.” I turned to look at her and she nodded her head toward the sidewalk. That disgustingly affectionate couple walked by again. “Remember the third time with be charming.”

  #

  I don’t believe in pajamas per se. It seems contrary to me that at a time when we are most vulnerable, while we are sleeping, we should wear silly cotton sleepwear that does not function well in an emergency. What if there’s a burglar? I imagined myself wielding my baseball bat and threatening to bash in a burglar’s skull while wearing pajamas with cute bunnies eating ice cream under a rainbow. It didn’t fill me with confidence. This is why I sleep in a pair of gray running shorts and an oversized T-shirt and have a baseball bat resting on my nightstand.

  I was grateful for my practical sleepwear when I heard sirens at two-thirty in the morning. I hear sirens all the time, but these were close. So close the flashing lights beamed right below my window. The fire truck had stopped in front of my house. I didn’t smell smoke. Since I’m in a row home, it could be the house on either side of me. Mrs. Bianco? I ran downstairs in my bare feet and out the front door and jumped over the railing onto her porch. I was reaching for the doorknob when I heard my name.

  “Jessica, I’m here.”

  I turned toward the street and there was Mrs. Bianco standing next to Mark. Mark looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. His eyes met mine and they got wider. He whispered something to Mrs. Bianco and she nodded her head. Two firefighters casually walked past me on their way into her house. From their slow gait, I gathered this was not a certifiable emergency. My own eyes jumped back and forth between Mark and Mrs. Bianco. I was inclined to jump back over the rail and into my house. Instead, I held my head high and walked down Mrs. Bianco’s porch steps to join her and Mark on the sidewalk.

  “You scared me.” I turned to Mark. “What happened?”

  “We got a call about an odor. Mrs. Bianco said it smelled like an electrical fire, but there was no smoke. We came to check it out.”

  “Mrs. B, you should have called me.”

  “I not want to wake you. I know you are busy attorney. You need your sleep.” What a crock of meatballs. This feisty Italian widow was so desperate to get me a date that she faked an emergency. I wondered if Kari was in on this. A small crowd of our neighbors gathered to see what was going on. “Oh, there’s Mrs. Delrico, I need to go see if she’ll give me a ride to bingo tomorrow.” And off she went.

  “Not that I’m keeping score, but you’ve been at the scene of three fire calls in as many days.”

  “It’s four days, but I’m not keeping score, either. This had nothing to do with me. I live next door.” As I turned to point to my house, I took a small step sideways and felt a slimy, gooey grossness under my foot. It was a slug. I jumped away from it and into Mark.

  “Gross. It’s stuck to my foot. Gross, gross, gross.” I held on to him while I balanced on one foot and scrapped the other against the sidewalk to get the icky slug off my foot. “Get it off!” I was dizzy with disgust.

  Mark supported me by putting a muscled arm around my back and wrapping warm, rugged hands around my waist. “It’s okay. It’s a slug. It can’t hurt you.”

  “It can gross-me-out to death. That’s a real thing you know. Ew, I can still feel it.”

  “It’s gone. Look, I think you killed it.” He pointed toward the ground.

  “I don’t want to look. I’m already sick to my stomach.”

  In an effort to minimize my contact with the pavement, I continued to balance on one foot and hold on to Mark.

  “I know this seems crazy,” I said. “But I’ve had this phobia since I was a kid. Slugs. It’s irrational, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright.” He took off his long firefighter gloves and laid them at my feet. “Here, stand on these.”

  “Thank you.” I had no excuse now. I had to let go of his arm.

  The two guys who entered Mrs. Bianco’s house had now returned. They hadn’t found anything unusual. The house was safe. Their job here was done and they were getting ready to leave. Mark would need his gloves back, and I would have to negotiate the twenty feet of sidewalk to my porch and hope there were no more slugs. I was staring at the ground when Mark said, “Here’s what we’ll do. Don’t move. I’ll get a flashlight and we’ll find a slug-free path to your door.”

  He went into the cab of the truck and returned with a flashlight. “Ready?”

  He shined the flashlight at my feet. “Orange nail polish?”

  I shrugged. “I’m an O’s fan.”

  There were no slugs in sight, so I stepped off the gloves, bent down to retrieve them, and handed them to Mark.

  “Thank you.” He walked with me, shining the light on the pavement. “This is nice of you. I feel kinda foolish.”

  “I’ve got a cousin with a weird phobia, too. She’s afraid of kiwis. Can’t even look at a picture of them. It’s fine if it’s a whole kiwi, but sliced up—it freaks her out.”

  “It is one of the scarier fruits. I can see that.”

  At my front door, he turned off the flashlight and reached for the door knob, but didn’t pull it open. He studied my face. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I held his eyes and smiled. “I’m fine. Thank you for not m
aking me feel like a complete idiot.”

  He paused, looked away, and then back to me again.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

  Finally. Celebratory trumpets sounded in my head. There was confetti, too. I fought to keep my smile at a level beneath desperate-single’s-dreams-come-true. “Sure. No escargot though.”

  He started to pull my front door open. “Good. I’ll call you and we can figure out the details.”

  “Do you have my number?”

  “I see it several times a day on billboards and buses. I have it memorized, counselor.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Given the craziness at work, I was grateful for a quiet weekend. I watched a couple of chick flicks, slept late, got some reading done, and washed my car. It’s a good thing I was well rested for Monday morning because it set the tone for another stressful week. It started with a phone call on my way to work.

  “Jess, there’s a problem.” It was Art Miller calling about Sharlyn’s claim.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “My guy changed his story. I’m denying liability.”

  My stomach knotted up and I stopped breathing for a moment. This couldn’t be happening. I had this all but wrapped up last week.

  “What do you mean he changed his story? You already offered me $28,000.”

  “It’s off the table. Darnell Black says your client, Ms. Monroe, was beating him about the head and shoulders while he was driving, which caused him to cross over the center line and hit the other car.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  I knew what Darnell was doing. He was getting revenge on Sharlyn for moving on and moving out. If he couldn’t get his hands on the insurance money, neither would she. Or was there more to it? Maybe he had learned of Sharlyn’s intent to testify against him. Maybe he wanted to trade his cooperation with the accident case for her silence on the drug charges. I needed time to think about that. For now, I kept my response simple.

  “He’s a dirty, vindictive, jilted boyfriend. He’s only saying that because she broke up with him and moved out. You don’t believe him do you?”