In the Company of Liars (24 page)

P
aul Riley sits with Allison in a conference room at Paul's office. It's jut the two of them, yet an assistant has brought in pastry and pots of coffee. It has been standard fare at the law firm of Shaker, Riley & Flemming. They make an impressive show for clientele. An oak-finished courtroom stands to the side of the reception on the main floor, for mock trials and training for associates, lest anyone doubt that this is a preeminent trial law firm. And Paul, himself, is very good at what he does.

“I think I know why you want to talk,” Allison says.

Paul smiles. He has an incredible ease about him. She can see how he comforts people. No matter how much they may want to deny it, defense attorneys have to play some kind of psychiatric role. Allison, in the few years she worked as a public defender, did not have the same polish.

“I can't try this case, Allison. I can't represent you. I want you to understand.” Paul places a hand down on the
table, a smooth green marble. “I don't suggest—I understand what you're doing. But I'm an attorney. I can't be a part of it.”

He
could
be a part of it, Allison thinks. He doesn't want to be. And that is understandable.

“I want you to think about this, Paul. I can't do this without you.”

“I think you're underestimating yourself, Allison.” Paul struggles with this a bit. “Look. I realize there is more than one way to look at this. But frankly, I look at this as a fraud on the court. And I don't want to be a part of it. It's that simple.”

A fraud on the court.
Well, sure, in a general sense. Surely, Paul has represented people who have lied to him. A lot of defenses are lies, themselves, although the difference is that the defense attorney doesn't actually know it, not for certain.

Yes, that is the difference. In this case, Paul Riley knows it's a lie. For certain.

“Any new lawyer I get is going to have the same problem,” she notes.

Paul stares at her, traces of amusement supplying his answer.

“Unless I don't tell him,” Allison concludes.

Paul shrugs. He is not going to give an answer. He can't advise her to do something unethical, though the ethics, in this instance, are a bit muddy.

“Any new lawyer I get,” Allison says, “is going to ask you why you quit.”

“Is that what I did?” Paul's look is something between cocky and happy.

Oh. Okay. Allison chuckles. “Paul?” she says. “You're fired.”

Paul snaps his fingers. “Darn the luck.”

“Then do this for me,” she says. “I'd like you to
represent my daughter, Jessica. She, obviously, is a witness. She's going to need guidance.”

“There could be the issue of a conflict,” he says cautiously.

“I waive it, Paul. She will, too.”

The waiver of any conflict of interest does not appear to mollify Paul. “Allison, I know things that you don't want Jessica to know. If I'm her lawyer, I'm going to be withholding information from my own client.”

“Not relevant information, Paul. You know that. You know that.”

“But that doesn't—”

“Listen, just talk to Jessica. Tell her that you're keeping information from her. If she demands that you tell her things, then she can get another lawyer. Just talk to her. I'm only talking about her testimony in my trial. All that matters is that she sticks to what she told the police. I just don't want her falling into a perjury trap.”

Paul thinks it over. He shoots a cuff, works on his tie.

“Double your fee,” Allison says. “I'll pay anything.”

“It's not that, obviously—”

“Just talk to her, Paul. If the arrangement doesn't work to your satisfaction, I won't say another word.”

Paul sighs, finally nods. “I'll meet with her,” he agrees.

“Thank you. Thank you, Paul. I'll tell her to call you.” She gets up and offers a hand. “I understand your position, by the way. I might do the same thing, if I were you.”

Paul takes her hand and looks into her eyes. “Allison, promise me one thing,” he asks. “Promise me you will be very careful.”

T
his isn't going to work out, Sam said, sitting behind his desk at the capital, a hand on his forehead, looking into Allison's eyes.

Mat—Mat's a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.

Allison stops her run a half-mile from her house. She can't shake Sam from her thoughts. When she goes blank during the runs, he visits her. When she tries to sleep, he comes to her in dreams, leaving her breathless with hope before she awakens and crashes even harder.

She ran nine miles today, give or take. She doesn't time herself or measure the mileage specifically. She doesn't want to be caught in the trap of wanting to run faster or farther. She wants the freedom of just running for its own sake, releasing the nervous energy that threatens to consume her.

She grabs a large water and Sunday paper and sits outside at a small café. She reads quickly through a story on
the front page about Flanagan-Maxx. The
Watch
has been trickling information about it for around a week now. House Bill 1551, the controversial Divalpro legislation, which garnered plenty of attention and criticism when it was passed last November, is now the focus of a federal investigation. The news first leaked a few days ago, when the clerks of the state House and Senate confirmed that federal agents had subpoenaed the roll calls on the legislation—the lists of who voted how. Once the reporters sunk their teeth in that, it was obvious what the feds were looking at—the three senators who suddenly changed their votes to “aye,” allowing the bill to squeak by and pass to the desk of a supportive governor.

Now, today, the
Watch
is finally beginning to connect the dots. The principal lobbyist behind the bill was Sam Dillon, and another lobbyist pushing the bill was the ex-husband of Allison Pagone, accused of murdering Sam.

So it's out now. Her heartbeat kicks up, as much as she tells herself that she knew this was going to happen, sooner or later. It's going to be tougher now, for Mat and for Jessica.

She looks out at the street, at the cars passing by, the people walking arm-in-arm to brunch. An old man with two schnauzers pretends not to notice when one of his dogs urinates on a parking meter.

Jessica used to beg for a dog, but they never got one. Maybe they should have. Maybe Allison should have been stricter with Jess, should have watched her more closely in high school. Or maybe they should have been more like buddies than mother-daughter. She can't shake the feeling that she should have known that a high school teacher was preying on her daughter. And more recently, she should have known that Jessica was carrying a torch for Sam Dillon, even if nothing came of that but a girlish crush.

“Allison, I'm not sleeping with Jessica,” Sam swore to her.

She leafs through the newspaper, scanning the headlines, her mind filled with regret. She wishes, so desperately, that she could turn back time and change what happened.

Her eye catches on a headline in the editorial section. An article by Monica Madley, something of a fire-breathing liberal feminist to most, but Allison enjoys her columns. She assumes that Madley puts on her overly provocative persona for its own sake.

THE “WOMAN SCORNED”?
OLD THEORIES DIE HARD
IN PAGONE MURDER CASE

Oh, I can see it now. County Attorney Elliot Raycroft and his assistants, sitting in a posh office rich with cigar smoke, pondering the theories surrounding the death of Sam Dillon. “Oh, I know!” Raycroft says, snapping his fingers. “I know why Allison Pagone killed Sam Dillon. She was a ‘woman scorned.' ”

Now, for those of you living in a cave, Allison Pagone is a best-selling novelist indicted last week for the murder of capital big-shot Samuel Dillon. Anyone watching the preliminary hearing last week was treated to the picture of Allison Pagone as a hysterical woman bent on killing a man who had recently rejected her advances. He dumped her, so she killed him.

Or maybe not. Remember last year, when our legislative leaders ramrodded a bill through both chambers in a single day, allowing pharmaceutical giant Flanagan-Maxx to market its blood-pressure drug Divalpro along with the generics? Well, turns out that the architect of that legislation was none other than Sam Dillon, who was assisted in his efforts by none other
than Mateo Pagone, who until recently was Allison Pagone's husband.

Maybe the woman isn't so hysterical? It gets better.

Allison rubs her eyes. The point here, obviously, is an attack on typical male perceptions, but in the process Madley is writing an opening statement for the prosecution. Mat bribed some senators, Sam Dillon discovered it and was going to tattle to the feds, and Allison killed him.

Allison held her breath as Sam explained.

“Nothing happened, Allison. Nothing. Okay?”

She listened to him with her mind. But her heart was being ripped apart. Her body had gone cold.

She wanted desperately to believe him. But it didn't erase the feelings. She was threatened by her own daughter?

“I said no, Allison.”

Allison sat down in her chair, feeling exhausted for the first time.

“And what's this,” Sam asked, “about the ‘look on my face' last night?”

Allison chewed on her lips, her eyes down. “I saw you looking at her at the party,” she answered.

“You saw—what did you see? I looked at your daughter? I thought she was attractive? Okay, guilty as charged.” He opened his hands. “She looks like you.”

She shook her head.

“Allison, don't you get it?” he said. He moved to her, knelt down at her knees. “I'm in love with you. How do I begin to convince you of that?”

She was in a fog. She couldn't see him, couldn't see Jessica.

“You begin to convince me of that,” she said to Sam, “by firing Jessica.”

Allison turns her head away from the newspaper, but
she has nowhere else to go. The picture is becoming clearer now, for the prosecutors and the media, and she has work to do. It's time to snap out of the self-pity and keep her eyes open.

“Now,” she heard herself saying.

Sam paused. Allison looked away from him, closed her eyes, and heard him rise, lift the phone.

“Jody, hi, it's Sam,” he said. “Is Jessica Pagone there? Great. Put it—put it into my office up there, would you? Tell her to take it in there.”

Allison became aware that her face had fallen into her hands, her body was trembling. This was not right. She knew that. But she had just regained something, in these last few months, and she was attributing it to Sam Dillon.

And she would not let it go.

She heard him talking. It was important. Close the door, Jessica. We have to talk. I've made a decision about something.

“Jessica,” she heard Sam say, “I've been thinking about things. You and I had a couple of personal conversations at the end of last year. I—no, it's okay,” he said, his voice soothing. “I understand. It's not that. It's just that, well—I've been thinking. And under the circumstances, I think it's best that we find you another place to work.”

Allison felt the moisture on her hands, felt a shiver run through her body.

“It just makes me uncomfortable, Jessica. I—probably should have done this before. I would never repeat this to anyone. I'll give you a great recommend—”

Allison opened her eyes, looked up at Sam, an elbow on his desk, his slumped posture.

“This isn't going to work,” he told Jessica, bringing his hand to his forehead and looking into Allison's eyes. “Mat—Mat's a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.”

A long pause. Allison could hear her daughter's
protesting voice through the phone. Sam said nothing as Jessica spoke, his face locked in a grimace.

No, she felt sure. This was not right. This was not the way to handle this. Yet she did nothing to stop it.

“Jessica, I'm a lobbyist. It's the appearance of impropriety. It's not about being mad at you. I'm not mad at you. I'm—this is just the way it has to be, okay?”

There were more protests, more defensive responses. And then it was over. Sam hung up the phone, looked at her with a wounded expression.

Allison got to her feet and left the office.

A
llison's eyes return to Monica Madley's newspaper column, her diatribe against the cliché of the hysterical woman who lashes out at the man who scorns her. Maybe the prosecutors will read this column and come away convinced that they made a mistake and bought into a stereotype.

Or maybe, she fears, they'll decide that they have the right stereotype, but the wrong woman.