Suspicion of Betrayal (3 page)

GailConnor.

Then she fixed on another word.
Die.

Her breath stopped.

—goingtodie, bitch. You'regoingtodie.

As if the handset were a snake, she thrust it back into its cradle. Then she laughed. Laughed at her own fear. "You little shit." She marched across the living room to pull down a slat in the blinds. Lights from the Cunningham house shone in small patches through the high hedge that ran down the side of their property. She thought of calling his parents but without proof, what could she say?

She took the tray upstairs. Karen was already asleep, her book open on her stomach. "Thank God." Gail tiptoed to the phone by her bed to check the caller-ID box. A red light blinked, indicating a new call. She pressed a button. The display said pay phone. She whispered, "Well, aren't you clever?" Gail hit the button to delete the entry, striking it out of her mind. She turned off the ringer. Bending low, she kissed Karen's cheek. "A story tomorrow. I promise."

Gail quietly unpacked the banker's box that held the files from her office.
Sweet, Jamie. Dissolution of Marriage.
She spread out the pleadings and exhibits on Anthony's side of the bed, careful not to disturb the little mound softly snoring on hers.

It was almost two o'clock in the morning when she turned off the light.

TWO

Ms. Connor—" The lawyer glanced down at his legal pad, which lay between his extended arms on the lectern. "Ms. Connor, do you consider that assisting Ms. Sweet to find household help is a legitimate use of your time as a lawyer? I see on page sixteen an entry for one hour. Did you expend two hundred and fifty dollars' worth of your time helping Ms. Sweet find someone to help her clean the house, when Ms. Sweet herself is not currently employed?"

The bill for services rendered—all thirty-some pages of it—lay on the railing of the witness box. Gail slowly turned to the page in question, although she could have spoken from memory. "Mr. Acker, if you will examine the entry more closely. I spent an hour reviewing my client's financial situation to determine whether she would be able to continue to afford help—and she cannot. As you know, the Sweets had employed a housekeeper during the marriage to assist with the children. Ms. Sweet had a job, but she lost it. She's looking for another. As the mortgage is seriously in arrears, she has no choice."

So one accusation that the wife was lazy had been countered by another that the husband was vindictive and cheap. This sparring between Gail and her opposite, Marvin Acker, had been going on for fifteen minutes. Claiming fees for her services, Gail had taken the stand to testify.

There was a squeaking of springs from Judge Ramirez's chair. His Honor was getting restless. Gail did not think this would go on much longer. She listened to the muffled sound of a car horn on Flagler Street twelve stories below while Acker adjusted his glasses, licked his thumb, and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted.

"You have reported . . . one-point-three hours for telephone calls to Jamie Sweet's brother in Pasca-goula, Mississippi,
re
trip to Miami. Were you acting as a travel agent, Ms. Connor?"

"No, Mr. Acker." Gail spoke directly into the microphone. "We discussed whether he should attend the hearing on a restraining order. On other occasions he had seen Wendell strike her—"

"Objection," Acker said tiredly. "Not relevant. I move that the response be stricken from the record."

The judge tapped a bongo rhythm on his desk. "You ask, you're stuck with the answer. Proceed, counselor."

Unruffled, Acker proceeded. Gail could tell his heart wasn't in it, which usually meant one of two things. Either he wasn't getting paid, or his client was a pain in the ass. Gail bet on the latter. Marv Acker had a reputation for charging high hourly rates and getting most of it up front. That meant Wendell Sweet was lying when he said he had no money.

Gail looked past him at Wendell, who was staring out the window, pretending not to give a damn. What she knew of him she had learned from Jamie. Thirty-eight, born in Brownsville, Texas, mother half Mexican. His father had been an oil rigger, and Wendell got into the business that way. With a degree from Texas A&M, he started doing geologic surveys. He had a string of good luck off the north coast of Venezuela, and people said he could find oil by the way the ocean rose and fell. He went into consulting, putting Americans into deals with the big Venezuelan oil companies. Five years ago the Sweets moved to Miami, the center of commerce between the United States and Latin America.

His wife, Gail's client, sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, as she had earlier on the stand. Jamie Sweet was thirty-two, a freckle-faced natural redhead with wide hips and a heavy bosom. Sequins outlined the collar of a pink silk suit too fancy for court. She dressed like a woman who had come from nothing and sure as hell didn't want to go back.

Jamie Sue Johnson, the oldest of seven children, had dropped out of school at sixteen and hitched a ride to Atlanta with a long-haul trucker. She got pregnant and a month later found an envelope on the dresser with $500 cash and the address of a women's clinic. She moved to Nashville, to Memphis, to Dallas, living with a series of losers, then ended up dancing in New Orleans. She pronounced it
N'Awlins.
Got stoned and had a pink rose tattooed on her thigh. Wendell admired it.
Wendell. He was one black-haired, good-lookin', honey-mouthed boy. "Baby, I'mona treat you like a queen."

Wendell Sweet was still good-looking, if one didn't mind eyes too close together and a chin like a shovel. He had the thick wrists and big shoulders of a man who had wrestled with drill bits and steel. His smile was slow, and his drawl was charming. He could wear a suit well, and his cuff links gleamed, but Gail thought that if she was around him long enough, she would start to see the crude oil under his fingernails.

After they married, Jamie had waited tables and sold Mary Kay cosmetics to pay Wendell's tuition. When he drank, he got mean, and Jamie learned to keep out of his way. Ten hard years went by before the money started coming in, and when it did, they spent it. In Miami they bought a two-story house with a pool. There was a Land Rover to take the children to school in and a Cadillac for when Jamie and Wendell went out. But Wendell was gone more often than not. For something to do, Jamie redecorated the house—three times. Took cooking lessons and put on weight. Lost thirty pounds on diet pills, was hospitalized for an overdose, then put it all back on. She caught Wendell cheating and forgave him. She forgave him the times he hit her because she had three kids, no education, and a firm belief that somehow he would stop if only she could do better. To keep herself from going completely crazy, Jamie went to work for a resort company.

One day Wendell said he was tired of being married to a redneck whose bad grammar and fat ass embarrassed him with his clients. Something clicked in Jamie's head, and she said she'd had all she could take. Jamie's boss spoke to Anthony Quintana, and Anthony sent Jamie to Gail.

It took a court order to get Wendell out of the house. He had sat outside in his car and called her on his cell phone, alternating between teary-eyed pleas for her to come back to him and vicious threats that he would kill her if she didn't. He followed her. She saw him behind her at the grocery store or the shopping mall. A restraining order was issued. Wendell hired a lawyer. Settlement negotiations failed. Finally, five months after Gail had taken the case, here they all were on a motion for temporary support and attorney's fees. Wendell was claiming poverty. His consulting business was way off, due to downturns in the industry and political instability in Venezuela. Gail's friend Charlene Marks, who specialized in family law, told her that apparently Wendell had come down with RAIDS—Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. The moment a divorce is filed, the husband's income drops.

Judge Ramirez interrupted Wendell's lawyer in mid-question. "Mr. Acker, I think I've heard enough to make a ruling." Acker seemed almost relieved. A big man, he sighed, took off his glasses, and folded them into his breast pocket.

Wendell swung around from the window, waiting to hear what the judge had to say.

Gail closed her file and went back to her chair. As she sat down, she smiled at Jamie and gave her a subtle wink.

Ramirez gave a cursory glance through the pleadings. "Okey-doke. Are you ready, Ms. Court Reporter?" The fiftyish woman in front of his desk nodded and said she was ready for anything. There were a few laughs, then Ramirez said, "The court is not satisfied that respondent, Wendell Sweet, has fully disclosed his assets. Testimony from the petitioner's accountant suggests that respondent has engaged in . . . well, let's say that he appears not to have accurately reported his income to the IRS. Therefore, imputing income to Mr. Sweet consistent with the demonstrated spending patterns of the parties, I am going to award temporary support as follows. The court finds that the petitioner, Jamie Sue Sweet, has a need for three thousand dollars per month as temporary alimony and five hundred dollars per month in temporary child support for each of the three children. The husband is to bring current and continue to pay the mortgage, the wife's car loan, and all medical and dental expenses. All said amounts are to be paid forthwith."

Under the table, Gail squeezed Jamie Sweet's icy hand. This was exactly what they had asked for.

The judge went on, "The wife has also alleged a need for temporary attorney's fees in the amount of twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. This case is set for report in thirty days, at which time I will make a ruling on fees and reconsider the amount of support awarded to Mrs. Sweet, based on the husband's ability to pay."

Gail kept her expression neutral, hiding her bewilderment.

Ramirez consulted his notes. "Additionally, the court grants the wife's motion for contempt. Although previously ordered to do so, Mr. Sweet has not produced copies of documents relating to any and all offshore corporate or personal transactions in which he has had, now has, or expects in the future to have an interest. You shall produce said documents within one week, or this court will consider jail time. Mr. Sweet, are you paying attention? You give Ms. Connor those documents by five o'clock next Friday, or you're going to jail. Are we clear on that?"

Acker nudged his client. Wendell Sweet shifted in his chair. He drawled, "Yes, Your Honor."

"Good." Ramirez looked at Gail and made a slight smile. "You need to get busy if you expect the court to continue this level of support. Seek and find, Ms. Connor."

She stood up. "Judge, do I understand that this order of support will
expire
in thirty days?"

"No. The court will reconsider in thirty days. The amount might remain the same. It might not."

"Yes, Judge." A mixed victory. Jamie would get some immediate help, but Gail would get no fees. Not yet. And everything depended on what she could uncover about Wendell. She sent a cool glance his way. His dark eyes poured acid.

The judge banged his gavel. "That's it. See you folks for the final hearing in October. Sorry it can't be sooner. See if you can work out a settlement before then." Everyone rose as he left the courtroom.

Jamie seemed stunned. Her lips barely moved to whisper, "Oh, my God. Did we win?"

"More or less. We'll talk after they leave."

Gail went over to speak to Marv Acker. She felt no animosity. They were both doing their jobs.

Acker had his back to his client. Quietly he said, "I'm telling you, Gail, he can't pay what he ain't got. If there's something tucked away in a bank in Nassau or wherever, it's news to me."

"Well, clients aren't always forthcoming," she said.

"Take a look at the documents, but I think it's going to be blood from a stone. How's the office going, by the way? I should get over and see your new place."

"I love it," she said. "No one to answer to but the staff. It's tough, though, after eight years in a big firm."

"Tell me about it." When he turned away, the sour expression was back on his face. "Come on, Wendell, let's get out of here. We're going to discuss an appeal." That last remark was pitched loud enough for Gail to catch it, but she assumed it was more for his client than for her.

Jamie Sweet helped load the luggage cart that Gail had wheeled in two hours ago. They took their time, lingering to make sure that Wendell left first. They didn't want to ride down in the same elevator.

While his lawyer was packing up, Wendell Sweet walked casually across the courtroom. He had pouty red lips that reminded her of Elvis Presley. Jamie threw back her head and stared at him defiantly, but her face had gone so pale her freckles stood out like spatters of brown paint.

Gail said, "Mr. Sweet—"

He said to Jamie, "Quite a lawyer you have. She runs up the bill over twenty thousand bucks, and you expect me to pay for it."

"Wendell, the judge has spoke, and that's that."

"Spoken,
my little Mississippi belle. The judge has spoken. Yes, he has. A fine example of judicial intellect."

"Mr. Sweet, don't talk to my client."

The close-set brown eyes—they seemed crossed at this range—shifted to Gail. "I recall a saying from where I come from, about women like you. A man fool enough to stick it in is gonna get it froze off."

His lawyer was pulling Sweet's arm. "Wendell. Shut up."

Gail said, "Mr. Acker, apparently your client didn't understand the term 'contempt of court.' The judge is in chambers. If I asked him, I'm sure he would explain it."

With a hand on Sweet's elbow, Acker escorted him out.

Jamie watched them go, then sank into her chair. She pushed her fluffy red bangs off her forehead, which shone with perspiration. "Oh, Lord."

Gail smiled at her. "It's okay. Wendell's manhood depends on making a remark like that. This is better than last time, right?" At his deposition he had come across the table, and Jamie had slid under it to get away, the court reporter's machine going over, everyone screaming.