When Lightning Strikes Twice

by Barbara Boswell

  “Let’s just say that one of my clients—who would never get in the door of Saxon Associates—is at odds with Ms. Saxon’s most revered clients.”

  “Revered clients—the Tildens!” Judith guessed at once. “My God, Quint, tell me that you aren’t representing the Child Widow in a challenge to Town Senior’s will!”

  “I am Misty Tilden’s attorney,” Quint admitted. “And we aren’t going to challenge the will because the late Mr. Tilden drew up a new will, quite favorable to his devoted young wife.”

  “A new Tilden will! What fun!” Judith was amused. “But I can only imagine how much the Tildens hate it, and that means the Saxons are not happy either. Thus, the mind-games charge.”

  “Which isn’t true, Judi. I’m simply representing my client, not deliberately jerking the Saxons around. I don’t want to feud with either the Tildens or the Saxons.”

  Especially not Rachel. Quint thought of Rachel and the sweet way she’d treated Brady. He felt a slow flush of color creep from his neck to his cheekbones. She had been sweet with him, too. So sweetly responsive, so sweetly passionate in his arms.

  He was getting hard just thinking about her! He’d spent the night in that uncomfortable condition, his desire for Rachel even overcoming the downer news that had followed her departure.

  First, there was the histrionic phone call from Carla telling him that Frank was in jail in Trenton, picked up for DWI. He’d wanted Frank to stay there—it wasn’t as if his father had never spent a night or two drunk in a cell before—but Carla had been adamant. She wanted her husband home, she needed him. She’d been screaming, and Quint could hear his little brothers bawling in the background.

  “Please get Daddy out of jail, Quint,” Dustin had sobbed into the phone, while Quint seethed at Carla for using her sons to manipulate him. Because it worked.

  Those poor kids! What a horrible day they’d had—their house on fire, moving into their grandmother’s cramped house, their mother’s hysteria, and now this—their old man arrested. Reluctantly, he’d called his friend and colleague Judith Bernard, whose office was in nearby Haddonfield.

  While he’d stood in his basement office, debating whether or not to pour himself a stiff shot of Irish whiskey, the phone had rung again, and this time it had been Eve Saxon. Demanding that he agree immediately to a laughable out-of-court settlement for Misty Tilden. Quint had assessed the situation at once—the Tildens were aggressively pulling the strings of their attorney-puppet, and a panicky Eve Saxon was dancing to their command.

  He might’ve worked up some sympathy for her predicament—he would rather be retained by Misty than the arrogant, self-important Tilden clan any day—but Eve’s superior attitude irked him. She’d made no effort to conceal her utter contempt for both him and Misty. Clearly, she had relegated them both to the human refuse heap, and then been indignant and astonished when he refused to continue talking with her.

  By the looks of Miss Eve Saxon this morning—she did project a certain cutthroat aura—she had been stoking her fury all night long.

  Quint wondered if she’d told Rachel about the call and his refusal to cave to the Tildens’ stupid and totally unrealistic demands. He wondered what Rachel was thinking right now. Was she regretting their hot little interlude and vowing never to go near him again? Would she include Brady in her ban?

  The little boy had been chattering about “Mommy” this morning as he ate his cereal while watching his favorite Bananas in Pajamas video. Sarah had given Quint a most eloquent glance but hadn’t said a word. Sarah had promised him last night that she wouldn’t mention what she’d seen in the hall to anyone, and apparently she extended her promise to include even him.

  “Well, you’ve obviously come up with a strategy,” Judith’s voice drew him back to the present. “I can almost see those wheels turning in your head.”

  “Yeah, just call me RoboLawyer.”

  “I assume there will be an out-of-court settlement, but what a spectacle it would be to see you and Little Orphan Misty go up against the Tildens and Eve Saxon in court.”

  “If the case goes to court, I’ll win it, Judi.”

  “I don’t doubt that. The Pedersen case springs to mind. You seem to have a talent for taking down Lakeview icons.”

  “Ah, Pedersen’s not such a bad guy when you get to know him,” Quint murmured, feeling awkward.

  John Pedersen wanted to switch law firms, from Saxon to Cormack, and until last night Quint had been thrilled by the prospect. Until last night, he hadn’t had to gauge the effect of that particular news upon Rachel Saxon. It did not take a great analytic mind to know how badly she would take Pedersen’s defection.

  “Not a bad guy?” Judith laughed. “You won a huge settlement for your client by convincing a jury that John Pedersen was Hitler incarnate running a car dealership.”

  “It was nothing personal.” Quint shrugged uncomfortably. He could hardly bad-mouth his new client with another attorney. “All in a day’s work, Judi, you know that.”

  Judith made no comment, but he guessed she figured that something was up. They said their good-byes and went their separate ways.

  “Dana, I am so sorry to call you at the office,” Rich Vicker apologized over the phone. “But I had to get in touch with you about tonight, and I can never reach you at home. The line always seems to be busy.”

  “That would be my little sister Emily.” Dana heard the distant rumbling of a commuter train and braced herself for the noise and vibrations.

  “I won’t keep you, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with your boss.” Rich was not joking. Taking personal calls at work was no laughing matter to him.

  “I appreciate that, Rich.” Inside her head, a smart-alecky voice was interjecting comments about everything Rich said, including his deadly earnest tone of voice. The sarcastic little voice sounded a lot like Wade Saxon’s. Dana’s lips tightened. Just because he was in her head did not mean she was lusting after him, no matter what Tricia might say.

  “So when Tony and Walt from my office suggested we join them and their wives and try the new Bangladeshi restaurant that’s opened in Cherry Hill, I told them that we would,” Rich said just as the train arrived to shake the entire building. “I hope that’s okay with you, Dana. If there is somewhere else you’d rather go tonight—”

  “No, that’s fine, Rich,” Dana assured him. Trying out a new restaurant sounded age-appropriate and mature, unlike the pitifully juvenile evening Wade Saxon would be spending with his young date. “I’ve never had Bangladeshi cuisine.”

  “I think we’re in for another gastronomical adventure.”

  “Yes, we are,” agreed Dana.

  Thankfully, her parents stocked their medicine cabinet with every antacid currently on the market. Her last gastronomic adventure with Rich had been to a newly opened restaurant featuring native dishes from a country called Tajikistan. Dana had raided her parents’ supply of digestive aids immediately after dining there.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” said Rich, and Dana knew that he would be there at seven sharp. Not a minute before or a minute after.

  “You can set your clock by Rich Vicker,” her father had said more than once to Wade when they were sitting around the kitchen table having dessert and coffee. He and Wade would share a manly chuckle while her mother extolled the advantages of timeliness. But Mom always looked like she was suppressing a grin.

  For a horrifying second or two, Dana wondered if her parents knew about Tricia’s ridiculous theory about her and Wade.

  Impossible, she decided. Her folks made it clear in many ways that they still considered Wade more Tim’s friend than Dana’s.

  “Mrs. Polk is here to see you, Quint,” announced Helen, Cormack and Son’s receptionist/secretary.

  Quint and Dana, who were working together on a brief in a case involving the collision of two rented jet skis, looked at each other and grimaced slightly.

  “Carla’s mother?” Dana asked.

&
nbsp; “Don’t reach for your earplugs just yet,” Quint said drolly. Carla’s mother could shriek as loud and as long as her daughter and frequently did. “This is yet another Polk relation, a cousin from north Jersey. They needed a lawyer, and the Polks recommended me.”

  “Not Frank?”

  “They made it clear they didn’t want Frank. I think this is a personal injury suit. Maybe you’ll want to sit in?”

  “Definitely.” Dana smiled. “When you deliver an absolute do-it-or-die order, you always phrase it as a question.”

  “You’re a quick study, Dana. Kind of impudent but insightful, nonetheless.”

  Quint rose and left his office to greet his new client. His previous legal dealings with other Polks didn’t leave him eager for more, but he couldn’t say no to a quasi relative. And he’d generally had good outcomes in the Polk cases he’d handled. So far he’d gotten Carla’s sister’s bad-check charges reduced to a summary offense and a fine, had disorderly conduct charges against her older brother dropped, and convinced the district attorney’s office to agree to ADR for a younger Polk cousin accused of petty larceny.

  Though his area of expertise was civil litigation, his experience in criminal law had been via the Lakeview Polks, who’d provided on-the-job training.

  So Marcia Polk was a surprise. Soft-spoken, almost to the point of being inaudible, she told Quint and Dana about her husband’s accident. Last month, on the first Sunday in April, Ken Polk, an airline mechanic and avid outdoorsman, was fishing in a rowboat on a lake owned by North Jersey Power for some of its hydroelectric business ventures.

  “Was fishing permitted or was your husband trespassing?” Quint asked.

  “It was permitted and always has been.” Marcia’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Everybody swims and fishes and boats on the lake.”

  “Which means the company is liable,” Quint said to Dana, who nodded her agreeal.

  “Not according to them.” Marcia’s eyes filled with tears. “They said they won’t even help pay our medical bills. Ken is—Ken can’t—” She paused and breathed deeply, struggling for control.

  “Tell us what happened to Ken, Marcia,” Quint said gently.

  “We’d had a lot of rain the week that Ken and Tyler went fishing, and the level of the lake was up, higher than normal, though neither Ken and Tyler paid much mind,” Marcia related the story as if by rote. “They didn’t notice that the water level brought them closer to the high-tension wires that crossed the lake. When Ken stood up to cast his fishing rod—it was made out of some kind of metal, composite metal—”

  Marcia Polk reached into her purse, pulled out a small packet of tissues, and wiped the silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Quint and Dana exchanged glances.

  “Did your husband’s fishing pole touch the high-tension wire, Mrs. Polk?” asked Dana.

  Marcia nodded her head. “Ken almost died. His fishing rod touched the wire and he was electrocuted. He’s still in the hospital and will be for months. For the first two weeks, the doctors didn’t expect him to live. He was so badly burned the doctors couldn’t save his hands and feet; they had to amputate them to save his life.”

  Quint drew a sharp intake of breath. “And your son witnessed the accident?”

  “Thank God Tyler was there! He rowed the boat back to shore and called 911 on our car phone. He’d learned CPR in school and when he—he couldn’t find a pulse, he gave Ken CPR. The paramedics say that Tyler saved Ken’s life,” she added, her eyes welling up again.

  Dana’s did, too. “You must be very proud of your son, Mrs. Polk.”

  “Yes,” murmured Marcia. “And Ken and I aren’t looking to cash in on this accident. We have to adjust and go on with our lives, we all feel lucky that Ken isn’t dead. But—But Jack, Ken’s cousin, said we should talk to you because—well, because we’re having trouble with the insurance company. They think North Jersey Power should pay—”

  “Which they should,” Quint interjected, and Dana nodded vigorously. “And they will.”

  Marcia swallowed hard. “But North Jersey Power says it’s Ken’s own fault he was injured because he should have noticed the position of the high-tension wires in relation to the water level. They say he was negligent and so they aren’t responsible.”

  “The standard party line,” Quint muttered. “Please go on, Mrs. Polk.”

  “Our health insurance doesn’t cover all the hospital bills, and the doctors say Ken won’t be able to work again. They’re right, of course. How can he be a mechanic, how can he work on airplanes, with no hands or feet?”

  Dana flinched. Quint stood up and crossed the office to take Marcia Polk’s hands in his own. “I want to represent your husband in this case. I guarantee we will win a settlement that will eliminate your financial worries and allow you and your husband and family to live comfortably.”

  Marcia looked relieved, then troubled. “We don’t want to be greedy,” she said worriedly. “We aren’t looking to—to stick it to anybody. I—I mean, I know that things happen and—”

  “I understand,” Quint cut in. “Now I want you to promise me that you will not even think about hospital bills or insurance companies or the North Jersey Power Company. That is going to be my job. I want you to focus your time and attention and energy solely on your husband and family, and on yourself, Mrs. Polk. You’re under tremendous stress, and you have to take care of yourself so you can be strong for your family.”

  Marcia began to cry. She stood up and hugged Quint, who held her, patting her back gently. “I’ve been so scared,” she sobbed. “And to have to worry about money while Ken is so badly hurt has been—”

  “A nightmare,” Quint finished for her. “Consider the financial part of that nightmare over. Dana and I will begin working on this case right away. From now on, don’t talk to any representative from anywhere, refer them all to me.”

  Quint and Dana walked Marcia Polk to her car and waved good-bye as she drove away.

  “How could North Jersey Power be so heartless?” Dana marveled. “Telling a man with those kind of injuries, ‘tough luck, it’s your own fault’?”

  “Imagine how that would sound to a jury! The company’s tactlessness, much less their stupidity, is mind-boggling.”

  “Marcia Polk is a nice, quiet woman, and when she said the family doesn’t want to be greedy and isn’t looking to stick it to anybody, those corporate jackals immediately decided they’d stick it to her.” Dana was indignant. “I’m so glad she’s got us on her side, Quint. Think this will ever get to trial?”

  “Nobody could be that stupid. North Jersey Power will settle out of court, though we’ll probably have to play some hardball.”

  “Don’t they realize they could get killed on the punitive damages alone?” exclaimed Dana.

  “If they don’t, they will after we’ve talked to them. Dana, can you drive up to the hospital this weekend and get copies of Ken Polk’s medical records? Meet Ken and reassure Marcia, talk to the doctors and nurses. I’d do it myself, but Sarah is off this weekend and I don’t want to ask Carla to baby-sit for Brady.”

  “I’d be glad to, Quint. I had nothing to do this weekend anyway, and I want to help the Polks.”

  “And maybe stick it to the corporate jackals?” Quint parried lightly.

  “Maybe a little of that, too.”

  “Where are you two headed tonight?” Quint asked Matt and Sarah as the couple clasped hands and sauntered to the kitchen door. Sarah had every Tuesday and Friday nights off, as well as every other weekend, leaving Quint in full charge of his son.

  This evening, Sarah had abandoned her practical nanny clothes for an extremely short skirt, midriff-baring shirt, lots of earrings—were there five or six per ear?—and plenty of makeup. The effect was startling. She’d gone into her room a half hour ago looking young for her twenty-one years. Now she looked thirty-five, give or take a year.

  Quint shifted little Brady in his arms and felt relieved he didn’t have a daug
hter.

  “We’re doing our usual Friday night thing,” Matt replied amiably. “Going out to eat and then meeting some friends at Club Koncrete. It’s out on Route 70. That place really rocks.”

  A portion of Route 70 ran through Oak Shade, Quint recalled. He hoped the rocking Club Koncrete wasn’t anywhere near the Doll House. “Just be careful,” he felt obliged to warn the pair.

  “We will,” Sarah assured him. “Are you and Brady going to McDonald’s tonight?”

  “McDonald’s!” Brady repeated excitedly.

  “To him, it’s gourmet fare served with toys he covets from TV commercials, plus a playground,” drawled Quint.

  “Hey, it doesn’t get any better than that, huh, Brady?” Matt grinned at the toddler. “Quint, is it okay if we take the Taurus? Is your car back from the dealership and running okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. You two take the Taurus and keep it all weekend.” Quint was impressed that Matt had asked to use the “nanny” car instead of assuming, and that he had remembered about the bothersome recall and expressed interest.

  Matt was a good guy, he thought, not for the first time. Thoughtful, dependable. Not like himself at twenty-one, a self-centered, pleasure-seeking hell-raiser. His kid brothers flashed to mind and he tried to envision them at twenty-one. If only Austin and Dustin could grow up Matt-like. He thought about young Tyler Polk, who had saved his father’s life by keeping a cool head and doing exactly what needed to be done.

  How did parents raise sons that didn’t screw up, not even as teens? Quint looked at Brady in his arms, and the answers to that question grew even more urgent.

  Lost in thought, he followed Sarah and Matt to the carport to see them off. Sarah leaned over to kiss Brady. “Bye-bye, Brady Bunch. Have fun with Daddy.”

  “Bye, Sarah. Bye, Matt.” Brady looked sad.

  “Brady, why don’t you and Daddy ask Mommy to go to McDonald’s with you tonight?” Sarah’s blue eyes were alight with mischief.