Corrupt Practices (32 page)

She frowns. “I lost. I was so sure that we’d win. What amazes me is that I’m not pissed off at the judge. Why aren’t I pissed off?”

“Because he gave us a fair hearing. That’s all you can ask.”

“How will we ever get Tyler to come to trial?”

“Maybe if we both talk to her—”

“There’s only one thing you can do for me. Tell Raymond the truth.”

Though I spend hours with Raymond Baxter preparing him for his deposition, I don’t tell him about my stage fright. Lovely doesn’t call me out on it, but at odd moments—while we work in my condo or watch a DVD or jog along the boardwalk—traces of her disappointment hover around us. I resolve to tell him as soon as we finish his deposition in a few days. I just hope that, after seeing me go toe-to-toe with Lou Frantz, he’ll think twice about replacing me.

At nine o’clock on a hazy Tuesday morning in April, Raymond and I arrive at Frantz’s law office. Raymond is dressed in an expensive light-gray suit, the kind he must have worn every day for forty-plus years. It’s the wrong color choice, because if the judge and jury watch the video of the deposition, it’ll be hard for them to tell where the suit ends and his ashen skin begins. I told him to wear navy blue or black. At least he’s wearing a vibrant pink tie.

The ground floor of Frantz’s building is surprisingly run down, so poorly vented that the lobby is filled with the odor of overcooked eggs and rancid bacon grease from the coffee shop. We pass a cursory security check and take the elevator to the twentieth floor. This will be my first confrontation with Frantz since I collapsed in court last week. My stomach rolls in rhythm to the elevator’s shimmying. I try to convince myself that I’m experiencing the natural anxiety that precedes the start of a battle.

The elevator doors open and we exit into the lobby. We take two steps forward and stop in tandem. The sight before us is panoramic, dizzying—nothing that you’d expect after walking through the building’s malodorous and nearly decrepit ground floor. I feel as though I’ve parked at one of those scenic viewpoints on a boring interstate highway and discovered a lush canyon. The office opens to a floor above and three floors below, each separated by a tier that overlooks a large atrium. The entire suite resembles a vast bullpen made of pink marble and glass and polished steel, with skylights and unusable empty space and offices enclosed by transparent glass. Louis Frantz had his office designed like a modern-day Panopticon, allowing him to keep tabs on his underlings by looking through the glass walls.

“This is one of Ariella Sam’s buildings,” Raymond says. “You can tell by the octagonal shape of the atrium.” When I don’t recognize the name, he tells me that she’s a disciple of I. M. Pei and just as expensive.

The entire suite serves as a shrine to Lou Frantz. He doesn’t share the firm name with anyone else. The walls are lined with photographs of him standing beside athletes, actors, judges, and politicians. There are several display cases filled with awards and plaques—three Trial Lawyer of the Year awards, past president of the College of Trial Lawyers of the USA, Man of the Year for his philanthropic work for numerous charities. Awards that I once aspired to. Modern art takes up the remaining wall space. I think I recognize a Kenneth Nolan and a Mark Rothko.

We check in with the receptionist and take a seat in the lobby. After a few minutes, Nick Weir comes out. Before acknowledging me, he smiles brightly and introduces himself to Raymond, as if we’re here for a friendly confab rather than a contentious deposition. When the two men shake hands, Raymond’s face remains grim.

Weir nods at me. “Hey, Parker. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I’m feeling great.”

Raymond wears a puzzled frown, but thankfully doesn’t pursue the matter.

Weir leads us into a large conference room. There’s a massive granite table, a Morris Louis painting hanging on the far wall, and a north-facing view of the foothills that makes you feel that you can reach out the window and touch the
H
in the Hollywood sign. The room could accommodate twenty-five people, but there will be just six of us. The court reporter and videographer, men I don’t know, ask for my business card. I don’t have one, of course, so I write my name on a scrap of paper.

“I’ll get Lou,” Weir says. “Give us a minute or two. Help yourself to some coffee or a soft drink.” He motions to the credenza, on top of which are assorted carbonated drinks and an elegant silver coffee service.

Raymond reaches for a can of Squirt. “Haven’t seen one of these in years. I used to love it when I was young. Didn’t know they made it anymore.” He sits down in his chair, pops the top, and takes a long drink. “Now, why did Weir ask after your health?”

I glance at the court reporter and videographer, ostensibly neutral, but undoubtedly Frantz partisans. “I just felt a little ill in court the other day. Nothing to worry about.”

Raymond studies me for a moment. He doesn’t look reassured.

Twenty minutes later, Frantz and Weir walk into the conference room. Frantz wears a white shirt and tie, but no jacket. The shirt hangs off of him and the tie falls maybe four inches below his belt, making him look like a senescent scarecrow. The man’s a contradiction—his office design stands as a model of conspicuous wealth, but he dresses like a hayseed. The wardrobe must be calculated, his way of relating to jurors and other nonlawyers. He makes no pretense of cordiality, and neither do I.

“Let’s get started,” he barks, as though Raymond and I kept him waiting and not the other way around. “Swear the witness.”

I expect Raymond to perform well. He has street smarts and years of business experience as a real estate developer. He’s testified in court before. And besides, he doesn’t know much that’s relevant to our lawsuit. This case is all about what the Assembly knows.

Frantz starts with what in most depositions are innocuous background questions. But no question is harmless coming from him. He turns out to be a master of distortion. An explainable ambiguity in Raymond’s educational background becomes an inflated credential. Two ancient lawsuits filed in the 1970s—legitimate business disputes—brand Raymond a slumlord. Raymond’s every pause and stutter, understandable for a man in his late seventies under this kind of stress, become indicators of perjury. Legend has it that Frantz can make the most honest and articulate witness look like a liar. It turns out that the legend is true.

I do my best to protect my client. I object frequently and insist on breaks and raise my voice and make caustic comments about Frantz’s abusive style of interrogation. I interrupt Raymond’s answers so I can coach him, a tactic that crosses the line of propriety. It’s all to no avail. The pummeling gets so bad that Raymond’s normally ashen pallor gives way to scarlet patches on his face and neck, his forehead so red at one point that I become worried about his health. He hunches his shoulders, and his already sunken eye sockets deepen further. By midmorning, he looks defeated. I call for a break, but when we resume, Frantz continues the battering without a scintilla of conscience. I truly believe that Frantz wants to give Raymond a stroke.

After several hours of what feels like a bloodbath, I take stock of the morning’s events. As effective as Frantz has been, it’s all been rhetoric and sleight-of-hand. Raymond hasn’t uttered one word that will hurt us. So in the final analysis, he remains the grieving father who’s outlived his child, automatically sympathetic to a judge or jury.

At one o’clock, I suggest that we break for lunch.

“I just have a couple more questions,” Frantz says. “So, let me finish and we’ll get you out of here.”

I look at Raymond. He takes a deep breath and nods wearily.

“Please make it quick,” I say. “My client deserves a break.”

Frantz throws me a sidelong glance of displeasure and asks, “Mr. Baxter, in the last year, have you been in touch with someone named Grace Trimble?”

“I have not spoken to that woman,” Raymond says.

Frantz glances at Weir for effect, folds his hands on the table, and leans in. “Have you had any communications at all—e-mail, letter, telephone, face-to-face—with a woman named Sandra Casey?”

Fighting to remain impassive, I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that I draw blood. I take a sip of water to rinse out the metallic taste.

“Never spoke with anyone by the name of Sandra Casey,” Raymond says.

Raymond’s answer makes no difference to Frantz. He’s asked the question solely for my benefit. He wants to communicate that the Assembly knows that I’m looking for Grace. He waited until the end of the deposition so he could ambush me the way I ambushed McCarthy.

“No further questions,” Frantz says tersely. Without a word of goodbye, he and Weir stand up and leave the room. They don’t bother to collect their documents. Frantz has employees for that.

Frantz might not have any more questions, but I do. How does the Assembly know that I’m looking for Grace Trimble? Did they really uncover the same treasure trove of epiphanies that I did—Dale Garner’s photos of Baxter’s hookers, the discovery that there was only one woman, Markowitz’s picture of the dealership softball team, the realization that Sandra and Grace are one in the same? Doubtful. We gave Frantz copies of Dale Garner’s photos, but not the clearer ones that showed the tattoo. The enhancements are confidential attorney work product, created by Jonathan’s client and our consultant, computer hacker Dmitri Samoiloff. I don’t think the Assembly could enhance the photos the way Dmitri did. With all the Assembly’s resources, when it comes to technology, I’ll stake my money on a Ukrainian hacker.

Alan Markowitz couldn’t have told the Assembly that Sandra Casey is Grace—I kept that information from him. Besides, he hates the Assembly because of their pro-Palestinian stance.

Monica Baxter? Unlikely. She knows that Grace is the Outsider, but I never said the name
Sandra Casey
to her. And as devoutly as she believes in the Assembly, her maternal instincts are stronger, and to protect her son she needs me to exonerate Rich and show that he was murdered.

This leaves one more possible source for the leak, one that I don’t want to consider.

Raymond and I get our cars and drive over to the Lansing Bar and Grill, the restaurant where we had our first meeting shortly after Rich died. It’s dark inside, and even though it’s the height of the lunch hour, the place is only half full. When the waitress takes our drink orders, I ask for an Arnold Palmer. Raymond orders a Dewar’s.

“I know it’s early in the day for liquor, but I need to unwind,” he says, his voice creaky with a combination of age and fatigue. “That Frantz is one mean son of a bitch.” He pulls an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his brow. “So, how did I do?”

“You did great.” It’s a fib that I hope he’ll believe. “Frantz didn’t get anything remotely useful.”

The waitress brings us our drinks and takes our orders. I wait until he has a couple of sips of scotch. I try to sound matter-of-fact, but my voice is stilted. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Fire away.”

I glance at his scotch, wishing I’d ordered one myself—a double. I launch into the history of my glossophobia, starting with Harmon Cherry’s death and ending with my fainting in court last week. I talk about my attempts to cure the fear with medication and therapy and describe how well I did in my first appearance before Judge Harvey. I try to sound positive about the future.

His face has folded in on itself. His rheumy eyes swim with disappointment. “I don’t understand. You gave as good as you got with Frantz today. And I read the McCarthy deposition transcript. You creamed him. I saw nothing that would—”

“It only happens in court. Nowhere else.”

He swallows his scotch in one swig. A seasoned drinker, he doesn’t flinch. His eyes, just moments ago murky with fatigue, now scrutinize me with incisive clarity. “I have one question and one question only.”

I expect him to ask how I can possibly defend him at the trial next month when I can’t even stay conscious in court. I’m prepared for that one, ready to talk about my drive and my past triumphs and my will to win. But he asks a different question.

“Before you agreed to go into court to represent my son last fall in the fight of his life, did you tell him about your . . . your so-called
condition
?” He enunciates this last word the way an Assembly devotee would say the phrase
mental illness
.

“When Rich hired me, I had no intention of—”

“No intention of what? Of seeing your representation of him through once you satisfied your curiosity? And yet you still walked into that courtroom the very day they found him hanging from a pipe in that hellhole of a jail.” He drinks from his glass even though it’s empty, then holds it up and looks around for the waitress. When he can’t catch her eye, he slams the glass down in disgust. “So, tell me, Stern. Were you scared when you went up in front of the judge the day they murdered my son?”

That afternoon remains vivid. The fear so paralyzed me that I couldn’t say my name. “Yeah. I was scared.”

He retrieves his handkerchief and swipes at his mouth hard with it several times. When he speaks, his voice is made powerful by spite. “You know your trouble? You’re one of those people who think the world is one big boxing ring for you to fight your battles in. As far as you’re concerned, this case hasn’t been about Rich or me at all. You’ve always felt that
you
were the client and I was just a pawn in your match against the Assembly. In fact, I think that Richie’s death was just an excuse for you to file.”