Corrupt Practices (21 page)

“We’re on board with it, Professor,” Jonathan says. “Right, Kath?”

She shrugs, which for Kathleen is the equivalent of a resounding
yes
.

“There’s something the two of you could get started on right away,” I say. “The Assembly holds weekly orientation meetings at its Grand Temple downtown. A way to recruit new members. I’d like the two of you to attend one. Let me know what the Assembly’s preaching these days.”

“How would that help the case?” Kathleen asks.

“It’s important to know your enemy. If this goes right, we’re going to put the Church of the Sanctified Assembly on trial.”

“Gotcha,” Jonathan says.

“Isn’t it . . . is it dangerous?” Kathleen says. “I mean, these Assembly people—”

“I wouldn’t worry. This is a public orientation meeting we’re talking about. A sales pitch. They won’t know who you are.”

Kathleen glances at Jonathan and actually smiles. “Should we . . . should Jon and I act like a married couple or something?”

“So, I’m not really comfortable with that,” he says. Kathleen twists sideways and hits him in the shoulder. She’s smiling, but he winces. It seems that she’s not so timid where their romance is concerned.

“I meant the lying,” he says.

“Don’t ever lie,” I say. “That doesn’t mean that you volunteer information or put your name on a mailing list. But always tell the truth.”

“So we just walk in and listen?” Jonathan says.

“Not just walk in. Arrive separately and sit separately. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the people putting on the program. Only one of you should take notes.”

They leave. I linger in the classroom for a while and then go out into the plaza, stopping at the campus food truck to buy a roast beef sandwich and bottled water. I find an empty table and sit down. It’s an overcast day, so gray that it feels as if the city is suffering from a kind of urban hangover. Before I can unwrap my sandwich, I see Lovely hurrying across the plaza. She doesn’t see me, or if she does, she ignores me. She’s dressed for work in one of her conservative business suits and a cotton blouse, in theory loose-fitting enough to hide her curves, but in practice an utter failure at that task. She’s pulled her blonde hair back in a low chignon. Although it’s only cold by LA standards—the temperature must be in the low sixties—she’s wearing leather gloves and a bright carrot-orange scarf. I watch her disappear into the building.

Just as I force down the last of my sandwich, she comes out of the building. She stops and scans the grounds until she sees me. She primps the bun in her hair and walks over, her stride purposeful. Only when she reaches the table do I see how somber she is.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” she says. “But we have to talk.”

“Yeah. Sure. Take a chair.”

“No. Not here. Can we go somewhere private?”

We walk in silence to the still-empty classroom. She removes the scarf and the gloves and stuffs them in her backpack. She sits down in a chair, and with that demure reflex that women have when they feel exposed, stretches the hem of her skirt over her knees.

I lean against the conference table and cross my arms. “Listen, let me save us both some embarrassment. What happened Friday night was—”

“Don’t! Just listen to what I have to say.”

“I’m listening.”

She bows her head. A deep intake of air makes her chest heave. She lets her breath out slowly and says, “When Lou Frantz offered me a job as an associate at his firm, I accepted on the spot. I didn’t consider interviewing with the big downtown firms or applying for a judicial clerkship or talking to any of the boutiques that recruited me. I said yes to Lou’s offer because it’s my dream job. I’m sure you know Lou’s reputation. Great trial lawyer, huge ego, a real shark, borderline ethics. A
cut-you-off-at-the-knees
lawyer. All true. But he’s been great to me. As a boss and mentor. After he saw that I was a good paralegal, that I loved trial work, he encouraged me to go to law school. He wrote letters of recommendation, and not just for St. Thomas More, but for a lot of schools, more prestigious, but I knew he wanted me to come here—he graduated from here—so when I got admitted, I accepted. Because of him.”

She clearly feels about Frantz the way I felt about Harmon Cherry. She takes my hand. “Parker, the Assembly has hired Lou to represent them in their lawsuit against the Baxter estate. And . . . and they know that I’ve been helping you out on it. I found out Saturday night. Lou called me shortly before you did. I mean, I know coincidences happen, but this—”

I jerk my hand away. “You don’t get it, do you? It wasn’t a coincidence. The Assembly obviously found out about your father’s little investigation and decided to become proactive where you’re concerned. So they hire the top trial lawyer in the state and at the same time conflict you out from working with me.”

“There’s no way. Dad swore that—”

“What? That those people are untraceable? He actually believed his wise-guy friends are better connected than the Church of the Sanctified Assembly?”

“Those people are—”

“These aren’t the 1950s. Your father’s over-the-hill Mafia buddies are dwarfed by a machine like the Assembly. The Assembly has the aura of legitimacy and the power of its false gods and the protection of the First Amendment. Something Ed Diamond’s so-called
friends
never had.”

She averts her eyes.

“Their investigation has been thorough,” I continue. “It always is. They must know how much I need your help.”

I wait for her to meet my gaze, and when she doesn’t, I understand why she’s here, and the truth lacerates my gut. I struggle to speak in an even tone. “You and Frantz want Raymond Baxter to waive the conflict of interest so your law firm can represent the Assembly even though you’ve worked for our side. Have I got it right?”

She looks at me through vacant eyes. We stare at each other in silence until I notice her chin quiver ever so slightly.

“You know what?” I say. “You’ll get your conflict waiver. I’ll get Raymond to approve. But there’s one thing I won’t give you and Frantz. I will never agree to let you work for the Assembly against me on this case. That I will not do. And I trust you won’t tell Frantz what you know.”

“Why would you agree to any of it?”

“Because a scorpion like Frantz doesn’t turn down a chance to represent a major client like the Assembly. Especially when he thinks he might recover a multimillion dollar contingency fee. It’s not in his nature. So if it’s a choice between you and the Assembly, he’ll pick the Assembly, no matter how loyal or kind he’s been to you in the past. Am I right?”

She gives a slight nod of her head.

“Well, I’m not going to let my lawsuit get you fired. I’m not going to be the one who destroys your dream. And in the long run, it doesn’t matter who represents the Assembly, does it? Because I’m going to win the case and I’m going to get to the truth.” I gesture toward her backpack. “I’m sure you and Frantz have already prepared the waiver letter. Let’s get this over with. I’ll get Baxter to sign it by the close of business hours.”

She stands and rummages through her bag until she locates a piece of paper, which she pulls out of a file folder with trembling hands. Even from a few feet away, I can see the letterhead bearing the words
The Louis Frantz Law Office
, the overblown embossed lettering a testament to the extreme narcissism of her boss.

The persistent white noise of the heater has stopped for the moment. We stare at each other in absolute silence. I reach out to take the document from her, but instead of handing it to me she pulls it away and briefly shuts her eyes.

“Oh, fuck it,” she says, and to my astonishment crumples the letter up with a deft motion of her fingers. The crinkling sound reverberates like percussive explosions.

I gape at her.

“I can use the extra free time to study for the bar.” She tries to force a grin, but her raspy voice reveals her true emotions.

“I will not let you throw away your future. Not over a lawsuit.”

“
You’re
not letting me do anything. It’s my decision. I’m not going to be Lou’s pawn. I decided a long time ago that I won’t be any man’s pawn.”

“But your income. In this economy you can’t just—”

“My father—”

“Even so, you can’t just quit your job. Not because of me.”

“You know, I promised myself years ago I’d be independent, that I’m no kid and shouldn’t be leeching off my father, but I guess . . . I guess quitting my job is another kind of independence. And as for the other, I can get hired as an associate anywhere. Somewhere just as good.” She squeezes the wadded ball of paper hard and lets it drop. As soon as it hits the floor, her entire body slackens. She shrinks into herself like a forlorn child.

I take a step forward and embrace her. She encircles my waist with her arms, nestles her head in my shoulder, and starts sobbing. The palms of her hands press tightly against my back. She smells of orange blossoms and ginger, the scent so faint that it seems more like a memory of a fragrance. The only sound in the room is her crying, strangely melodious, a dirge for her newly buried plans.

The door latch disengages with a mechanical
click
. We both stiffen and jump back from each other just before Manny Mason walks into the room. Lovely turns her back on him for a moment and uses the heels of her hands to wipe away the tears. I lean back on the table, a bit of stage business designed to make me look casual.

He stands by the door glaring down at me from his considerable height. He’s carrying a leather file folder under his arm.

“Hey, Manny. Do you need this room?”

“I’ve been looking for you. Jonathan Borzo said you might be in here. We’ve got a major problem.”

Manny must have seen us hugging. I glance at her. She’s glowering at him, daring him to mention the embrace.

He reaches into his folder and pulls out a section of a newspaper.

“Today’s
Times
,” he said. “Page one of the
Local
section.”

Lovely moves in close to look over my shoulder. Her breasts brush against me, and even with Manny here, I feel a surge of heat. Then I see the headline:

Professor and Student at Catholic Law School Defend Child Pornographer.

The article was written by Brandon Placek of the
Times
. His story asks why a Catholic institution like St. Thomas More would let a teacher and student defend a child pornographer as part of a class assignment, especially in light of the ongoing revelations about Catholic priests abusing children. Placek goes out of his way to emphasize that one of Tyler’s stories involves a sexually depraved priest and nun. The article uses the hot-button words—
graphic
,
torture
,
sexual abuse of young children
.

Manny spends the next twenty minutes interrogating us. During our law firm days, he never took a deposition, but now his questioning is masterful. It feels as if Lovely and I are the ones on trial. Manny doesn’t like what he’s hearing. When I describe Tyler’s stories, he utters a rare expletive.

As distraught as Lovely was before Manny came in, she rallies when he questions our judgment in taking on Tyler’s defense. She insists that she won’t abandon Tyler to an implacable government that wants to trample on the First Amendment, even if it means expulsion from school. Lovely is one of those people for whom conflict provides an odd kind of solace.

“It sounds like a legitimate case,” Manny says. “We’ll see what the powers-that-be say. Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d get a First Amendment law firm involved.”

Instead of thanking him, Lovely says, “I’m not giving this case up to another firm, Dean Mason. It took me forever to win Tyler’s trust. She won’t want anyone else. And she won’t need anyone else. We’re going to get this case dismissed.”

Manny shrugs like Harmon Cherry used to when he disagreed with our judgment but had decided to let us sink or swim.

Lovely heads off to her afternoon class. Manny walks with me across the plaza. When we reach the parking lot, he says, “I’m going out on a limb for you, Stern. It’s going to be hell dealing with my bosses. Don’t let me down.”

“I don’t say it enough, but thank you. And not just for this.”

He frowns. He’s never been comfortable with displays of sentiment.

After we say goodbye, I get into my car and drive down Beverly Boulevard toward The Barrista. It’s only early afternoon, but the traffic is gridlocked. It wasn’t always that way. Ten years ago, I could have made it to West Hollywood in twenty minutes. As I wait at the intersection of Beverly and La Cienega, my Blackberry buzzes. Trying to keep one eye on the traffic signal, I open the message hoping that it’s from Lovely.

It’s from Manny. At first I think that someone has used his e-mail address to send me incomprehensible spam. Then I see that it’s a warning:

From the St. Thomas More School of Law’s Manual of Policies and Procedures, Section 4.2.1:
The integrity of the relationship between student and teacher provides the bedrock of the law school’s mission. The teacher serves as the student’s evaluator and mentor. The unequal power inherent in this relationship makes the student vulnerable and heightens the potential for coercion. Whenever a teacher is responsible for academic supervision of a student, a personal relationship between them of a romantic or sexual nature, even if consensual, is inappropriate and therefore forbidden.