The Arraignment

by Steve Martini

  This car, the size of a boat, once belonged to Nick. Actually it would be more accurate to say that the car possessed him.

  The Lincoln convertible with a folding hardtop that slipped into the trunk was an experiment by Ford. Only four of them were ever made, all handed out to high executives for testing. For whatever reason, production never got off the ground, with the result that the car and its innovations died on the drawing boards.

  Nick picked it up in the early eighties as part of his fees from a client who got caught moving drugs under the folded hardtop in the trunk. This was before the government seized such property.

  The car got more attention than most beauty queens. With the top down it looks amazingly like the presidential limo in which Kennedy was assassinated, and in fact it was used once in a major motion picture to re-create the scene. Nick was sure he had the only remaining vehicle of its kind still on the road. He worshiped it, shrouded and protected it like the Israelites with the Ark of the Covenant. For this reason, Margaret wound her lawyers up and took particular pleasure in stripping it from him in the divorce.

  This I know because each time I met him over drinks or a meal he would revisit this like a slow-mo instant replay of some blindsided, bone-jarring hit in the Super Bowl. Of all the sharp and painful impacts of his domestic crash, the loss of these prized wheels seemed the sharpest and most painful of all. The worst part was that Margaret was driving his big blue baby all over town, refusing to sell it, parking it in tight spaces at the grocery store just to put dents in the doors, so the next time Nick saw it he could count them. Margaret is apparently already here waiting for me upstairs.

  It took three days in Capital City to finish up my business while Sarah stayed with friends. Harry and I can’t seem to let the old office go, so we have subleased most of the space out to two young lawyers and retained a single office for ourselves to share.

  This morning when I get back, Harry is feeling somewhat self-satisfied, having done his measure of good works for the day. We have mailed a hefty check for Dana’s fees, to Nick’s daughter, Laura, along with a letter explaining that the money is from Nick’s estate.

  Harry is also gloating over an article that appeared two days ago in the Trib. It’s a boiled-down version of Adam’s newsletter, crediting us for settling with the carrier. It was the lead on a page-two story reporting that the police still have no suspects in the killings. Newspapers and two television stations have been calling the office asking questions and requesting on-camera interviews. Adam is making the most of the settlement. At this point the press will take anything to fill the news void in a double murder investigation that seems to be going nowhere.

  So far, for some reason, the cops have made no effort to question Espinoza. Why they would ignore him, after Harry’s tip from his friend in the D.A.’s office, I don’t know, but they would have to come through me to get to him, and no one has tried.

  I have asked Susan Glendenin for a meeting with Margaret Rush this morning for one reason. It’s possible that Margaret may have some answers to one of the more puzzling riddles concerning Nick’s last year, his business dealing with Metz.

  I take the garage elevator up to five. When I get there, the office air-conditioning is running on overtime. The city has been in the grip of a record-breaking hot spell for five days, with breezes wafting out of the desert like the Sahara.

  As I enter reception with one finger hooked in the collar of my suit coat, holding it like a sack over my shoulder, I notice that Susan’s door is closed. She is cloistered with Margaret, so after the secretary tells them I am here, I wait a couple of minutes before Susan opens the door.

  She’s cheerful as ever. She has facilitated this meeting out of natural graciousness and because it is the reasonable thing to do. Glendenin is the kind of lawyer who would make courts and judges obsolete if only her opponents would show the same levelheaded good sense.

  “How are you, Paul?”

  “Fine.”

  “Still hot out there?”

  “Like a torch.”

  “How about something cold to drink?”

  “Water sounds great.”

  “Come on in.”

  She orders up some iced bottled water from the secretary, then leads me into her office.

  As I enter, Margaret is seated in one of the client chairs, facing away from me. She doesn’t turn to look or greet me until Susan makes it obvious that to ignore me might be impolite.

  “Margaret, I think you know Paul Madriani?”

  She turns her head, looking down, a tight smile and a nod is all I get. She immediately returns her gaze to the other side of the desk where Susan is now settling into her leather BodyBilt, with its high headrest and custom swivel arms. Lawyers now prize their executive chairs in the way they did their Porsches a decade ago, testing the levers of the air cylinder that control height and the tension of the back support for ride as if they are cruising at light speed toward the new world of geriatrics.

  I take the other client chair and hope that Margaret’s freeze will thaw before my ice water arrives.

  “I have been meeting with Margaret,” says Susan, “and discussing your request. She has agreed to answer whatever questions she can but with certain ground rules.”

  “I see.”

  “She does not wish to talk about the divorce or the property settlement agreement with her former husband. She would also prefer that we not discuss his subsequent marriage, if at all possible.”

  “I understand.” Susan has been able to get this meeting only by telling Margaret that Dana was forced to compromise her position on the insurance settlement. This seems to have touched something profound and gratifying within Margaret: revenge.

  If she knew that Dana forged checks from the firm’s trust account, she would lay rubber with big blue, scorching the asphalt all the way up Broadway to get the news to the cops while it was fresh. No one knows this except Adam and me, along with a few minions in his office who have pledged an oath of silence, collateralized by their careers.

  “Perhaps I should start,” I say. The door behind us opens and the secretary enters with a tray, glasses, and three large plastic bottles of water from the refrigerator each sweating with condensation. I wait until she leaves to pick up the conversation.

  “The questions I have regard what appear to have been business dealings that Nick had during the last twelve to eighteen months of his life,” I say.

  “Then you’re talking to the wrong person,” says Margaret. She’s still not looking at me. I have committed the unpardonable sin of being a friend of Nick’s.

  “Perhaps, but I thought you might have heard something, maybe from others.” What I am gambling on is that her lawyers in the divorce turned over every rock.

  “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  “Have you ever heard of a business entity, a limited partnership or a corporation known as Jamaile Enterprises?”

  She thinks about this, the features of her stern expression softening as mental energy is diverted to firing up the memory cells. “No. I don’t think so. No, wait a minute,” she says. “Yes, once. It was during the divorce.” She breaks her own rule. “My lawyers found out about it. They thought Nick was using it to hide assets from the marriage.”

  “Was he?”

  “No. I really didn’t want to get into this,” she says.

  I look at Susan, who gives me a face, like she wishes she could help but can’t.

  “At least they couldn’t find anything in that company when they looked at it.”

  “Do you remember when that was?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember during the court proceedings whether they asked Nick any specific questions about it?”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the divorce.”

  “It’s an easy question,” says Susan. “Either you remember or you don’t.”

  “Fine. I don’t remember,” she says.

  “Did you e
ver hear the name Gerald Metz used in connection with Jamaile Enterprises?”

  “Wasn’t that the man who was shot with Nick?”

  I nod. She has to look over at me to see this, so we finally make eye contact.

  “Are you telling me they were in business together?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Do the police know this?”

  “They do. Did your lawyers ever look into Mr. Metz to determine who he was and what this business deal might have been?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to talk to them.”

  “I did. They wouldn’t discuss it with me without your written consent.”

  “I’d have to talk to them about that,” she says. Both Margaret and her lawyers are wary of anything having to do with the divorce and in particular the settlement agreement. They are probably worried that Dana might renew arguments that Margaret had no lawful claim to the insurance.

  Susan raises a hand off of the arm of her chair, as if perhaps I shouldn’t press on this any further, that maybe I should move on.

  “Have you ever heard the name Grace Gimble?” I ask.

  With this she looks at me, almost snaps her neck doing it. “What does Grace have to do with this?”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes. She’s a friend,” she says. “One of the few friends we both had. I mean one Nick and I both knew, who maintained a friendship with me after the divorce.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Maybe. But first tell me why you want to know.”

  “Her name shows up on documents creating this limited partnership. The one I told you about. Jamaile Enterprises. Can you tell me who she is? Why her name might be on those documents?”

  She thinks about this for a second, quietly to herself, eyes studying the oak surface of Susan’s desk, perhaps wondering if someone involved with Nick was a friend after all. “That’s easy,” she says. “After Grace retired from the government, she did some private secretarial work. Paralegal, they call it. To make a little money on the side. I know Nick threw some work her way from time to time, before he went to work for the firm. Before we were . . .”

  “I see. Do you know where she lives?”

  “I think so.” Margaret fumbles in her purse and comes up with a small black address book, thumbs through it until she finds Grace Gimble’s address. She reads this to me as I write it on a Post-it note from Susan’s desk.

  “Do you have a phone number?”

  She gives me this as well.

  “Have you talked to her recently?”

  She thinks. “Not for at least a year,” she says. “I suppose she was probably at Nick’s funeral. I wouldn’t know since I wasn’t there.”

  “How did she know Nick?”

  “She was his secretary at the U.S. Attorney’s Office before he left.”

  I stop writing on the little slip and look at her. She can tell this is not what I had expected to hear.

  “She retired about the same time Nick went into private practice. Nick told me she took some paralegal courses and worked out of her house.”

  This would explain her name on the documents forming Jamaile, especially if Nick, for whatever reason, didn’t want them prepared using the clerical staff at the firm.

  Before Margaret can say anything more, Susan’s phone rings. Susan looks at me, rolls her eyes. “I told them to hold my calls.” She picks it up. “Yes.” Eyes looking at me, down at the desk, then she cups her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for you,” she says.

  The only one who knows I’m here is Harry.

  “Do you want to take it in the other room?” she says.

  “No.”

  So Susan moves the phone a little closer and stretches the cord so that I can take it at the edge of her desk.

  “Hello.”

  “Just a moment.” It’s Susan’s secretary. A second later, Harry’s voice comes on the line.

  “Paul.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen, I thought you’d want to know. I just got today’s mail.”

  “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of a meeting,” I tell him.

  “You’re going to want to know what was in it.”

  “Fine.”

  “A substitution of counsel for Espinoza,” says Harry.

  “What?”

  “I thought you’d be interested. Some lawyer named Gary Winston down in National City.”

  “When was this?”

  “Almost a week ago. The notice just arrived in the mail. And that’s not all. Before I wasted your time, I thought I’d check. See if Espinoza is in detention. He’s not.” Harry can tell he has my undivided attention from the silence coming from my end now.

  “There was a bail hearing scheduled yesterday. Bail was set at a million dollars.”

  “Then it’s probably all right,” I tell him. “Unless I’m wrong, and he’s more flush than I think, he couldn’t raise the ten percent fee, the hundred grand for the bond.”

  “Guess again,” says Harry. “He’s been on the street since yesterday afternoon. Are you there?” Harry on the other end, listening to dead air from me.

  “Yes. I’m thinking. Who put up the bond?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to see if I can find out?”

  “Do it.”

  “They may know where he is. At least the address Espinoza gave them.”

  “Let’s hope maybe a bondsman’s watching him.” If they knew what kind of a flight risk he was, they wouldn’t have taken the fee unless they had some guarantee.

  “And Harry . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “See what you can find out about the lawyer, this Winston. Call me on the cell line as soon as you have anything. I’ll be in the car.”

  I pocket the Post-it with Grace Gimble’s address and phone number and apologize to Susan and Margaret for a hasty departure.

  “There’s nothing else you want to ask?” says Margaret.

  “Not right now. I’ll call Susan if I have more questions. Next time we can do it over lunch. My treat.”

  Margaret is not sure what to do with this, whether to say no now or later. She doesn’t say anything. I tell Susan I’ll call her, and I’m out the door.

  Without more information, I am forced to make decisions based on assumptions. Whoever hired the lawyer to spring Espinoza also coughed up his bail. This is a chunk of change. Unless she won the lottery, it wasn’t his wife. Whoever it is wants him out for a reason. And since they dealt directly with the man himself, it had to be someone Espinoza either met or had seen previously. Espinoza may know a hundred people that fit this bill, but the only one I know is the man in the felt hat, the man Joyce told me goes by the name Hector Saldado.

  There’s a little vibration against my leg. It’s coming from the pocket of my suit coat lying on the seat next to me. It’s my cell phone ringing. I fish it out.

  “Hello.”

  “Can you hear me?” It’s Harry.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  “I got ahold of the lawyer, this guy Winston.”

  “Yes.”

  “Says he never met Espinoza before he saw him in court, at the bail hearing. Catch this. The guy’s been admitted to practice for only four months. Says he was retained by phone, a male voice. This person identified himself as Espinoza’s brother. A check for the retainer came by courier a few hours later, along with a substitution of counsel already signed by Espinoza. The kid says he set the hearing. He called it a cakewalk. I got the sense it may have been his first time in court.”

  “Why?”

  “He thought he was doing his client a favor with a million-dollar bail. Apparently he caught the deputy U.S. attorney, the one assigned to bail hearings that day, off guard. The prosecutor asked the court for a quarter million, then looked at the file and realized what he was dealing with. He immediately jumped it to a million, figuring like you that Espinoza couldn’t raise it. The kid tried to knock it down, but the co
urt said no. Espinoza told the kid on the way back to his cell not to worry about it. It wasn’t gonna be a problem. The lawyer says he knows about the bond. He says somebody else must have arranged it.”

  My worst fears. “Did you talk to the bondsman?”

  “He’s out of the office.”

  I’m still hoping that maybe he’s watching his investment, keeping an eye on Espinoza.

  “Where are you headed?” asks Harry.

  “South on I-5,” I tell him.

  “Are you coming back to the office?”

  “No. Listen, what time do you have?”

  “It’s about eleven-twenty,” says Harry.

  “If I don’t call you in one hour, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Call the police in San Diego and give them this address.” I give the address to Harry, so he can write it down and read it back to me.

  “What’s going on?” he says.

  “Just do it.”

  “You want me to have ’em send a squad car?”

  “More than one,” I tell him. “But give me one hour.”

  “You got it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I pull up to the curb under the shade of an old elm tree half a block up and across the street from the old house with its cut-up flats and sagging front porch.

  The large two-story wooden frame house at 408 appears larger and more run-down in daylight. I also notice something that wasn’t there on my last visit, an older model SUV parked in front. The body is boxy and beat-up, primed, but unpainted. Parked on the short gravel drive on the other side of the stairs, its front bumper is into the bushes against the house with the large, aggressive tread of the rear tires sitting halfway onto the sidewalk.

  What catches my attention most, however, is the car’s back window. It’s covered by a piece of wrinkled black plastic, taped and wrapped around the window frame. This vehicle fits to a tee the Chevy Blazer that Espinoza described on my visit with him at the lockup.

  I sit and watch for a few minutes. Signs of life in one of the houses, the one at 408. The front door opens, the screen door pushing out.