The Arraignment

by Steve Martini

  “Mah-dree-ahnee. The a’s are long,” I tell him.

  “Have a seat. I don’t have much time. I have to leave for D.C. on business,” he says.

  This makes me want to send a national consumer alert to taxpayers. He looks at his watch. “I was told you wanted to see me. Something having to do with Nick Rush.”

  “If it would be more convenient, we could meet when you have a little more time. Perhaps when you get back . . .”

  “No. No.” He would rather get rid of me now.

  I take a seat. “I’m here at the request of Mrs. Dana Rush. Nick’s widow. She asked me if I could look into some business matters for her.”

  “I see.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Tragic,” he says. “How someone with that much promise could be cut down in his prime.” Tolt makes it sound as if the greatest loss is that Nick’s fingers are no longer plying the billing machine in his office.

  “Specifically the question regards insurance on her husband’s life, the firm’s key-man policy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Suddenly he’s looking for something, swiveling in his chair. Then he sees it: the attache case on the floor behind him, under his credenza. He wheels around so his back is to me for a second as he reaches for it.

  “I don’t usually get involved in these kinds of details,” he says. “Have you talked to Humphreys?” Tolt is back around to face me, the attache case open on his desk in front of him. For an instant, I think maybe he has a copy of the key-man policy in this briefcase. Then I realize he doesn’t. He is just packing up, getting ready to leave.

  “Humphreys is your man,” he says. “He’s the firm’s business manager. He handles all that stuff. If you have an insurance claim, you lodge it with him.”

  “I talked to Mr. Humphreys yesterday. He’s the one who set up our appointment. He said there was some problem, but he couldn’t discuss it. He said I would have to talk with you.”

  “Problem? I don’t know anything about a problem. Who do you say you represent?”

  “Mrs. Rush, Dana Rush.”

  He looks at me as if the name doesn’t click. “Hang on a second.” He picks up the receiver on the phone, hits one of the hot keys on the bottom, and waits for it to ring.

  “Hello, George, this is Adam upstairs.” He swings around in his chair, back to me again. “I have a man up here, name of Paul Mad-ri-ani. Says he talked to you on the phone about the key-man policy on Nick Rush.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.

  “Well, why wasn’t I told?

  “Uh-huh.

  “Well, yes, but I should have been told.

  “Uh-huh. Really. Is anybody looking into this?

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well that’s fine but what’s . . .

  “Uh-huh. So what’s it look like? Does Jim think we’re going to be in the middle?

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, keep me posted, OK?” He hangs up, picks up my card again, taking another look at it.

  “You’re right. It looks like there could be a problem,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  He puts my card down and is back to piling some papers from a desk drawer into the open attache case in front of him.

  “The good news is there was a key-man policy out on Nick. The policy was taken out when he joined the firm. The firm paid the premiums and all,” he says. “It’s part of the compensation package for partners. In return for the insurance payout, heirs agree to forego any claim as to an interest in the law firm,” he says. “The key-man policy is a good way to make sure nobody gets hurt.”

  “And?”

  “The bad news,” says Tolt, “is that the named beneficiary doesn’t seem to be your client.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How well did you know Nick?” he asks.

  “Pretty well.”

  “Then you knew he was married once before.”

  I nod.

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “The former wife’s name is on the policy. I think I met her once at a firm social function. Name of Margaret. Do you know her?”

  I take a deep sigh and nod.

  “She probably doesn’t know her name is still on the policy. Not yet anyway.” He’s futzing in the briefcase, making sure he has everything. “It puts us in a difficult position,” he says. “Any claim on the policy by somebody else, and the carrier is going to have to notify her. Doing insurance work, I’m sure you understand.”

  “I don’t do insurance work.”

  “I thought you said . . .”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Your card says you’re a lawyer.”

  “I do criminal work. That’s how I knew Nick.”

  “Oh,” he says and stops packing. His bushy eyebrows, furry and gray, turn heavy hooded and move to the center of his forehead like two migrating mice.

  He picks up my card once more and takes a closer look this time, reading it as if to himself: “Madriani. Madriani. I remember. You defended in that thing about a year ago, they found the body in her office out by the beach. What was it?”

  “The Hale case.”

  “That’s it. The old man who won the lottery. The victim was a woman.”

  “Zolanda Suade,” I say.

  “That’s the one.” He closes the lid on the attache case and looks at me. “That was a fair piece of work,” says Tolt. “And all that free publicity.”

  “And I thought nobody noticed.”

  “Ever do any white-collar work?” he asks.

  “Some.”

  “Really.” His eyebrows go up a notch, wondering, I’m sure, how fast my fingers might be able to work the billing software on the unattended computer in Nick’s office. He leaves the closed briefcase on his desk and settles back in his chair. “How long did you say you knew Nick?”

  “We go back a few years.”

  He sits silent, looking over the desk at me, waiting for details. I offer none.

  “Unfortunately I didn’t know him all that well. I regret that I didn’t take more time with the man. I suspect he resented it, but unfortunately Nick didn’t understand how hard it is running a firm like this. Grumbling partners, every one of them wanting bigger bonuses at the end of the year, having to reason with them constantly in order to expand. Practicing law in a firm like this is like trying to herd cats and they’re trying to fight. It doesn’t help that the last two years we’re down on profits.”

  I’m starting to bleed for him, looking at the priceless Matisse framed in gilt behind his chair.

  “Too many lawyers,” he says.

  “From what I hear, still looking for more.”

  He smiles.

  “Nick and I would pass each other coming and going. Talk at Christmas parties. I think we collaborated twice on cases. Client business matters that went awry.”

  What he means is that Nick was called in when the firm needed help cleaning up a criminal mess left behind by one of their clients whose business practices went up on two wheels cutting corners.

  “And then he did a few drug cases. I don’t think there were a lot of them. We tried to keep him in the white-collar area as much as possible.”

  “I see. That’s as far down the criminal food chain as the firm wanted to go, is that it?”

  “Something like that. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want you to think I would disparage what other lawyers do. Their clients are certainly entitled to a vigorous defense.”

  “But not here?”

  “Well . . .” The answer is in his expression. “Unfortunately we’re a little thin on the criminal side right now. I mean we have a couple of young associates, but Nick was the guiding light. So we couldn’t afford to have him doing other things. And now we do have a problem. With Nick gone, we have to start looking for somebody to fill the void. Nick had cases. They need tending,” he says. “That’s your field. Maybe you could give us some recommendations?”

  If I didn’t know better, I might think he was offering me a job. Crisis of the moment: like m
en of power everywhere, Adam Tolt realizes the only problems that count at this moment are those belonging to him.

  “Maybe we should wait for the body to get cold,” I tell him.

  “Of course,” he says. “Thoughtless of me.” The words may pass through his lips, but the commercial squint does not leave his eyes. Tolt is a cross between FDR and the devil. He has the toothy grin, the flamboyant hail-fellow-well-met, and the presence of command, everything but the cigarette holder and the paralysis. In fact, he seems remarkably fit and moves like a man half his age.

  “I wish I could do more for you,” he says. “But you understand the problem? On the insurance?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you plan to do now?”

  “I’ll go back and tell Mrs. Rush. Can I get a copy of the policy?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll make a note and have one mailed to your office. Of course, they could resolve it,” he says. “The two wives.”

  “How?”

  “Agree to share the policy.”

  “What’s the face amount?” I ask.

  “Two million,” he says. “They’d have to agree to each take half.”

  “Why would the named beneficiary agree to that?”

  “Well, she could have some problems too. There could be a property settlement agreement when they divorced that could undercut her claim to the insurance.”

  “Is there a settlement agreement?”

  “I assume,” he says. “You would think leaving her name on the policy after a divorce was an oversight.” He looks at me over steepled forefingers, his elbows on the arms of the chair, then sits up and clicks the snap locks closed on his briefcase. A grand an hour, a hundred sixty-five dollars every ten minutes, small talk off the clock gets expensive.

  “And if it can’t be resolved by settlement?” I ask.

  He makes a face, looks at me. “Then I suppose the carrier will have to file an interpleader.”

  What he means is a stakeholder’s action, a legal free-for-all in which the insurance company will throw up its hands, confess that it owes money but doesn’t know who to pay. A court will have to sort it out. After a year or two of litigation, with lawyers for the insurance company and the two women brawling in open court, a check will be made out, but whose name will be on the payout line is anybody’s guess. The only thing more certain than death is that the lion’s share will go to the lawyers.

  Harry was right. I’ve stepped in it. Now I will have to call Dana and give her the sorry news. The old saw is on the mark: the last people on earth to have their wills up-to-date and their affairs in order when they die are attorneys.

  CHAPTER NINE

  This morning Harry has information. It comes by way of a telephone call from a friend of his, a deputy D.A. he meets with on Thursday evenings in a friendly card game. Last night between shuffling and dealing, the guy let slip that an arrest has been made by federal authorities, not in Nick’s murder, but according to this prosecutor there may be a connection.

  Harry is standing in the doorway to my office having just bought a newspaper from the rack in front of the cigar store out on the street. He is scanning the inside pages. On the front page, which is open to me, is a picture of a crane swinging a wrecking ball through the sign on top of the old Capri Hotel, Nick’s morning coffee shop. If he is looking down, or for that matter up, I can’t help but wonder what he would say about this.

  “Here it is,” says Harry. “It’s just a short piece.” The headline reads:

  ARREST IN VISA THEFT

  A taskforce of federal and local law enforcement agencies led by agents of the Immigration and Naturalization Service as well as federal customs agents raided a residence in Santee last night, and an arrest in connection with the theft of thousands of border crossing visas in Tijuana last May.

  The visas, issued by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, are used for short-term stays in the U.S. They were stolen from a commercial delivery van at gunpoint near the U.S. Consul’s office in Tijuana on May 23.

  Arrested was Miguelito Espinoza, a local labor contractor whose business involves hiring unskilled labor, mostly for work in agriculture. According to authorities, Espinoza was in his home at the time of the raid and offered no resistance.

  Authorities refused to say whether they found any evidence in Espinoza’s residence. The visas are believed to be worth as much as a million dollars on the black market, where they can be sold and used to enter the U.S. by undocumented aliens or by those seeking to smuggle people or contraband into the country.

  Authorities have been searching for the missing visas for months. According to sources who declined to be identified, the documents represent the latest in laser identity technology and include holographs. It is feared that the hijackers who took the visas may be able to copy the laser technology in order to forge new cards.

  Harry lowers the paper and looks over the top at me. “That’s it.”

  “Why does your friend at the D.A.’s office think this is connected to Nick and the shooting?”

  “What he said was, the guy they arrested was somehow involved with Metz.”

  “Did he say how?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to crawl across the table and ask him. I got the sense that he probably didn’t know.”

  “Do you think he’d tell you if you called him and asked him?”

  Harry shakes his head. “We’re friendly, but not that friendly. What he did say is that the guy they arrested, this . . .” He looks at the article again. “This Espinoza, he was under surveillance by the feds for some time prior to the arrest. We’re talking months,” says Harry. “And I mean a blanket. Immigration wanted these visas back in the worst way according to what I heard. The D.A. wants to shake the guy to find out if he knows anything about the shooting. They’re assuming he couldn’t have been directly involved since the feds were watching him at the time. But they think he may know something. I didn’t even want to bring it to you, but I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harry starts fixing himself a cup of tea, hot water in a cup in the microwave across the hall. He comes back dunking the tea bag on a string. “Did Tolt have a copy of the insurance policy?”

  “What?”

  “The key-man policy for Rush’s wife?”

  “Oh. Yeah. He’s sending it to us in the mail.”

  “Was he cooperative?”

  “I suppose. As much as he could be. There’s some question, a complication,” I tell him.

  “What kind of complication?”

  “Seems her name is not on the policy as the beneficiary.”

  “I’d call that a complication. Who’s name is on it?”

  “The first wife.”

  Harry rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me give you some advice. Send her the policy when it comes, put a cover letter on it, and tell her to get a good insurance lawyer.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there are others involved.”

  “Who?”

  If we get drawn in, I’m going to be asking Harry to give up his fee. He deserves an answer.

  “There is a child. Nick had a daughter out of wedlock a few years ago, before he met Dana. Her name is Laura.”

  Harry looks at me. Mental tumblers turning in his head. “The envelope the cops found with the cash in Nick’s pocket,” says Harry.

  I nod. “Nick had been paying support since the birth. No court order. Voluntarily. No one except the mother and him knew about it. It was the way they wanted it.”

  “And you want to get the insurance for the child.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t. That’s going to be governed by the terms of the insurance contract. What I can do is to cut a piece out for her.”

  “Our fees?”

  “I nod.”

 
Harry nods. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I couldn’t. If the cops questioned you, you could honestly say you didn’t know anything. I wanted to protect their privacy. This way they won’t have to be a party to the scramble for insurance.”

  “Why didn’t Nick put the kid’s name on the policy?”

  “He probably wasn’t planning on dying quite yet. And to name her as beneficiary would put her head-to-head with Dana in the claims department. I suspect it’s the reason he left Margaret’s name on the policy. That way it might be up for grabs. The child could get something if the mother decided to pursue it and Margaret was found to have an invalid claim based on the divorce. I owe that much to Nick. He’d do the same if I were in his situation.”

  “You very nearly were,” he says.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I understand. I only wish you’d told me earlier. Have a little more faith in me.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of trust.”

  “I understand.” Harry is hurt. “Of course we give up our fees. No question.”

  Harry is looking down into the dark tea in his cup, wondering if he should just leave it there. But he can’t. “Rush’s death wasn’t your fault,” he says.

  “Who said it was?”

  “Nobody. It’s just that sometimes I think you have some lingering doubts. Especially now that I know what’s driving it. Did she know him, the child I mean?”

  I nod. “According to Nick he went over whenever he could. She thought he was her uncle. You could see it in his eyes—he loved her. Told me how smart she was. How happy.”

  “Still it’s not your fault. You recognized Metz for what he was and you opted out. You gave Nick fair warning. Would you rather it was Sarah who was without a father right now?”

  “Believe me I’ve thought about that. I thought about what Nick might do in my situation. The four grand a month Nick was paying her mother isn’t there anymore.”

  “And you’re thinking the insurance money?” Harry is already there.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. And when she gets a little older, I suspect she is going to have a lot of questions about her father, who he was and how he died. It might be nice if there were some answers, something beyond the hideous speculation on yellowed newsprint about her dad doing business and dying with a client who was indicted.”