Reilly 04 - Breach of Promise (26 page)

“First, you will learn that there is one written document that does not exist. That written document is a marriage certificate between Mike Markov and Lindy Markov. The two parties in this litigation never married. There is no community property, no automatic share because of the relationship. No alimony. No sympathy money. There’s no marriage here. No one will show you a marriage certificate. Lindy Markov was Mike Markov’s girlfriend. They broke up. That’s what happened in their personal life.

“Second, we will show you a set of writings that prove that Lindy Markov was an employee of Markov Enterprises. You won’t just hear people talk about it. It’s simpler than that. You’re going to see her personnel file, the salary record, her job description. You’ll see she was paid fairly, she was given regular raises, she had an expense account. She was an executive with the company, and she had an agreement with the company that she would do certain work and in return she would be compensated. You’ll see it in writing, ladies and gentlemen, plain and clear.

“Third, you will see, in writing, who owns Markov Enterprises and a home here in Tahoe that is in issue in this case. It’s just as plain and just as clear. You’ll see the deed to the house, and you’ll see the owner’s name, Mike Markov. You’ll see the stock certificates that are accepted the world over as evidence of ownership. The name on the certificates is Mike Markov. No mystery, no complication.

“And fourth, last and most important of all, you will see another written document that reinforces and confirms the other written documents. That document is called a separate property agreement. You will be able to read it for yourselves and see the plain language of this agreement. You will see that the agreement states that Lindy Markov has no claim to Mike Markov’s property, and he has no claim to hers. It’s right there. In writing, as simple as can be. What it does not state“—he paused for emphasis, chopping the air with his hand—”is that Mike agreed to marry Lindy. That’s just not there.

“So why are you here in court today, taking precious time from your lives to act as a jury? Let me try to frame what Lindy Markov is claiming she will show. Besides the hugs and the kisses and the obfusc—”

“Your Honor,” Nina said, jumping up.

“Approach.” They went up to the bench, leaned their heads in close. “Save the argument, Counsel,” Milne said in a low voice.

“Sorry, I got carried away.”

“Carried away? He was reading from his notes,” Nina said.

“Counsel?” Milne said. “No argument in the opening statement or I’ll cut you off at the knees. Tell ’em what you intend to prove and sit back down.”

“I understand. Won’t happen again.” As they walked back, Nina caught a glimpse of juror Bob Binkley’s notepad. Mixed in with what looked like scientific notation, he had carefully listed Riesner’s points. Nina groaned inwardly.

“Four simple points,” Riesner continued, “in writing.”

In writing. Riesner had hacked his trial mantra down to two words.

“What else will you hear? You may hear that Lindy Markov was with the company for a long time, and was a valuable employee. You may hear that Lindy always wanted to get married. You will certainly hear that Lindy wants half the company, now that Mike has left her.” Riesner raised his eyebrows.

“Mike’s been very successful, ladies and gentlemen. You will definitely hear that. He has done so well that you may feel you want to take this chance to spread some of his money around. But you can’t do that. There are contract laws, marriage laws in this state, and the judge will tell you what those laws are, and that you have to follow them. I know you will follow the judge’s instructions.

“And I know that during this trial you will keep in mind these four simple facts that we will ensure are brought to you as evidence: that the parties never married; that Lindy Markov was an employee of Markov Enterprises; that Mike Markov’s name is on all the written evidences of ownership; and that the parties expressly agreed that Mr. Markov’s property was not subject to a claim by Lindy Markov.

“Plain and simple. Black and white. In writing. Ladies and gentlemen, follow the law. I know you will do that. Mr. Markov trusts you to do that.

“Thank you.” He smiled and nodded.

Wow,
Genevieve scribbled on her pad, passing it to Nina and Winston as Riesner sat down.
He’s no schmuck.

Nina had taken notes. In writing.

Mike’s defense would be very strong.

Damn.

Winston, Genevieve, Nina, and Paul met for lunch in the cafeteria while Lindy left for a better lunch with Alice. Winston and Genevieve sped through the line and took seats at a table. Nina, a few people in front of Paul in line, loaded her plate, and still a little shaky as she came down from her tightly orchestrated performance of the morning, knocked heavily into the man ahead of her, spilling some lettuce on the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Nina.

“Well, if it isn’t Miz Reilly, coming after me,” said Jeffrey Riesner, jumping back, scrutinizing her as if seeking something in particular; an insight, cooties, a pearl-handed pistol? Nina didn’t know what. He set his tray down with a bang, smoothing his clothes, twisting around to make sure no salad dressing marred his suit. Unfortunately, there were two distinct oily spots at the back of the left leg of his trousers. “Look what you’ve done,” he said, pointing. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled again.

“You’re as clumsy at getting your food as you are in court.”

Suddenly, she had no more apologies left. “Can we move on, here? There are people behind us.”

“Do you have any idea what this suit cost?”

“Send me the dry-cleaning bill. Now, please step aside and let me pass.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And he smiled what Paul called his death’s-head grin, as cold as a face without skin. “But I don’t think I will. I like it right here. You’re the one who ought to be slinking out of this town, and it shouldn’t be long now before you do just that.”

Not wanting to engage in a free-for-all with him in the cafeteria out from under Milne’s steady eye, Nina waited silently, feeling her neck redden, while he painstakingly reassembled his tray, taking his time to align crooked utensils precisely beside his plate, deliberately drawing out the task. He finally finished and set the tray down at a table near the window at a decent distance from Nina’s crew, then headed for the men’s room out in the hall, brushing at his trousers and casting her one more black look.

“Whoops,” said Genevieve, smiling sympathetically as Nina sat down. “Next time, consider skipping the salad. He’s obviously a steak and potatoes man.”

“Just my luck,” said Nina, pulling out a large dinner napkin and tucking it into the front collar of her new blouse. She wasn’t about to mess up her clothes or lose her temper. She looked around but didn’t see Paul.

“Save your response for the courtroom,” advised Winston, spooning tomato soup. “He acted the same way with the male lawyer opposite him in the case we did together. It’s just posturing. Anything to knock you off balance.”

“He can’t really believe I did that on purpose. It just happened. The personal stuff—it’s all on his side,” Nina said, disingenuously. She dribbled warm Italian dressing over the white iceberg lettuce and began to eat.

Genevieve started telling Nina what she had done well and what she might work on “just a little.” Nina listened without comment, experiencing a rerun of her resistance to Genevieve’s stage-managing. She had to watch herself. Sometimes she felt ornery enough to do the exact opposite of what Genevieve advised just because Genevieve advised it, even if Genevieve was right.

“You know, there’s research showing that some jurors actually make their final decision based on the opening statements. How did you think they took yours?” Genevieve said. Apparently sticking close to her in-trial, comfort-food diet, having finished her sandwich and Winston’s leftovers, she bit into a chocolate chip cookie, putting her plate on a nearby table and pulling out her notebook.

Nina tried to give her impressions. Clifford Wright had appeared to listen to every word of her opening. Such conscientious observation made her uneasy. Having no rational basis for her feelings didn’t stop her from distrusting him. All of his responses in the
voir dire
held him up as the ideal juror.

Still she couldn’t help thinking how much he reminded her of a boy she’d known in high school who slicked his hair back and became president of the student council by talking up the virtues of honesty and a drug-free life. Only on Saturday nights did he revert to what he remained at core, a lying pothead. She could only hope any such reversions by Clifford Wright would happen outside of the jury room.

Nina had almost finished her salad when Paul appeared at the head of the table, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

“Is there room for one more?” he asked.

“Coming right up,” said Genevieve, scooting over to make room for him.

He sat down beside her, across from Nina. “I caught some of the show this morning. Some nice touches.”

“Thanks,” Nina said, happy to see that he really did look pleased.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for your contribution to our jury selection, Paul. I think you saved us from making at least two fatal mistakes,” said Genevieve.

“You got the jury you wanted?” asked Paul.

“You never get everybody you want. But we got a lot,” said Genevieve.

“We slugged our way there,” the incorrigible Winston said.

“Glad to hear it,” said Paul, sipping his coffee.

“The climber, Diane Miklos, sure acted receptive,” Winston said. “I like that lady.”

“She’s probably got tattoos bigger than Sonny Ball’s hidden under those army surplus clothes of hers,” Genevieve teased. “She’s exactly your—” she began. She looked toward the door. Her eyes widened.

Jeffrey Riesner shot back into the lunchroom from the hall a changed man, coatless, his fly undone, a terrific bruise starting to purple on his cheek, his hair sopping wet. “Call the police!” he roared at the astonished elderly man at the cash register. “Someone attacked me!”

“You need help, sir?” asked the cashier.

“Look at me! Look at me! Call the police!” He went over to the corner and sat down, pulling out a handkerchief and drying his face.

The cashier spoke rapidly into the phone.

“Have you called yet?” Riesner asked. “What did they say?”

“Yes, sir,” said the cashier. “The bailiff will be right down.”

“Forget the bailiff. Get the police over here. Now!”

Deputy Kimura came running in, hand ready at his holster. “What happened?”

“Someone came after me. . . .”

“What did he do?”

“What does it look like? I was attacked! He assaulted me. Isn’t that obvious?” Riesner rubbed his face.

“How’d you get all wet like that?”

“Washing the blood off! How do you think?”

“What did he look like?”

“Big guy, very strong.”

“Where did this happen?”

Riesner cast a furious look at Nina’s group, then pointed at Nina with a shaking finger. “You!” he said. “You’re behind this.”

“Where did it happen, Mr. Riesner?”

“He’s not there anymore. And if you stand here gibbering for one more second he’ll get away!” Riesner shrilled. “Why don’t you go after him?”

“Where did the confrontation take place?” Kimura asked stubbornly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“In the goddamned toilet downstairs by the Muni Court office!” Riesner said. “And no, I didn’t see his face. Just look for a big . . . I don’t know. Now, why don’t you just do your job and go get that bastard!”

Kimura ran from the room.

Nina looked at Paul. He, like the rest of them, stared at the dripping, gesticulating lawyer in complete amazement.

Or did he?

What was that in his face, rollicking around the corners of his eyes? Could it be . . .

Amusement?

The next morning before court, Nina met Paul at Heidi’s for breakfast.

“I’m just having juice," said Paul. “Gotta keep that Malibu look.”

“Coffee, poached egg, wheat toast,” said Nina to the waitress, who at six-thirty in the morning looked like she’d been up all night.

“Changed my mind,” added Paul. “Two sides of sausage.” The waitress scurried away on her two-inch-thick-soled white foam shoes. “You talked me into it,” he said with a smile to Nina. “By the way, where were you last night? You got away before I could make a plan to ravish you. And then later, nobody was home, not even Bob.”

“I turned the phone off.”

“Did you now?” he said. “You going to tell me what’s so urgent we have to talk while I’m still half asleep?”

“You know very well. You did something to Jeff Riesner in that bathroom yesterday.”

“I never,” said Paul. “Nobody can prove a thing. How’s he doing?”

“He’s on the rampage. He’s been humiliated in front of me. He’ll never forget that everyone saw him like that. He asked the judge for a one-day continuance, but all he got was a bruise and some shaking up, so Milne said no.”

The waitress brought their food, and sighing deeply, as though it was all too much for her, poured more coffee. “Anything else?” she asked.

“We’re fine,” said Nina.

After she left, Paul said, “Don’t you just hate it when the waitress looks so pooped you want to bundle her off and send her home to bed? I feel like I should jump up to help her.”

“Paul, you’d better tell me what you did.”

He took another bite of sausage. “Mmm. This is what I call sausage. I might just have to have a teeny bit more.”

“You attacked him in the washroom, didn’t you?”

Paul continued eating until every bite was gone.

Nina knew him well enough to know he was deciding what to tell her. She tried to choke down some egg but put her fork down when she realized her seething stomach couldn’t take it. “Jesus, Paul. This is serious.”

Paul drank his coffee. “All right. I was behind the two of you in the cafeteria line. I saw the whole thing. You know, he positioned himself so that you pretty much had to run into him. Why do you let him treat you like that?”