The Arraignment

by Steve Martini

  “No. But contract law is not my strong suit.”

  She drops my hand like a dead fish.

  “Who, who should I get?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know somebody. If it’s money, I can pay,” she says.

  “I thought you were broke.”

  “I can get it.”

  “It’s not just money.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Let me think about it for a few days,” I tell her.

  “Oh, good. Of course. Take all the time you need. You must think I’m awful. I mean to get you involved like this.”

  “What are friends for, right?”

  “I knew you’d help me.” At the moment the friends she’s thinking about all have Grant’s picture engraved on them.

  “Nick must have shared a great deal with you,” I tell her.

  “What?” Her mind is other places.

  “I mean about his work. What he did?”

  “Not really.”

  “From what he told me, the two of you were very close.”

  “Well, yes, we loved each other, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And I’ll bet there was pillow talk.” I look at her. She looks at me. I smile. She blushes.

  “Well, a little.”

  “Good. Then he must have told you about Jamaile Enterprises?”

  She looks at me, a quizzical expression. “No. I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “It’s a corporation—or was until it failed to pay its franchise tax fee.”

  “What does it have to do with Nick?”

  “He was one of the corporate directors.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never heard of it. He never said anything to me,” she says.

  “I thought he might have, since the only other officer in this company was an acquaintance of yours.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Gerald Metz.”

  Her eyes grow dark with this news, pupils shifting as she processes the information. “What? No. He never said a thing.” I can sense questions fulminating in her mind like popcorn over a hot fire. “When did they do this? Did Nick tell you?”

  “Over a year ago, and no, Nick didn’t tell me.”

  If she knows anything, you would not be able to detect it from the expression of confusion on her face. “I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us. Nick told me you met Mr. Metz on the arts commission.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t know. Probably the first meeting I attended,” she says. “Now that you mention it, he seemed to know who I was.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. He just came up and introduced himself. Said, ‘You’re married to Nick Rush, aren’t you?’ ”

  “Then he admitted he knew Nick?”

  “No. I asked him, and he said he only knew him by name. He’d seen it in the paper. That sort of thing. With the kind of clients Nick had, he couldn’t keep his name out of the papers even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.”

  I sit there silently mulling this information. Dana’s not looking at me. Instead her eyes are cast down at the carpet.

  “How did you find out about this, this business thing between the two of them?”

  “The police,” I tell her. “We were able to confirm . . .”

  “The police?”

  “Yes.”

  “They never said anything to me.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to bother you with it.” I can tell this weighs heavily.

  “How did they find out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There’s a long silence as she thinks. “I told them that I had referred Metz to Nick,” she says.

  “Well, as far as you knew at the time, that was the truth. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I can tell from the stark expression this has not been one of Dana’s better days. First the insurance, now the cops with information that her husband had dealings with Metz before she knew him, information that is inconsistent with what she had told them. She has to wonder what they are thinking.

  “How did Metz approach you regarding his legal problems?” I ask. “What exactly did he say?”

  I can tell her mind is already headed in the same direction, trying to reconstruct events. “It . . . it was at a meeting.” Now she’s flustered. Information overload, too much of it disturbing, or maybe she just wants me to think so.

  “I think it was in March. Last spring anyway. He came up to me after the meeting and said he knew that I was married to a good lawyer and that he needed some help with a business problem he was having. I told him my husband did criminal law, and he said that—that’s what he needed.”

  “Did he give you any details about this problem?”

  “Nothing. Just that he had needed a lawyer.”

  “Had you ever talked with Metz before this conversation?”

  “Sure. I mean there’s twenty-eight people on the commission. We meet. We talk. We serve as a clearinghouse for NEA grants in the county. National Endowment for the Arts.”

  “Is there much money involved?”

  “It depends. Some of the grants are large. We’re reviewing one for a new opera house that could involve a few million dollars. Most of them are small individual grants.”

  “How about Metz? Did he usually show up for meetings?”

  “Most of the time. We had talked socially a few times, discussed things. I can’t say that I knew him well.”

  “Do you know how Metz got on the commission?”

  “I assume the same way we all did, by appointment of one of the county supervisors.”

  I consider this as she looks at me.

  “Just out of curiosity, who appointed you?”

  “I knew you were going to ask. The cops did, and I couldn’t remember. How embarrassing,” she says. “But I looked on my appointment papers afterward. It was Supervisor Tresler.”

  “Do you know him?”

  She shakes her head. “Not personally. I mean I may have met him at some function or other. If I did, I don’t remember. I’m not really into politics.”

  I am thinking, “Yes you are, just not the kind where people cast secret ballots.”

  “Then how did you get appointed?”

  “Nick thought it would be good for me. I think he was trying to find something I’d enjoy. It’s not a big deal,” she says. “I mean it’s not one of the best commissions. There are some boards, advisory groups that pay a salary. There’s no compensation for the arts commission. They cover some expenses. Once every year, a small group gets to go to Europe, for meetings with art exhibitors. It’s on a rotating basis. I haven’t had a chance.” She looks down. “I guess now I may not have a chance. I mean I may have to resign and find a job. I don’t know what else I can tell you. You will help me, won’t you?” Dana’s back to my hand again, giving it the squeeze treatment, so that when I stand up I have to stoop over to release her grip.

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll get back to you.”

  With Nick and Metz dead and the cops chasing rainbows looking for the killer, the only viable lead at the moment is the man Espinoza. For the time being, he’s rotting in a federal detention facility downtown, waiting for the federal public defender to have bail set.

  What I’m afraid of, given the vagaries of federal judges, is that some magistrate with a wild hair up his ass might set a figure that Espinoza or one of his associates could match. In which case, they would turn the man loose and Espinoza would disappear in a heartbeat—my last chance to get information.

  So this afternoon I’m sticking my head in the legal lion’s mouth, running and capping, trying to snag him as a client to keep him in jail.

  As I approach the front door, I can hear a television set inside, the zany music and voices of cartoons.

  Over the top of this, a baby is screaming.

  I knock o
n the door. Whoever is inside doesn’t hear it. I check the street number stenciled over the front door one more time. If Miguelito Espinoza’s family or whoever lived here with him hasn’t moved, it’s the right address.

  This time I knock louder. After a couple of seconds, a shadow moves inside through the frosted glass.

  “Who is it?”

  “My name is Paul Madriani.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for the family of Miguelito Espinoza.”

  All I can hear is the sound of the television and a baby crying on the other side of the door.

  “What do you want with them?” The door opens a few inches, safety chained at eye level. A blue eye bounded by some straight, blond, straggly hair peeking through at the level of my chest.

  “Hello.” I beam my most disarming, nonthreatening smile and slip a business card through the opening. She takes it with a hand, trying to hold the baby at the same time while she reads.

  “I’m a lawyer. I think I can help Mr. Espinoza.”

  “You’ve seen Michael? You talked to him?”

  “Are you his wife?”

  She looks at me again but doesn’t answer, then checks the card one more time.

  “He had nothing to do with that stuff,” she says. “I know Michael. He wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Besides he told me when they took him away they had nothin’, no evidence.” She is talking as if I am going to try the case standing here on her front steps, through a chained door.

  “That’s what I thought,” I tell her. “Can I come in?”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “I really don’t want to stand out here and talk about something like this on the front porch. I have some papers for you to sign.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can represent him.”

  Suddenly the door closes. I hear the chain being slid across the brass groove. It opens again, this time all the way. There in the doorway is what can only be described as a child-woman, maybe five-foot-two, a hundred pounds soaking wet. She has long, dirty-blond hair and is wearing a threadbare pair of jeans and a man’s flannel shirt four sizes too large. She is bare footed standing on the dirty carpet inside the door. In her arms she is holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. I cannot see its face. Hers is oval, its features fine, almost birdlike, a drooping mouth that looks as if it has lost the ability to smile.

  “He’s hungry,” she says.

  From the wailing tones issuing from the blanket, there is nothing wrong with the baby’s lungs.

  “What did Michael say? Did he ask about me?”

  I ignore her questions. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” As I step inside, she looks behind me, out toward the street as if maybe she is expecting someone else. Then she closes the door, holds the child in one arm as she turns the bolt on the lock and slides the security chain back into place.

  She turns and crosses into the living room, stepping over articles of clothing, old newspapers and empty soda cans, and what looks like a discarded disposable diaper. There are discolored stains on the carpet that cause me to suspect that pets may have been part of Miguelito’s life at some point. An empty pizza box lies on the middle of the floor, melted cheese hardened like white plastic stuck to its cardboard innards.

  Child-woman reaches for the button on the television. The baby stops crying for a second, then starts up again.

  “He likes the noise of the television,” she says. “Sometimes it quiets him.” She pulls the blanket back and strokes the infant’s head, cradling him in the other arm, as she tries to comfort him.

  “What did he say? Can you get him out of jail? I don’t have any food left in the house,” she says. “Can Michael get some money to me?”

  “Are you his wife?”

  She nods.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Robin. Robin Watkins. Espinoza,” she says. “We were married last summer.”

  “Do you have some proof? A marriage license.”

  “Why should I have to prove it?”

  “It’s necessary if I’m going to represent your husband.”

  “Somewhere,” she says.

  “Can you find it?”

  “Just a minute.” She half runs and skips down the hall, footfalls nearly imperceptible even on the worn pad of this threadbare carpet. I stand near the entrance to the living room surveying the litter on the floor. Against the wall is a sofa that has seen better days, upholstery that has been shredded on one arm. Signs of a cat.

  I hear mother and child rummaging through things in the other room, drawers opening and slamming closed, things dropping on the floor. After a minute or so, I hear her coming back down the hall. Walking this time, quickly but more composed. She straightens her hair with one hand, conscious for the first time that her appearance may be important to her husband’s welfare. She juggles the baby and an envelope in the fingers of the hand cradled under the child. She holds the envelope out and I take it.

  “Can you get him out on bail?” she asks.

  Inside the envelope is a single-page document. I take it out and unfold it. It’s a marriage certificate issued in this county the previous July to Miguelito Espinoza Garza and Robin Lynn Watkins. Robin lists her age as eighteen. I would not want to have to verify this under oath.

  “Can you?” she says. “Get him out?”

  “I don’t know. I need you to sign something.”

  “They wouldn’t let me even talk to him,” she says. “They got him down there in that big building. The tall white one downtown. I went inside and they won’t even tell him I was there.” Her right cheek has a smudge of dirt on it, Little Orphan Annie. “They told me I had to leave or they’d arrest me.” More than likely they’d call a truant officer to pick her up.

  “Do you know if he’s represented by anyone else?” I ask. “The federal public defender?”

  She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head. “Like I said, they wouldn’t tell me nothin’.” She looks at me with big blue empty eyes.

  “How long have you known Michael?” I ask.

  “Why do you wanna know?”

  “It would help to know some background.”

  “We met at the fair up in Pomona. Last summer. I was working one of the kiddy rides and Michael came by. He saw me.” She smiles with thoughts of love at first sight, not looking at me, but off into the distance, kind of dreamy. “We lived together for a while,” she says. “But then Michael said I could get some money from the county if we were married. He wasn’t here a lot so . . . Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I get welfare. It’s for my baby,” she says. “I’m probably not supposed to. But Michael’s not around. He travels. I’m getting worried,” she says, “cuz I got no more money for formula. I spent it. My baby’s hungry.” She’s back to stroking it’s head, kissing the little face lost in the blanket.

  Under my arm I’m carrying a thin leather folder. I open it and take out a single typed sheet I prepared before leaving the office. With a pen I print her name under the signature line at the bottom.

  “This is an authorization and an agreement for legal services,” I tell her. “It allows me to represent Michael. Here.” I hand her the pen. We juggle the baby and I end up holding it while she takes the folder, paper, and pen.

  “Where do I sign?”

  “On the bottom. The line above your name.” I point with one finger from under the baby. It is still screaming, pangs of hunger.

  She doesn’t ask why I need this, if I’ve already seen her husband. Instead when she looks up she says, “How am I gonna pay you?”

  We exchange baby and briefcase. I put the signed paper back inside, then I lift my wallet from the inside pocket of my coat and open it. In the billfold I have four hundreds and some smaller bills. I pull the hundreds out and hand them to her.

  “Here, this is for you. Michael and I will make arrangements. Don
’t worry about it.”

  Her eyes light up. “Get some food for the baby, and groceries for yourself.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mid June and we are huddled in Adam Tolt’s walnut-paneled conference room.

  “Glenda. Adam here. You can show them all in.” Tolt replaces the receiver in its cradle and settles against the high back of the tufted leather chair as he looks at me. We are seated against the glistening surface of the table in the executive conference room that adjoins his office. This is the holy of holies, the place where the firm’s management committee meets quarterly to chart the bottom line, where it doles out bonuses and inducts new partners into the fold, no doubt with secret handshakes.

  “I’m gonna let you handle it,” says Tolt. He’s referring to the negotiations about to start.

  “I’ll just make the introductions, and then if there’s anything I can do . . . well.” He makes an aristocratic gesture, a sweep with the back of one hand you might expect from a Venetian doge. His hand passes over the leather folder with its gold corners and the black Mont Blanc pen resting atop it like a sleek torpedo.

  Tolt’s eyes study the door behind me as the fingers of one hand, adorned by a gold university ring, tap the tabletop in a drumroll one might expect as a prelude to an execution.

  Adam has by instinct taken the place of honor at the head of the table. It is his turf. He does not think much of my chances here today, particularly in light of the intractable positions taken by the two women, Dana and Margaret Rush. Neither is willing to settle for less than two million, the full face amount of the policy on Nick’s life, though I suspect I could cause Dana to buckle if I pushed. I have not shared my arguments with Tolt. I am not sure whether I can trust him. So he will be hearing everything for the first time as I lay it out.

  The door across from me opens, and I look up. Tolt’s administrative assistant plays usher, shepherding them in. The first face through the door is ruddy, red with rosacea, a man about six feet tall, well built, I would guess in his late forties, with close-cropped blond hair, combed over and parted on the left like a prairie banker. He wears a well-turned dark suit, power pinstripes for whatever psychological advantage it might provide. He studies me briefly through searing blue eyes offering nothing but the confidence of his grin, the kind you get from politicians feeling their oats and business types who have climbed over other bodies on the way to the top.