Reilly 12 - Show No Fear (9 page)

“I
HAVE A NEW CASE,”
R
EMY SAID ON
F
RIDAY MORNING, SITTING
between Lou Frost and Jack McIntyre on Pohlmann’s leather chesterfield. Klaus was holding court on Friday instead of Monday because they had been painting his office. They all talked at once.

“Just a moment,” Pohlmann said, smiling.

“Klaus, I know you want to tell Jack and Louis about the appeal. We got the Ninth Circuit to remand it back for further factual findings. The Army case,” Remy reminded them.

“Oh, yeah. About the teachers at the Defense Language Institute getting laid off?” asked Lou.

“How old is that case now?” Jack asked. He didn’t add, although they all thought it, is anyone ever going to pay us for any of this? Klaus was currently working on two appeals, both
pro bono
cases.

Klaus never cared whether a case would be profitable or not. The longer and more tortuous the appeal, the more doggedly he fought. He attracted the younger lawyers into the firm with his causes and political clout and kept them there by allowing them to take on the “conscience jobs,” as Jack called them. These fiscally irresponsible cases came with the territory.

Sometimes it grated. Any of them could have made more money elsewhere. But they had respect for Klaus and earned it for themselves by bringing in paying cases. Jack concentrated on personal-injury, real estate, and criminal law. Remy did mostly civil trial work. Louis stuck with tax and probate. Although they didn’t punch time clocks, Klaus kept a close eye on how they spent their time.

“Getting on,” said Remy, “I’d like to take on a new personal-injury case, actually, a medical malpractice.”

“We don’t handle malpractice,” Louis pronounced, looking more frazzled than usual to Jack today.

“We don’t handle
legal
malpractice,” Klaus corrected.

“Who’s the unlucky doc?” asked Jack.

“An acupuncturist on Cass Street named Albert Wu. Our client would be Nina Reilly’s mother.” Remy explained the grounds for malpractice, the need for relatively quick action and all the potential problem areas. “You can imagine her pain and suffering,” Remy said, then waited for Klaus.

“Has Miss Reilly asked us to take her mother’s case?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we take it.”

“What’s the fee agreement?” asked Louis. “Does she get a break because we’re handling Nina’s custody issues?”

“Standard contingency-fee agreement. One-third of her recovery. Forty percent if it goes to trial.” Remy looked directly at Lou. “If he’s even moderately successful, he’s loaded. He should be good for a couple of hundred thousand even if he doesn’t carry insurance.”

“Okay,” said Louis, now sounding slightly interested.

Jack said, “Couldn’t she have lost the hand due to a preexisting condition? It’s her left hand, not her primary hand as I understand it. She can still drive.”

“Oh, come on, Jack. She can’t even open a can without acrobatics or engineering.”

He nodded. “If she’s as sick as you say, with all these problems I’ve never even heard of—”

“I’ll get Nina to research that.” Remy put up her hand to stem the protests. “She says she’d rather be working on this than stewing. She’s really going to focus. She can go up to Stanford Medical Library in a day or two. We have to get the ninety-day letter out by October twenty-eighth. That’s the deadline. If you approve, Astrid can type up the fee agreement and run it over to Mrs. Reilly for her signature right away.”

“What’s her recovery look like if the case goes all the way?” Louis asked.

“The surgery cost over thirty-four thousand, including everything. In spite of the prosthesis her husband’s insurance already bought, there’s value in the lost hand. Deformity value, use value, oh, it could be bad. Certainly far better than worker’s comp value for a lost arm.”

“Plus up to two hundred fifty thousand for her pain and suffering,” Louis added.

“Yes. She’ll make a good witness talking about it, with a little coaching. She even kept a diary.”

“Sounds promising,” Lou said.

“We’ll have to move to advance the trial date because of her illness. If she dies, this all dies with her,” Remy said.

“What about converting it into a wrongful death action and substituting Nina in as the plaintiff if she dies?” Lou asked.

“Smart suggestion, but two problems I see with that, Lou,” Remy said. “If Ginny dies, there’s no way we’ll be able to prove the malpractice, not the underlying illness, killed her. Also, remember the heirs can’t get pain and suffering in a wrongful death. The case wouldn’t be worth pursuing.”

“How comfortable are you given the time frame?” Klaus asked. “We wouldn’t want anything to get in the way of more urgent business.”

“I can pick it up. I’m wrapping up the Salinas bar-fight case this week. If for some reason I can’t keep it, I know it will be in Jack’s competent hands.”

“Remember, I may end up doing Nina’s custody case,” Jack said. “That could absorb any extra time I can pull out of my schedule.”

“Duly noted.” Klaus nodded. “Meantime, make any arrangements, Miss Sorensen, and allow me to offer assistance.”

“Thanks, Klaus.”

“I will see you all at the Bar Association dinner tonight.”

“Ugh,” Lou said. “Count me out.”

“He’s such a shy fella,” Jack said.

“I hate schmoozing. You guys are better at it than I am.”

W
HEN A LAWYER IN
L
OS
A
NGELES OR
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
thinks longingly of moving to a small, easygoing practice, leaving behind the traffic and crime, the Monterey Bay area comes to mind. By 1990, so many lawyers had moved in or stayed after graduation from the local law school, the competition for clients had turned fierce. Fees nose-dived. The charming offices with their fireplaces and Spanish courtyards saw their share of binge drinkers, plate-throwing divorces, and bad decisions.

So this Friday evening at the monthly meeting of the local Bar Association, the Crazy Horse Restaurant was mobbed, mostly around the bar. The ones drinking martinis, on stools or standing straight as soldiers, were the older, corporate-and-trust lawyers, mostly men, struggling to put their children through graduate school at Cal Berkeley or Stanford and secretly nervous about heart attacks, hence the calming martinis. The middle group, fit and tan in spite of heavy workloads, drank complicated mixed drinks, worrying about trials when they should have been worrying about their marriages. Finally, the newer admittees, including more women than in the other cliques, festooned the fringes of both groups, still tickled by the glitter of the profession, still fresh enough to hope their names would someday appear as counsel for the winning side in the U.S.
Supreme Court Reporter.

Latecomers sat at the back tables. From his spot directly in front of the podium, Jack watched Remy arrive precisely as the meeting began. She found a vacant seat beside Barry Tzanck, her recently defeated adversary in the courtroom, who gave her a strictly civil nod. She wore her usual creamy silk blouse with pearl earrings, which emphasized her slenderness and pale skin, and her usual mysterious, slightly aloof smile.

Remy nodded back at Tzanck. Jack watched her then direct her attention to Rick Halpern, a rumpled man in glasses who sat across from her. A devout Catholic with four young children, Halpern was a partner in the county’s biggest law firm. He never lost his temper and never sprang surprises, qualities that were greatly appreciated by his colleagues. As a result he had won overwhelmingly the most recent election for president of the Monterey County Bar Association.

“I can’t wait to talk to you, Rick,” said Remy in a voice Jack could barely hear. He couldn’t catch her eye. She wasn’t looking around for him either.

“Hang on a minute,” Halpern replied, rising to quell the roar, slapping the gavel on wood and beginning the business meeting. Tzanck threw them both a sharp look.

A few minutes after the meeting was scheduled to end, Nina followed a gaggle of young women from her car to the Crazy Horse. Loud, having fun, they clacked confidently along in shoes Nina could identify by maker and only admire from afar. How did such young women afford such luxuries? Nina wondered, upstaged but thankful she would not have to walk into this particular scene alone.

Maybe they only had the one pair of killers, as she did.

The last woman in the group held the restaurant door open for Nina and smiled. “Another one of the non-Bar crowd hoping to find a place at the bar?” she joked. Nina nodded, smiling back, although she decided these weren’t law students, they were spouses, girlfriends, or aspiring girlfriends. Or else they were born-rich students. She scanned for a familiar face, saw Jack, and made her way toward where he stood by himself, glaring at something. She had
added a white wool blazer to the shirt and slacks she had worn at the office that day, trying to soften up her usual workday severity.

Apparently, she had. He looked at her body, all of it, but with a subtlety that suggested admiration, not lust, then kissed her on the cheek, a first, and took a deep breath. “You always smell—delicious.” He held her close for more than a moment.

Who was she fooling? She couldn’t resist men, Nina thought, feeling her own breath deepen as she pulled away from him.

Child, job, family—she had those figured out, if not under control. Now she only needed, simply, achievably, a good man to love and be loved by, in this kingdom by the sea.

But wait—didn’t Annabel die in that poem and didn’t Clint Eastwood grapple with a stalker named Annabel and barely survive in that atmospheric old movie set right in this very neighborhood?

And inadvertently embodying the true spirit of Poe, Jack’s eyes darkened with pain, straying from Nina and lingering on Remy.

Was he checking to see if Remy had seen him kiss Nina?

He was.

Oh, Nina had been used. Still, nice kiss. She didn’t get enough of those.

But Remy, embarked on her own agenda, had not noticed or not cared. Nina ordered wine and drank some. That helped. Jack had fallen silent. His teeth chewed through his jaw while Remy, bright-eyed, cheeks flushed, exchanged hellos with several people at the bar, joking with the nearby tables, Jack’s eyes following after. Finding Klaus, Remy put her arm through his and together they worked the room.

Following Jack’s second whiskey on the rocks, or at least the second one Nina had observed, Remy finally came over to them. He tried to kiss her. She held back. “Shoot, Remy. I have better luck with my cat.”

“Sorry,” Remy said, looking over the room. “Can I have a sip while I wait for my drink?” She took his glass, sipped, and left blazing red lipstick on its rim.

Nina drank the rest of her wine, watching Jack look at the stain, narrowing his eyes. In lust if not in love, Nina decided.

Damn. But how classic, having a crush on a coworker/ boss-type
guy who would cry on your shoulder but never think to lick it because he wanted someone else. Better Nina should focus on Paul, who had given her a few mighty sweet dreams already. He would be coming to check out the cottage behind her house tomorrow. A cop. Or was it ex-cop?

Never mind. She had lost her antipathy to cops when Richard Filsen had reappeared in her life. Danger had a way of compromising youthful philosophy. So what did Paul have to offer besides a sexy body, physical security for her and Bob, the appearance of sanity, and a steady income?

He made her body tingle. He made her laugh.

Describe the perfect man, Diana might say.

Meanwhile, Remy’s face held the same pleasant smile she always wore at meetings. Jack’s face got progressively redder as she worked the bar, smiling, laughing, joking with other friends.

Oh, they were sleeping together, Nina realized, observing him. And, wisely in Nina’s opinion, Remy did not acknowledge it.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack said to Remy after a few minutes.

“Let’s stay. I need to wind down,” she answered, and Nina heard tension in her voice.

They all sat down to dinner together. Remy drank a single glass of wine. Jack drank two on top of the whiskeys. When the food appeared, Remy moved the poached fish around on her plate, looking bored. Nina ate every bite of her fettuccine Alfredo. She loved anything someone else cooked.

As the neckties loosened and the drinks took hold, the mood of the room around them swelled beyond the initial controlled civility, giving way to an atmosphere as festive as an elementary-school recess. The men punched each other on the biceps and told golf stories, edging for position near the three judges in attendance. The women relaxed and tucked their painful shoes under the tables. Every few minutes, someone dug in a shirt pocket or purse for cigarettes and disappeared out the door.

Nina studied the dessert menu. She loved mousse but had eaten too much. Perhaps lemon sorbet?

At that moment, Richard Filsen appeared beside her.

“Not you,” Nina said, putting down the dessert menu, folding her arms defensively. “Not here.”

Filsen slammed his shot glass down on the table. “You have to talk to me. I want—”

“You don’t know what you want.” She saw it though, read it in his eyes. He wanted her back. He wanted her love and some fantasy family. “You want to talk, talk to me through my attorneys.” She tried for a fierce look, but felt her lips quiver.

“Hide behind the bosses,” Filsen said, squinting at them. “Hello, Jack, Remy. Hey, Remy, so we finally have a case together. And, man, are you gonna get your scrawny ass kicked. Don’t look down you—your nose at me, honey, I’ll blow your fucking—”

“We’re on opposite sides of a case, you mean,” Remy said coolly. “I look forward to winning.”

“Ha-ha. Funniest thing I’ve heard all day. You have any idea how much I look forward to a nice private conversation with you in a few days?”

Remy appeared not to react, but Nina saw how her knuckles paled as they squeezed her napkin. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”

“Got a lotta friends.” Filsen waved at the room. “Well, I thought I did, too. Don’t imagine you can trust ’em.”

Jack stood and took Filsen’s arm. “Anyone ever warn you that if you drink too much, you say regrettable things?”

“What’s that I smell on you, pal? Cheap aftershave? Or could it be expensive Scotch?”

“Look, my fellow attorney. Save your posturing for a more considered, sober time.” Jack’s muscular body propelled the taller man away from the table. Nina, compelled, followed a few safe steps behind.

Jack let go of Filsen right inside the door, as the man stumbled and held on to the handle. “Want to tell me your problem?”

“How about, I have a son nobody lets me see. And his mother—” Filsen spotted Nina, frowned. “Hey, I go around there when her mom’s watching the boy and she acts like I’m some creepy kidnapper. She’s got nerve. Hey, baby,” he called to Nina. “I could tell you things—”

“What would you tell her?” Jack asked.

“Forget it.” Filsen lowered his head. “I owe her nothing.”

“I know your associate is representing you in the custody case. Why not let Perry do his job? If he were here, he’d tell you that bothering Nina won’t help your case.”

“Ha. No, Perry’s busy at home with his big family, fucking his big wife, watching cartoons with his too many kids. Fuck Perry. I can handle this—I’m the man. I know the secrets. I know the secrets the men don’t know that young girls understand. Or they will soon, all the little—” Filsen swayed on his feet.

“This can’t be good for a guy who I hear rides his bicycle at six every morning,” Jack said, steadying him.

Filsen attempted to focus his eyes. Failed. “What do you fucking know about it?”

“There’s a pay phone around the corner. Call a taxi. Get home safe, okay?”

“What’s your story, Angel Jack? You fucking Remy first, Nina as sloppy seconds?”

A collective gasp lit up the faces of nearby gawkers. Nina fell back, wishing for invisibility.

One second Filsen was completing that question, and the next second he was barreling backward out the door, arms spread, then he was lying on his back in the middle of the walkway into the restaurant.

Jack winced and massaged his right hand. They all watched Filsen pull himself into a sitting position, hair falling over his eyes, a little blood on his face. Twenty-five grand if Filsen sued him and won, and no doubt worth every penny for the satisfaction Jack must now feel, Nina thought.

“Watch those stairs. They’re steep. Especially when you are blind drunk, as everyone here will attest,” Jack said mildly.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna sue you!”

“You’ll be out of a profession soon after. Go home.”

Filsen got up and turned to walk away, but not before he muttered something.

“Hey,” Jack called. “Hey!”

But Filsen had turned the corner.