An Accidental Life (15 page)

Usually a glance at the busy river would have made him feel good, like he was on top of the world. But nothing—not the impending trial, not the colorful river traffic, not thoughts of the baby, nor of Positano and Rebecca, none of that pulled his attention from Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint.

With resolution he turned his eyes back to his desk and looked at the files that Molly had stacked on the corner of his desk last week before he’d left for Italy, cases to be closed and sent downstairs to the archives. Work that would keep him busy without requiring much thought. Pulling the files toward him, he picked up the one on top and set it down before him. Nothing went into archives until he’d reviewed the file and signed and dated it.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, Molly’s line. Her voice was grim. “Did you forget the bail hearing this morning?”

He started, and then groaned. Glancing at his watch he saw that he had ten minutes to get downstairs to the courtroom.

“I’ve pulled the file,” Molly said. “You’ve got Judge Benson.”

“Thanks.” Peter hung up the phone and headed for the closet for his jacket. Slipping it on, he hurried through the door.

Across town, in the conference room on the eighteenth floor of Mangen & Morris, Rebecca leaned back in her chair, balancing a pencil between her fingertips as she listened to Case Roberts, the Chief Operating Officer of Roberts Engineering, describing the company’s problem. Beside her sat Bill Brightfield, a senior partner in litigation with Mangen & Morris. Roberts was interested in investing in a gold mine, Nevada Auriel, located in the Sierra Madres just over the California border in Nevada. But Auriel was involved in some ongoing litigation that worried him. He wanted Brightfield’s opinion on the potential liability in that lawsuit, and he wanted Rebecca to head up the joint venture team if he moved forward.

Case Roberts looked like he’d just ridden out of the Sierra Madres and hadn’t quite settled into city life yet. He’d worn a suit for this meeting, but when Rebecca first met him at a party thrown by some of Peter’s friends, he’d worn old jeans, albeit with an expensive looking white dress shirt, and cowboy boots. His hair was brown, with flecks of gray, and his skin was tan and weathered and his eyes held a permanent squint from looking into the sun. Thick gray brows bristled over his eyes. She could almost see the dust rising up around him when he’d introduced himself at that party.

“Don’t let the simple name fool you,” Brightfield had said. “Roberts Engineering is a holding company for a conglomerate of subsidiaries. That group’s always looking for the next acquisition. Good management, sharp investments. They own copper and silver mines all over the world, some natural gas pipelines, offshore drilling rigs in Norway, South America, and here in the Gulf.”

So she should be thrilled right now. She was the billing partner on a new transaction for a large company that could—if she handled things right—turn into a long-term client. She should be sitting on the edge of her seat right now, wheels spinning in her head pumping out ideas, questions . . . she should be flashing her smile and controlling the conversation.

But now that she and Peter were home and back at work, she’d begun wrestling with the problem of the career woman’s eternal conundrum, how to work full time and raise a child. She was certain that she was carrying a little girl—a woman’s instinct, she’d decided. For fun, privately, she called her daughter Daisy. But Amalise was right. She would have to make some choices.

So now, instead of the excitement she should be feeling at this meeting, the shining star that was Rebecca was suddenly in danger of collapsing in upon itself.

Case Roberts was looking at her. She forced herself to tune back in. “The strike was unexpected,” he was saying. “We’re a little worried about that, too. Already got our geologists on it.”

“You’re worried about the assays? Salting?” Brightfield tapped his pen lightly on the yellow legal pad on the table before him.

Warren Williams, the chief financial officer, chimed in. “We just want to make certain they’re clean. The company’s planning to list the shares soon and then make the announcement. If we’re going to invest, we’ve got to move quickly.”

“They’re listing on the penny exchange?” Rebecca asked.

“Yes.” Roberts frowned. “So we’ll need the due diligence handled quickly. We’d like you both to handle this preliminary work personally, though—especially on the litigation, Bill.” His eyes stopped on Brightfield. “We’ll need your analysis of the lawsuit before we make a move.”

He leaned across the table, looking at both of them. “Once we’ve heard back from the two of you, we’ll make the decision. If we go forward, we’ll need to have the purchase agreements drafted right away. We’ll finance the purchase. It’ll be a rush project. Our bank group’s already been notified.”

This is what Rebecca loved, a fast-paced, interesting transaction. “That’s not a problem,” she said. All thoughts of babies and her career disappeared for the moment. She didn’t know a thing about mining, but she could learn. She loved finding out how different companies worked, their operations, their products, learning how management solved problems.

Warren Williams pulled a small stack of papers from a file on the table before him and handed these around. “These will familiarize you with our corporate structure.”

Rebecca looked at the chart, a matrix of companies below the parent company at the top—Roberts Engineering. As Warren began explaining the organization, she picked up a pen and began taking notes. She realized the meeting would extend into the evening. Beneath the table she rested her hand over the baby. She’d call Peter and let him know. Meanwhile, Rose Marie could order dinner for the group in the conference room tonight. And she’d have to cancel that follow-up appointment with Dr. Matlock, too, she supposed. Guilt pricked her at that last thought.

But she smiled and picked up the new file that Warren tossed across the table. Time was ticking for the company, but it was also ticking for her.

It was ten o’clock at night and the meeting with Case Roberts and Warren Williams had just concluded. Feeling exhausted, Rebecca had returned to her office for her purse. Once Brightfield finished his analysis and gave the go sign—if he did—this transaction would move forward quickly. She pulled the purse from the desk drawer and slung it over her shoulder, then stood.

“Got a minute?”

Standing behind the desk, she turned to see Brightfield in the doorway. “Sure,” she said.

He carried a thick file folder under his arm as he walked in and lowered himself into the chair before her desk. Then he looked at her. “Ever hear that old saying—Mark Twain said it, I think—a gold mine’s just a hole in the ground with an idiot on top?”

She laughed. “Warren said they’d be sending boxes over tomorrow. I’ll go through them first and send anything pertinent up to you.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. Congratulations. You’ve brought in a good client, maybe a real keeper.”

“I hope so. Thanks for your help, too, Bill.” Her eyes touched on the file folder.

“Glad to oblige,” he drawled, sweeping his hand toward her. “I’m here to collect, though.”

“Collect?”

“Quid pro quo.”
He grinned and tilted back the chair. “I need some help. I’ve got a proposition for you, Rebecca.”

She sat back, clasping her hands over her middle, suppressing a sigh. This was all she needed now, more work. But she smiled and said, “Okay. Shoot.”

“I want you to write an appellate brief on a case I’ve been working for two years.” As she opened her mouth, he held up his hand. “Hear me out. Just hear me out.”

She would hear him out, of course. But she knew nothing about writing an appeal.

He told her about his case that had just gone through trial. A verdict had been rendered against the firm’s client, an energy company charged with fraudulent pricing. Daisy chains, they called it. When he’d finished talking and the room went silent, she leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped under her chin.

“Look, I’d like to help you out, Bill. But I don’t think I’m who you need. I’ve never written an appellate brief in my life.”

He shook his head as he lifted the file and plunked it down on the desk. “You’re smart, Rebecca. I know your work, and I know that you can do this. You write better than most lawyers in the firm.

He leaned back in the chair. “Listen, there’s an opportunity here for someone with foresight and talent. The firm’s got no one specializing in appellate work. I’ve seen what you can do, the way you dig into things . . .” He flicked his wrist toward the file, now before her. “You have, what some might call, a convoluted mind. But I like how you work things out, and that sort of thinking is what I need to clarify the issues in this case.”

“Bill, I don’t have the time right now.”

“You’re just what the firm needs, Rebecca. Someone smart, young enough to stick around for a while, and if you like it . . . perhaps develop an expertise.”

She looked at him, stunned. He was talking about pure research and writing. She was a transactional lawyer. She loved dealing with people, clients. That was her milieu.

“Anyway,” he added, heading for the door. “Give this one a crack. One good turn deserves another. If I’ve got to trudge around those mountains in Nevada looking for a gold mine, the least you can do is help me out on this.” At the doorway he paused and turned, one brow arched high. “Correct?”

“Sure,” she said. Raymond had been right; she was on the bottom of a whole new food chain.

When he’d gone, she dropped her head and groaned.

17

When Peter arrived home that night,
as soon as he opened the front door he knew that the house was empty. When Rebecca was home, every light in the house was on. He glanced into the study to his left, at the overstuffed chair that she usually occupied near the fireplace and the handy table, with a good reading light.

With a flash of disappointment, he walked on through the living room and into the kitchen, switching on lights as he went. He opened the refrigerator door and stood before it for a moment, inspecting the contents. Then he pulled out a package of ham, and jars of mustard and mayonnaise, and the loaf of bread that Rebecca insisted on keeping in the refrigerator instead of on the counter. He disliked cold bread. He stuck two pieces of the bread into the toaster, put the rest back into the refrigerator, and pulled a plate down from the cabinet overhead.

When he’d put it all together, releasing a long sigh, he sat down by the window and picked up the sandwich. He bit into it and chewed, gazing at nothing as the images he’d bottled up until this moment slowly emerged.

He’d managed to push aside thoughts of Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint since he’d left his office for the hearing that morning. As usual he’d spent most of the day in court on one thing or another, working his way through the docket. He often thought of his caseload as a train rattling down the track, cases up for trial soon were in the first car, those still in preliminary proceedings and investigation and motions and depositions and negotiations were in the other cars, each according to their schedules.

Glory Lynn Chasson’s case was still in the caboose and he shouldn’t be spending so much time on it right now. She’d made a complaint and Mac was leading the investigation. The investigation would take awhile. But still he couldn’t banish those autopsy photos from his mind. What on earth was happening at that clinic?

He shook his head at the entire range of legal possibilities raised by an accidental life and bit into the sandwich again. Never in his wildest imagination had he considered the possibility that an infant could survive an abortion. In fact, he reflected, he’d bet that no one on the Supreme Court when
Roe v. Wade
was decided nine years ago had ever contemplated this situation.

The telephone rang. He lifted the receiver and heard Mac’s voice on the other end. In the background he could hear clattering dishes, the hum of conversation, some laughter, music from a jukebox.

“Listen, I’m over here at Cisconi’s with someone you should meet,” Mac said. “Come on over. I’ll buy you a pizza.”