Due Justice (25 page)

Gee, ya think?

She pulled her driver from her bag and stood over the tee wagging her butt. “Loosen up. Let the club do the work. Watch me.”

In an easy, relaxed way, Carolyn knocked the snot out of that golf ball. Amazing hit. A good twenty yards farther than my lie. I'd thought maybe she played golf with Marilee Aymes every week to salve a guilty conscience. Not sot. Marilee was a good golfer, but not that good. Carolyn must have let Marilee win. Also amazing.

But why?

After the first three holes, Carolyn had given me enough suggestions for this lifetime. Some were helpful, but most were pure harassment. If she'd constantly harped like this with Morgan, no wonder he'd dumped her gorgeous ass.

On the fourth hole, I watched my ball sail ridiculously right, over the creek and onto the fairway on the other side.

Carolyn waited behind the wheel, hand tapping impatiently, one foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake. “Come on. Don't dawdle.”

I strolled to my bag and placed my club deliberately. Took my sweet time.

“Enjoyed meeting Fred Johnson when I substituted for you last week,” I said before sidling up to my seat. “He's overshadowed by Grover in their partnership, don't you think?”

My butt barely touched the vinyl before she'd lifted her foot from the brake and the cart jumped forward. I grabbed the side rail and held tight.

She drove the cart at breakneck speed along the paved path, over a fat snake,
ka-plomp
,
ka-plomp
, and never slowed. I looked back; the snake slithered off, undead, as we sped across the bridge, over the creek, and beyond.

She replied, “Grover has a big personality. It's too bad he's not as good a lawyer as he fancies himself.”

“He gets some awfully big verdicts, and he always seems to have the most high profile cases in town,” I shouted over the wind whistling and the protesting whine of the cart's gas powered engine.

“Maybe. But Fred is the successful one. He picks the winners. You only have to be around them together to figure that out.”

Was she calling me stupid now, too?

Carolyn drove right up to her ball, jumped out of the cart and grabbed her nine iron. She set up, took her shot, landed on the green and jumped back in the cart, all in less than two minutes. Mashed the accelerator and sped over to my ball, stomped the brake and threw me forward.

“Do you think they make these things with seat belts?” I asked as I got out of the cart slowly, and tried to shake myself out so I could concentrate to beat her lie.

“Sorry,” she said.

In a pig's eye.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way they act on the golf course. Polite? Play by the rules? Short temper? Clubs in the lake? Like a trial, it's a microcosm of life. Carolyn Young was impatient, fast. And very good. In golf and in life.

Tested my theory.

Slowly, I studied the angle of the ball to the pin like a newbie. Laid my club on the ground and walked back to check the direction of the ball.

She fidgeted like a kid needing a pee.

Yep. Speed was her ally. Her tactic was to rush me, get me frazzled. She'd be on her best game and I'd be off mine. Fat chance.

After I hit, I strolled back to the cart, wiped the dirt off my club with my towel, and took my time. Then I moseyed to the passenger side, climbed in, and hung on.

Again, she mashed the accelerator before I settled into the seat, and drove about 20 miles an hour toward the green. Maybe this was a specially jazzed cart, customized for her need for speed?

She said, “I've known Grover for years. He's always been an insufferable chauvinist.”

“Is he old enough for that?” I asked her.

She laughed. Jerked the cart to a stop. Jumped out. Grabbed her putter.

“The biggest problem he has,” she continued talking during her putt while the ball rolled seven feet, curved left and fell into the cup, “is how many law firms he's been booted from. He stays with each one as long as they can stand each other. A nasty divorce follows. Your turn.”

She collected her specialized kryptonite ball from the cup and stood to one side, positioned to gloat.

I stooped down, laid my club from the ball toward the hole, took a couple of practice swings. I could see her tapping her foot and fidgeting, getting more annoyed by the second. Some people just have no patience.

She continued to talk while I belabored the putt. “Generally, he gets asked to leave. Too many junior lawyers complain about the way he treats them; too many lawsuits against the firm for discrimination or harassment or whatever.”

She wanted to demand hurry, but she kept quiet.

Finally, after delaying a good five minutes, I hit the putt.

My ball rolled ever so slowly right toward the hole and stopped about six inches short.

“That's a gimme,” she said, hopefully.

“No, no. I insist. I'll putt it in,” I replied and plodded through the whole procedure again. Wondered how long she could hold her temper; and what she'd do when she lost it.

“But he has the magic touch with juries and whenever he loses one position, he gets another. For some reason, as offensive as he can be to his friends and neighbors, juries love him,” I told her.

My second putt tapped solid, the ball rolled the final six inches smoothly, and dropped in.

Carolyn didn't see my little victory dance because she'd turned to retake the cart.

“Maybe,” she said, speeding to the next tee. “If a cynic might say jurors are stupid. Truth is, Grover's highly manipulative; he can talk a banana out of its peel. A few million dollars from unsophisticated polite southerners is easier for him to get than a winter cold.”

We lurched to a stop. Again, she jumped out, set up, and hit her tee shot a country mile on a par five, 509-yard hole.

She watched her ball land safely in the fairway before she resumed the constant chatter. This, too, was a tactical distraction. Gamesmanship, not sportsmanship. All the more curious because she could beat me easily playing appropriately.

She asked, “Have you ever heard the story about how he got his first million?”

Continued my setup. Pretended to ignore her. Whacked the ball well enough. We moved to the fairway.

She said, “Grover was three years out of law school. He defied his bosses. Accepted a plaintiff's case, after his request was refused. Handled the case at night, on weekends. When he couldn't get a quick and hefty settlement, he took the case to trial. The jury gave him what the defense attorney wouldn't. Awarded five million dollars to the family. Grover got fired the moment the verdict came back. And made the headlines as the youngest member of the million-dollar club. All in the same instant.”

“You admire him for that?” I asked.

“Hell, no.” She'd hit her second shot another 200 yards with her three wood and stood aside.

When I duffed my next shot, she snorted under her breath before she rushed away.

I wondered if Carolyn Young knew the rest of Grover's story.

Grover didn't hold on to that first verdict. He'd settled the case at a substantial discount to avoid the loss on appeal. But he'd made his reputation as “the people's lawyer.” The next day, he hung out his shingle at the corner of Kennedy and Tampa Street and attracted more business than he could handle. He joined the Trial Lawyers' Association and rapidly became its rising star. He took on case after impossible case and won every time.

Or so it seemed.

Truth was that he lost as many cases as he won; settled quickly at steep discounts; hid his losses and denied any existed.

By the age of thirty-five, Grover was a multimillionaire. And then he decided he needed respectability, which he couldn't get from a random jury selected from the motor-voter registration rolls.

Grover joined another prestigious firm and married a state senator's daughter in a splashy wedding at St. John's Church followed by a splashier reception at the Tampa Commander's Palace. They promptly delivered four children in five years, including a set of triplets. He seemed conventional for the first time, perhaps, in his life.

And respectability proved too much for him.

Maybe the burdens were too heavy, or the fish bowl too transparent. He began using drugs and traveling with a faster crowd.

When George and I arrived in Tampa, Grover had been divorced three times. His children didn't speak to him. And he was in the process of rebuilding his fortune as he'd created the original one: taking on lost causes.

How much of this did Carolyn Young know or care about? Her antipathy originated elsewhere, I felt sure. But what had caused it? Carly?

Time to find out. I'd had enough. I felt a sprained ankle coming on, from a hard twist somewhere during the next three shots.

“Why are you taking referrals from him on explant surgeries, then?”

I'd meant to offend, shove her back a few notches.

Haughty toned reply. “Because I'm a surgeon and his clients are patients.” Eyes narrowed. “I suppose Marilee Aymes has been talking about how much money I get for the work.” Nostrils flared. Snorted.

Not a particularly attractive habit. “She mentioned it.”

“I'll bet. Marilee seems to think a doctor should donate her talents for the good of mankind. Making money on the practice of medicine is sinful in her book.” Carolyn's tone was nasty now. “If I'd inherited money, maybe I'd agree. As it is, even Michael Morgan didn't leave me his shares in our company. I'm not apologizing for making money while I can, Willa. Last I heard, your husband was a healthy capitalist, too. It's no crime.”

She'd finally raised my blood pressure with her condescending words about George.

“You've got a few years to make money yet,” I snapped at her, looking around for a convincing place to stage my minor accident.

“True, but this explant business won't last forever and I'm planning to make all the hay I can while the sun shines.” She sunk another fifteen-foot putt.

The sand trap to the right of the next green was a good spot for an ankle twist. I deliberately hit my ball there and headed over. While she had her back to me returning to the cart, I fell down and yelled as if I'd landed at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Of course, when I devised this plan, I forgot she was a doctor. She didn't buy it for a minute, but she seemed as glad to quit as I was.

I took the driver's seat, ignoring that I'd claimed a right ankle sprain.

“Does Grover refer many explant patients?” I asked.

“Yes, but not as many as his partner, Fred Johnson. I could make more money if I took referrals from Johnson.”

“Why don't you?”

Her venomous retort could have killed alligators through her breath. “I wouldn't do business with Fred Johnson if I was starving to death. That man is a snake and anyone who doesn't believe it should have talked to Michael Morgan.”

Whoa! Jump back!

She really was a ruthless bitch. Good to know. Wise to avoid.

The Clubhouse was straight ahead. Very little time left in captivity.
Make the most of it, Willa.

“You've mentioned Dr. Morgan several times today,” I said, trying to act like I'd just noticed. “Did you know him well?”

“I knew Mike Morgan better than anyone did. We were planning to be married.” Quietly, fighting for composure. Her chin quivered and eyes filled. She took a couple of deep breaths and wiped her tears. Theatrics? I didn't think so.

“I had no idea, Carolyn. You must be devastated. I'm so sorry.” I said, with real sympathy.

If she had loved Morgan, maybe everyone was being too harsh. But I knew this would be my only chance to ask her, so I softened my tone and pressed on.

“Do you have any idea who killed him?”

“I'm sure Ben Hathaway will tell you that there were enough suspects to fill the Tampa telephone book. But a woman scorned is most likely.”

“I've heard Dr. Morgan had a number of affairs,” I said, letting my voice trail a bit. “Who might have been jealous enough to do such a thing?”

“I've thought about that a lot these last few days, Willa. I've developed a narrow list. If I was a betting woman, which we know I am, I'd look for one who stands to gain the most now that he's gone, and that obviously wouldn't include me.”

Obvious answer. Hathaway had said the same thing.

Trouble was, Carolyn Young might be the only woman who knew Morgan and didn't profit by his death.

Had she orchestrated that, too?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tampa, Florida

Saturday 4:45 p.m.

January 23, 1999

DOG TIRED, PREOCCUPIED, READY for a break that included a tall glass of something very cold, I called to George when I entered our flat. “Are you home?”