Dirty Blonde (2 page)

Cate crossed her legs, bare in her brown pumps, and took a sip of warm beer. She hated herself for being here, and at the same time, wondered how long it would take. It wasn’t that she wanted to get home to sleep. She could function on almost none, from a childhood interrupted by nighttime alarms. She’d be pulled from bed and dressed in a winter coat with an embroidered penguin, worn over a thin nightgown. The coat was turquoise and the penguin of raised black fuzz, she remembered now, for some reason. She had loved that coat.

“Hey,” said a voice beside her, and Cate looked over. It was the man in the T-shirt, with his beer and Marlboro. Up close, he had bloodshot blue eyes, heavy stubble, and hair that shone in greasy strands. He smiled drunkenly and asked, “How’re you, beautiful?”

Cate turned to him and smiled. “Evidently, beautiful.”

The man chuckled and set his beer on the bar, his cigarette trailing a snake of smoke. “I think I know you from somewhere,” he said, putting his hand on Cate’s bare knee. “Whas’ your name again?”

“Karen,” Cate told him, then moved his hand up onto her thigh.

Feeling thrilled and miserable, both at once.

CHAPTER 1

Six months later, Cate sat in her high-backed chair atop the dais, waiting to start the day’s session. The courtroom was packed, and she hid her anticipation behind a professional mask, which was turning out to be a job requirement. The jury trial had taken all last week, but today was the only day that counted, like the final two minutes in a basketball game.

Sixers-Hornets. It was on at the bar last night. Wonder who won.

Cate shifted behind the slippery wall of stacked pleadings in front of her. She hadn’t slept well last night and was relying on her concealer, but was otherwise in full costume: synthetic black robes, dark blond hair in a judicial chignon, a swipe of pink gloss on her lips, and neutral makeup on largish, blue eyes. Finally the courtroom deputy flashed Cate a wink.

Showtime
. Cate gestured to plaintiff’s counsel. “Mr. Temin, let’s begin. I assume that plaintiff continues his testimony this morning.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Nathan Temin was a roly-poly lawyer with the paunch of a much older man and a dark suit that begged to be ironed, worn with equally unruly black hair. Still, Cate knew better than to judge a trial lawyer by his cover. She had dressed down for court many times. Prada didn’t win jury verdicts.

“Excellent.” Cate nodded. “Fire when ready.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Temin hustled to the podium with a Bic pen and a legal pad, then pressed down his suit with a pudgy hand. He greeted the jury and turned to his client, already rising from counsel table. “Mr. Marz, please take the stand.”

Richard Marz walked to the witness stand, and necks craned from the gallery. Reporters scribbled away, and sketch artists switched to their flesh-toned chalk. The Eastern District of Pennsylvania didn’t allow cameras in the courtroom, for which Cate thanked God and Chief Judge Sherman.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” Marz said in his soft-spoken way, sitting down after he was sworn in. He was barely thirty years old, and his baby-blue eyes showed litigation strain. He smiled tightly, his lips taut as a rubber band, and he ran a finger rake through muddy-brown curls that sprouted from under a crocheted yarmulke. A dark suit jacket popped open over his white shirt, and his striped tie hung unevenly. Everybody knew that people looked like their dogs, but Cate thought they looked like their lawyers.

“Good morning, Mr. Marz.” She smiled at Marz in a professional way, feeling subterranean sympathy for his position. He was claiming that a powerful TV producer had stolen his idea for a series about Philadelphia lawyers and developed it into the cable blockbuster
Attorneys@Law
. In this battle between David and Goliath, Marz held the slingshot.

At the lectern, Temin tugged the black bud of a microphone down to his height. “Now, Mr. Marz, you testified last week that you had two meetings with Mr. Simone, leading up to the critical meeting. Please remind the jury of what took place at the first meeting, on June 10.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said George Hartford, defense counsel. Hartford had gray eyes behind slightly tinted bifocals and was prematurely bald. He had to be about fifty, and stood tall and fit in a slim Italian suit with a yellow silk tie. “Asked and answered. Plaintiff’s counsel is wasting the jury’s time.”

Temin said, “Your Honor, it’s appropriate to review this proof because the weekend intervened.”

“Overruled.” Cate shot both lawyers her sternest look. “Let’s not let the objections get out of hand today, boys. Play nice.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Temin nodded, but a cranky Hartford eased back in his chair next to his client, producer Art Simone. Even seated, Simone looked tall and trim, in his prime at a prosperous forty-something. His reddish hair had been shorn fashionably close to his scalp, and his tortoiseshell glasses paired with a caramel-colored silk tie and tan houndstooth suit. If Marz and Temin were the mutts in this dogfight, Simone and Hartford were purebred afghans.

“Mr. Marz,” Temin began again, “tell us briefly what happened at the June meeting with Mr. Simone.”

“Well, my background is from the DA’s office, handling cases concerning computer fraud and Internet crime. I always liked computers.” Marz sounded almost apologetic. “But I wanted to be a writer, so I started writing a screenplay for a TV show about four lawyers and how they use computer skills to solve murders. I called it
Hard Drive
. It was my wife who said, ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’” Marz smiled at his wife in the front row of the gallery, a sweet-faced brunette wearing a long skirt and sensible shoes. “So I called Art—Mr. Simone—and told him what I was doing and asked if he would meet with me about it, and he agreed to fly out to Philly to take the meeting.” Marz turned to the jury in an earnest way. “That’s what they call it in L.A., ‘taking a meeting.’ When they say no, they call it ‘taking a hard pass.’ A ‘soft pass’ is a maybe. I thought a soft pass was about sex, but what do I know?”

The jurors chuckled with evident warmth. Nobody loved underdogs like Philly.

Temin asked, “Had you known Mr. Simone, prior?”

“Yes, I knew him from summer camp from when I was, like, ten years old. Camp Willowbark, Unit A. He was my senior counselor, and I looked up to him like a big brother. I heard he was doing TV in Hollywood, so I hoped he’d help me out.”

“And what happened at the meeting, briefly?”

“We met at Le Bec Fin and I told him all the details about my idea and asked him would he consider it for his production company. The lead lawyer in my series is a former detective, an Italian guy from South Philly who dresses great and is, like, a tie freak—”

“You needn’t repeat the details,” Temin interjected, preempting Hartford’s objection.

“Okay, right, sorry. All that’s important is that the four lawyers I told Mr. Simone about ended up being exactly like the four lawyers on
Attorneys@Law.
”

“Objection, opinion!” Hartford said, and Cate waved him off.

“Overruled. The jury knows it’s his opinion.”

Temin paused. “By the way, Mr. Marz, were you surprised that Mr. Simone flew here to see you, as opposed to you flying out to California to see him?”

“I was, but he said he wanted to visit his mom anyway. She lives in a nursing home in Jersey.” Marz’s expression darkened. “Now I think he said to meet in Philly because Pennsylvania law is tougher than California law on—”

“Objection!” Hartford shouted, next to a stiffening client, and Cate raised a hand.

“Granted. That’s enough opinion, Mr. Marz. Don’t make me sorry.”

The jury smiled, and Temin asked, “Did Mr. Simone take notes during this meeting?”

“No.”

“Now, Mr. Marz, let’s jump to the second meeting on September 15 and 16, also in Philadelphia. Who was present?”

“Myself, Detective Russo, and Mr. Simone and his assistant, Micah Gilbert.”

“Is that Ms. Gilbert, seated in the gallery behind Mr. Simone?”

“Yes.” Marz gestured to a pretty young woman in the front row. Micah Gilbert had attended the trial since day one, sitting next to an attractive jury consultant whose chin-length hair was an optimistic shade of red.

“What happened at that meeting?”

“Mr. Simone came to Philly to meet with me and a friend from the Homicide Division, Detective Frank Russo. Russo was the role model for the main character in my show, the South Philly guy. On the first day, we met at Liberties in Northern Liberties. I picked the place because real detectives hang there.”

The jurors’ eyes had lit up with recognition. The restaurant in
Attorneys@Law
was also called Liberties, and most of them had seen the show. It was impossible to find anyone in America who hadn’t, despite Hartford’s best efforts. The defense lawyer had used his three preemptory strikes to eliminate as many viewers as possible, with the help of his redheaded jury consultant. Cate never used a consultant. Picking a jury was Trial Lawyer 101.

“Now, what took place at Liberties?”

“Detective Russo and I told Mr. Simone about our characters and storylines. Also, I gave him some info on computers.” Marz’s gaze slid sideways to Simone. “Because he doesn’t know anything about them.”

“Did Mr. Simone or Ms. Gilbert take notes while you were talking?”

“No.”

“Did you think that was strange?”

“I didn’t then but now I think he didn’t want a record of—”

“Objection! That’s speculation again, Your Honor. Move that the irrelevant evidence be stricken.” Hartford rose, but Cate waved him into his seat.

“Granted.” Cate turned to Marz, on the stand. “Please refrain from editorializing.”

Temin continued, “And what happened after lunch at Liberties?”

“Detective Russo and I took Mr. Simone and Ms. Gilbert to the Roundhouse, the police administration building, and we told him how things really work in Homicide. We showed him some details about the squad room, like how the detectives prop the door open with an old trash can and they never notice that the trash can stinks, only visitors do.” Marz turned again to the jury. “The trash can matters, because it tells you about the characters. How they get so used to bad stuff, like the ugliness they see every day on the job.”

Several of the jurors nodded soberly and one cast a cold eye at defense table. If the jury got the case now, they’d vote for Marz and his symbolic trash can.

“And what did you do the second day?”

“Detective Russo and I drove Mr. Simone and Ms. Gilbert around the neighborhoods where the stories took place. It’s called ‘scouting locations.’”

Temin turned a page on his legal pad. “Finally, we come to your critical meeting with Mr. Simone, on November 9, also at Le Bec Fin. Who was present at the meeting?”

“Me and Mr. Simone.”

“And what took place at this lunch meeting?”

“Mr. Simone said we were celebrating. He ordered champagne, two bottles, even though I’m not a big drinker.” Marz shot a resentful glance at defense table. “Anyway I told him I had the treatment ready ahead of schedule and I gave it to him.”

“Please explain to the jury what a treatment is.”

“A treatment is a detailed outline of who the characters are and what the storylines would be. I had told Mr. Simone I’d get the treatment done by August, but I couldn’t do it and my job at the DA’s office, so I quit my job.”

“Your Honor, may I approach?” Temin asked, and Cate nodded. He took from counsel table three thick black binders labeled HARD DRIVE and gave one to Hartford, one to the court clerk, and walked to the witness stand, handing the third to Marz. “Mr. Marz, is this the treatment that you wrote and gave to Mr. Simone?”

“Yes,” Marz answered, examining the notebook, which was admitted into evidence. Temin turned again to his witness.

“Did Mr. Simone take notes at the luncheon?”

“No.”

Temin let the implication sink in. “And then what happened?”

“Then Mr. Simone said—”

“Objection, hearsay,” Hartford called out, his shiny Mont Blanc poised in midair, and Temin stiffened.

“It’s not hearsay, Your Honor.”

“Overruled.” Cate turned to Marz. “Please. Go ahead.”

“He said he was going to get the show ready to be produced and when he got it together, he’d call me. He was very excited, and we made a deal.”

“Objection to the characterization, Your Honor!” Hartford called out louder, rising. “There was no deal in this matter!”

“Yes, there was!” Temin matched him decibel for decibel, and Cate raised her hand, like a stop sign.

“Gentlemen, enough. The objection is overruled. Mr. Hartford, the plaintiff can give his side of the story in his testimony, and your client can give his side. It has a nice symmetry, yes?” Cate gestured at Temin. “Proceed.”

“Mr. Marz, what was the deal between you and Mr. Simone?”

“The deal was that he would produce my idea as a TV series, and he said, ‘If I make money, you’ll make money.’”

“He said those words?” Temin asked, and back at defense table, Hartford shook his head in mute frustration. Simone remained stoic.

Marz answered, “Verbatim.”

“Is it possible that you misheard him? You testified that you had been drinking champagne. Maybe he said, ‘Pass the salt?’”

“No, I heard him perfectly. Plus he already had the salt.”

The jury laughed, and so did the gallery. Temin was trying to take the sting out of the cross-examination to come, but Cate didn’t think it would do any good. She disguised her concern, resting her chin on her fist.

“Mr. Marz, seriously, how can you be so sure?”

“Because I had been wondering about when we were going to discuss money. My wife kept wanting me to ask him, but it was never the right time.” Marz reddened, and his wife looked down. “So when he said that, I knew we had a real deal.”

“Did you and Mr. Simone put this deal into writing?”

“We didn’t need to, at least I didn’t
think
we needed to.” Marz scowled. “We’re friends,
were
friends. He was my senior counselor. I trusted him to take care of me.” Marz pursed his lips, and his disillusionment hung in the air between him and the jurors.