Trophy Widow (25 page)

“Vaguely.”

“The services he performed for you are exactly the types of services you just told me your firm does for its partners. Right?”

“Well, yes, in certain cases, right.”

“And I think you said that for those types of services your firm would charge a client less than three thousand dollars. Right?”

“Well, so long as there was nothing unusual about the deal, yet.”

“But you paid Michael Green twenty-five thousand dollars for those very same services. Why?”

“Why?” he repeated.

“Why did you pay him all that money?”

He pursed his lips, his eyes blank. “I don't recall at this point in time.”

“Maybe it'll come to you later. What happened to the three-flat you bought? We've checked some of the real estate records at City Hall. Your company owned it for only nineteen months.”

He was staring at me. “What is this all about?”

“That's what I came here to ask you.”

“What are you trying to pull here?” The charm was gone.

“Some answers out of you. I assume that there's also a connection between the real estate deal and that Sebastian Curry painting you bought.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his face suddenly flushed. “We have nothing further to discuss. It's time for you leave.”

“Don, you're not the only one. There are at least twenty-two others who did the same thing. You're the first person I've talked to. I'll talk to the others, one by one. One of you is going to talk to me, or, if not me, then to the police. And you know how that works. It's just like that inventory accounting system—FIFO. First in, first out. Same here. First one to talk is the first one out. Why not let it be you?”

“This meeting is over. Out.” He was glaring at me. “Get out of my goddamn office, you sneaky little bitch.”

I stood up, shaking my head. “Sticks and stones, Don.”

“You better leave now, goddammit, or else.”

I started toward the door and then turned. “Or else what? You'll call the police? Think about your situation, Don. Think about it carefully. It still makes more sense to talk to me. You have my number. Call me.”

I turned and left.

Chapter Twenty-seven

We were in chambers—the final pause before opening statements. Jimmy, the judge's elderly bailiff, was standing by the door, waiting. Judge Parker buttoned his judicial robe.

“Counsel,” he said, “Jimmy's about to bring in our jury. Sure there's no chance of getting this thing settled?”

I looked at Armour. “Our demand hasn't changed. Give my clients their money back and we'll drop the other claims.”

Armour chuckled. “That's a no-brainer. Let's raise the curtain and bring on the dancing dykes.”

Mack Armour's opening statement was every bit as misleading and offensive as I expected. He rambled from New Testament quotes wrenched from context to an animal behavior “study” published in a supermarket tabloid. He ended with a jab at what he labeled the “fem-Nazi cult of political correctness.”

“What next?” he said, feigning astonishment. “Does the animal kingdom come flocking to our courts, one by one, seeking redress for their place in God's plan? Will the heirs of the male black widow sue Big Momma for wrongful death because she killed Daddy after they mated? Will the mare sue the stallion for assault for biting her on the neck during sex? And what about that poor praying mantis?” He paused, hand on his heart in mock sympathy. A few of the jurors were smiling. “As soon as he ejaculates the female bites off his head and eats it. Talk about bad sex. Gotta be a claim there, eh?”

He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Of course not. We're all God's creatures. Each of us does what God designed us to do. It's called natural reproduction—a path, ironically, that Miss Gold's clients spurn in their own lives. If these two women are looking around for someone to blame, someone to hold accountable, then I suggest they look in a mirror.” With a triumphant about-face, Mack Armour turned from the jury and gave me a satisfied wink as he returned to his seat.

“Miss Gold?” the judge said.

I stood and faced the jury. “Mr. Armour and I will agree on little during this trial,” I started, aiming for a low-key tone, “but we do agree that Mother Nature has devised some amazing reproductive strategies. The black widow, the horse, the praying mantis, and, as you will soon learn, even the ostrich—each species performs the sexual act in a way that seems strange or shocking to us. But what Mr. Armour ignores is that the end result of each of these mating rituals—
every single one of them
—is the creation of new life. Here, though, the end result was terror.”

I paused, trying to read the jurors' facial expressions—about as helpful as trying to read tea leaves. At least they seemed to be listening.

“Here,” I continued, “the end result was serious injury. And in one case, death. Not once did this ostrich engage in the mating dance of his species. Not once did this ostrich complete a sex act with any hen. Not once did this ostrich create new life.”

I moved back to counsel's table and stood behind Maggie and Sara, resting a hand on each one's shoulder. “These women,” I said, “paid a lot of money for a breeding ostrich. Blackwell Breeders agreed to sell them a stud. Instead, it sold them a dud. And a lethal one at that. They're entitled to compensation.”

I came around from behind the table and stopped in front of the jury. “Mr. Armour talks about God's creatures flocking to this courthouse with frivolous claims. As the evidence will demonstrate, only one of God's creatures tried that ploy here.” I turned toward counsel's table and gestured at Charlie Blackwell. “And that creature is sitting right there.”

***

I cross-examined Charlie Blackwell late that afternoon. Armour had run him briskly through his paces in what was obviously—to me, at least, and hopefully to the jury—a well-rehearsed two hours of direct. As I got to my feet, I could see Blackwell hunker down for what he assumed would be a marathon cross-examination.

I had other plans.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell.”

“Affer-noon, ma'am,” he answered in his high-pitched nasal twang.
MAY-yam
.

Charlie Blackwell had spiffed himself up considerably since I'd taken his deposition a month ago. Today he was wearing a starched white cowboy shirt stretched tight against his belly, black Sansabelt slacks, a bolo tie, and black cowboy boots polished to a high sheen. His gray hair was slicked back, his face clean shaven, and his complexion ruddy. With his long beak of a nose, small dark eyes, and receding chin, he bore some resemblance to a bird himself, although more of a vulture than an ostrich.

“Let me make sure I understand your earlier testimony, sir. You believe that the sexual practices of the humans who handle an ostrich during its formative years will affect its future behavior, correct?”

Eyeing me warily, Blackwell nodded. “Yes, ma'am. At least in part.”

“And you believe that the formative years for a male ostrich are the first two years, correct?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Even though they're basically full-grown after twelve months?”

“On the outside, yep. But they still got some growing to do on the inside. Your males are particularly sensitive, you see. They gotta be brung along careful or they'll go bad on you.”

As he spoke, I had moved along the jury box toward the back, resting my arm against the railing. Now he'd be forced to look at the jurors when he answered my questions.

“Nevertheless, your company raised that ostrich for the first fourteen months, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Getting back to the sexual practices of the human handlers. You claim that they'll influence the ostrich's behavior even if he doesn't witness the people having sex?”

“I'm saying it's possible, yep.”

“The ostrich just kind of senses it, eh?”

“You could say that, yep.”

“But what if the ostrich actually witnessed the sex act?”

He chuckled. “That'd be even worse.”

“Oh? And why is that, Mr. Blackwell?”

“To actually see an unnatural act, well, that could mess him up real bad. Matter of fact,” he mused, his eyebrows raised, “I bet that happened here. Sure could explain a lot, yep.”

Mack Armour snickered behind me.

“You say that could explain a lot?” I repeated.

“Yep.” Blackwell was grinning. He glanced over at his attorney and then back at me. “Sure could, ma'am.”

“What if there was violence, too?” I asked.

“You mean during the sex act?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, boy, now you're talking a whole sack of trouble.”

“Really?”

“Mess him up real bad, yep.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell.” I looked up at the judge. “No further questions.”

The judge looked over at Armour. “Any redirect, counsel?”

Armour was grinning. “I should say not, Your Honor.”

“You're excused, Mr. Blackwell,” the judge said. He turned toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be in recess until tomorrow at nine a.m.”

***

Jacki, God bless her, had left dinner for me at the office before heading off to night school. I was happily munching on a Mediterranean wrap from Crazy Bowls & Wraps and sipping a diet Dr Pepper as I reviewed my trial notes and outlined tomorrow's testimony and exhibits. It was almost seven o'clock and the light was fading outside. I still had two to three hours of trial preparation ahead of me, which was at least an hour too much for now, since I was meeting Benny and Milly Eversole at Martha Hogan's office at eight-thirty tonight. Martha had picked the time and place. Given my role in getting that particular relationship under way, I really couldn't beg off.

There was a knock at the front door. I looked up, puzzled and mildly irritated. My office was in a converted Victorian mansion in the Central West End, and thus the front door really was a front door. Although the stenciled sign on the door read RACHEL GOLD • ATTORNEY AT LAW, each year a dozen or so strangers would show up after hours by mistake—everyone from deliverymen with packages for someone else to couples arriving at the wrong address for a party to an adorable elderly man last month carrying a dozen long-stem red roses for his dinner date. I wiped my mouth and hands with a napkin, got up, and walked past Jacki's desk and the reception area into the hallway leading to the front door. I peered through the eyehole.

Darkness had fallen. It took a moment to identify the bulky, pallid man in the ill-fitting gray suit standing under the porch light. Herman Borghoff, first assistant to the St. Louis redevelopment commissioner, Nate the Great. Borghoff faced the door, expressionless, his thick horn-rimmed glasses slightly askew. I studied him, torn between my curiosity about his visit and my desire to get back to work. Pretending I wasn't here wouldn't work, since he'd no doubt seen my lights on from outside.

I unlocked the door and opened it.

“Hello, Herman.”

“Miss Gold.”

“What's up?”

“May I come in?”

“Just for a moment. I'm real busy tonight.”

“This will not take a long time.”

I hesitated before giving in. “Okay, follow me.”

I led him to my office and cleared the pile of trial papers from one of the chairs facing my desk. I went around behind my desk and took a seat facing him. He stared at me with those zombie eyes. Borghoff definitely gave me the creeps.

“Well,” I finally said, “what's up?”

“Commissioner Turner is anxious to resolve the Oasis Shelter matter.”

“So are we. We're working on it.”

“Is your client prepared to do the property swap?”

“We received your proposed swap properties. Someone is looking them over. The board plans to take the issue up at the next meeting.”

“When will that be?”

“I'm not sure. I think they have a lunch meeting on the third Thursday of the month.” I glanced at my calendar. “That would be two weeks from tomorrow. I'll call you afterward, okay?”

“Will the board approve a property swap at that meeting?”

“Maybe. I don't know.” I checked my watch. “Look, I'll call you after the board meeting, okay?”

He stared at me, his expression blank. “The commissioner is concerned that you may not bargain in good faith.”

I could feel a spike of anger. “Given your office's actions, Herman, I should think that my client is the only one entitled to be concerned about people bargaining in good faith.”

“The proposed swap properties are outside the redevelopment area. That was the key term of the deal.”

“I know that. So?”

He gazed at me. “Why are you searching for properties within the redevelopment area?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have been making inquiries concerning certain properties located within the boundaries of the redevelopment area.”

“Oh, I have, have I?” I gave him an incredulous look. “When was this?”

“Your assistant was down at the recorder of deeds earlier this week. I assume that she—or he, or it—was acting under your direction and control.”

I opened my mouth and closed it, my mind racing. How did Herman Borghoff know that Jacki had been doing title searches?

“She was,” I said evenly.

“Was she searching for alternative swap properties?”

“I don't think that's any of your business, Herman.”

“The commissioner is concerned about your client's good faith.”

“Tell him not to worry.”

“I can only give him that level of assurance after I have received an adequate explanation from you as to why your assistant was making inquiries regarding those properties.”

“Then you're going to have to make do without an explanation, Herman. Those properties are none of his business.”

“Actually, they are, Miss Gold. All residential properties in which the city holds title are the business of the commissioner.”

“Good for him. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, Herman.”

“You still have not given me an explanation.”

“And I'm not going to, even if I had the time, which I don't. I have to get to a meeting in Clayton in ten minutes.” I gathered my things and stood up, trying to stay calm. Borghoff's creepiness had edged closer to menace. I couldn't wait to get him out of my office. “I'll let you out the front door. I'm parked in back.”

He walked silently down the hall in front of me. Stepping out onto the porch, he turned to face me. “The commissioner is going to be disappointed.”

“Then the commissioner is going to need to ease up. Tell him my client is considering his proposal and hopes to make a decision by the end of the month.”

Borghoff studied me for a moment with those deadpan eyes. Then he shook his head and turned away. I watched him lumber down the front walk, through the gate, and down the street. I watched until he was out of sight.

I kept watching, staring into the night. Finally, I locked the front door and turned off the light.

It was a warm night but I was shivering in the dark.