A Class Action (11 page)

Bingo! I hit the jackpot on my first try. Not only is Myra home and willing to talk to me, she also knows most of the pertinent details, so I might not have to go any further in this investigation. The way she explains it, Suzi intends to be a lawyer, which is a nice ambition for a kid. The main difference between her and others her age with similar goals is that this kid is a genius and doesn’t intend to wait another ten years. As for those strange messages I received, in order for her home schooling to continue, she must be registered in a private school. Her stepfather filed the proper Private School Affidavit each year with California’s Superintendent of Public Instruction, but since he’s passed away and I’m her legal guardian, the responsibility of the annual October filing is now mine. That explains the email messages. The testing sites that I take her to occasionally are demanded, because her grades on the home-administered exams were so high that the idiots in charge of education now require her to take the tests in a proctored situation where they can make sure she doesn’t cheat. If they had half a brain, they’d realize that she’s already smarter now than they ever were. The rest of her plan involves passing the well known GED, a General Educational Development test that was created in 1942 during World War II to allow veterans to get a credential equivalent to a high school diploma, so that they could go on to college. It’s now available to all adults – and there’s the rub. In California, you have to be at least within sixty days of your eighteenth birthday in order to be eligible to take the test. The kid has figured out a way around that rule by talking to a company in the state of Maryland that specializes in preparing students to take the GED. They also administer the test, and their age requirement states that you can be under the age of eighteen, but you must have written permission from the principal of your school. It finally dawns on me that I’m being set up as the principal of her school, so she can fly to Maryland some afternoon, pay them five hundred dollars for the course that she didn’t take, and sail through their exam to get a high school equivalency certificate.

This alone is a tremendous task she designed, but it doesn’t stop there. I see by the packages being delivered from Amazon.com that she’s now preparing for her Law School Admissions Test. The LSAT is a half-day standardized test required for admission to all of the 201 law schools that are members of the Law School Admission Council. It provides a standard measure of acquired reading and verbal reasoning skills that law schools can use as one of several factors in assessing the applicants. The test is administered four times a year at hundreds of locations around the world.

Evidently, her research has determined that with a high school equivalent certificate and a high enough grade on the LSAT, she can get admitted to a law school – and if whatever small private law school she picks shows any hesitation in admitting her, she feels positive that a one-hundred thousand dollar donation to the school will sway their decision-making process. If she really wants to impress someone, all she has to do is show them how she spends her spare time working crossword puzzles in those Chinese newspapers she picks up at the restaurant. I like to work the ones in the TV Guide, so I know how hard they can be, but completing one in Chinese is something else. She always has some Asian newspaper under her arm when we go somewhere in the car, so she can catch up on current events during the trip. I guess she thinks it’s better than having a conversation with me.

The State of California has some minimum age requirement for qualification to take the Bar Exam, but I’m sure the kid has some way figured out to pass another state’s exam and then get licensed here on the reciprocal rules our Bar has. If she pulls all of this off, I think I’ll be out of work in the next couple of years. I don’t care how smart she is, there’s a heck of a lot to learn in law school to pass the Bar exam, and she’ll have to spend the full three years doing it. That means I’ve got until she’s about fourteen years old before I get the axe from this law firm, but in the meantime I still have to drive her around if she wants to go more than the few blocks she dares to drive in her electric cart. And that’s exactly what I’m expected to do tomorrow afternoon, because she’s got another appointment toward the goal of her master plan.

I see the dog getting ready for a ride. The kid is instructing him to behave in the car, so I guess he’s joining us today. Our trip will include dropping the Saint Bernard off at a grooming parlor for his bath and trim, while we go to her appointment. I’m told that I’ll have to wait about an hour for her while she breezes through some silly test they want her to take. I have a hunch that the test she’s taking today is one that they administer to children in grades five through twelve. According to some literature I saw lying around the boat, they allow five hours for this test, so that’s why she probably thinks it’ll take her almost a half hour. I bring some transcribed reports along to read while waiting. Sure enough, she returns to the car in less than forty-five minutes, leaving behind what I’m sure is a room full of stunned educators.

On the way back to the grooming parlor my cell phone rings. It’s Eaton, the dealership’s general manager. He claims that it’s important and wants me to stop by the dealership. The cell phone is mounted on my dashboard and its speakerphone is on, so the kid hears the manager’s request and shrugs her shoulders – probably a signal to let me know that the dog won’t be ready for a while, so it’s okay to go to the dealership. As we pull up to where I’m supposed to meet Eaton, Suzi reaches into the glove box, removes the recorder, puts on a pair of headphones and hops into the back seat. It looks like while I’m talking to Eaton she plans on making notes for the next billing statement.

Eaton gets into the car and looks toward the back seat. “Who’s that?”

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She doesn’t bite… don’t worry about her.”

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Well, I’d like to talk to you about the legal case against the dealership, and we might get into some private information.” He notices she’s sitting there with a set of earphones on, while reading a Chinese newspaper. “Does she speak English?” I don’t want to lie to him, but I also don’t want to ask her to get out of the Hummer – mainly because she probably wouldn’t. Instead, I try to get around the situation. “She lives on my dock and I was just taking her to an appointment. I haven’t heard her say anything in English to me today, so I guess that if you want to talk to her, you’ll have to learn Mandarin.”

It probably is okay for her to be present if Eaton wants to talk about the dealership’s case, because technically, Suzi is part of my legal staff. I glance in the rear view mirror and notice that she’s flipping a switch on the recorder. Eaton is obviously satisfied that the kid is no risk to him. Anyone who doesn’t know better would think that even if she did speak English, any kid wearing earphones is probably more interested in whatever passes for music nowadays that’s going through the wire to her ears than anything that a couple of old guys might be talking about. “Sharp, I want you to tell me exactly where the insurance company is in its investigation of those Suburban explosions… especially the one that killed my dear wife and mother-in-law.”

This takes me by surprise. I don’t blame him for being concerned about his loss, but it’s a little out of the ordinary for him to be confronting me like this.

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Mister Eaton I turn my investigative reports over to my client. If you’re interested, you should contact the insurance defense firm or the detectives investigating the accident. Maybe they’ll help you out.”

This isn’t good enough for him. He’s agitated at my reluctance to talk to him. “Listen Sharp, I’m part of this dealership, and you represent us in this whole explosion mess. And what’s more, the insurance company is paying you to represent Morgan, the defendant. I think you know more about the case than those others do.”

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Well Mister Eaton, to be quite honest, I don’t think that Joe Morgan is guilty of anything. In fact, the finger of guilt actually points more to you than to him.”

This makes him start to go ballistic. I was afraid that the kid would get scared when he started to shout at me, but a glance in my mirror shows her to be working a crossword puzzle and ignoring us completely. Damn! I hope I never have to play poker with her.

I think that Eaton doth protest too much at my accusation. I go on to explain that Joe Morgan really had no motive to kill anyone. He may not have been happy with the fact that his warranty scam was over, but that’s not a motive for murder. On the other hand, collecting on a million dollar life insurance policy is… and I tell Eaton that the insurance company informed me that he already put a claim in to collect for his wife’s death.

There are certain times when you just can’t think as clearly as you’d like, and being cold, tired, jealous, hungry, under stress, in pain, or angry can definitely cause a mistake in judgment. In Eaton’s case, it’s rage.

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Only a guy like Morgan could make that right front caliper go after that exact number of miles, and you’ll never be able to prove anything against me. And I know the conspiracy laws, so even if you think I’m involved with Morgan, without his testimony against me, there can’t be a conviction. Not just on a co-conspirator’s uncorroborated testimony.”

I’m impressed that he claims to know so much about a law that means very little to most of the public. Before he storms out of the car, he lets out one last tirade. “Besides, you represent me and this dealership, so anything I’ve said to you here today is a privileged communication.” Then, his rage seems to cool down and with a grim smirk on his face he finishes up the conversation. “Six months from now, I’ll be on some beach in the south of France, so you can take your theories and you know what you can do with them. You’ll never be able to prove anything against me, and if you ever figure out what happened to my wife, I’m sure you’ll appreciate true brilliance.”

With that last statement, he exits the Hummer. I look in my mirror at the kid and she winks at me. I don’t know what language that wink is in, but it tells me that she got the whole conversation on tape. I’m not sure about the legality of what she did, but we’re the only two people in the world who know that the tape exists, and I’m pretty sure that the kid will never tell anyone.

We pick up a much smaller and nicer smelling dog and head back to the boat. He hops into the front passenger seat and is riding with his head up and out of the open sunroof. Suzi made sure that I put the dog’s ‘Doggles’ on him first. Those are special dog goggles designed to protect his eyes from flying road debris. We get plenty attention as we drive down the street like this, because he looks like some World War I air ace, with his aviator-style goggles on and those big ears flopping in the wind.

The kid is still in the back seat working on her Chinese crossword puzzle and I’m still trying to process what Eaton was talking about. He mentioned the word ‘caliper,’ but I don’t have the slightest idea of what that means. I speak a memo out loud, supposedly directed to the recording device, but really meant for the kid to hear. “Memo to office – try to get police report details on what could have possibly caused his wife’s car to go off the road – other than the explosion.”

After dropping off the dynamic duo at the boat, there’s still time for me to beat the rush hour traffic and get downtown to visit with Joe Morgan. When he’s brought into the interview room, his spirits are high. He’s been following his case in the newspapers and realizes that the government really doesn’t have much against him. To his surprise, I seem more interested in the one question I ask him than I am in his case. “Joe, what the hell is a caliper, and does a Suburban have one?”

He’s surprised to hear that word ‘caliper’ exists in a lawyer’s vocabulary. Without asking why I want to know, he goes on to explain that yes, the Suburban does have calipers. They’re part of the car’s braking system, and they work like C-clamps to pinch the pads onto the rotor. Brake hoses connect the caliper to the brake lines that lead to the master cylinder.

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Joe, if something happens to the right front caliper of a Suburban, what happens to the vehicle?’

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Nothing, until you step on the brakes. With only the left front caliper functioning, the left front wheel will brake to a stop while the right front wheel keeps going. The result is a sudden drastic left turn. A high vehicle like a Suburban, going fast enough, will flip over and roll… and that’s not good.”

I tell Joe not to worry about his case, and I make a hasty exit. All the way back to the Marina I keep thinking about what Eaton said. He obviously knew that his wife’s right front caliper wasn’t functioning – now all I have to do is find out who else knows that fact about the accident, because if nobody else knows but Eaton, then I think we’ve got a murderer on our hands – but with absolutely no way to prove it. The thing that really worries me is Eaton’s implying that Morgan will keep his mouth shut. Could that mean that Joe did the dirty work and is keeping quiet because he thinks he can beat the case and get a big payoff from Eaton when the insurance and probate money come in?

I’ve been dealing with criminals for over twenty years now, and I think I can tell when a client is lying to me. Unless he’s really a good actor, I don’t think Joe’s lying. I think he’s really innocent of this whole thing. Jack Bibberman is going to have some work to do, because I want to know everything about Eaton’s whereabouts during the time those three Suburbans were being serviced at the dealership.

Returning to the boat, I see that the NJPD has returned a package to me. It’s the stuff we sent them on that corpse in the trunk - the bullet, picture, dental records, and fingerprints. Also included is a note thanking us for our efforts and saying that he’s not anywhere in their system. Another dead end. Myra always thought that it was a back East case, so she never got her department too involved in it. I don’t want to bother her, so I send a message to the kid, telling her to use some connections with the local uniforms that eat at the restaurant every day. Maybe they can find out something about this stiff. Sometimes one police agency can have info that the others don’t have. One of these days they should figure out some way for them to talk to each other by computer. Maybe then the closed-to-unsolved file ratio will increase.