Reilly 04 - Breach of Promise (17 page)

She scratched quite a few numbers on her yellow pad and called a couple of credit card automated lines. Fifteen minutes later, she knew everything there was to know. Unlike Markov Enterprises, she didn’t need an expert to figure out which way the wind blew.

Assets: the house on Kulow, equity thirty thousand, mortgage payment fifteen hundred a month. She had sunk all the money left after the divorce into it.

The cottage on Pine Street in Pacific Grove her aunt had left her, value about two hundred thousand. She owned it free and clear. The two students renting it barely covered the property taxes and upkeep.

The Bronco. Value, maybe two thousand considering the rapidity of its disintegration. Her jewelry, clothes, and furniture, another couple of thousand. The office furnishings and equipment, the same.

Accounts receivable. Closely balanced to the accounts payable. Monthly operating expense, including Sandy, about ten thousand.

Credit card debt, for the washer-dryer and the new fridge, fifteen hundred. Not bad at all. That was it, Reilly Enterprises, both sides of the register.

Now she looked at the page on which she had estimated the costs of getting through the Markov trial. She had started out with twenty thousand from Lindy, and only a month later she was down to five thousand, thanks to signing up Paul, Genevieve, and especially Winston.

She had counted on Winston to put up half the costs of the litigation, not to take money out, but Winston had managed to come onboard without putting up anything. In fact, he had taken a ten thousand dollar retainer for himself. He had explained that the IRS was causing him a lot of grief right now, plus his current case had tapped him out. He had made vague promises to come through in the crunch.

Now Winston, her much-vaunted cocounsel, had just lost that major case and probably could not contribute a dime to the costs in advance of trial. And her client had probably lied to her about signing a separate property agreement, which left their case looking weaker than ever. And Lindy had very little more to give.

That left Nina to scrape up enough money to make a major motion picture out of an anemic plot with mediocre box-office potential.

She pushed aside the ominous feelings in her gut. You have to spend money to make money, she said to herself. She leaned back in her chair and put her stockinged feet up on the desk. The heat was making her drowsy. She’d get up and make some coffee . . . instead she drifted into a reverie.

On the last warm weekend in October, she and Bob had ridden their bikes down the pathways by the Baldwin Mansion. After wearing themselves out, they had stopped and climbed on a rocky pier to check out the lake. Not far away, off to their right she noticed a long white cabin cruiser with the name
The Felony
written in italics on its impeccable side. At the helm, in a white captain’s hat, the wind whipping his hair so that the bald spot showed, Jeffrey Riesner had stood. He noticed her at the same time and turned so that the wake of his cruiser practically drenched them.

Jeffrey Riesner owned a house on the water at the Keys. His wife stayed home with their toddler. Nina sometimes caught sight of her in her little red running shorts jogging by the office, pushing the stroller, so buff that nary a ripple jiggled even in the most sensitive places.

Riesner was the same age she was. Where did he get the money to live like that? And Winston had told her all about his Ferrari and the place in Bel Air he had managed to “scavenge,” as he put it, from his second wife. Even Genevieve’s studiously nonchalant wardrobe suggested she made more money than Nina did.

She would have a million dollars in the bank at least, post-taxes and debts, if she won the Markov case. Then she would live a whole different life. Move up in the world. Travel, first class all the way. She and Bob, at the Pyramids, cruising the Greek Isles . . . even Jeffrey Riesner would be forced to rethink his automatic contempt for her, wouldn’t he, impressed by the only thing that impressed anybody: money, money, almighty money . . .

Of which she needed a lot right now.

She called the bank. Requested the paperwork to arrange for an equity loan on the cottage and a second mortgage on the house on Kulow. Dictated a letter informing the students in Pacific Grove of a rent hike. Applied for another credit card with a fat credit line. Canceled her appointment to have the Bronco fixed. She’d limp around in it until the trial in May.

By the time she was done, she had hocked everything. You had to spend money to make money.

Several more days went by without communication on either side, but that didn’t mean Riesner wasn’t working behind the scenes. Nina, too, kept herself busy. Friday, she called Lindy at Alice Boyd’s house. She wanted Lindy to tell her the truth.

“Ms. Reilly!” Alice answered in a delighted voice. “I understand from Lindy that all is very hunky-dory on the lawsuit front.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear she thinks so,” said Nina.

“Don’t you? Is something wrong?”

“Ms. Boyd, may I speak with her?”

“Call me Alice and I’ll call you Nina, okay? When in Rome, or Tahoe for that matter . . .” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, she’s out. I don’t expect her for a couple of hours. She’s helping to pack food boxes for some holiday thing.”

“Could you ask her to call me?”

“Sure. Mind if I ask what this is about?”

“I just need to talk to her.”

“Don’t stonewall me, Nina. Lindy and I go way back. I loaned her the money to get this show on the road, you know!”

“Yes, she told me that. I know she’s very grateful for your help.”

“Well, to be honest, she’s been a good friend to me, and I’d sure love to see her get that gorilla Mike off her back permanently. Oh, and that’s something I want to ask you about.”

“Ask me?”

“Yes, you. Do you know much about me?”

“Very little.” She remembered Lindy’s laughing reference to the loony bin, though.

“Yeah, that’s Lindy. Weak on the gossip front, always has been. If you need the dirt on anyone, you give me a call, Nina. You just skip right over here. Will you do that?”

“Okay,” said Nina, melting into the surrealism of this conversation like one of Dali’s clocks.

“Now, let’s get back to me. Here’s the cheat sheet, abbreviated version of my saga: I had a world-class nervous breakdown when my husband dumped me four years ago. I did a few things . . . let’s save those details for the rumor mill. They come out a lot funnier that way. Then I spent a year locked up. Not in jail. In a place worse than jail. You may remember hearing about that.”

“Uh-huh,” said Nina, trying to sound only mildly interested, and curious to know what reaction Miss Manners recommended under similar circumstances.

“But that’s all in the past, okay? My life’s back on track. I haven’t had too much to do with the law—just my divorce and the commitment. But my experiences really got me hooked into the local resources, you might say. I know people from all walks of life, people who will jump through hoops for me and mine. And here’s something else you should know. I want Lindy to win this lawsuit. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes. So we come back around to my question. What do you want me to do?”

Nina was silent.

“You heard me, didn’t you?”

“I heard you,” Nina said. “Alice, the most important thing you can do right now for Lindy is just . . . continue to be her friend.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Alice?”

“And to think I actually recommended you,” Alice said, and hung up the phone.

On Sunday afternoon, under a blanket on the back deck, looking out at the snowy forest, Nina curled up with a cell phone instead of the proverbial cat. Through the picture window she could see that Bob and his cousin Troy had abandoned the computer to lounge on the rug in front of the fire and eat popcorn.

“Winston?” Giving up on having her calls answered at his office, she had called his house in Bel Air.

“Nina! I’ve been trying to get back to you. Great ski weather up there, I hear. It’s almost beach weather here in L.A. The smog’s cleared so we get our yearly look at the mountains.”

“Yeah. I saw you on the news. Too bad about your case.”

“Yes, what a disappointment.”

“You seemed pretty sure you’d wipe the floor with them when we talked.”

“I would have, if the judge had let me and if I’d had a little more leeway with the jury selection. The clients are going to appeal, naturally,” Winston said. “The judge just shut us out. We couldn’t get half the good stuff into play. I turned them on to a good appellate lawyer, but meantime I’ve got a fortune tied up in costs I’ve advanced. But no problem. There’s still your case. Lose one, you gotta believe the next one’s going to be a win for sure and you’re gonna work twice as hard.”

“Really? You’ve read the pleadings, had dinner with me, haven’t even heard about the discovery, and you’re so sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Look at the talent we have onboard. It’s just another jury.” But he had heard the strain in her voice because he immediately added, “Right. What happened?”

“Riesner pulled out a written separate property agreement,” Nina said, “signed by our client. Our client claims she’s never seen it before, but she has said the signature bears a remarkable resemblance to hers.”

A deep sigh came from the other end of the phone.

“Yeah,” she said again. The slate-gray sky seemed to be darkening by the minute. A stray cinder from the chimney drifted down to the deck.

“She never even gave you a hint there might be something lying around?”

“I had no idea.”

“Tell me about it,” Winston said in his warm, reassuring voice, and she went over the day of Markov’s deposition with him, trying to be as precise as she could about Lindy’s reaction to the document.

“The way you tell it, she’s lying,” Winston said when she was done.

“Maybe she is. I’m not psychic. But then, some people look like terrible liars when they’re telling the truth. I know I want to believe her but she sure makes it hard.”

“Depressed, are you?”

“Deeply.”

“Hmmm. So what now?”

“I call you, the famous trial lawyer, for advice. Isn’t that why you’re on the case?”

“You want my advice? Here it is. First, find out whether there’s anything we can use to show duress. Press her for details about the scene on the day that she signed and I guarantee, there will be dirt for you to sift through. Second, assume the document is a fraud. Prove it by getting an expert to swear the signature is forged, or busting Markov’s chops during cross-examination. Third, stonewall. Don’t let Riesner get it admitted as evidence.”

“Piece of cake,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Did you think you were gonna bring down a few million in legal fees without having to sweat for it? You’re gonna sweat. Hear what I’m saying? You should have expected something like this. You don’t like surprises, you’re in the wrong business.”

“True enough,” said Nina, but she felt disappointed. Somewhere deep in her irrational heart, she had hoped Winston, her high-priced talent, might instantly solve all her problems.

“Now let’s get crackin’. I’m coming up to help you finish the depos. I’ll bring Genevieve. She’d like to see the witnesses and get started organizing a shadow jury. We just moved into the hardball phase. We’re going to bring it home, Nina. You hear?”

“I hear.”

“You hear and you believe?”

“Winston, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He laughed. “I’ll be up Thursday. Let’s finish Markov that day. Then Friday, let’s get the little gal who caused all this trouble—Pembroke. On Monday, let’s do anybody else that’s important. Can you set that up?”

“I’ll do my best. I ought to be able to drag Riesner back before the Examiner by Tuesday. I know Markov doesn’t have any big obligations. He’s refusing to work at the company and he won’t let Lindy go back. I’d say he’s pouting, but I guess you’re not supposed to say that about CEO’s.”

“So who’s minding the store?”

“The second-tier executives, Rachel Pembroke and this Hector guy. Hector Galka, the Executive Vice President of Financial Strategies and Accounts, and an old friend of Mike Markov. I’ll try to line them up for Friday and Monday.”

“Okay. Help’s on the way. Now. What else are we going to do?”

“Get a forensic handwriting analyst,” Nina said. “Get the signature on the agreement analyzed. I suppose there’s a remote chance it is a forgery, though I can’t believe they’d be so idiotic.”

“Everybody’s idiotic around this much money. But here’s a thought. Let’s skip that step. Don’t get a handwriting analyst. Call Lindy and tell her you’re going to hire one, and tell her it’ll be expensive and a hassle and is she sure she can’t remember signing that thing. Get me?”

“You think that’ll smoke her out.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. She lies and I pull tricks on her. What a way to do business.”

“It’s for her own good.”

“Speaking of things being expensive, how much is this shadow jury of Genevieve’s going to cost?”

“You ought to check with her, but the last one she did for me—oh, between forty and fifty thousand. Hire the people, Genevieve’s time, all that.”

“What? That’s impossible! We just don’t have that kind of money, Winston.”

“Okay, look, I’ll talk with Genevieve. We’ll work with you on that, see how we can minimize our costs. And then you’ll have to find the money. Just keep thinking about your piece of the pie, and what a small investment it is against your return. I do wish I could help more with the finances,” Winston said. “This is an expensive business. It sure is. I’ll try to kick in something later on.”

“Lindy said something about being able to come up with some more money at some point. . . .”

“See! You’re getting the hang of this business already. If you need money, you get money.”

“I’m still very—concerned.”

“Go ahead, sweat,” Winston said. “We’ll come up and sweat with you. We’re workin’ it, that’s why you’re sweating. That’s just how it goes. We’re getting started. We’re with you. You hear?”