The Devil's Advocate (12 page)

Close to an hour later, he sat back, shook his head, and smiled. If the others had known what Mr. Milton had handed him, they hadn't shown it. It was the kind of case that could make a young attorney's reputation overnight because it would draw a great deal of media attention. And John Milton had decided to give it to him.

To him! Even his swollen ego and continually thirsty ambition didn't prepare him for such an opportunity, especially with three other attorneys in the firm, each much more experienced in criminal law than he was.

No wonder John Milton wanted him to begin work immediately. This case was just beginning to make the headlines. In fact, what John Milton was doing in the preface of this file was anticipating who his client would be, expecting him to be charged with the murder of his wife.

A little over twenty years ago, forty-one-year-old Stanley Rothberg had married Maxine Shapiro, the only child of Abe and Pearl Shapiro, owners of one of the biggest and most famous Catskill Mountain resort hotels, Shapiro's Lake House, located in Sandburg, a small upstate New York community not far from where Paul Scholefield first had practiced law. In fact, it occurred to Kevin that Paul would have been a more logical choice to take this case, since he was familiar with the area. However, Shapiro's Lake House had developed a national reputation because of the celebrities who performed there, the hotel's longevity, and the introduction about ten years ago of the Shapiro's Lake House Raisin Loaf, the recipe supposedly Pearl Shapiro's. It was a popular item in supermarkets and well advertised on television.

Both Abe and Pearl Shapiro were now dead. Stanley Rothberg had started as a busboy and then become a waiter in the Lake House dining room. He had met and romanced Maxine and (no secret from anyone), without Abe and Pearl's initial blessing, married Maxine and eventually became general manager of one of the biggest hotels in the resort area.

Maxine turned out to be a sickly woman, eventually developing brittle diabetes.

She lost a leg and was confined to a wheelchair during the last few years. She had a full-time nurse. Last weekend she was found dead, as the result of an insulin overdose.

Mr. Milton was positive Stanley Rothberg would be charged with first-degree murder.

Everyone seemed to know that he had a girlfriend on the side. The Rothbergs had no children, so he was the sole heir to the multimillion-dollar tourist facility and bakery enterprise. There was clear motive and clear opportunity.

Kevin sensed John Milton's presence in his doorway and looked up quickly from the folder. One of the things that was beginning to amaze him about the man was how he seemed to change appearance every time Kevin saw him. Right now he looked wider, taller, and even a bit older. He saw lines in his face that he hadn't seen before, or was that just the trick of lighting?

"Got right into it, eh? That's good, Kevin. I like it when one of my associates grabs on tenaciously," he said, making a fist. "Keep that edge, keep that hunger, and you'll always be formidable in court."

"Well, I saw this story in Sunday's paper. As far as I know, no one's been charged yet; but I gather from this you expect Stanley Rothberg will be."

"No question about it," John Milton replied, stepping farther in. The lines lifted from his face. "My sources tell me an arrest is only days away."

"And obviously Mr. Rothberg is anticipating it, too. When did you meet with him?"

"Oh, I haven't seen him yet, Kevin."

"Pardon?"

"I wanted you to be familiar with the case when he arrived. He'll be a little nervous about someone as young as you taking his defense, of course; but once he sees how competent you are ..."

"I don't understand." Kevin closed the folder and sat forward. "You're saying we don't actually have this case yet?"

"Not formally, but we will. Why don't I go ahead and plan a meeting between us and Stanley Rothberg early next week. It's my understanding that he won't be arrested until then anyway. I'll handle the arraignment and bail."

"But how do we know he'll come to us? Did he phone?"

John Milton smiled confidently, his eyes changing again to that shimmering rust, only a little brighter this time.

"Don't worry about where he will go when he finds himself in trouble. He'll know. We have mutual acquaintances who have already spoken to him. Trust me.

Anyway, you should go through the medical data concerning his wife."

"Yes," Kevin said, staring, his thoughts complicated by a static of confusing impulses. Kevin was excited by the prospect of such a case, but he was also uneasy about it. Why had Mr. Milton given him, a new associate, an important case so quickly? Shouldn't he take something simpler, build up to a case like this?

"I bet you already have an idea for his defense. Something popped into your head?"

"Well, I was thinking . . . after reading how Maxine Rothberg suffered. She and Abe had no children; she was confined to a wheelchair and a restricted life in the midst of a glamorous and exciting world. She must have been terribly frustrated and unhappy."

"Precisely my theory . . . suicide."

"According to what we have here, she did inject herself occasionally, even though she had a full-time nurse."

John Milton smiled again and shook his head.

"You're a very sharp young man, Kevin. I know I'm going to be more than satisfied with your work. Look into the nurse, too. There's a lot we can use, you'll see.

He started to turn away.

"Mr. Milton."

"Yes?"

"How did you get all this . . ."He ran his palm over the closed folder. ". . . this detailed information already?"

"I have private investigators on full-time duty, Kevin. I'll be introducing them to you from time to time so they can make direct reports, and I keep some things on my computer files." He laughed, a short, quiet laugh. "You've heard of ambulance chasers; well, we're crime chasers. It's important to be aggressive out there, Kevin.

It pays, in more ways than you can ever imagine."

Kevin nodded and watched Mr. Milton leave. Then he sat back.

He had been right. The urban world was different and far more exciting. This was New York, where the best competed with each other, and only the best could compete. Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler paled before such a firm as John Milton and Associates, and to think, at one time during his neophyte legal existence, he had thought they were something special, they and their mesmerizing upper-middle-class existence. They were soft; they were actually dying, wallowing in comfort.

Where was the challenge? When were they really on the edge, taking risks? Why, Kevin was already heads and shoulders above them. None of them had the guts to represent Lois Wilson, and now they were upset because their lily-white reputations might have gotten stained. The biggest adventure of their lives was going to a new gourmet restaurant, And he had almost become one of them!

John Milton had saved him; that's what he had done: saved him.

Kevin got up quickly, squeezing the folder securely under his arm, and started out.

"Oh, Mr. Taylor," Wendy called, ascending from behind her desk like some mermaid rising out of the water as soon as Kevin emerged from his office. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you go in."

"That's all right. I had just intended to stay for a few moments but got lost in some reading."

She nodded, her chestnut-brown eyes darkening as if she had an instant understanding of what would seize his attention so firmly. She brushed back her hair and looked at the folder under his arm.

"Oh, wait." She turned and hurried back to a cabinet behind her desk and took out a ruby leather attache case. "I was going to give you this when you officially started, but since you've already begun . .." She handed it to him. One side was engraved in dark brown script, the color of dried blood. It read, "John Milton and Associates." In the lower right-hand corner was printed, "Kevin Wingate Taylor."

"This is beautiful." He ran his fingers over the raised lettering.

Wendy smiled. "All the associates have the same one. Present from Mr.

Milton."

"I've got to remember to thank him. And thank you, Wendy."

"Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes. Work up all you can on diabetes and find out whatever you can about the history of Shapiro's Lake House, the Catskill resort."

Wendy's smile widened. "That's all been done, Mr. Taylor."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Milton asked for that last Wednesday."

"Oh. Great. Well, I'll drop by and start reading it Thank you."

"Have a good day, Mr. Taylor."

He started down the corridor, looking in on Ted McCarthy, who was on the phone.

Ted waved, and Kevin continued on. Dave Kotein's office door was closed, so he went on to the reception desk and asked Diane to call for the limo.

"It will be waiting for you right outside the front door, Mr. Taylor. Use it as you wish. Charon is not due back here until the end of the day."

"Thank you, Diane."

"Have a nice day, Mr. Taylor."

"You too."

He was practically bouncing over the thick carpet. The secretaries weren't just beautiful and pleasant, they were warm, sincere ... titillating. Everything about this place was pleasing: the colors, the lushness, the newness. He hated to leave.

Kevin hummed in the elevator and waved to the security guard in the lobby, who waved back as if they were already old friends. As soon as he came through the revolving doors, he paused and squinted. The heavy cloud cover had thinned considerably, and rays of the noonday sun reflected off the glass, the sidewalk, and the shiny surface of the limo. Charon opened the limo door and stepped back.

"Thank you, Charon. I'll be heading back to the apartment first and then we'll be going to the Russian Tea Room for lunch."

"Very good, Mr. Taylor." He closed the door softly, and moments later they were on their way. Kevin sat back and closed his eyes. He had so much to tell Miriam that he was sure they would both be talking a blue streak at lunch and all the way back to Blithedale. And when he described his first assignment as a John Milton associate . . .

He opened his eyes and ran his hand over the attache case, snapping it open and gazing in at the folder. It would soon grow in size. That was for sure. Kevin laughed to himself. Talk about well-prepared attorneys. All that material already worked up and waiting for him. What an office—private investigators, a computerized library, efficient secretaries . . . Kevin sat back, his self-confidence growing. With such a support network behind him, he had to do well.

Then something Wendy had said triggered a curious thought. He must have heard it wrong, he thought, but he opened the file and looked at the dates associated with some facts to be sure.

Had she said Mr. Milton had asked for the information on diabetes and Shapiro's Lake House last Wednesday?

Maxine Rothberg had been found dead in her bed just this past weekend. Why would Mr. Milton be interested as far back as last Wednesday?

Wendy must have been mistaken, or maybe he hadn't heard right, he thought, and closed the briefcase.

After all, what else could it be?

"More wine?" Norma offered. She tilted the bottle toward Miriam's glass.

"No, I think I'd better get back to my apartment. Kevin will be looking for me."

"So?"

"Let him find you," Jean said. She looked at Miriam and shook her head. "I can see we have some work to do here, Norma."

"Men have a tendency to take their women for granted sometimes," Norma advised.

"We've got to keep them on their toes, keep the mystery alive, keep them thinking.

Otherwise, you'll become just another one of their possessions."

"Kevin's not like that," Miriam said.

"Nonsense," Jean said. "He's a man. He can't help it."

Norma and Jean laughed again. For a moment the two of them appeared childlike to Miriam, their eyes brightening mischievously.

Before anyone could say anything else, they heard the doorbell. "That must be Kevin," Miriam said. They all got up. As they started for the front door, Norma put her arms around Miriam.

"Can't wait for you to move in," she said. "Catching you up will give us a chance to relive all our own wonderful discoveries." Jean opened the door to greet Kevin.

"Hi. So you found us out." She turned to Miriam and winked. "We thought you would eventually."

"Just simple deduction," he said and looked at Miriam. "Have a good time?"

"Yes, yes I did."

"You don't have to worry," Jean said, smiling and then winking again at Miriam.

"She's already one of us."

"I hope that's good," Kevin kidded. He flirted with his eyes, and the two of them giggled. Norma bugged and kissed Miriam, and then Jean did the same.

"See you soon," Miriam said. They stood side by side in the doorway, smiling as she and Kevin retreated to the elevator.

"Looks like you three got off to a good start, huh?" Kevin asked.

"Yes."

"You don't sound enthusiastic,',' Kevin said cautiously.

Miriam was silent as they got into the elevator, but just before it opened on the lobby floor, she turned to him. "What didn't you tell me about the Jaffees?"

"Oh." He nodded. "I should have figured they would. Well," he said, taking a deep breath as they stepped into the lobby, "it's a depressing story and I didn't want to put ah onus on the apartment." He turned to her. "Eventually, I would have told you. I'm sorry. It wasn't right to keep it from you. It's just that I want to surround you with pretty things, happy things. I want this to be the best time of our lives, Miriam."

She nodded. It was just as Norma and Jean had said—Kevin wanted to protect her from sadness and depression. She decided she shouldn't fault him for it.

"It is a tragic story, but I don't see why it should affect us," she concluded.