The Good Lawyer: A Novel (25 page)

“Eleanor, don’t misunderstand me, I love the watch. But this must have cost you a small fortune. The tux. Now this. What will your family think?”

“My family will love you and probably loves you already. I’ve spoken about you enough.” She paused. “Now look closely at the watch.”

Its numbers were in tiny gold numerals that glistened in the lamplight. I turned the watch over and read the engraving:
Nick-Never forget I love you-Eleanor
.

We made love on her living room couch—for hours.

The next day I showed Mom the bust of Saint John the Baptist. She fought back tears as she held it up and rotated it in her hands. She called Eleanor at work and thanked her. After getting the statue blessed at Cure of Ars Church in Merrick, it took its proper place on top a doily on the chest of drawers in Mom’s bedroom, next to the picture of the husband she had buried.

Chapter 49

I
t was a quiet Friday afternoon. I stood before Judge Graham in Bronx Supreme. Guevara was at my side. The ten-day adjournment on my motion to dismiss the remaining counts of the indictment containing the Chavez boy’s accusations had passed and, as expected, Jimmy Ryan had not filed a written response. But with passion, some oratorical skill, and little logic, he argued against it.

“The grand jury would have indicted Mr. Guevara anyway had they only heard the testimony of the Chavez boy.”

“That’s some crystal ball you’ve got there, Mr. Ryan,” Graham said sharply.

“The Chavez family should not be denied their day in court merely because the People dismissed the two cases that the perjured testimony affected, judge.”

“You don’t think the grand jurors who voted to indict on the Chavez case were influenced by the perjured testimony of the Rodriguez brothers?”

“There’s no proof of that, your honor.”

“And there’s no proof it didn’t. We’re not expected to be mind readers, Mr. Ryan. The grand jury heard from two witnesses, the same age as the Chavez boy, who testified falsely to the same type of crime as the Chavez boy.” Graham halted Ryan’s approaching rebuttal with a raised hand. “This Court has heard enough. The remaining charges in the indictment are dismissed. The D.A.’s office
may
represent only the charges concerning the third boy—the complainant Jose Chavez, and only within the next thirty days to a different grand jury panel.”

“The D.A.’s Office will be re-presenting the case concerning the Chavez child next week,’’ Ryan said. “Does the defendant wish to testify?”

To Graham and Ryan’s surprise, I answered, “Absolutely, your honor.”

“This matter is adjourned pending a grand jury determination,” Graham bellowed. “Call the next case.”

With my arm pressed against Guevara’s back I led him out of the courtroom. He wanted to talk, but held up when he saw me put my finger to my lips. Ryan was approaching. I told Guevara that we must start going over his testimony on Monday. He nodded then hurried off in a businesslike manner.

“What’s the rush?” I asked Ryan. “Do you have to go to re-present next week?” I wanted more time to prepare Guevara. There were others I also wanted make sure were ready to testify, like Mrs. Hirsch, and maybe a character witness or two.

“If not for that kid’s nutty mother, I don’t think we’d even re-present at all,” Ryan said.

“Did you confirm that robbery conviction I told you about?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And her drug use?”

“Yeah, but she’s clean now. Besides, you wouldn’t get that into evidence at trial anyway.”

“Don’t be so sure. And what about that two million dollar lawsuit? Think that might cloud her sense of fair play just a little bit? A guilty verdict and her civil attorney gets one-third of a cool two million. You still go home with your shitty paycheck.”

I looked down the corridor and saw Guevara standing at the far end, his eyes riveted on Ryan and me.

“Listen Nick, I’ll give your man his chance to tell his story in full, without interruption. If you’ve got any material witnesses, bring them in, and I don’t mean little old ladies who’ll testify what a good guy he is when he’s not sodomizing little boys.”

“How about a witness who’ll testify that Jose Chavez is a pathological liar?”

We approached a bank of elevators on the opposite side of the building. “I’ll give your client the fairest opportunity I’ll probably ever give a defendant in my entire career.”

“If you’re expecting me to genuflect, forget it. Your case is shit, Jimmy, and you know it. You don’t want to try this case anymore than I do.”

Ryan smirked at me.

We set a date and time. The following Friday, 10 A.M. I would be back from Atlanta and Eleanor’s brother’s wedding on Monday. This would give me the time I needed to prep Guevara, Mrs. Hirsch, and maybe a couple of character witnesses on the chance Ryan might let the latter bunch testify. But the trouble with a guy like Ryan was, even when you thought you could trust him, you couldn’t. Especially when he had no cards to play, and nothing to lose.

Chapter 50

I
slept nearly the entire flight to Atlanta. Screeching tires and a slight bounce of the plane woke me. My left hand was in Eleanor’s, on her lap. My head was on her shoulder.

As we exited the aircraft I watched her legs silhouetted in the sunlight under a semi-sheer granny dress. “Are we going to be able to control ourselves this weekend?” she asked.

I smiled slyly. “For my sake, I hope so.”

Eleanor had warned me. Her parents were not medieval and did not need to be told that two adults in love and in their late twenties were having sex. But bedding down together under their roof was out of the question.

As soon as we retrieved our bags from the conveyor belt a uniformed chauffeur appeared.

“Miss Vernou?” he asked, in an accent that had a lifetime of metropolitan New York buried in every syllable. “I’ll take your bags.”

A paunchy man in his sixties, he limped through the exit doors to the black stretch limousine parked outside. Eleanor and I followed.

Within blocks of her home Eleanor patted my arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Everything will be fine.”

I felt a headache coming on and rolled my eyes.

We turned onto Piedmont Road and I remembered Eleanor telling me she lived in a neighborhood called Buckhead. After driving several long blocks past large antebellum homes that resembled courthouses on plots of land as big as baseball fields, the limousine turned into a driveway inside an opening in an eight-foot high brick wall.

The house was set back an entire city block from the road. Two huge dogwoods, one with white flowers and the other with pink, were separated by over two hundred feet of meticulously manicured bluegrass. Apple and cherry blossom trees adorned each side of a circular drive.

I stared in wonder and awe at the eight white columns inside a shaded portico.

As the limo came to a smooth stop, I put on the jacket that I had carefully folded and draped over the seat next to me, and began to pluck tiny bits of lint off my pants.

A butler exited out an enormous oak door.

Eleanor whispered in my ear. “Inasmuch as I like to see my Bronx warrior vulnerable, you really have very little to fear this weekend.”

“And why’s that, my fair princess?”

“Because if my parents don’t like you, they’ll never show it.”

Eleanor exited the limo first and greeted Charles the butler with a big hug. Charles directed the driver to follow him with our bags. I watched as they made their way through a prodigious center hall up an expansive staircase that widened as it rose toward the second floor. Paintings of Parisian street scenes hung on paneled walls under a huge bronze chandelier suspended a full story from a coffered ceiling.

Eleanor took my hand and led me through a library and into a dining room that had been cleared for the wedding. A table large enough to seat thirty was positioned against a far wall. A mural of a windswept sky had been painted on the sixteen-foot high ceiling.

We passed through a swinging cherrywood door into the kitchen. There, standing in front of three wooden tables with marble tops cluttered with dishes, glassware and serving platters, was Charlotte Vernou. A half dozen men in full aprons scurried around her bouncing to her instructions. She greeted her daughter with a long hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Eleanor introduced me with a sweep of her hand. And to a drum roll in my head she said: “Mother—this is Nick.”

Charlotte Vernou smiled warmly. And I was careful not to mistake warmth for style and grace, which seemed to emanate from her with a calculable ease. I hoped, early on, she would give me a chance, and not just feign interest.

She extended her hand and I shook it gently. I had intended to give her a respectful kiss on the cheek, but her extended arm made the distance I had to cover impossible to cross. She promptly commented on the weather. Said she hoped it would be as beautiful for the wedding tomorrow as it was that day. As she spoke her reddish brown hair bounced lightly around delicate facial features that reminded me of finely cut crystal. I had to concentrate hard on her words for fear of showing my astonishment at how young and beautiful this woman of fifty appeared.

She suggested Eleanor show me to my room and that we “kids” enjoy what remained of this “heavenly day.” Then added: “Nick, I’m sorry if we don’t get to give you much attention this weekend, but I do hope we get some time to get to know you.” She then threw her hands in the air, smiled like a teenager and said, “In the midst of all this chaos.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I hope so too.”

I had been politely dismissed.

Chapter 51

T
here were nine bedrooms in this twenty-room house. Since parting from Charlotte I had been sleeping like the dead in one of them, flat on my back in a Chippendale canopy bed centered in a room the size of my entire house. Eleanor left me alone for two hours then shook me awake. She said I was moaning. I joked and told I was having a sex dream, but it was the beginnings of another nightmare. Only this time the shed was engulfed in flames, black smoke billowing into a night sky. I was running toward it, and the harder I ran, the farther the shed became. I felt Eleanor’s hand on my face.

Sunlight beaming through sheer white curtains made me wince. A short nap and I had lost my bearings. I panicked.
What must her father be thinking of me
: this rude New Yorker who’d come into his home, said hello to his wife, then retreated upstairs to sleep.

“El, what about your father?”

“He should be home in an hour. We’ll all eat dinner then.”

I shaved quickly in my own personal bathroom, while Eleanor unpacked my things. She treated my clothes as if they were a child of ours—carefully pointing down the collar on a shirt, gently smoothing out a sweater before placing it in a top drawer.

* * *

A large mahogany table covered with a cherry red tablecloth had been brought to the center of the dining room. On it was a bronze candelabra with candles burning. Its chairs had pinned burgundy upholstery that matched the silk wall fabric. George Vernou sat at the head of the table.

He was reading a page of newspaper, his eyes running down columns of closing stock prices. There was no clue in his expression whether the news was good or bad. On the table in front of him was the main section. I glimpsed down and caught the words
BRONX
and
RAPIST
in bold type above a fold in the paper.

Eleanor softly uttered, “Daddy.”

George Vernou looked up. His smile widened as we approached. His eyes never left his daughter as she moved quickly toward him. Rising to a commanding six feet, he embraced and kissed her. His resemblance to Eleanor was uncanny. They had the same big blue eyes, curved cheekbones, and round nose.

“Daddy, this is Nick.”

“How are you Nick? I feel like I know you already.” He shook my hand with a warmth that was both reservedly diplomatic and powerful. It told me I was welcome for the time being, and at the same time warned me that could change.

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you. It’s nice to meet you. I hope I can live up to whatever good things Eleanor has said about me.” Right off I was talking too much, but he didn’t seem to mind. This was exactly what he wanted me to do.

He gestured to an adjoining two chairs. “Please. Sit down.”

I knocked into Eleanor as I pulled out the chair closest to her father for her to sit in.

I took the seat on her other side and looked down at the exquisite place setting in front of me.

George Vernou leaned back. He was wearing a blue blazer and white shirt, both perfectly tailored to fit his portly frame. “Eleanor tells me that you’ve been handling a couple of publicity cases up there in the Bronx.”

“Yes sir. That’s true. Although I didn’t invite the publicity and in one case even tried to avoid it.”

“I suppose the press can be a liability in your line of work.”