The Arraignment

by Steve Martini

  He looks at me, shiny brown eyes. “Whadda you want to know, man? Tell you what I can.”

  “What do you mean you’re representing him?” Harry is looking at me as if I’m crazy, seated in one of the client chairs across from my desk in the office.

  “I met with him over at the federal lockup late yesterday afternoon and told him I’d take his case.”

  “Why? Did he give you a retainer?”

  “We’ll have to work that out. Ever hear of a drug, street slang, something called Mejicano Rosen?”

  Harry shakes his head. “Heard of Maui Wowee. Hawaiian Sensimilla. It’s the same stuff,” he says. “Potent. And I’ve heard of black tar and white china, angel dust, snow, B.C. bud, baby-T . . .”

  “What’s baby-T?”

  “Another word for crack,” he says.

  “Where did you hear all of this?”

  “Some of us lead less sheltered lives,” says Harry.

  “But you’ve never heard of Mejicano Rosen?”

  “Your Spanish sucks,” says Harry. “Sound like some Jewish dry cleaner in Tijuana.”

  “Do me a favor? See if you can run it down for me?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Start by asking around wherever it is you lead this less sheltered life of yours. Maybe over one of your card games on Thursday night with that vice cop and the deputy D.A.”

  “Oh, right. What am I gonna go over there and yell, ‘Hey guys we have a client running some stuff outta Mexico and we’d like to know what it’s worth’?”

  “Try the library. Take Marta with you. Maybe there’s something on Lexis-Nexis? An article or an appellate case that mentions it.”

  “You’re wasting my time. Why don’t you just ask your client?”

  “Espinoza did the limit. He’s not going to tell me anything more unless he gets awfully lonely in the jail. I get the sense he doesn’t trust me that much.”

  “Can’t understand that. Just cuz you’re trying to pump him for information in a double murder involving a friend without disclosure?”

  “Hey. I’m not even sure he’s going to let me represent him.”

  “Did you happen to mention Nick? Tell him about all the blood on the sidewalk in front of the federal courthouse, the fact that Metz, who was shot with Nick, mentioned Espinoza’s name?”

  “We didn’t have that much time.”

  “I see you were too busy listening.”

  “Lawyer’s job,” I tell him. “Hearing the heartache.”

  “Makes you wonder how they ever came up with the word mouthpiece,” says Harry. “When exactly are you going to break this little tidbit to your client, the fact that you’re hoping he runs in the same circles with the people who killed Nick, so maybe he can give you a reference you can pass along to the cops?”

  “Look at it this way. I could be giving him a wonderful case on appeal. That’s more than the federal public defender can offer. I’ll tell him when it becomes necessary.”

  “Oh, good,” says Harry. “Then maybe they’ll just suspend your license instead of disbarring you. How can you be sure he didn’t have a hand in doing Nick himself?”

  “Your friend with the D.A. said he was under federal surveillance at the time.”

  “He said he thought he was. There’s a difference.”

  “He did admit that he knew the people who pulled the number down in Tijuana, the ones who held up the delivery van and took the visas. Of course he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Of course.”

  “And he gave me a name. First name only.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Some information as to where this person might be found.”

  This does not excite Harry.

  “It could just be coincidence. Espinoza says he was a high roller out of Mexico, flashy dresser. He says the man always had a large roll of cash and he seemed to be calling the shots. His name was Jaime.”

  Harry looks at me out of the corner of one eye. “So?”

  “Metz, that morning in my office, told me one of the Ibarra brothers was named Jaime.”

  “So was Jimmy Stewart,” says Harry. “Maybe they should dig him up and look for visas.”

  I ignore him. “It does beg the question: why he would flop in a flea house like Espinoza’s apartment?”

  “I’ve seen the place. He says this Jaime and some friends stayed with him for a few days. I tried to get a fix on when this was. He said he couldn’t remember exactly, but it was last summer. It was definitely after the van carrying the visas was knocked down in Tijuana. He says these guys must have left some of them behind. Of course, then he fell into his own pit.”

  I can tell by the look that Harry is curious, but he doesn’t want to encourage this.

  “He got his stories screwed up and let slip that some of the visas were supposed to be used for getting stuff across the border. What he called Mejicano Rosen.”

  Harry muses for a moment. “Did you consider the fact that this man deals in flesh? A labor contractor working the Mexican border. Maybe this Rosen is a person? Different kind of contraband,” says Harry. “Besides, what makes you think any of this is true? Dollars to doughnuts, he pulled the trigger on Nick.”

  “No. That he didn’t do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he wasn’t available for the shooting. He was in Mexico.”

  Harry looks at me.

  “Sarah goes to school with a boy whose father works one of the border checks at Immigration. We got to know each other during basketball last season. I called him late last week and told him I had a client, and I needed to know if the man was in the country or not during a period of time. He told me there was no way to check, that they don’t usually take down passport numbers. I told him that on this guy they might, to check anyway. He did. Espinoza used his passport, not a visa, to cross the border at Tijuana four days before Nick was killed. He didn’t return until five days later.”

  “How would they know that?” says Harry.

  “I figured if the information from your friend over cards was accurate, and the feds had Espinoza under surveillance, they’d have him on a ‘watch list’ at the border. They did.”

  I had no intention of getting involved with Espinoza until I could verify that he had no hand in killing Nick. That would have been a little too messy. As it is, I am walking the edge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I’m afraid I have good news and bad news.” Adam Tolt looks at Harry and me across the cavernous ravine formed by the top of his desk.

  He called late yesterday afternoon and wanted to see me this morning. Said it was important but not something he could discuss over the phone.

  Harry’s not letting me out of his sight if it has anything to do with Nick’s death or Dana. He is still invading my private space over my representation of Espinoza.

  “Why don’t you give us the good news first,” says Harry.

  “Our friends at Devon Insurance are getting ready to make an offer of settlement. According to the signal flares they’re sending up, it’s going to be quite generous.”

  “How generous?” says Harry.

  “Three point eight million.”

  “That’s not four,” says Harry.

  “You didn’t expect them to pay the full demand?” says Tolt. “Trust me, this offer was not recommended by their lawyers. Turn it down, and they will circle the wagons and defend the claim for double indemnity.”

  “And who’s supposed to compromise?” says Harry. “We all know where Margaret’s coming from. You tell her to reduce her demand, you better get out of the way, because she’s gonna bounce off the walls like a rubber ball. The whole deal may go away.”

  “I agree,” says Adam. “It looks like your client will have to back off. I did convince the company to forego confidentiality as to the terms of settlement.”

  What Tolt means is that we would be free to publicize the deal.

  “Wh
y would they want to do that?”

  “They didn’t, but I told them it might make their offer more palatable. Of course, you wouldn’t have to publicize it, but you’d be free to. A feather in your cap,” he says.

  This is something most insurance carriers would never give up willingly, details as to the amount of settlement. It tends to make lawyers in other cases more aggressive, especially when the figures climb above six.

  “You have to ask yourself if it is worth litigating for the next decade over such an amount,” says Adam. “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Maybe you should ask Margaret after she stops foaming at the mouth,” says Harry.

  “You haven’t heard the bad news yet,” says Tolt.

  He opens a manila folder on the desk in front of him, a few pieces of paper and a folded spreadsheet.

  “There’s a problem. Not with the insurance settlement. Another matter. The firm’s been conducting an audit since Nick’s death. It’s routine whenever a partner leaves.” He makes it sound like Nick resigned.

  “We review their cases to see what commitments the firm has, examine their client trust records. That sort of thing.”

  Harry and I sit listening.

  Adam covers his mouth with a fisted hand and clears his throat a little. “The problem is we’ve come up light on Nick’s accounting for the client trust fund.”

  It’s the kind of news that tends to drain the blood from your head if you’re a lawyer.

  “Are we talking a minor error in math?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not. It’s out of balance a little more than fifty-seven thousand dollars,” he says.

  “You’re saying Nick invaded the client trust account?”

  “Not exactly,” says Tolt. “All the checks were drawn over the last sixty days.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The checks were drawn after Nick died.” He says. “It appears that someone gained access to blank checks and signed Nick’s name to them. They were drawn to specific amounts in different names and deposited in several banks around town. We’ve checked those accounts. The funds were withdrawn, and the accounts closed all within a few days of the deposits. It appears that whoever did this gave some thought to how it should be done. We can’t get information as to social security numbers for the people receiving these funds because of banking privacy laws, though with a subpoena or a search warrant from the authorities this could be made available. I suspect that whoever did it may have used false employer I.D. numbers or bogus social security numbers, whatever. Of course I can’t be certain of that unless we inquire further. But we do have some of the canceled checks. None of them were endorsed since they were for deposit only, but the signature for the payor is not Nick’s. We do know that. We haven’t yet reported this to the police.”

  “But you’re taking the time to tell us?” I say.

  “Given the circumstances, I thought that it might be best.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The firm has no interest in stirring up a cloud of bad publicity unless it can’t be avoided. It seems your client removed a number of Nick’s personal effects from his office a little over a week after the shooting.”

  “Dana?”

  He nods. “According to one of our senior secretaries, the trust checks were in a drawer in Nick’s desk before Mrs. Rush visited. They were missing after she left.”

  “This is a careful secretary,” says Harry. “How would she know?”

  “Ordinarily she wouldn’t,” says Tolt, “but the police had just removed their yellow tape from Nick’s office door that morning. I’m just guessing, but I suspect that Mrs. Rush had called them to inquire as to when she would be able to collect her husband’s personal effects. The secretary in question, at the firm’s request, conducted an audit of everything in the office that morning, in preparation for boxing it up and reassigning client files.”

  “I see.” Tolt has Dana painted into a corner.

  “It’s an awkward situation,” he says. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to report the discrepancy to the State Bar. It would be good if the money could be restored before that time.”

  Harry and I look at each other, but neither of us says a word.

  “The bar has no jurisdiction over lay persons, and the firm would have no reason to file a criminal complaint once the money is returned. We’d rather not get law enforcement involved unless it’s necessary. Please understand I don’t want to cause any more pain than is absolutely necessary.” The way he says this, the conviction in his voice makes me believe he is telling the truth. If the information is accurate, he’s already gone farther than he should have to protect Dana, and he’s assumed some risk in doing it.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to her,” he says.

  “Did you know this when we met with the carrier?”

  “If I had, I would not have participated,” he says.

  “But you realize the settlement may be the only source from which she can make reimbursement?” I tell him.

  “I’ve considered that. I would not like to put pressure on her to settle on terms you feel are unfavorable. But you have to understand our position as well. If the insurance company were to get wind of this, they would no doubt withdraw their offer.”

  Tolt is right. They would force Dana into court and take their chances there. In the meantime, they know we would have to involve the cops. Criminal charges would be filed against her.

  “You see the problem?” he says.

  I offer him nothing but a painful expression of concession. It’s one of those times when words can only make things worse.

  “And then there is the one final aspect,” he says.

  “Which aspect is that?” says Harry, as if it couldn’t get any worse.

  “I prefer not to go there. I don’t believe it for a minute,” says Adam. “But if the police have to be told about this, given their natural suspicion, an open and unsolved double murder. Well . . .” He cocks his head to one side and shrugs that shoulder.

  “They might wonder whether a woman that desperate for money might not hire somebody to kill her husband for the insurance on his life. Is that it?” I say.

  “As I said, I don’t believe it for a minute.”

  But it does add a whole new dimension. It looks as if Dana will be compromising her share of the settlement whether she likes it or not. If what Tolt tells me is accurate, I have little interest in laying my body on the blocks to push the carrier farther, even if I could.

  “I would ask you to talk to your client and see what can be worked out. And to do it as quickly as possible. Of course, I’ll send you copies of the trust records for your review.”

  I agree to talk to Dana, make no promises beyond that. There’s not a lot of choice.

  “Good. Now that that’s done.” Adam gives up a sigh. You can almost see the tension rise from his body like heat waves. “Not a pleasant task,” he says, “but I had to play the cards I was dealt. I hope you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Have you folks heard anything more about Nick’s death? The police are coming and going here,” he says, “asking questions, but offering no answers.”

  “They’re known for that,” I tell him. “We read the papers. That’s about it.” I don’t tell him about Espinoza. For the time being, those details are best left between Harry and me.

  “Same here.” He shakes his head, takes off his glasses, and settles back into his chair. “You know, what I can’t figure is why would a man like Nick get involved with someone like Metz?”

  He’s not talking about attorney-client relations now, but the partnership, Jamaile Enterprises.

  Following our meeting on the insurance settlement, Adam told me that the cops were probing, questioning some of the partners and staff. They brought up the limited partnership. According to Tolt, who has now turned over every rock in the firm, this is a mystery to all of them.


  “I’ve wondered the same thing. Let me ask you, did the cops ever mention a name, Grace Gimble?”

  He looks at me, then Harry, thinks about this for a second, then shakes his head slowly. “No. Not that I know of. Why? Who is she?”

  “I’m not sure. The name cropped up on the partnership records. One of the original directors.”

  “Probably a secretary. Somebody who was around when they put the thing together. When was this, the formation?”

  “A little over a year ago.”

  He allows this to settle in as he calculates. “Nick was with the firm over three years,” he says.

  “That’s why I thought you might know the name.”

  “I don’t think anyone by that name works for us now, but I could have somebody check personnel records. Assuming we have them that far back.” He makes a note to himself on a pad on his desk, then puts the pen down on top of it.

  “So what we have are two points of contact, this business Nick was involved in and his wife Dana, who was on the arts commission with Metz.”

  “There’s another aspect to this thing,” I say. “Nick tried to hand Metz off to me, before he was charged. He told me the firm had a conflict with Metz, so he couldn’t handle it. Something about some contracts Metz had, that Rocker, Dusha was on the other side of.”

  “I can check. But if we had an adverse interest, how did Nick get around it for the arraignment?” he asks.

  “He told me he disclosed it to Metz, and I assume the other client, and they all waived.”

  “The man seems to keep turning up in Nick’s life like a bad penny,” says Tolt. “We don’t know why or how they got together on business. Does anybody know how Metz got on the arts commission?”

  “Zane Tresler appointed him,” says Harry.

  I look at my partner, surprised at the source of this information and how readily it comes pouring forth.

  “Well, you were getting wrapped around the axle, so I just thought I’d check it out,” he says. “He also appointed your pal, Fittipaldi.”

  “Who is this?” says Tolt.

  “A friend of Dana’s,” I tell him.

  “Dana’s term is up in three years, unless she gets reappointed. Fittipaldi has a year,” says Harry. “Metz had two years when his ticket got punched. Anything else you want to know? It’s the same Tresler as the museum they’re planning downtown. You have heard about that?” he says.