Running from the Law (4 page)

Julicher frowned and made a note on his legal pad with a gold Cross pen. At the pen’s top was a little Cadillac emblem that wiggled when he wrote.

“Miss Sullivan, just to get some idea of your income from your painting, how many paintings did you sell last year?”

“Three. I sell at sidewalk shows, out on the Main Line and Chestnut Hill.” She sipped water from a Styrofoam cup. She’d be needing that bathroom any time now.

“Did you sell the three paintings at sidewalk shows?”

“No, I sold them privately.”

“To whom?”

She paused. “Judge Hamilton.”

Julicher made another note, and I wondered if this was news to him. It was to me, though the judge had allegedly told me the whole truth and nothing but. “How much did Judge Hamilton pay for the paintings?”

“Five hundred dollars each.”

Yikes. “Were you sleeping with him at the time?”

“Objection!” Julicher shouted. “You’re insulting the witness!”

Insulting the witness was my job. “I’m not insulting the witness, I’m asking a question of fact. This is a lawsuit, Stan. Not a picnic.”

“I want that question stricken from the record!” Julicher said, turning to the court reporter, a freckled redhead who kept her eyes professionally downcast.

“Wait a minute,” Patricia said. She leaned forward, agitated, and a muscle in her slender neck announced itself. “I can answer that. I want to. I was having a sexual relationship with him at the time, but it was coerced. I had to do it, to keep my job.”

“That’s enough, Patricia,” Julicher said. “Listen to me, I’ll tell you when to answer.”

I cleared my throat. “Miss Sullivan, you were about to explain how you got the job.”

“I read about it in the
Suburban
&
Wayne Times
, then I called and found out it was for Judge Hamilton. I’d heard of him.”

“How?”

“From his being so … respected, I guess. And his wife, for her garden club. They were in the papers a lot.”

“Is that why you wanted the job?”

“Objection,” Julicher said.

“I’ll rephrase the question. What made you decide to apply for the job, Miss Sullivan?”

“The pay, and I thought Judge Hamilton would be good to work for.”

Julicher snorted derisively and I stopped short of telling him to save it for the jury. “Miss Sullivan,” I said, “let’s get back to the birthday card. You allege in your complaint that this card was the beginning of a course of sexual harassment by Judge Hamilton, is that right?”

“It’s only one piece of physical proof,” Julicher snapped. “Judge Hamilton sent her another greeting card, too.”

Terrific. “Stan, are you the witness or is she?”

I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here and let you confuse my client.”

I turned to Patricia. “As I said at the beginning of this deposition, if you are confused, please feel free to ask me to clarify the question. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

Julicher sighed theatrically.

“Now, Miss Sullivan, assuming this card is from Judge Hamilton, why do you think he signed it ‘Judge Hamilton’ instead of ‘Fiske’?”

“If you know,” Julicher added.

“I didn’t call him ‘Fiske,’” Patricia said. “I always called him ‘Judge.’”

“You never called him by his first name?”

“No.”

Not even in bed? I bit my tongue. “I noticed that the only other greeting card you brought today, the Christmas card, was also signed ‘Judge Hamilton.’”

“‘
Love
, Judge Hamilton,’” Julicher broke in.

“Stan, are you mistaking this for a conversation? Let her answer.”

“I was.”

“You were not!”

“I was too!”

Litigation can be so adult. “The record will speak for itself, Stan.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good. Let’s try to act like grown-ups, shall we?”

He reddened even under his sunburn. “I will if you will!”

Enough already. It was our first fight and it wouldn’t be our last. Julicher, a newcomer to Philly from New York, was trying to make a name for himself on this case. He’d hustled overtime to get it in the news and had even sent the complaint to the papers.

“Now, Miss Sullivan, assuming that this card is from Judge Hamilton—”

“He gave it to me himself,” Patricia said. “By the coffeepot.”

“The coffeepot? Are you referring to the first incident of harassment in your complaint?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Sullivan, can you tell me what happened by the coffeepot that day? In your own words?”

“Well, we had a birthday party in chambers, all of us. The two law clerks, the other secretary, and me. Judge Hamilton had ordered a cake and we all ate in his office around the conference table. At three o’clock.”

“And what happened by the coffeepot?”

“I was washing out the coffeepot at the sink next to the supply closet. We were alone and he handed me the card. When I was reading it, he touched my breast. Stroked it, kind of.” Three deep lines furrowed Patricia’s flawless brow and she seemed to withdraw into herself. The woman could sell an emotional distress claim, true or not. I thought I heard a jackpot in the distance, the quarters clanging into a metal tray.

“Did you ask him to move his hand?”

“Objection!” Julicher said. “What’s the difference if she did?”

“That’s no basis for an objection. I’m entitled to know exactly what happened. Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”

“No, I didn’t,” Patricia said nervously. “I was too shocked to. I didn’t say anything, and he took his hand away and just walked out, into the office. And afterward, when I was taking dictation, he acted like nothing happened. I took a whole letter from him, two pages, and he didn’t even look at me. I still remember the letter. Every word.” She fell silent, looking upset.

Julicher had enough trial smarts to let the moment sink in. Even the court reporter swallowed hard.

“Did anyone see him touch you?” I asked quickly.

“No. No one else was around. It was like that, in the beginning. He would just touch me, never saying anything, until the time he kissed me, in his office.”

“Were the doors open or closed?”

“Closed.”

“You testified that he kissed you in his office. Did you kiss him back?”

“No,” she said, her glossy mouth tightening. “I tried to tell him no, but he forced me. He leaned me backward over the chair and his hand went up my shirt. I should have stopped him, I know. It sounds silly now, but I felt embarrassed. I felt like I shouldn’t say anything, and that’s what he said later. He said everything would be all right if I didn’t tell.”

“Did you tell him to stop or not? Yes or no?”

“Well, no. And then at lunchtime he would call me in and touch me that way, do that to me.” Her voice cracked and she reached for her water, drinking it thirstily. “Then one day he went all the way.”

It didn’t ring true. “Do you mean he had sex with you?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean. At noon, in his chambers. Sometimes he would have sex with me, sometimes he would want me to … do things, you know, to him. He told me he would take care of me, and I didn’t have to worry about anything if I kept doing it. And didn’t tell anyone.”

A look of concern crossed Julicher’s oversized features, and I knew why. It didn’t sound like the typical pattern of sexual harassment. Still, there was something there, some kernel of truth. I took a flier. “Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton ever send you flowers?”

“What?” Julicher said. “What’s the point of that?”

“It’s a question.”

“I thought we were following the complaint.”

“It’s my deposition. I write the script.”

“It’s easier for the witness if you follow the complaint.”

Because that’s what you prepped her on? I ignored him and looked directly at the witness. “Miss Sullivan, my question was, did Judge Hamilton ever send you flowers?” Some men are card senders, some men are flower senders, and some men are jerks. Fiske was a flower sender.

“Uh … yes.”

Julicher looked at her, surprised. He evidently hadn’t thought of that. Maybe because he was a jerk.

“Did he send you the flowers at home or at work?”

“At home.”

I checked my notes. “In the roughly seven months you worked for Judge Hamilton, how many times would you say he sent you flowers?”

Her forehead creased again. “I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Would you say they came often or rarely?”

“Uh, often, I guess.”

“Don’t guess,” Julicher said in a growl.

And don’t lie. “Miss Sullivan, would you say that Judge Hamilton sent you flowers three times in seven months?”

“Uh, no.”

“More times or fewer times?”

She shifted in her chair. “I don’t remember.”

She did remember, a fool could see it. “Did the judge send you flowers more than three times in seven months? Before you answer, I remind you that you are under oath.”

“Objection!” Julicher said. “There’s no call for that!”

“More,” Patricia answered, agitated. “More than three times. But … I don’t know how much. How many.”

Julicher’s thick lips formed an unhappy line and he scribbled another note on his legal pad.

“Miss Sullivan, which florist did the flowers come from?”

“Cowan’s, I think.”

The best in Wayne. I made a note to get a para-legal on it, to see if it was a standing order. Then I remembered something. Fiske had a thing about spider mums. He thought they symbolized true love and they were the subject of countless courtship stories told by his devoted wife, Kate. “What kind of flowers did the judge send you, Miss Sullivan?”

“Objection as to relevance!” Julicher shouted, tossing his pen onto the table, where it skidded into the stack of exhibits.

“Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”

Patricia looked from me to Julicher. “Do I have to answer? Does this matter, Stan?”

“Of course not,” Julicher said. “Come off it, Rita. The line of questioning is irrelevant.”

“It’s highly relevant, and you can’t object to relevance during a deposition anyway. Let her answer the question or I’ll call Judge McKelvey and get a ruling.”

Julicher scowled, then looked away, simmering. “Go ahead, Patricia. It’s ridiculous, but you can answer.”

She smoothed back her hair. “Well, the judge sent spider mums.”

“What color?” Yellow.

“Yellow, I think.”

“How many, each time?” Eighteen.

“Eighteen.”

Eighteen, not twelve, because he wanted the vase to look overfull. “Why not a dozen, do you know?”

Julicher exploded. “What’s the point what color, how many? This is a waste of time! None of this has to do with her allegations!”

“Why not a dozen, Miss Sullivan? I remind you again that you are under oath.”

“I don’t remember!” Patricia said, flustered.

Liar. So Fiske was having an affair. And it was a love affair, not just sex. Had he expected me not to find out? What the hell was going on? “Did Judge Hamilton give you anything else?”

“Yes,” she said, looking worriedly at Julicher.

“What did he give you?”

“He sent me some oils and painting supplies.”

Julicher frowned and the Cadillac emblem did the watusi. Maybe he had bought Patricia’s sexual harassment story from the start, but more likely he wanted deniability too much to quiz her in any depth. Then again, maybe he anticipated Fiske wouldn’t want to defend by proving they had a consensual love affair, and Julicher knew he had a winner either way. I was the one in the lose-lose position. And Fiske.

“Miss Sullivan, how many times did Judge Hamilton send you paints and supplies in the seven-month period?”

“Once or twice. Uh … once.”

But Fiske didn’t paint, he played tennis. “How did he know what to send?”

“I don’t know. I never asked for the supplies. Never.”

“You didn’t send them back, did you?”

“No.”

“Did Judge Hamilton ever give you any money?”

Her eyes flashed defensively. “Absolutely not. He offered to lend me some, but I turned it down.”

“Don’t volunteer, Patricia!” Julicher shouted, loud as a schoolyard bully. “I told you that!”

“Sorry. Sorry,” she said, rattled.

“Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton offer you the money before or after he bought the paintings?”

“Before.”

So after she’d refused the money, Fiske bought her paintings. I put two and two together, unfortunately without the aid of my client. “Did he ever commission a painting from you?”

She didn’t answer but reached for her water with a shaky hand. The court reporter remained poised over the stenography machine, its unlabeled black keys a mystery to everyone but her. The room got very quiet, and Julicher looked up from his notes when the silence caught up to him.

“The judge commissioned one painting from me,” Patricia said finally. “A portrait.”

“Of who? Whom?”

“Of you and the man you live with.”

What? My throat caught. “The painting was of me?”

“It was from a photograph taken in Bermuda, I think the judge said. You were standing under a moongate.”

Paul and me. Our first trip together. It was after we had dinner, the first night. A man from Iowa had taken the photo.

“You wore a white dress, like silk,” Patricia said.

Paul had loved that dress. I bet him he couldn’t unzip it with his teeth. Then he did.

“I think the portrait was supposed to be an anniversary surprise.”

I remembered Paul slipping out of his jacket, then unbuttoning his dress shirt.
Why are you taking your own clothes off?
I had asked him.
Because I can do it faster
, he’d said, laughing.

There was laughter in the conference room. “Earth to Rita,” Julicher said with a smirk, and I fumbled for my stride.

“Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher leaned forward. “Now what’s the relevance of
that
?”

None, but I wanted to know. “Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher laid a hammy hand on his client’s arm. “Objection! You’re asking her to speculate. It’s absolutely irrelevant to this lawsuit!”