Corrupt Practices (48 page)

“No deal,” I say.

“You’ve got to be joking. I just offered—”

“I know what you offered. It’s not enough.”

Lovely grabs my arm. “Don’t you think we should at least—?”

“When this case started, Raymond made it clear that if we won, he wanted to sue for malicious prosecution. Well, we’re going to win. And we have a strong malicious prosecution claim, because McCarthy verified the complaint all the while knowing that he himself manipulated the accounts so he could pay those illegal bribes.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Frantz says. “It’s almost impossible to prove malice in a mal pro case.”

“Not when your client has killed three people to cover up his crimes. By the time we go to trial in the malicious prosecution case, the cops will have arrested McCarthy for murder. The punitive damages in our case against the Assembly will be astronomical.”

Frantz and I glare at each other.

“What do you propose?” he says.

“I’ll recommend to Raymond that he release the Assembly from the malicious prosecution claim if the Assembly pays his legal fees. He won’t be happy, but I think I can convince him that he shouldn’t tax his health any further by involving himself in more litigation. And one more thing. No confidentiality clause. Our side can tell the press or whoever we want that the Assembly paid Raymond to get rid of the case.”

Frantz thinks it over and says, “Let me go outside and call the client.”

“He’s going to accept it,” Lovely says when we’re alone.

“We’ll see.”

“No. I know him. He’ll get them to agree. You’ve won.”

“
We
have.”

She smiles. And then we wait in silence.

Frantz comes back five minutes later. “We’re close,” he says. “Very close. The Assembly wants a cap on fees.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I say. And it won’t—I’ve only billed Raymond half that amount.

After that, events move at top speed. I confer with Raymond, who agrees to the deal immediately. The judge announces the settlement in open court and discharges the jury. Frantz and his team pack up as quickly as they can and flee. The losing team never stays in the courtroom very long.

I ask Lovely to go out in the hall and speak with the media, to tell them in no uncertain terms that our side won. When she leaves, I find myself alone in the now deserted courtroom. I look around at the deserted jury box, at the suddenly spotless plaintiff’s table, at the empty gallery. I wander over to the podium. The record of The Emery Group’s wire transfer to Delwyn Bennett is still on the lectern. I stare at it for a long time, puzzled. Why did Harriet hand over evidence that let me destroy not only the Assembly’s court case, but also Christopher McCarthy and his plan to insinuate the Assembly into every country in Europe? Was it really because I threatened to go public about Ascending Sodality? Maybe. But she’s never been one to give into threats.

Who are you, Mother?

Grace Trimble and I sit in the elegant dining room of Manny and Elena Mason’s Moraga Canyon home. The dinner is supposed to celebrate our court victory four days ago, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to celebrate. I’m mourning the loss of our friends.

As always, the Masons are solicitous hosts. At the start of the meal, Manny lifts his glass of Chateau Montelena chardonnay—he makes sure to tell us the winery won the famous 1976 Paris tasting that put the Napa Valley on the map—and toasts our victory over the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. He’s a bit intoxicated, but I think it’s more from his love of wine than from the alcohol. He grew up in the vineyards, after all. Throughout dinner, he and Elena are constantly serving and clearing, refusing to let me help. Grace doesn’t offer.

I’m poor company tonight, indifferent to my surroundings, capable of speaking but unwilling to—the opposite of stage fright, in other words. But I don’t think the Masons notice, because Grace gets ever more manic as the evening progresses and can’t stop talking. She tells long and exaggerated stories about her days as a music lawyer, recounting events that have no interest to anyone but her. She’s binging on food—now it’s a third slice of Elena’s flourless chocolate cake. A little while ago, she gesticulated so wildly that she spilled a glass of St. Emilion Grand Cru all over her green dress—the same tattered dress that she was wearing when I found her at Harmon’s beach house. I’ll have to get her to leave when I do or the Masons will be stuck with her until tomorrow morning.

It’s hard to believe she’s even here. After she disappeared from the courthouse Monday afternoon, I didn’t think I’d hear from her again. Then, on Wednesday, she called my cell phone from a blocked number saying she wanted to talk about the lawsuit. At the end of the conversation, I told her that Manny had invited us for Friday-night dinner. I was sure she’d say no, but she accepted. When I asked for her phone number, she hung up on me.

Now, she and Manny and Elena are talking about the trial. It’s funny how everyone but the trial lawyers wants to discuss a case that’s ended, as if it was nothing more than an exciting sporting event. While the others talk, I sip my wine, pick at my dessert, and gaze at a Grant Wood print of a farm couple and a collie that hangs on the opposite wall. I catch only a smattering of the conversation, paying the minimum amount of attention necessary to answer coherently if someone speaks directly to me.

In response to a question from Elena, Grace says, “Rich truly did believe that all those companies he set up were being used to fund thrift stores and organic bakeries and whatever. He truly thought they were carrying out the Assembly’s good works. I know he sounds naïve, but he didn’t understand what was going on because he assumed the best in people.”

“I’ve been following the news reports,” Elena says. “They still haven’t traced the money, right? They don’t know if all of it went for bribes or if McCarthy kept some of it for himself.”

“I’d guess it all went for bribes,” Manny says. “When you think about it, seventeen million in eighteen months isn’t really that much money to spend worldwide. There are what, a hundred ninety–plus countries in the world? The Assembly wants to have a presence in all of them. Accomplishing that takes way more than a paltry seventeen million. What do you think, Parker?”

I shrug.

“I disagree, Manny, I disagree.” Grace says. She gulps down what’s left of her wine and sets her glass down so hard it rattles the tableware. “Truthfully, it’s like I said at the trial, I think McCarthy pocketed a lot of it, I think he skimmed money from the Buttonwillow Bank account and used the Geometrics as a conduit to The Emery Group.”

“The Geometrics?” Elena asks.

“That’s what we called the companies that were named after geometric shapes,” Grace says. “Parker’s
law student
”—and here she gives a Groucho Marx leer—“thought of that.”

“It’s silly, but the names of those companies fascinate me,” Elena says. “Maybe it’s because my father has started so many businesses in his life, and choosing the right name is always very important to him. Even if those companies just existed on paper, how could you keep track of one from the other?”

“That was the whole point,” Grace says, an edge of hostility creeping into her voice.

Elena considers this and nods.

“Hey, Elena, can you name all those Geometrics?” Grace says.

“I’m sure I can’t.”

“Oh, come on, try.” It’s a command, not a request. I’ve seen Grace like this before, demanding that everyone play her irrational games. Now she’s invented a perverse variation of Name the Seven Dwarfs. It’s a sure sign that she’s on the brink of a meltdown.

I say, “Grace, I don’t think Elena wants to—”

“You can’t play, Parker! That would be cheating.”

“It’s OK,” Elena says in a soft voice. “Let me try.” She’s doesn’t realize that humoring Grace will only make things worse.

Elena bites her lip. “There’s Triangle, Pentagon, Hexagon, Octagon. Wasn’t . . . wasn’t one of the companies called Trapezius or something?”

“Close, but no cigar,” Grace says. “I’ll give you a do over.”

Manny puts his hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Trapezoid, honey. Though I think Trapezius would’ve been a much better name. The others were Isosceles, Heptagon, Nonagon, and Rhombus.”

“That’s cheating, too, Manny,” Grace says with real irritation in her voice. “This was between Elena and me.”

“Are you all right, Grace?” Elena says. It’s absolutely the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, I couldn’t be more wonderful. Awesome.” Now her tone is completely hostile. “How about you, Elena? Are you all right?”

I reach over and touch Grace’s elbow. “We’re all fine, Grace. We’re having a quiet dinner.”

She gazes past me for a moment and then looks away.

“But I wanted to ask you something, Grace,” I say in a soft voice. “Was it Harmon who liked to name companies that way? You know, with those generic names?” It’s a blatant attempt to draw her attention away from Elena, but it works. Her body relaxes a bit.

“Not Harmon,” she says. “Andrew Macklin. He once named a trio of his clients’ companies A-One, Acme, and Apex.”

“Why?”

“He had this ridiculous idea that a company was less likely to get sued if it had a nondescript name,” she says, sounding calmer. “You know, like don’t buy a red car because owners of red cars get stopped by the cops more often? I think Rich really bought into the program when Andrew started doing Assembly work.”

Suddenly, something’s puzzling me, something I never considered. I forget about Grace’s behavior for the moment. “Manny, how deeply was Macklin involved with Assembly matters?”

“Full-time at the end. He had nothing else to do, so—”

“If he was willing to do their work, could he have been one of them? It never occurred to me before, but—”

“I don’t think Andrew—”

“You guys!” Grace shrieks. She looks at us with a warped grin. “Remember that time when Deanna was dating that bass player from, what was that band called, Steel Angst? She’d do drugs and fuck until two thirty in the morning and be in court or meeting with a client. I never understood how she could manage that. When I did that, I was on my ass for a week.”

Manny closes his eyes for a moment. Elena grimaces in disgust. She’s religious and socially conservative, a straight-laced wife and mother who has no tolerance for swear words, much less a graphic discussion about Deanna’s sex life and drug use. Worse, her three teenage sons are in the den just down the hall.

“Grace,” I whisper. “There are kids in this house.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Her glazed eyes emit hypomanic sparks.

As if on cue, Manny’s youngest, the thirteen-year-old, walks in. He’s tall for his age, not a surprise because he has tall parents. “Dad, do I really have to miss my game tomorrow? Papi won’t—”

“This isn’t the time, Kevin,” Manny says. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Grace giggles, hiccups, puts her hand to her mouth, and giggles again.

“We’ve already talked about it,” Elena says. “He’s coming with us to the lunch.” She looks at me as if she owes me an explanation. “It’s my dad’s birthday. Kevin can miss one basketball game for an important family event.” She glares at Manny. “Even though I think his father would rather watch him play basketball.”

Manny, expressionless, says nothing.

“You two remind me of my parents,” Grace says. “They were strict, too.” She pauses. “And look how fucked up I turned out to be.” She shrieks at her own joke, but she’s the only one laughing. Kevin bows his head and walks away.

“Where’s the bathroom, again?” Grace says. “Shit, straight As in college and law school and I have no fucking sense of direction.”

Elena directs her to the bathroom down the hall.

“I know it’s very sad,” Elena says when Grace is out of earshot. “But I won’t tolerate this behavior in my house.”

“I’ll try to get her to leave with me now,” I say. “I wish she’d let me help her. She won’t even give me her phone number.”

“No one has ever been able to help her,” Manny says.

It’s quiet, awkward. Then Kevin comes back into the room and tries again to negotiate a reprieve from his grandfather’s birthday party. After ten minutes, Grace isn’t back from the bathroom.

“I’ll check on her,” I say. I go down the hall to the bathroom and knock. There’s no answer.

“Grace?”

Still no answer. I turn the handle. It’s unlocked. I open the door slowly. The bathroom is empty. I walk down the hall to the family room, where Manny’s sons are playing videogames.

“Have you guys seen Grace? The woman in the green dress?”

“The crazy lady,” the eldest boy says without taking his eyes off the monitor. “She left.”

“She . . . ?”

“She was, like, sneaking out the front door or something.”

I hurry outside and look in the driveway. Her beat-up Honda is gone.

I go back inside and tell the Masons. We all assume that she overheard Elena say that she wouldn’t tolerate Grace’s behavior.

Elena is on the verge of tears. “I remember the days when she just seemed eccentric, you know? Or does it just seem worse because we’ve gotten older?”