Sheer Gall (3 page)

“Like flies to shit, eh?” Benny said.

I gave him a surly look. “Which makes me what?”

“Great shit, babe. The greatest. With a pair of legs to die for.” He gave me a wink. “Go get 'em, champ. I'll look for you on the five-o'clock news.”

I took a deep breath, glanced over at Benny, and exhaled slowly.
It's show time
. I opened the door.

“Miss Gold?” the blonde shouted as I stepped out.

“Rachel?” the Hispanic said. I'd never met him before in my life. Or her, for that matter.

As I looked from one minicam to the other, I heard Benny's car drive off.

“Over here, Miss Gold,” the blonde said with a saccharine smile. Turning to her competitor, she hissed, “Wait your turn, Hector.”

Having been through this before, I knew how important it was to assert control early on. If you don't step off the media merry-go-round before it starts spinning, you eventually get hurled off in a daze.

So I assumed the role. I glared at the minicam operator closest to me—a big heavyset guy with a brown beard. In as authoritative a voice as I could muster, I said, “Turn it off.”

He gave me an uneasy look and glanced back toward the blonde. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, but she said nothing.

“Both of them,” I snapped, pointing at the other minicam. “We either start off the record, or we don't start at all.”

The two TV reporters exchanged puzzled glances. I waited for a moment and then shrugged. “Your choice, folks. You want me on the record, then we start off the record. Otherwise”—I gestured toward the
Post-Dispatch
reporter—“the only one I talk to is Neil.”

Neil grinned sheepishly.

This time the two TV reporters exchanged troubled looks. The Hispanic reporter turned to his minicam operator, a tough-looking fortyish woman with scraggly black-and-gray hair wearing faded jeans and a tie-dyed Hard Rock Beirut sweatshirt. “It's okay, Linda,” he said. “We'll get the film later.”

I waited until both red lights blinked off.

“Let me guess,” I said, mimicking bashful delight. “I just won the Nobel Peace Prize.”

They all smiled.

I got serious. “Is this about Sally?”

Several nods.

I shook my head in mild disbelief. “It must be a slow news day.”

Curious expressions.

That was stupid
, I told myself.
Don't belittle a client's situation
.

I turned to the Hispanic reporter. “How did you find out? From Neville McBride?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Actually, the police.”

“Good,” I said, pleased. “I'm glad they're getting involved.” I looked at the blonde. “Does Neville know?”

“Definitely,” she said. “The police have already talked to him.”

I smiled. “Let's hope they make him squirm. Uh, that's off the record,” I added quickly.

My mind was racing. Sally might not yet be Joan of Arc, but I could start planting some helpful seeds in the media. Even though greed was Sally's primary motivation, with a little spin I could use her case to focus attention on the perils of spouse abuse. The notoriety certainly wouldn't hurt her case, and the increased awareness of the problem just might save a few other women from physical abuse.

“I'm willing to talk in general about battered women,” I said seriously, “but I'm not going to answer questions about Neville McBride. We stand by the written allegations of the lawsuit. He's the defendant, and he deserves to be the defendant, but I'm not going to comment further on his actions other than to say that we assume justice will be done. Okay?”

Several nods.

I suddenly realized that I needed to confer with Sally. Neither of us had expected this much publicity so early in the case. We had to talk before reporters started sticking microphones in her face. Whatever I said was just a lawyer flapping her jaws, but Sally was the plaintiff. What she said could be used against her at trial.

“One more thing,” I said. “I'd prefer, at least initially, that you talk to me about the case. There may be an appropriate time for you to involve Sally, but she's obviously in no condition to talk now, and it wouldn't be fair for you to try to get a quote out of her.” I paused and gave them a plucky smile. “Okay, gang, fire away.”

No one said a thing.

I waited, perplexed. The Hispanic reporter looked down at the ground. The blonde and her cameraman exchanged puzzled glances.

“Rachel.”

It was Neil, the newspaper reporter. He tugged at his Fu Manchu mustache, his eyes sad. As I stared at him, a warning light clicked on in my head. “What?”

“Sally's dead,” he said quietly.

My mind went blank, as if all thoughts had swirled away like startled doves. Somewhere off to the side I was vaguely aware of the whirring of one of the minicams.

Finally, I asked, “When?”

“Late last night,” Neil answered.

I moved closer. In almost a whisper I asked, “Where?”

“Her bedroom.”

“How?”

He frowned. “Probably asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation?”

He shrugged. “They won't know for sure until the autopsy.”

“Oh, my God, Neil.”

He shook his head sadly. “The cops are trying to keep a lid on it for now. I wasn't able to get much.”

I studied his face. “What else do you know, Neil?”

He tugged on his mustache. “Apparently, she was tied up on the bed.”

“What do you mean, ‘tied'?”

He shrugged. “With duct tape. Spread-eagled. Naked. Facedown. A gag in her mouth.”

I let that information sink in. “She was strangled?”

“Possibly. Or gagged. Or maybe he just put a plastic bag over her head. He might try to claim it was an accident, but the cops don't think so.”

“He?” I said in a hoarse voice.

“They're pretty sure it was a man.”

I stared at him, waiting.

He tugged at his mustache, lowering his eyes. “They found some, uh, fluid on her lower back.”

Chapter Three

It was the lead headline in the morning's
Post-Dispatch:

WOMAN ATTORNEY FOUND
DEAD IN BEDROOM
Police Question Estranged Husband

The lawsuit of
Sally Wade
v.
Neville D. McBride III
made it into paragraphs seven and eight:

Just five days before her death, in what now seems a haunting omen to some, Ms. Wade filed a $10 million personal injury lawsuit in the St. Louis circuit court against Mr. McBride. In her court papers, she accused her estranged husband of invading her home in the middle of the night and physically assaulting her in her bedroom. Mr. McBride repeatedly struck her with his fists and attempted to rape her, according to the lawsuit, which seeks punitive damages for his alleged conduct, which the petition characterizes as “malicious, willful and reprehensible.”

Attempts to reach Mr. McBride regarding the lawsuit allegations were unsuccessful. St. Louis attorney Rachel Gold, who filed the lawsuit on behalf of Ms. Wade, declined to comment on either the lawsuit or her client's violent death.

There was a sidebar story on their marriage entitled “Mixed Doubles.” At the top of the story were side-by-side photos of Neville and Sally—photos selected to underscore the contrasts between them. In Neville's photo, he was in white tails and top hat as he escorted his debutante niece down the aisle at the Veiled Prophet Ball. In her photo, Sally was weary but victorious as she stood on the front steps of the Granite City courthouse holding aloft the full-scale model of a human leg that had played an important role in the $1.2 million medical malpractice verdict the jury had just awarded her one-legged client.

I studied her picture as I sipped my coffee. Sally's hair had been a little longer back then, but the sunglasses appeared to be the same model. I wondered whether they were concealing a black eye back then as well.

I stared at the photo of Neville McBride. Although medical science has long since banished phrenology to the Elba Isle of quackery, most of us remain amateur phrenologists. We expect violent criminals to look like violent criminals, members of the polo set to look like members of the polo set, and the rest of the “types” out there to match the specs issued by the Central Casting of our minds. Thus, although I had never seen Neville McBride before, I had a clear mental image of what a distinguished but lecherous managing partner of a powerful corporate law firm would look like: tall, suave, well-manicured, and charming, with just a touch of the satyr.

Wrong. Instead of Cary Grant, I was staring at the bulky, sixtyish grocer who served as treasurer of the local Kiwanis Club. Neville McBride was bald, wore thick glasses, and could generously be described as stocky. He looked more like Sally's father than her husband.

I settled back in my office chair to read the text of the sidebar, which highlighted the differences between the two lawyers—one an influential fifty-five-year-old partner in a major law firm whose roster of clients constituted a who's who of the business, professional, and social elite of St. Louis; the other a feisty thirty-six-year-old solo practitioner whose clients included a motley but lucrative collection of victims—victims of traffic accidents, of medical malpractice, of on-the-job injuries, of defective products, of consumer fraud, of Truth-in-Lending Act violations.

They were, to use a cliché, a study in contrasts. Neville Damon McBride III was the scion of the St. Louis McBrides—a wealthy family that had made its millions in the Missouri lead mines during the early decades of the twentieth century. Sally Wade was the only child of an itinerant carpenter (now deceased) and an alcoholic mother (remarried, divorced, remarried, divorced, and now deceased). Neville grew up in a nine-bedroom home on the grounds of the St. Louis Country Club. Sally Wade grew up in a mobile home on the outskirts of Centralia, Illinois. Neville followed the academic path of his father and grandfather: Princeton College and then the University of Virginia School of Law. Sally became the first member of her family to graduate high school, and then worked her way through Southern Illinois University and St. Louis University Law School.

The two met, according to the article, as members of the bar association committee overseeing the renovation plans for the St. Louis Civil Courts Building. Sally served on the committee because, as a plaintiff's lawyer who regularly appeared in that dilapidated building, it was good politics to be seen as dedicated to improving the working conditions of the judges. Neville served on the committee in part because of his firm's sense of noblesse oblige and in part because his grandfather had donated the imposing bronze sculpture of Louis Brandeis that dominated the lobby. (Brandeis had started his legal career in St. Louis.)

I skimmed through the lead story on the murder one more time before tossing the paper into the recycling bin next to my desk. Then I got up for some fresh coffee. As I was up at the coffee machine, Jacki came in with the morning mail.

“Anything special?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Mostly junk mail. There's an order in the Carson case resetting the pretrial conference for early December.”

“Am I okay?”

“Yep. I entered the new date in your calendar.” She flipped through the rest of the mail. “They served another set of depo notices in the KSLM-AM libel case. Ah,” Jacki said with a chuckle, holding up a piece of correspondence. “And another indignant letter from that lard-ass at Bryan Cave.”

“What's he whining about now?”

“Well, it's five pages long.” She skimmed the letter. “Seems he's unsatisfied with some of your responses to his latest set of interrogatories.”

“Poor baby.”

“Are you going to respond to the letter?”

“No way.” I took a sip of coffee and gave Jacki an appraising look. She was wearing a navy cardigan sweater over a white cotton blouse, a pleated glen-plaid wool skirt, opaque white pantyhose, and navy Pappagallo flats. “Say, is that a new outfit?”

She smiled hesitantly. “Do you like it?”

“I do. It sort of reminds me of, uh—”

“—the uniforms the girls used to wear at Catholic school?”

I nodded. “Exactly, except without the ugly brown brogues.”

“Do you think I'm too old for it?”

“Not at all,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

Jacki Brand was a former Granite City steelworker who was putting herself through night law school while working days as my secretary, paralegal, law clerk, and all-around aide. I'd call her my Girl Friday, except that anatomically she was still a he—and would so remain until the operation next summer. Jacki (née Jack) was now in her fifth month living as a woman and her fifth month as the greatest assistant I had ever had.

As for her outfit today, imagine a Green Bay Packer middle linebacker dressed in drag as a senior at Sacred Heart and wearing a Dolly Parton wig, lipstick, and rouge. “You look cute,” I assured her. And, oddly enough, she did.

“One last item,” Jacki said. “Do you want me to call Mr. Contini to remind him about the pretrial conference tomorrow?”

“Oy,” I said with a smile, “that crazy case. Sure. When is it?”

“Eleven o'clock.”

“Tell him I'll meet him at court at quarter to eleven.”

About an hour later, Jacki poked her head in my office. She was frowning. “What happens to our lawsuit for Sally?”

I leaned back in my chair. “Hard to say. If she had a will, it'll appoint a personal representative.” The personal representative is the modern trust-and-estate term for what was once called the executor or administrator. “The personal representative,” I continued, “will be the one who'll ultimately decide what happens with the lawsuit.”

“And if she didn't have a will?”

“Presumably the probate court will decide. But we've got bigger problems than that.”

“Such as?”

“Such as admissible evidence. She was alone when he beat her up. That means our only witness is dead. We'll need to find another way to get her story into evidence.” I snapped my fingers. “Which reminds me. I've got to talk to Neil.”

Neil Boyer was the reporter from the
Post-Dispatch
who wrote the lead story on Sally's death. As Jacki returned to her desk, I flipped through my Rolodex for Neil's number. Someone at the city desk answered. The call bounced around for a while. One guy put me on hold for a long time and then came back on the line to tell me that Neil was out on assignment. Eventually, I left my name and telephone number.

As I hung up, I heard Benny out in the reception area. He lived in the Central West End, only a few blocks from my office, and occasionally dropped by on his way to or from Washington University, where he was an assistant professor of law. I listened long enough to realize that he was reaching the punch line of one of his favorite jokes. I leaned back with a smile to listen.

“Well, the Hell's Angel slowly walks around the poor guy,” Benny said, “and stops behind him. Then there's the sound of a zipper. ‘Hey, what's going on?' the guy asks. ‘Sorry, little buddy,' the Hell's Angel says, ‘but I guess this just ain't your goddam day.'”

Jacki burst into laughter.

“Hello, Professor,” I called out.

He strolled in and gave me a wink. “Hey, gorgeous.”

I smiled with amusement at his outfit. “I'm glad to see you're finally starting to dress like a real law school professor.”

“Never too early to impress upon them the solemnity and dignity of our learned profession.” He was wearing a black sweatshirt, a Portland Beavers baseball cap, baggy army pants, and green high-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars. The sweatshirt bore the legend
I Am That Man from Nantucket
. He took a seat and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Well?”

I looked at him curiously. “Well what?”

“I think ole Neville is up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Oh?”

“The cops found some photos.”

“Where?”

“In his apartment.”

“Really? Of the two of them?”

“Them, and…” He paused with a Groucho Marx leer and pretended to remove an invisible cigar from his mouth to flick the ashes.

“And?”

“And a few shots of Neville with other women.”

I frowned. “All in the same picture?”

“No, no. One babe per picture. I'm just saying that the guy has, shall we say, a broad collection.”

I shook my head in amazement. “I take it these are not the type of pictures one sends home to Mom.”

“Not unless Mom happens to be Dr. Ruth. Most are your basic beaver shots.”

“Most?”

“Most.”

“But not all?”

He winked. “Not all.”

I nodded. “So, I take it that this collection includes at least one bondage shot?”

“Damn,” he said, “you're good. Score one point for the girl with the All-World Tush.”

I felt a chill. “A bondage shot of Sally?”

“Correct again,” he said, slipping into his game-show host voice. “Don Pardo, tell her what she's won.”

I let the information sink in. “Benny, how in the world do you get access to this kind of stuff?”

“Vee haf our sources, Meez Gold.”

“A cop?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Reliable?”

“Totally.”

I sat back. “I am impressed.”

“Me, too. Sometimes I have to pinch myself just to confirm I'm for real.”

“Still,” I said, contemplating his information, “it doesn't prove he killed her.”

“True, but it hurts like hell.”

“Yes and no. All it proves for sure is that he or she or both of them happened to enjoy bondage. Bondage is more common than you think. There's even a section on it in
The
Joy of Sex
.”

“The Joy of Sex?”
He stood up, feigning shock. “Good grief, Rachel Gold, what are you doing reading up on bondage in
The Joy of Sex
?” He paused, placing his hand on his chest, as if deeply moved. “Oh, my. Are you finally preparing yourself to become my bride?”

“Right,” I said, blushing despite myself.

“Excellent, dude.” He sat back down with a satisfied grin. “But be sure to study the section on oral sex, although, alas, I'm sure it's missing from your copy.”

“What are you talking about?”

He shook his head sadly. “I have this theory that somehow, through the wonders of modern technology and pursuant to a secret pact with the rabbinical council, the publishers of sex manuals have excised all references to blow jobs from every volume sold to Jewish women and replaced them with an inflammatory and wholly inaccurate essay on oral hygiene.”

“Very funny, Benny. Look, my point is that lots of normal people are involved in bondage, and they don't die. It's just a harmless sexual game.”

“Maybe, but according to my source, one of the photos has her trussed up in pretty much the way she was when they found her.”

I let that one sink in. “Wow,” I said softly.

“And his alibi bites. He says he was home alone that night. He says he watched
Monday Night Football
, which ended around eleven-thirty, and then he went to bed. Pretty lame.”

I nodded. “That doesn't do much for him.”

“And then there's your lawsuit. Talk about a mortal blow. What did the cops think?”

“Two detectives from the Major Case Squad came by last night around eight to take my statement. They wanted to know all about her injuries, about what she told me about him, about anything and everything I could recall about her. They were extremely interested in her comment about how he liked to tie her up and masturbate.”

Benny crossed his arms over his chest. “You realize that if it really was him you're going to end up as a witness at the murder trial.”