The Love-Haight Case Files (2 page)

“That’s enough,” Vaughan growled. “Just answer the question.”

“I really loved her,” Holder croaked so soft only Thomas could hear. There was real pain in the ghoul’s voice. “I loved her, and she calls me an S.O.B.”

Marilee Cobb put on a self-righteous expression. “Yes, I get child support, judge. That son—”

Wyndam-Smyth put a hand on her client’s shoulder. “Your Honor, my client does not hold a job. She is a stay-at-home mother, devoting her full time to the raising of Gabrielle and Caleb. Child support allows Marilee to enroll the children in costly extracurricular activities such as gymnastics, orchestra, karate, pay for their continued upkeep, and—”

“Not part of the custody paperwork, Your Honor, is the legal will of Mr. Holder. The eight-point-four million dollar home in which Marilee Cobb and the children live in the gated community—”

“—has nothing to do with the matter at hand,” Wyndam-Smyth said.

“I’ll decide that,” the judge said. “Let’s be civil about this, shall we? One at a time, and when I direct you. No more interrupting. Mr. Brock, about this will—”

Thomas handed a copy of the will to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. “The home in the Presidio Terrace was purchased when Mr. Holder played quarterback for the San Francisco Forty Niners.” He’d intended to fit the professional football stint in there somewhere because of the judge’s background. “That home, as well as the cars and all of the couple’s investments, residual income from endorsements, went to Marilee Cobb and the children at the time of Mr. Holder’s death. She received half of the estate, the other half divided equally between Gabrielle and Caleb in trusts. Mr. Holder’s death legally dissolved the marriage … ’til death do us part … and therefore there was no divorce. I can assure you there is plenty of money in the estate to cover the expenses Ms. Cobb sought child support for.”

The judge pored over the papers with increasing interest.

Thomas waited until he had the judge’s attention again, then dramatically hefted a file folder Evelyn handed him. “I have copies of the financials if you want to peruse them. And I note again that Mr. Holder is not challenging his widow on the claim for child support. In fact, since he is gainfully employed—on
Dead and Loving It,
one of the top-rated reality shows currently in syndication—he is therefore able to assist with the child rearing costs.”

Thomas had wanted to mention
Dead and Loving It.
The show followed three undead—Mr. Holder, a vampire, and a revenant, each trying to find love and acceptance in society after their existence had so dramatically changed. He had learned the judge was a fan of reality TV, and so figured Vaughan at the very least had heard of the program.

The bailiff accepted the new file and passed it over to the judge.

“Mr. Holder has made every scheduled child support payment. He is merely challenging her on the custody matter. Since a California court has deemed that he must pay child support, this court must recognize his legal right to seek joint custody.”

There, that was the crux of Thomas’s case. He could have brought it up right away, the very first argument out of his mouth, but he’d known Wyndam-Smyth would point out just how dead his client was, and the eating flesh issue.

The judge looked from Thomas to Wyndam-Smyth, narrowing his gaze when each started to speak again, the glare silencing them.

Holder belched, a visible cloud of dust issuing from his mouth.

Thomas winced and felt his eyes watering from the added stench.

“I want to look over these papers again, Ms. Wyndam-Smyth, Mr. Brock, and consider what you have presented today,” Vaughan said. “And I want to set up an appointment to talk to the children … without either parent in the room. Counsels can be in attendance.”

“I have more material to present, Your Honor.” Thomas had observations from his private investigator about Marilee Cobb’s inappropriate party lifestyle, the men she’d been running with, a misdemeanor drug charge that had conveniently been left out of the newspapers, and conversely, documents showing his own client’s economic stability and mental health.

“It is late in the afternoon, so we will call this done for the day.” Vaughan peered over his desk. “I strongly suggest counsels meet again tomorrow or over the weekend and try to come up with a settlement.”

“Settlement?” Marilee Cobb shook her head. “Not happening. That walking corpse ain’t seeing the kids. It ain’t about money, like that op-ed piece in the
Times
said. I ain’t no fucking gold digger, like those undead rights activists claim. That ain’t true. I ain’t taking advantage of my ex-husband’s transformation into an undead thing to take the whole estate. It’s about what’s right and proper. And it ain’t right and it ain’t proper to be hanging around with dead people.”

Thomas was inwardly pleased at her defiance and her overt show of prejudice. This case was a real chance for him to set some sort of precedence, to establish legal rights for undead such as Holder. At the same time, it was an opportunity to draw publicity to his tiny practice, and to attract more business. It was all win-win for him. On top of all of that, he was confident the child support issue was that proverbial slam-dunk that would lead to the joint-custody his client so desperately wanted. But he felt bad for Holder, to watch his ex-wife vent hatred and prejudice. Holder hadn’t asked to become a ghoul, or to lose his children.

Marilee Cobb brushed off Wyndam-Smyth’s hand. “That thing ain’t getting close to them, I tell you.”

“Very well, we’ll keep this going for another session,” Vaughan pronounced. His dismal tone belayed his words. “I eagerly look forward to hearing more evidence. You both make compelling cases; and the fact that Ms. Cobb was granted child support adds a definite wrinkle in Mr. Holder’s favor.”

Slam-dunk indeed
, Thomas thought. He doubted Wyndam-Smyth had known about the child support payments. Too, Wyndam-Smyth clearly hadn’t done her research. A primed attorney wouldn’t have left herself open for the eating dead flesh issue, which let him show the poor fast food nutritional choices of Marilee Cobb. Thomas knew he would have prepared better had he been in her shoes. And he well knew it could have been him sitting on that side of the courtroom … if he’d joined his father’s firm out of college and not struck out on his own. That notion of being in the stable of Brock, Davis & Davis left a worse taste in his mouth than his client’s rotting odor.

The judge consulted the calendar on his desk. “Ms. Wyndam-Smyth, Mr. Brock, determining the fate of children is serious business, and custody involves careful thought and consideration of the law. I would like to continue this tomorrow while everything is fresh, but there are some matters I cannot reschedule. So next week, then. Monday morning looks moveable. We can resume this at ten a.m. Monday.” Vaughan cast the briefest of glances Holder’s way.

“All rise,” the bailiff said.

The judge stood. He had no gavel on his desk to signal an end.

Thomas gathered his papers and handed them to Evelyn to put in order and return to his briefcase. He held his breath as Holder burped another noxious cloud of corpse-gas and watched Evelyn turn white from the stink, her dusting of freckles standing out like pinpricks on her pale face.

The ghoul extended his hand and Thomas carefully shook it, half-afraid he might break one of Holder’s finger bones. The dead man’s flesh was dry and felt like leather, the grip surprisingly firm.

“Monday,” Thomas told Holder. “We’ll finish this up, win it Monday. You’ll get to see the kids.”

The ghoul grinned, revealing well cared for teeth that gleamed iridescent white against his gray features. “Monday,” Holder croaked. “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you ever-so-much.”

Chapter 1.3

“Buy you dinner, all right? We’ll celebrate our first successful outing in Family Court.” Thomas wasn’t much of a cook and usually ate dinner at Asqew Grill, Zona Rosa, or Kan Zaman Café when he had a taste for something Middle Eastern, all on Haight and a short walk from the office. But tonight he wanted to go someplace special, maybe Massawa, an Ethiopian spot in Lower Haight with incredible honey wine and vegetable samosa to die for. If they got there before six, they wouldn’t need to call ahead for reservations.

“Celebrate? We haven’t won,” Evelyn said, “yet.” Her grin was infectious, and her voice musical. She said something else, but the blat of a car horn cut her off. The driver leaned on it until it keened in a continuous tone like a siren, and the pickup right behind started honking to add to the dissonant cacophony.

Thomas closed his eyes and unsuccessfully willed the ruckus to pass. They stood in front of the courthouse waiting for the Golden Gate Transit bus. Holder had paid a large enough retainer—the most money the law office had ever taken in since he’d hung his shingle—that Thomas could have rented a limo. He’d nearly done it, too, wanting to arrive in style to show Evelyn what a successful practice looked like. She’d come to him from a small, desperate firm that had closed its doors at the death of its senior partner last year. The partner hadn’t come back from the grave … only a rare percentage of folks did that.

Thomas had been quick to approach Evelyn with his sorry offer of a part-time job when he’d heard the news. He’d tried a case against her the year before. Well, she’d been the legal assistant at the opposing table, but he knew the work had been hers. She accepted, saying she didn’t want a full-time job because she was taking a pretty heavy class load as she tried to finish up her law degree. She was an excellent student. Most of the time, it seemed like she knew the law better than he did.

A police car crawled by, flashed its lights, and the honking marathon subsided. Traffic unsnarled and the line started to move. An old Buick, more rust than paint, chugged by, back windows cracked open and a rap song spilling out—the driver apparently wanting everyone to share his choice in music.

Then the bus pulled up and Thomas courteously waited for the others who had gathered. He and Evelyn got on last and found two open seats in the middle. They were used to public transportation. He thought again about that limo when a teenager who’d gone too long without a shower and with blue jeans hanging more than halfway down his hips walked the aisle and shoved flyers at each of the riders. Thomas folded the Day-Glo orange sheet and stuck it in his pocket without bothering to read it.

He’d noticed an OT two seats behind him, the fellow looking more than a little bit like a troll doll with thick, stubby limbs, a wide face, and a pug-like nose. The other passengers stared, and a few rudely pointed fingers. Thomas, curious but respectful, quietly pulled out his iPhone and did a search on the Internet. It was a creature he wasn’t familiar with, but with a few keystrokes on an OT encyclopedia website (with Silicon Valley so close to the abundance of OTs in San Francisco, it was no surprise there was an app for that), he discovered that his fellow passenger was a
bungaya
. San Francisco had a sizeable Asian population, and according to the website this OT was Japanese. The definition read:

Bungaya, or Kijimunaa, rare except in Okinawa. Japanese sprite that takes the shape of a short, young boy with bright red hair, sometimes seen playing with fire. Known for harmless pranks, they were first sighted in the tops of Okinawa’s banyan trees. They fear octopi, enjoy sport fishing, and prefer to eat seafood.

In the aisle across from him, two middle-aged men held hands. Thomas glanced at Evelyn. Her hair gleamed like molten copper in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.

He adored her. It hadn’t started out that way. In the beginning it was all professional. It was still professional, but lately there’d been a little more to it—lingering glances, fingers brushing, occasional dinners together after work, a few concerts in Golden Gate Park, standing closer than necessary and sharing each other’s breath. He knew she felt something too, a mutual attraction that neither had yet been willing to take any farther.

Evelyn caught him looking at her. She’d been reading the flyer.

“A concert?” he asked, pretending to look at the sheet in her lap. It was easy to see over her shoulder; she was about a head shorter.

“I suppose there might be music. It’s a revival at Saint Agnes Church.”

Thomas was familiar with the church, a one hundred and twenty year old Roman Catholic monument that drew gays, straights, and OTs. Called “the last chance church” by those in the Haight-Ashbury district, it boasted a large library that he’d visited several times.

“Do you want to go?” Thomas knew Evelyn was Catholic and that she sometimes stopped at Saint Agnes’s. “Dinner at Massawa and then—”

“I can’t.” She blew out a breath, fluttering the curls against her forehead. “You know I can’t. Class tonight, admiralty.”

“That’s right. Thursday.” Thomas concentrated on his cases so much that sometimes what day it was eluded him. She had classes Tuesday and Thursday nights, Monday and Wednesday mornings, and into the afternoons.

“Dinner would be nice.” The smile reached her fog-gray eyes. “But I’d better not skip class. There’s only six weeks left in the semester, and the bar exam is coming up in February. I need to pass it on the first go. I don’t want to wait for the August testing.”

He had no doubt that she’d pass. And then how could he afford her after she got her law license and could work full time? Would she go elsewhere? Some firm that would pay her what she was worth? “So dinner tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow.” She nodded. “Been ages since I’ve been to Massawa. And it’d be good to celebrate.” She gently squeezed his arm.

Thomas turned to watch the middle-aged couple, not wanting Evelyn to see his broad grin. He thought about taking a peek over his shoulder to get a better look at the
bungaya
, but worried that might be rude. He got his look, though. When he and Evelyn got out at the park stop, the
bungaya
got out there too, but sauntered off in the opposite direction doing an odd soft shoe shuffle step.

The park stop was a little ritual when it wasn’t raining. There was one stop closer to the office, but Thomas enjoyed the brief walk, and the temperature was agreeable for the first of November, a balmy sixty-five. It was forever interesting to see who was in the park … sometimes mimes—a few of the regulars were quite good; often panhandlers that Thomas refused to encourage; frequently saxophone buskers who took requests; and always a smattering of colorful folk, a few of which weren’t quite human.