Suspicion of Malice
Page 12
Voices echoed on tile floors in long, poorly lit corridors. Judge Nathan Alan Harris presided in a courtroom on the fourth floor. Gail went inside the glassed-in anteroom and looked through a narrow window. The courtroom was full, and she could hear the buzz of conversations, but the judge was not on the bench.
She went down the hall a bit, finding a plain oak door. It was locked. She stood back and waited, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. When a man in a suit came out carrying a stack of files, Gail went through before the door could close behind him. He barely glanced at her, this tall blond woman in a slim skirt and fitted navy jacket, a row of gold buttons down the front. She was obviously someone with business here.
She found Judge Harris's office, marked by a nameplate affixed to the wall. Flexing her fingers on the strap of her shoulder bag, Gail took a breath and went in. The assistant's desk was straight ahead, but male voices came from the judge's chambers. Someone laughed. Gail wandered closer. The judge came into view—a lanky, gray-haired man in a long-sleeved striped shirt. He was taking a black robe off a hanger.
Gail realized that the judicial assistant was speaking to her.
She went back to the desk and stated her name, and that she was a lawyer. "It's urgent that I speak to Judge Harris." When the woman asked her what it was about, Gail shook her head. "I'm sorry, but the matter is confidential."
"And I'm sorry, but the judge is about to go on the bench. I don't see you down for an appointment. How did you get in here?"
He came out of his office buttoning the top of his robe, continuing his conversation with the other man, a lawyer whom Gail recognized from Florida Bar meetings. She placed herself in their path. "Judge Harris, I'm Gail Connor. I tried to reach you earlier this week—"
"Gail. This is a pleasant surprise." He held out his hand, shaking hers with a warm, firm grip. "Yes, you did call me, and I'm sorry for not calling you back. I was swamped. Don't go away." He turned to speak to the other lawyer, arranging a meeting next week. Input from the commission . . . Third DCA . . . jurisdic-Honal issues. Their voices intruded into Gail's head, threatening to turn what she'd planned to say into incoherent mush.
Judge Harris touched her arm. "Sorry. Walk with me. I'm wanted in the courtroom." In the hall he nodded at a colleague going the other way, then inclined his head closer to Gail. "Does this have something to do with a mutual acquaintance of ours? Anthony Quintana?"
Gail, who had been on the point of speaking, released a small laugh. "No. It's about a client of mine."
"Is it? Oh. I assumed . . ." He made an apologetic grimace. "I thought you might ask me for some . . . oh, some advice, or ... God knows. I'm sorry, you said—"
"A client of mine, a young man named Bobby Gonzalez—"
"Not an open case, I hope. It wouldn't be ethical for me to—"
"You don't recognize the name?" The judge shook his head. "He's twenty-one, about my height, black hair. A dancer with the Miami City Ballet. You met Bobby Gonzalez at a party two weekends ago at the home of Jack Pascoe, where Roger Cresswell was shot to death. Bobby is now a suspect in the murder."
Gail waited for a reaction. There was only a blank stare through the tortoiseshell glasses. She went on. "Bobby couldn't have done it. He had no opportunity. He left the party about a quarter to midnight and met a friend. During the forty minutes prior to leaving the party, he was with you. We need you to explain that to the police. I realize that this puts you in a delicate position, but we should be able to work this out in a way that—"
"No, your client is mistaken. I do know Jack Pascoe, but—"
"—a way that protects your privacy, but we need to prove that the police suspect the wrong man."
"As I said." The judge waited for Gail to stop talking. "Yes, I know Jack—he was my late wife's cousin—and while I have visited his home on several occasions, I did not do so on that night, and to my knowledge, I have never seen or spoken to your client."
"But you must remember him. A young man with black hair. He speaks with a New York accent. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt."
"How can I remember if I wasn't there?"
"You and he sat on the seawall talking for forty minutes—"
"He may well have, but not with me."
"He said you'd had a lot to drink—"
"Ms. Connor, I repeat, I was not there."
Angrily, she retorted, "Please don't expect me to believe that."
"You accuse me of lying?"
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry as cotton. "I think your first reaction is to protect yourself, but a young man's freedom depends on your courage."
"'This is outrageous."
His bailiff called from the door of the courtroom. "Judge? They're ready."
"Yes, I'm coming." Nathan Harris made a chilly smile. "If you will excuse me?"
Gail followed him along the corridor. "Bobby remembers you clearly. He can describe what you look like. He said you told him you'd gone to school in Chicago. Your wife was an artist, and she died—"
"He could have learned that anywhere. I have nothing more to say to you."
She held onto his arm through his robe, forcing him to stop and look at her. "If you walk away, there will be six TV reporters outside your chambers in time for the evening news. What will the judicial nominating committee have to say about that?"
He stared at her.
The bailiff said, "Judge, is there a problem?"
"One moment!" He turned his back on the open door to the courtroom and spoke through clenched teeth. "What do you want from me?"
"To get this resolved as discreetly as possible. Judge Harris, I understand your situation." Gail pulled a business card from her pocket. "Call me on my cell phone. The number's written on the back. We'll arrange to meet this evening, perhaps at my office, or wherever you feel comfortable."
"That's impossible. I'm in trial."
"A phone call. Thirty seconds. Just call to say where I can meet you."
"I—I have to think about this. Give me till Monday."
"I can't. Bobby could be taken into custody before then. You can have until six o'clock today. No later."
Nathan Harris studied her business card. Thin lips pursed outward, and a pulse beat in his hollow temple. With a stiff nod, he said, 'I'll call you." His black robe swirled behind him as he walked into the courtroom. The bailiff looked at Gail, then closed the door.
The corridor was empty. Gail heard a quick, rasping noise and realized it was the sound of her own breathing. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself.
Chapter 11
Anthony Quintana's grandmother, Digna Maria Betancourt de Pedrosa, counted among her forebears a prince of Castille and a mistress of King Carlos V. Her grandmother had married the first president of Cuba, her uncle had founded the Havana Yacht Club, and her father had owned a shipping line. Digna's marriage, at age eighteen, to a young banker, Ernesto Jose Pedrosa Masvidal, had been attended by the island's business and social elite. They had honeymooned for three weeks in Europe.
Forty-some years ago, the family—including aunts, uncles, and cousins—fled Cuba, believing they would go back in six months, a year at most. They were still waiting. As matriarch, Digna kept alive the dreams and illusions of old Havana in the Pedrosas' house on a shady street in Coral Gables. She knew the birthday and saint's day of each child in the family, collected food for the poor, and took care of servants who became too old to work. She said her confession, attended mass twice a week, and carried her rosary everywhere. Although ladies of her class did not believe in santeria, she had a corner shelf in her bedroom and on it she kept a yellow candle, a strand of blue and white beads, some tobacco, a vial of rum, and a small statue of the black virgin of Caridad del Cobre. She took no chances.
Anthony had never hesitated to oppose his grandfather, but Nena was another matter.
She had called yesterday to invite him to lunch at a new French restaurant on Salzedo Street. If conditions were normal—if he
hadn't vowed never to speak to Ernesto again—Anthony would have gone to her house, but Nena arrived at his office at a quarter till twelve, accompanied by his sister, Alicia, who drove. He had not seen his grandmother since his return from Spain.
As always, she was elegantly dressed. She wore a plum-colored two-piece suit with ivory hose. Big gold earrings matched the buttons on her suit. Her platinum hair was thinning, but stylishly coiffed. She clung to him for a moment, the top of her head barely clearing his shoulder. "I have missed you, my dear heart,” she said in Spanish.
He kissed her rouged cheek. "You are well, Nena?" He addressed her as usted, out of respect, not tu, which applied to younger relatives.
"Well enough, thanks to God."
She came into his office, noting with approval the modern furniture and soft leather chairs, all of which she had seen before. Halogen lights shone on built-in bookcases and a black cantilevered desk. She lingered over the framed photographs of Angela and Luis. They spent a few moments discussing the children's health, and their studies.
Alicia hung back, and her glance slid away when he looked at her. She had thick, curly hair and the deep blue eyes of their late mother. Anthony had inherited their father's dark eyes.
Digna set the graduation portrait of Angela back on his desk. "She starts school soon, no? You are sending her to live in the dormitories."
A reflection not on the child, but the father. Anthony said, "My house is too far away to be convenient."
"You know the child could live with us. We are very near the university." Digna smiled at her grandson. "But then you would have to visit her, and you have sworn not to enter my house again." Before he could respond, she turned to Alicia. "My dear, do you think you could bring me a cup of tea?"
Anthony reminded her that they would be at the restaurant in ten minutes, but she wanted her tea immediately. "My secretary can make it for you," he said.
"No, no. Alicia knows just how I like it. Nice and strong, not too much sugar. My doctor says my blood is already sweet enough. Take your time, Alicita."
So. Nena wanted to corner him about something. Anthony asked his secretary to show his sister to the office kitchen. He added, "Hold all my calls."
Digna had wandered to the far end of his office, where a sofa and two armchairs faced a private atrium. She carefully lowered herself down and crossed her legs at the ankle.
What would she say? That he should apologize to his grandfather. That he should make amends for the disastrous Fourth of July party, at which Gail Connor had embarrassed the entire family by packing her bags and walking out, in view of everyone. That he must come back, or the family enterprises, forty years of sweat and blood in this country, would crumble to dust.
Digna watched him come toward her, tilting her head as if taking inventory—dark brown Hugo Boss suit, gold cufflinks, silk tie. "When was your last haircut?"
"Pardon?"
"It's very long."
"Is it?" With both hands he pushed it back from his temples. "Not really."
"I see some gray there, my dear."
"Well earned, I assure you."
"But in general, you look very well. Not so pale as before. Spain does that, no?" Digna patted the sofa. "Sit here next to me."
Still standing, Anthony smiled down at her. "Nena. I think I know what this is about. When Grandfather became ill, you agreed that Elena and Bernardo could act as guardians, running his businesses. Now he is better, but they refuse to give up control. Alicia has told me everything. The family is in turmoil, and you find yourself in the middle. I admit that if I hadn't left, this wouldn't have happened. Everything would be in my hands, as Grandfather had planned. I am sorry. My advice to you— most respectfully—is that you take care of your husband, enjoy your life, and let the others do as they please. You shouldn't spend one moment worrying about it."
Digna Pedrosa's silvery brows rose, creating lines on her forehead. "How impressive that you can read minds.”
Anthony nodded. "In any event, I may not be here much longer. I have tentative plans to move back to New York."
"And why would you go to such a cold and foreign place?"
"There's more opportunity in New York. And I'd be closer to Luis. A boy needs his father around. I've made inquiries about a job, and it looks promising. I'll tell the children when everything has been arranged."
Digna stared up at him, then said, "One of the few privileges of age is to say what one thinks. May I?"
Anthony made a slight bow. "You have always done so."
"Run away to New York if you wish, or to the moon, but don't expect to leave your problems in Miami. They will follow you like dogs and howl under your window." Digna looked at him steadily for several more seconds, then sighed. "It wasn't the guardianship I wanted to discuss with you. It's your grandfather."
Anthony's groan was so soft he didn't think she could have heard, but her ears were still sharp. She said tartly, "You should be grateful. He rescued you from that wretched island. If not for him, you would have nothing, nothing, not even food for your children."
"Of course I would. I'd have come out on a raft, and we'd be having this same crazy discussion." Anthony pulled his cuff back to see his watch. "Where is Alicia? Our reservation is for noon."
"I canceled it. Don't worry about me, I already ate."
He stared at her.
"My dear heart, please listen. Ernesto has not always been wise, but he has always loved you. More than any of the others. You know this. If he was hard on you, if he lost his temper—"
"Because I'm the son of a communist traitor."
"Oh, be quiet. Ernesto expected more from you than from the others because you could give it. If the hope was greater, so was the disappointment, every time you turned away. He demanded from you no more than he would of himself. You are so much alike, you know."
"Forgive me, Nena, but I am not like my grandfather. I have never wanted to be." Anthony stared through the sliding door into the atrium. Light from the second-floor skylight dappled the ferns and miniature palms. Water sparkled on coral rocks and lapped at the sides of a small pool. He wondered if he could find an office in Manhattan that would accommodate something similar.
His grandmother's soft voice mixed with the muffled burble of the fountain. "How is Gail Connor?"
Taken slightly off balance, Anthony looked over his shoulder. "I haven't the least idea. Why do you ask that?"
"You're not seeing her again?"
"No, Grandmother, I am not."
"Thank God. I had resigned myself to your marriage, but I was never in favor. American women are too independent. They make decisions for their husbands, I have heard. Is this true?"
"They try."
"You need a woman like your sister. You see how Alicia supports Octavio."
"Octavio is an ass."
A ripple of humor played across her face. "Yes, but Alicia doesn't let him know it. American women always .criticize. To them, the individual comes before the family, isn't that so? Has Gail Connor poisoned your mind? Turned you against us?"
Anthony found himself in the odd position of defending a woman he had no wish ever to see again. "No, she didn't do that."
But Digna went on, "Then why do you hate us? Ernesto is a part of me, like my eyes or my tongue. If you hate him, you hate me too." She fumbled at the clasp of her purse and withdrew an embroidered handkerchief, which she pressed to her nose.
He sat down and put an arm around her. "Nena, don't say such things."
"Will you see him? I swear to the Holy Mother I will never ask another thing of you as long as God grants me breath."
The phone rang. Anthony ignored it and held onto his grandmother's hand. The age-spotted skin was soft, and her nails were beautifully tended. After sixty years, her wedding ring had worn thin. "I'll think about it, all right? Not today. Give me some time. A couple of weeks."
"Ernesto may be dead by then."
"I doubt it. The old man has another ten ye
ars in him, at least."
The phone was still ringing. Anthony turned his head, frowning. "What does she want? I told her, no phone calls."
It continued to ring. Perhaps Angela had been in a traffic accident. She was unconscious. The police had found his number in her wallet.
"One moment." Anthony stood up to reach the extension on the end table. "Yes, what is it?" His secretary apologized for disturbing him, but Judge Harris was on the line. He wanted to speak to Anthony. It couldn't wait. Extremely urgent. Anthony told her he would take the call in the conference room. His grandmother still clasped the handkerchief on her knees.
"Nena, I'm sorry. It's a client. An emergency. I'll be right back." The glassed-in conference room was just down the hall. He closed the door and picked up the extension on the credenza under the windows.
"Nate? This is Anthony. What's going on?"
The voice on the other end was measured and clear, but he could hear the tension in it, and as he listened, his hand tightened on the receiver.
"Ay, mi Dios. . . . You didn't tell me you saw Gonzalez at the party! . . . What do you mean, forgot? . . . Yes, Nate, it is most definitely a problem."
Anthony paced as far as the phone cord would allow. "When do you go back on the bench? . . . I'll be there in fifteen minutes. . . . Listen to me. If by some chance she calls, do not talk to her. Don't talk to anyone about this. . . . No, no, it's going to be all right, I'm sure of it. We'll think of something."
When he replaced the handset it rattled slightly. Had she gone mad? To threaten a judge? And how had she come to represent Bobby Gonzalez? Had she sought him out? Had he come to her? Why would she take a homicide case? She knew nothing about criminal law.
He was halfway to the lobby before he remembered that he had left his grandmother in his office.
His sister had come back with the tea. Alicia and Digna were both seated on the sofa. Their hushed conversation broke off as he came through the door.