“I don’t recall...I mean...I don’t remember the exact figure.”
“That’s fine. I wouldn’t expect a guy who makes as much as you do to remember his salary down to the penny. Just give me your best estimate.”
He pauses. “Around eight million.”
“If you include stock options, wasn’t it more like ten million?”
Fletcher’s hands curl into two white-knuckled balls.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps or yes?” Girlie presses him.
“I said perhaps. I’d need to see my tax return to be sure.”
“No problem. We’ll be requesting a copy very shortly.” She pauses to riffle through the stack of documents on the table in front of her. “And you own a couple of vacation homes, correct?”
This time Fletcher looks at me as if my silence constitutes malpractice. “Yes.”
She hands a piece of paper to me, Fletcher and the court reporter and asks that it be marked as Exhibit One.
“Is that a photograph of your vacation home in Aspen?”
Fletcher’s jaw clinches and he sniffs. “Yeah.”
“What’s the current value of the home?”
Girlie has done her homework. I decide to object, even though if I were in her shoes, I’d be asking the very same questions.
“Objection, relevancy. Like his income, the value of Mr. Fletcher’s vacation home has no bearing on this case nor is it likely to lead to the discovery of admissible evidence. It appears that that your questions are aimed at the paternity case, which is a completely separate matter.”
She pretends as if I’m not there. “Please answer the question, Mr. McClain.”
Fletcher glances my way again.
“You can answer,” I say under my breath.
He grunts. “I haven’t checked the real estate listings lately.”
“Why don’t you give me a ballpark number?”
“A couple million, give or take.”
She hands him another sheet of paper. “Is this your home in Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And how much is it worth?”
“About three million.”
Girlie spends the next twenty minutes or so documenting that my client is a very wealthy man, then makes an abrupt left turn to the crux of her case.
“When was the last time you had sexual relations with my client?”
Fletcher sits more erect in his chair. “February of last year. A week before Valentine’s Day.”
A week? During our prep session, he’d said it was two weeks before Valentine’s Day. That minor discrepancy raises my antennae. Did he forget or is he intentionally lying. And if so, why?
“Are you sure about that timeframe, Mr. McClain?”
“Absolutely.”
“So is it your testimony that you did not have a sexual encounter with Bliss Fenton on April twenty-seventh of last year?”
Now my radar is on full alert.
Fletcher pauses for much longer than he should have. “Not that I can recall.”
Girlie cocks her head to the side, causing her silky hair to fall across her right shoulder. “So is it your testimony that it’s possible you did have sexual relations with Ms. Fenton on April twenty-seventh, but you can’t recall for sure?”
Fletcher presses his right fist into the opposite palm. “I didn’t have sex with her after we broke up in February.”
Bliss interrupts Girlie’s flow by whispering into her ear.
Fletcher is looking more and more distressed. I place my hand on his forearm. He instantly understands my subtle signal and his fingers unfurl.
The fact that Girlie asked him about a specific date concerns me. But then again, Girlie would do something like make up a date solely to get under Fletcher’s skin. Anyway, it would be Fletcher’s word against Bliss’.
“Mr. McClain, did you always reach an orgasm when you had sex with Ms. Fenton?”
Fletcher locks his arms across his chest. “Yes.”
“Every time?”
“Yeah. That was the point.”
“Did you use a condom when you had sexual relations with Ms. Fenton?”
“Always.”
“And after you reached an orgasm, what did you expect would happen with your semen?”
“What do you mean what did I think would happen?”
“Objection vague and ambiguous,” I interject. “Maybe you could rephrase the question, counselor.”
“Just answer my question to the best of your ability, Mr. McClain.”
“I didn’t expect her to steal it and inseminate herself,” Fletcher says. “That’s for sure.”
“But what did you think would happen to it?”
“I expected that the condom and my semen would be disposed of.”
“How?”
“Either flushed down the toilet or placed in the trash and left there.” He’s glaring at Bliss who’s now glaring right back.
“Do you have any evidence that Ms. Fenton—as you claim in your complaint—stole your semen?”
“Yep. That kid is all the evidence I need.”
“Any other evidence?”
He takes a moment to think. “No.”
“So you never saw Ms. Fenton take one of your used condoms?”
Fletcher grimaces, clearly not wanting to concede this point. “No. That’s not something I tend to look for after getting off.”
“Did you ever ask Ms. Fenton if she took your semen?”
“Why would I? Only a psycho would do that.”
Girlie turns to me. “Counselor, would you please direct your witness to answer the question?”
Before I can say a word, Fletcher responds. “No. I never asked her or any other woman if they stole my sperm.”
“You’ve alleged a claim for intentional infliction of emotional distress. Please describe what kind of mental anguish you’ve suffered.”
I’ve prepared Fletcher for this one as best as I could. His claim for emotional distress is admittedly weak.
“Well,” he begins, “knowing that a psycho I didn’t want to be with had intentionally brought a child into the world without my consent has caused me lots of sleepless nights. As a result of the lack of sleep, sometimes I can’t concentrate in meetings and I’m also losing weight.”
I hand Fletcher a note telling him to stop referring to Bliss as a psycho. He merely rolls his eyes.
“How many days of work have you missed because of your lack of sleep?”
Fletcher bites his lip. “None.”
“Have you missed any days because you can’t concentrate?”
“No.”
“And how much weight have you lost?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you give me an estimate?”
“At least ten pounds.”
“Over what period of time?”
“Since I received your client’s paternity petition.”
“How much do you weigh now?”
“One ninety-five.”
“And how much did you weigh the day before you received the petition?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you have any photographs of yourself that might show that you lost weight during this period?”
“I’m not sure.”
Girlie turns to me. “Counselor, I’d appreciate it if you could have your client produce photographs of himself before and after he received my client’s paternity petition.”
“I’ll have him look,” I say, though I already know Fletcher doesn’t have any.
“Have you been under the care of a psychologist or psychiatrist to help you deal with your mental anguish?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Are you taking
any medication for your mental anguish?”
“No.”
“When you had sex with my client on April twenty-seventh, who initiated it?”
“I didn’t—”
Fletcher starts to respond at the same time I step in to object.
“Objection, asserts facts not in evidence. Mr. McClain testified that he didn’t have sex with Ms. Fenton on that date.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” There’s not an ounce of sincerity in her voice. “I’ll rephrase. The last time you had sex with my client, who initiated it?”
“I don’t remember.”
Fletcher told me he initiated it. Did he suddenly forget? Once we received the deposition transcript, he’d have a chance to correct any errors in his testimony, but I’d prefer to get it right the first time.
“Did Ms. Fenton ever force you to have sex with her?”
He pauses. “No.”
Girlie looks down at her notes, then up at Fletcher. “I have no further questions, Mr. McClain. Thank you for your time.”
I’m stunned that Girlie has ended the deposition so quickly.
She catches my eye. “Can we stipulate that—”
“Excuse me, but I have a few questions for the witness.” I turn sideways to face him. “Mr. McClain, did you and Ms. Fenton ever discuss having a long-term relationship?”
“Yes, multiple times.”
“Tell me about those discussions.”
“She kept whining about wanting a commitment. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. She was a lot of fun, but she wasn’t the type of girl you marry.”
His last statement is an adlib that hits its mark. Bliss’ cheeks flush bright red and her nose twitches.
“Did you ever discuss having a child with her?”
“Yes, I specifically told her I did not want a kid.”
“And what did she say when you told her that?”
“She said fine. That she already had two kids and didn’t want another one.”
“Did she tell you she was taking the pill?”
“Yes, she did. And I still wore a condom to make extra sure that she didn’t get pregnant.”
“Did you ever give Ms. Fenton permission to take your sperm from a used condom?”
“No, I did not.”
I smile over at Girlie. “I have no further questions.”
Ten minutes later, we’re walking out of the conference room. Fletcher holds his tongue until we’re almost at his car.
“That didn’t feel right in there. What do that psycho and her conniving lawyer have up their sleeves?”
“You tell me.”
“Why was she asking me what I intended to do with my sperm?”
“She’s probably going to argue that if you intended your sperm to be thrown away, it didn’t matter that Bliss took it.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I agree, but it could knock out the conversion claim.”
Now it’s my turn to ask a few questions.
“Girlie mentioned a specific date in April. What was that about?”
Fletcher refuses to meet my eyes and starts scrolling through his phone. “Beats me.”
“Fletcher, I don’t like surprises. If you’ve been withholding something, now’s the time to level with me. I can’t properly represent you if I don’t have all of the facts.”
“I didn’t have sex with her after we broke up in February, okay? She stole my sperm and inseminated herself just so she could extort me and cause all of this drama.”
I look him in the eye, hoping for some telltale sign of whether he’s telling me the truth.
He raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
There isn’t a lawyer alive who hasn’t run across a client who wasn’t completely forthcoming. My experience and instincts are sounding multiple alarms, warning me that my rich, arrogant client is hiding something.
My husband is absolutely right about Fletcher Douglas McClain. Not only is he lying to me, he probably just lied under oath.
CHAPTER 38
Special debated with herself for a good hour about how to best approach Martin Zinzer. She could bum rush him leaving his office. Or better yet, catch him returning from his next lunchtime tryst with Bliss. She finally decided on an email as her initial outreach. Less confrontational, but more ominous than an ambush in broad daylight.
She found Zinzer’s email address on his law firm’s website.
Dear Mr. Zinzer,
My name is Special Moore and I’m employed by a private investigations firm working on behalf of a client who’s currently in litigation against Bliss Fenton. A copy of my client’s fraud complaint against Ms. Fenton is attached. Please note that I have redacted my client’s name from the complaint to conceal his identity.
I’d like to speak with you regarding your relationship with Ms. Fenton. If you’re willing to answer a few questions, I will agree to keep what I already know about your relationship with Ms. Fenton private.
Special left her telephone number and asked Zinzer to either call or email her with a time and place that he would be available to meet with her. Interviewing him on the telephone wouldn’t do. She needed to look into the man’s eyes to get a true sense of what was really going on.
Based on what she could find about him on the Internet, Special pegged Zinzer as a classic type A: driven, focused and anal. He likely rose each morning by four or five, ran a few miles or hit the gym, and arrived at work no later than seven. So she sent her email at 6:45 a.m.
She assumed that Zinzer’s reply, when it came, would not be via email. A man like Zinzer might even be too paranoid to call her from his own phone and would buy a throwaway. If he needed to later deny having spoken with her, he would not want a paper trail.
When Special received a call from a blocked number at 7:32 a.m., she knew she’d pegged her target correctly.
“What’s this about?” Zinzer didn’t bother to offer any kind of greeting or confirm that he was indeed talking to the right person.
“I’m assuming you read the complaint.”
His silence acknowledged that he had.
“I’d like to meet with you in person.”
“For what?”
“I’d like to know what kind of arrangement you have with Bliss Fenton?”
“You must be mistaken. I don’t have any kind of arrangement with her.”
His snippy retort told Special he was not a man used to being questioned about anything, much less his personal life. But Zinzer was at Special’s mercy. Not the other way around.
“You met Ms. Fenton at the Bonaventure Hotel around lunchtime a week ago today. I need to understand the nature of your relationship to assist my client with his litigation. If you deliver, his attorney won’t need to subpoena you to testify at trial. We just need enough information to spring on her during her deposition.”
Special wanted to pat herself on the back for her professionalism. She almost sounded like a lawyer herself. But if she had to, she would and could go hood on him.
Look, I know you’ve been screwing Bliss on a regular basis. I just wanna know for how long and how much it’s costing you. So I suggest you cut the act and talk to me. Otherwise, I might decide to tell your wife and law partners about your little lunchtime hokey pokey.
Silence. Special figured he was weighing his options. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any.
“That’s fine, Mr. Zinzer. We’ll do it by the book. You should expect to receive a deposition subpoena in the next couple of days.”
Special hung up the phone and started counting out loud. “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...”
When her phone rang, she did a quick fist pump. Dang, I’m good.
Zinzer agreed to meet her at Demitasse Brew Bar in Little Tokyo, which was dow
ntown, but a good distance from his office. He recklessly screwed Bliss at a hotel just across the street, but took added precautions to make sure none of his colleagues caught him chatting it up with her.
Special had to fake a migraine to get off work early. Just after three that afternoon, she drove through the epicenter of what used to be L.A.’s Skid Row. Now the homeless had been pushed further east and the area resembled a neighborhood that hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be retro or trendy.
Special was already waiting for Zinzer when he arrived. She’d expected anger, but his face bore nothing but resignation.
“Is the stuff in that complaint true?” he asked, even before taking a seat.
“Yep.”
“That’s crazy. I can’t believe Bliss did that.”
“I hope you’ve been disposing of your own condoms. We believe Bliss froze my client’s sperm and waited a year later, when he was happily engaged to another woman, to spring her pregnancy on him.”
The glassy look in his eyes told me he had not.
“Bliss has two other kids. My client is her third victim. You could well be number four.”
His rubbed his forehead. “I need some coffee.” He stood up and went to the counter. Rather than returning to our table, he waited at the counter while his latte was being prepared.
“If I talk to you, how can I be sure I won’t be called to testify at trial?” he asked, when he returned.
Special wanted to lie, but this wasn’t a situation where she needed to. “You can’t be. But you need to know that a man like my client doesn’t want a trial. He’s the CEO of a major corporation. He doesn’t want the publicity any more than you do. So far this case hasn’t been picked up by the media. We just need enough information to use against Bliss during her deposition so the case settles and there is no trial.”
Zinzer took a sip of coffee and stared over Special’s shoulder out of the window. She suspected he was imagining the worst case scenario. That is, how his involvement in this case could wreck his family life, and maybe even his legal career.
“As I said, the last thing my client wants is a trial.” Special knew she needed to hammer this point home to get Zinzer to talk. “But my client has a net worth of almost half a billion dollars. He offered her fifteen grand a month in child support. But her attorney wants over eighty grand a month. And it’s not out of the question that a court would give it to her.”
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