The Arraignment pm-7 Read online

  “Which is it, yes or no? Because if your witness did hear it, then that person would be your best source of information. Because I can’t discuss it.”

  “So it was attorney-client?” says Ortiz.

  “I thought we already established that.”

  “If Rush was your friend, why wouldn’t you want to help us catch his killer?” says Padgett.

  “Why don’t you ask me if I still beat my wife?” I tell him.

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “She died of cancer several years ago,” says Harry.

  Padgett looks at me. “Sorry.”

  “All we want to know is what Metz told you during your initial client interview,” says Ortiz.

  “Unless and until I’m told by a judge to the contrary, any communications I’ve had with any clients are privileged.”

  “Even dead clients?” says Ortiz.

  “Even dead ones,” I tell him.

  “I see, you don’t make the rules, you just follow them, is that it?” says Padgett.

  “You’re not as dumb as you look,” says Harry.

  “Harry. They’re just trying to do their job,” I say.

  “And you’re not helping much,” says Ortiz.

  “I’m sorry. But I have to do mine,” replies Harry.

  “How long did you know Nick Rush?” Ortiz takes a different tack.

  “Ten years. More or less.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I’ve thought about that a few times since it happened. You know how it is. When you lose someone you know. I think it was probably a conference or a seminar. Continuing education of the bar maybe. But to be honest, I can’t remember the specific event or where it was.”

  “Let me ask you a question. How could Metz be a client if you didn’t take his case?” Padgett doesn’t want to give it up.

  “You know as well as I do, whether I declined representation or not, whatever a client told me in an initial interview…” He’s starting to write in his notepad. “And mind you, that’s not saying that I ever talked to Mr. Metz about legal matters, but if I did, it would be covered by privilege.” He scratches it out, closes his notebook. As he does, he sees the device on my desk. He looks at it for a second. My heart gains ten extra beats.

  “I’m told you don’t do drug cases,” says Ortiz.

  I try to look at him, but my gaze keeps going back to his partner who is still looking at the device on my desk.

  “Is that true?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That you don’t do drug cases?”

  “As a general policy, no. I don’t handle cases involving narcotics.”

  If Padgett picks up the device, turns it on, and sees Nick’s name, we will all be finishing this downtown, probably in front of a judge where I can be charged with concealing evidence in a capital case.

  “So maybe you have some redeeming qualities after all.” Padgett forgets about the device for a moment and looks at me.

  I smile at him.

  “Why don’t you do narcotics?” he asks.

  “I have no expertise in the field.”

  “I take it back,” he says.

  “Is that the only reason?” says Ortiz.

  “Any other reasons would be personal and have nothing to do with any particular client or case,” I say.

  “Is that why you wouldn’t take the Metz case? Because it involved drugs?”

  “Assuming Metz was my client, for purposes of an initial interview, the reasons that I might not take such a case would be privileged.”

  “We’re back to that?” says Padgett.

  “That means it’s none of your business,” says Harry.

  “You’re wrong,” says Padgett. “They’re both dead, and that is our business. Besides, who are you protecting, a client who doesn’t exist?”

  “Until a court tells me otherwise.”

  “I think if Metz were here he might want you to help us,” says Ortiz. “I sure would if somebody pumped me full of holes while I was standing on the sidewalk minding my own business.”

  “And your friend?” says Padgett. “I would think you’d want to help us out on that one just out of professional courtesy if nothing else. You know, one shark to another.”

  Suddenly I’m out of my chair. Harry is off the credenza to stop me.

  Padgett is on his feet, shoulders back, hands ready.

  I slowly reach across my desk and take one of my business cards from the little holder on the corner and flip it to him. Pumped with adrenaline, he has trouble trying to catch it in the air, ready for a fight when the test is one of dexterity. If I wanted to nail him, now would be the time.

  “Why don’t you call me next time you want to talk,” I tell him. “So I can decide if I want to be in or not.”

  Padgett stands there looking foolish, ready for a fight that isn’t going to happen. My card on the floor. He doesn’t know what to do, so he bends over and picks it up.

  I use the opportunity to reach for the handheld device, quietly sliding it across the desk and into the center drawer, then closing it. Ortiz is still looking at his partner and doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, it doesn’t seem to register.

  “Then you won’t help us?” He looks back at me.

  “If I could help I would, but I can’t. The simple fact is, I don’t know anything.”

  Ortiz gives me a mocking smile. He doesn’t believe this. As I study the grin, I get the feeling this is as close as the man ever gets to humor.

  “Without talking about specifics, clients, or cases, there are good reasons why a lawyer might decline a case,” I tell him.

  “Such as?” says Ortiz.

  “Speaking hypothetically?”

  “Hypothetically,” he says.

  “Perhaps a feeling that the client is not telling you the truth.”

  “Metz lied to you?” he says.

  “We’re not talking clients or cases,” I remind him.

  “Of course not.”

  Padgett smiles, still standing at the edge of my desk. Finally getting somewhere. “What did he lie about?” he asks.

  I give him a look, like “do you really expect me to answer that?”

  “What? You only deal with truthful drug dealers, is that it?”

  I don’t take the bait.

  “But it was narcotics, wasn’t it?” he says.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said that’s why you didn’t take his case.”

  “He never said anything about Mr. Metz.” Ortiz wants to hear more. Whatever I will tell him.

  “Then you wouldn’t have any idea who killed them? Or is that covered by attorney-client privilege as well?” Padgett asks.

  “No, I don’t. But if I were you, I’d start by talking to the United States Attorney’s Office.”

  “We’ve been there. Like talking to a fucking wall,” says Padgett.

  Ortiz shoots him a look to kill. The sergeant’s expression is that of a man who wishes he could inhale his words and swallow them.

  The feds aren’t sharing information.

  I look up at Harry. We have suddenly learned more than they have.

  Bull neck, biceps, and all, Padgett is going to get his ass kicked when Ortiz gets him outside.

  “Have you ever heard of a woman named Laura?” says Ortiz.

  “In what connection?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a business associate. Perhaps a friend of Mr. Rush?”

  “Just Laura, no last name?” I say.

  “No. Just Laura.”

  I think for a moment. The envelope in Nick’s pocket with the name written on it, with the four thousand in cash inside. This would set the embers of curiosity glowing at Homicide downtown. But the way Ortiz asks the question allows me to sidestep it without lying.

  “You say a woman named Laura? Sorry I don’t. Can’t help you.”

  “You’re just overflowing with information,” says Padgett.

  “If there’s an
ything else, can we get back in touch with you?” says Ortiz.

  “You’ve got my card.”

  Ortiz gets on his feet and they head for the door. Padgett is out ahead of him. At the moment I suspect he’d rather stay here, maybe hide under my desk.

  “There is one more thing,” says Ortiz. He’s almost to the door, turned, looking at me. “Did you know that Mr. Rush and Mr. Metz were in business together?”

  He can tell by the vacant expression on my face, whether true or not, that this thought has never crossed my mind.

  I shake my head.

  He looks at a piece of paper he has been palming in his hand. “Something called Jamaile Enterprises?” There’s a little uptilt in his voice as he says the word “enterprises.” He looks at me, waiting for a reply.

  “Nothing? Nothing?” he says.

  I am speechless.

  “I was just wondering,” he says, “whether Mr. Rush, being a friend, might have mentioned it to you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Though I cannot recall Nick ever having darkened the door of any church, his funeral is held at the old Mission San Luis Rey, a few miles from the coast near Oceanside.

  It has been ornately choreographed with three gleaming black funeral trucks hauling enough floral arrangements to look like the Rose Parade behind Nick’s flag-draped coffin in the hearse. No one has explained to me what the flag is doing on the coffin, since Nick was never a veteran, though he was clearly shot in the line of duty. No doubt this is a touch demanded by Dana, who will have it folded and handed to her at the gravesite.

  It is a large and hushed crowd that gathers under the hand-hewn beams of the old Spanish baroque church, its thick adobe walls magnifying every cough and the shuffling of shoes on the Spanish tile floor.

  We go through the calisthenics of a Catholic service, from the pews to the kneelers and up on our feet again as the priest intones a final blessing over the coffin, sprinkles it with holy water, and swings a giant brass incense burner from a chain as it issues clouds of gray smoke.

  The information from the cops has been running through my head like a ticker tape since our meeting-the name Jamaile Enterprises and the assertion that Metz and Nick were in business together.

  It is possible they were simply trying to get a rise. If Ortiz and his partner failed in that regard, they did manage to plant a seed that is now sprouting suspicion. The question being: If Nick knew Metz from some prior dealings, why wouldn’t he tell me? I have thought about little else for the past two nights. I have no hard answer, and this is troubling. Was Jamaile a criminal enterprise? It is possible, though knowing Nick he would never be so thick as to put his own name on the documents of formation-unless perhaps he discovered the nature of the business after the fact. This would explain why he wanted to shed Metz as a client. Which leads to another question: Did Nick see the situation as dangerous? I saw no signs of it that morning when we talked in the restaurant. I find it hard to believe he would use me in that way. I am convinced that whatever happened, Nick never saw it coming.

  His coffin rests on a rolling gurney centered before the gilded altar above which plaster saints stand like stone guards in their alcoves. A large wooden crucifix bearing the figure of Christ dominates this picture. The odor of incense and burning candle wax hangs thick in the air as if suspended from the rafters.

  Harry and I have arrived late and stand in one of the pews near the rear of the church. There are a few political figures here, people Nick knew and worked with over the years, two judges from the federal courts and a city councilman. A few pews up, there is a former state legislator for whom Nick beat a narcotics rap years ago. Nick was sufficiently slick that even the voters acquitted the man at election time, leaving him in office until term limits finally tapped him out.

  Senior partners from Nick’s firm take up two rows in the front, right behind Dana, who is decked out in black complete with a veil and flanked by friends handing her Kleenex.

  I have looked for Margaret, Nick’s first wife, but if she is present I don’t see her. It is one of those things you think about, even with all the acrimony of the divorce, would she make an appearance? If she has, she has burrowed into the crowd quietly.

  The wheels of the gurney, one of them squeaking as if in protest, rumble over the ancient Spanish tiles, as the pallbearers slowly roll the coffin down the aisle toward the door and the waiting hearse. Interment is to be at Eternal Hills a few miles away, a private affair for family and close friends.

  The casket rolls by, followed by Dana, her face covered by the veil. By her side is the tall gentleman I had seen on the television news driving her to and from the house-austere and slender, dark hair with just enough gray around the temples to offer the image of authority. He steadies her, a hand on her elbow, the other around her shoulder. An older blond woman is on the other side, probably a sister as there is a clear family resemblance.

  The mourners file out behind them from the front of the church, so Harry and I are almost the last to leave. As we make our way to the great plaza in front of the mission, the hearse is already loaded. The undertaker’s staff scurries about trying to get the family into the limos and the floral arrangements back onto the trucks for the ride to the cemetery.

  The limo carrying Dana is pulled up tight behind the last gleaming black truck, its windows darkened, its rear door on the other side open.

  “Mr. Madriani.” I hear my name before I can see where the voice is coming from. When I turn, standing in front of me is the man who had been holding up Dana as she walked down the aisle.

  “We’ve not met,” he says and extends a hand. “I’m Nathan Fittipaldi, a friend of Mrs. Rush.”

  We shake.

  He wears a dark striped Italian suit and silk tie, an expensive linen shirt, and hand-burnished calf-leather black loafers with tassels poking from beneath pant legs pressed to the sharpness of a knife’s edge. Everything has the sartorial pedigree of being worn once and discarded.

  “She’s asked me if I would talk to you. She’s not really in any shape right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “She would like you to stop by her house. She would like to talk with you. I told her I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course not. When?”

  “Whenever it’s convenient. I wouldn’t do it today,” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “You might call before you drive out, just to make sure she’s in. I’ll give you the number.”

  I tell him I have it. He tells me it’s been changed. It seems Dana has been getting phone calls from the press.

  “Mr. Rush had given it out to some clients,” says Fittipaldi. “We suspect one of them was probably the source for the press. These people have no sense of respect for those in grief.” It is unclear whether Fittipaldi is talking about Nick’s criminal clients or the fourth estate, though I suspect he would lump them both in the same social set. I suspect that Dana was not alone in her low opinion of Nick’s clientele.

  He jots the new unlisted number on the back of a business card and hands it to me.

  “Good to meet you,” he says. “Dana tells me you are a good friend. She will need us all in the weeks and months ahead.”

  I smile but say nothing.

  Then before I can ask why she wants to see me, he is gone, around the back of the limo. He disappears into the open door on the other side, it closes, and the procession pulls away.

  “What’s that all about?” says Harry.

  “I don’t know.” I look at the business card in my hand, expensive velum with a watermark no less. I turn it over to the printed side. It reads:

  FITTIPALDI ART and ANTIQUITIES

  Nathan Fittipaldi, Owner

  Agents for Acquisition by the Discreet Collector

  London, New York, Beverly Hills, San Diego

  There is no phone number, only a fax and a web address, “Discretion. com”.

  Home at night with Sarah is not always a q
uiet time. She does her homework, one leg folded under the other in one of the sofa-style armchairs in our living room, with the television going full bore, watching Star Trek. With this she gets straight As. How she does it, I don’t know.

  Her hair, thick as a pony’s tail, brunette with flashes of auburn like spun copper whenever sunlight hits it, is put up in cornrows tonight, something new. She says it makes it easier to handle in the morning.

  She is becoming a young woman, not only in the way she dresses and cares for her appearance, but in matters of judgment as well. Sarah is her own person. When peer group pressures seem to slay other kids, my daughter has demonstrated a maturity that at times embarrasses me in my more exuberant and rash moments. We have played board games of conquest in which she has demonstrated a kind of strategic thinking I would never have credited to someone her age, with an element of compassion for those lesser competitors, protecting them from my native male aggressions, until she crushed me. This, at fifteen. I shudder to consider the heights to which this may take her, but feel more confidence in that generation knowing there are people like her in it.

  Tonight we are left to our own thoughts. Sarah to her science and history, and me to the little Palm device that belonged to Nick. So far I’ve figured out the screen and the little green button at the bottom that turns it on. But I’ve been afraid to do much beyond this without instructions, afraid that given my ten thumbs for all things computer, I will lose the data stored inside. It is one thing to walk off with possible evidence in a capital case. It’s another to lose it.

  At the top of the screen, each time I turn it on, is an image of a battery. It appears to be draining slowly. The black shaded area of energy sliding a little more to the left each day. When it disappears, I suspect I will lose whatever information is stored inside.

  I lift the tiny battery cover in the back. Two AAAs are housed inside. I study these for a moment.

  “Sarah?”

  “Emm?” She doesn’t look up from her schoolwork, her focus riveted on the book cradled in her lap.

  “Do we have any batteries, triple As?”

  “The small ones?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think so.” She goes to the refrigerator where she keeps these, mostly for the walkman she listens to constantly in the car.