The Arraignment (13 page)

“Here it is,” says Harry. “It’s just a short piece.” The headline reads:

A
RREST IN
V
ISA
T
HEFT

A taskforce of federal and local law enforcement agencies led by agents of the Immigration and Naturalization Service as well as federal customs agents raided a residence in Santee last night, and an arrest in connection with the theft of thousands of border crossing visas in Tijuana last May.

The visas, issued by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, are used for short-term stays in the U.S. They were stolen from a commercial delivery van at gunpoint near the U.S. Consul’s office in Tijuana on May 23.

Arrested was Miguelito Espinoza, a local labor contractor whose business involves hiring unskilled labor, mostly for work in agriculture. According to authorities, Espinoza was in his home at the time of the raid and offered no resistance.

Authorities refused to say whether they found any evidence in Espinoza’s residence. The visas are believed to be worth as much as a million dollars on the black market, where they can be sold and used to enter the U.S. by undocumented aliens or by those seeking to smuggle people or contraband into the country.

Authorities have been searching for the missing visas for months. According to sources who declined to be identified, the documents represent the latest in laser identity technology and include holographs. It is feared that the hijackers who took the visas may be able to copy the laser technology in order to forge new cards.

Harry lowers the paper and looks over the top at me. “That’s it.”

“Why does your friend at the D.A.’s office think this is connected to Nick and the shooting?”

“What he said was, the guy they arrested was somehow involved with Metz.”

“Did he say how?”

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to crawl across the table and ask him. I got the sense that he probably didn’t know.”

“Do you think he’d tell you if you called him and asked him?”

Harry shakes his head. “We’re friendly, but not that friendly. What he did say is that the guy they arrested, this . . .” He looks at the article again. “This Espinoza, he was under surveillance by the feds for some time prior to the arrest. We’re talking months,” says Harry. “And I mean a blanket. Immigration wanted these visas back in the worst way according to what I heard. The D.A. wants to shake the guy to find out if he knows anything about the shooting. They’re assuming he couldn’t have been directly involved since the feds were watching him at the time. But they think he may know something. I didn’t even want to bring it to you, but I knew you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.”

Harry starts fixing himself a cup of tea, hot water in a cup in the microwave across the hall. He comes back dunking the tea bag on a string. “Did Tolt have a copy of the insurance policy?”

“What?”

“The key-man policy for Rush’s wife?”

“Oh. Yeah. He’s sending it to us in the mail.”

“Was he cooperative?”

“I suppose. As much as he could be. There’s some question, a complication,” I tell him.

“What kind of complication?”

“Seems her name is not on the policy as the beneficiary.”

“I’d call that a complication. Who’s name is on it?”

“The first wife.”

Harry rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me give you some advice. Send her the policy when it comes, put a cover letter on it, and tell her to get a good insurance lawyer.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because there are others involved.”

“Who?”

If we get drawn in, I’m going to be asking Harry to give up his fee. He deserves an answer.

“There is a child. Nick had a daughter out of wedlock a few years ago, before he met Dana. Her name is Laura.”

Harry looks at me. Mental tumblers turning in his head. “The envelope the cops found with the cash in Nick’s pocket,” says Harry.

I nod. “Nick had been paying support since the birth. No court order. Voluntarily. No one except the mother and him knew about it. It was the way they wanted it.”

“And you want to get the insurance for the child.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. That’s going to be governed by the terms of the insurance contract. What I can do is to cut a piece out for her.”

“Our fees?”

“I nod.”

Harry nods. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I couldn’t. If the cops questioned you, you could honestly say you didn’t know anything. I wanted to protect their privacy. This way they won’t have to be a party to the scramble for insurance.”

“Why didn’t Nick put the kid’s name on the policy?”

“He probably wasn’t planning on dying quite yet. And to name her as beneficiary would put her head-to-head with Dana in the claims department. I suspect it’s the reason he left Margaret’s name on the policy. That way it might be up for grabs. The child could get something if the mother decided to pursue it and Margaret was found to have an invalid claim based on the divorce. I owe that much to Nick. He’d do the same if I were in his situation.”

“You very nearly were,” he says.

“Don’t remind me.”

“I understand. I only wish you’d told me earlier. Have a little more faith in me.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trust.”

“I understand.” Harry is hurt. “Of course we give up our fees. No question.”

Harry is looking down into the dark tea in his cup, wondering if he should just leave it there. But he can’t. “Rush’s death wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“Who said it was?”

“Nobody. It’s just that sometimes I think you have some lingering doubts. Especially now that I know what’s driving it. Did she know him, the child I mean?”

I nod. “According to Nick he went over whenever he could. She thought he was her uncle. You could see it in his eyes—he loved her. Told me how smart she was. How happy.”

“Still it’s not your fault. You recognized Metz for what he was and you opted out. You gave Nick fair warning. Would you rather it was Sarah who was without a father right now?”

“Believe me I’ve thought about that. I thought about what Nick might do in my situation. The four grand a month Nick was paying her mother isn’t there anymore.”

“And you’re thinking the insurance money?” Harry is already there.

“That’s what I’m thinking. And when she gets a little older, I suspect she is going to have a lot of questions about her father, who he was and how he died. It might be nice if there were some answers, something beyond the hideous speculation on yellowed newsprint about her dad doing business and dying with a client who was indicted.”

“The money I understand. Looking for answers as to who shot him and why is something for the cops.”

“Maybe. But I don’t see them busting their hump looking.”

“Could it be they figure Nick got what he deserved?” says Harry.

“One criminal defense lawyer more or less is not something high on their list.”

“You think it’s going to end up in the file of unsolved cases?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Then maybe that’s where it belongs.”

“And what if you were his daughter?”

“I’m not, and neither are you. Besides, what if you go looking and you don’t like the answers you find? What then?”

“Cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Harry shakes his head. “If it’s something you’re doing for Nick, you can forget it. The man’s beyond sentiments of appreciation.” Harry gulps a little tea.

“You know, Harry, I hope if somebody shoots me dead on the street, you would at least take a passing interest.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Well. God forbid,” he says, “but if somebody shoots you, I’d probably shed some tears. I’d bury you in style, say some moving words over your grave. I’d do what I could to look after Sarah. Or at least see that she was cared for. I’d think about you a lot, and I’d get on with my life.”

“Hard-nosed,” I say.

“On things I can’t control, you’re damn right. We made a decision,” he says, “a long time ago. We take no drug cases. We agreed. For good reason. There’s too much time spent coming up to speed on the decisional law, the flow of appellate opinions on the subject being on the order of a ruptured sewer over Niagara. Besides, there are some things you just don’t want to do. Like climbing up on the legal stump for organized crime. You can end up finding out about things you’d rather not know. Stuff that keeps you up nights wondering if you hooked all the chains and turned all the bolts on your doors and whether you have enough bars on your windows.”

“That’s why I didn’t take Metz,” I tell him.

“Right,” says Harry. “Because we agreed. So why don’t you blame me that Nick got his ass shot off? I can live with it.” With this he turns and heads out the door, down the hall toward his office.

For several minutes I sit there looking at the newspaper article, the name Miguelito Espinoza, and wondering what Metz would want with border-crossing visas.

Then I go out to the reception. Marta is there catching up on filing. I open one of the file cabinets, the drawer labeled M through O.

“Can I find something for you?” Marta looks up from her desk.

“Think I found it.” I pull the file on Gerald Metz.

“How’s your day going?” I ask.

“Good.” She smiles brightly.

Within ninety days, in her efficient way, Marta would have closed this file, there being no billing activity. She would have placed it in archives, in one of the cardboard boxes stored in the bungalow two doors down. And if she is still with us in a few years, she would toss it, have it hauled to some landfill, the ultimate archive of American culture.

Quietly I retreat to my office with the file. There isn’t much in it, the few letters given to me by Metz that morning in my office, along with my notes, scrawled on some pages from a yellow notepad. There on the third page written out and underlined twice is the name Miguelito Espinoza, with an address and telephone number in Santee. It was the name on the rat-eared business card given to me that morning in my office by Metz. Espinoza had acted as the go-between with the two brothers down in Mexico on their supposed development scheme with Metz.

I haven’t seen Margaret Rush in more than three years, so when she opens the front door, she gives me an expression that says she recognizes the face but can’t quite fix the name.

“Margaret, it’s Paul Madriani.”

A moment of hesitation and then: “Oh yes.” She smiles, struggles to arrange her hair with the back of one hand. There is dirt under her fingernails. She is wearing a pair of jeans with smudges of mud at the knees.

“I’m afraid you caught me gardening,” she says.

“I wonder if I could come in for just a moment?”

She hesitates, caught between concerns for security and
a social blunder, then fumbles with the latch on the screen door. “Of course.”

“It’s been a long time,” I tell her.

“It has.” I can tell she is still not entirely certain who I am. She recognizes the name, the face, but can’t quite place the setting in which we met.

“I think we saw each other last on that bay cruise. The county bar reception, a few years ago,” I tell her.

“Oh. Yes.” Recognition lights up her eyes. “You were a friend of Nick’s.”

“I was.”

Her expression tells me she now regrets letting me in. “I really don’t have much time,” she says. “I was just getting ready to head out.”

“I won’t take but a minute.”

“What is it you want?” she says. “You’ll have to make it quick.”

“How have you been?”

“Me? I’ve been fine.” She stands in the entryway. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“Can we go in and sit down?” I ask.

“I suppose. But I only have a minute.”

She turns toward the living room and I follow her. The room is small, on the order of the house itself, a single-story rambler on a street of well-groomed strips of front lawn, lined with established Japanese elms. There is a sofa against one wall facing the front window and the street. Feminine knickknacks of china and crystal and a small antique tea set line shelves that are high on the wall and surround the room. There is a beveled glass china cabinet against one wall and a single wingback chair in the corner next to the fireplace. She sits in this, leaving me to take the couch.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral, but then there were a lot of people.”

“Nick’s funeral?” she says.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t there. That part of my life ended some time ago,” she says. “What is it you want to talk about?”

It seems we are not going to do any small talk.

Her hair has gone gray since I saw her last. Wrinkles envelope her face around the eyes. The tense expression on her face tells me that she may have washed Nick out of her life years ago, but thoughts of him still occupy dark recesses of her mind.

“How’s your son, Jimmy is it?”

“James,” she says. “He’s fine.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Nick.”

“What about him?” she says.

“It’s actually about his estate.”

“Oh, yes. Now I understand. They called from the firm a couple of days ago and told me. It’s the insurance policy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the key-man policy,” I tell her.

“Did she send you?”

“Who?”

“Who,” she says in a mocking tone, the creases around her eyes focusing the anger in her voice. “You know who I mean. Dana.”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To avoid a problem,” I tell her. “To resolve a potential dispute. Maybe to do what I think is right.”

“And what is that?”

“Nick is dead. He’s out of everyone’s life at this point, yours, hers. There may be aspects of this policy that benefit both of you.”

“You sound just like Nick, just trying to make peace, fix everything for everybody. Oh, by the way, I’m screwing my interior decorator and I’d like a divorce, but it’s nothing personal.”

“You have every reason to be angry.”

“You bet I do.”

“But in your anger, you don’t want to hurt yourself,” I tell her.