The Arraignment

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It has taken Harry less than two days to run down Tresler’s list of campaign contributors. As expected, Adam Tolt shows up everywhere.

“The man’s on everybody’s list of givers,” says Harry. Harry is sprawled in one of my client chairs, scanning the computer printouts as he summarizes his discoveries.

“Congress, half the state legislature, city council. Tolt gave to both candidates for governor the last time around. You’d think that would piss somebody off,” he says. “Apparently not. The guy’s name and address must come preprinted on everybody’s Rolodex when they buy ’em. Remind me never to get involved in giving money,” says Harry.

For some reason I don’t think this is going to be a problem.

“Tolt gave to all five supervisors,” he says. “No favorites. Two hundred and fifty dollars each. The max for individuals. He gave the same amount to Tresler.” Harry figures we can use this as a benchmark to judge the others. “He’s got a lot of money, but he gives in small amounts.”

It is one of the urban myths, that high rollers by definition give large amounts. Even wealthy ones usually confine it to a few hundred dollars per candidate. They just spread it around more.

“Metz and Fittipaldi both show up,” says Harry. “But again small. Metz gave a hundred. Fittipaldi a hundred and a half. What’s interesting is they only gave to Tresler. My guess is they had a goal in mind.”

“Appointment to the commission,” I say.

Harry nods. “And while I don’t like to disappoint you, Dana doesn’t show up at all.”

It seems she wasn’t lying. Dana is nonpolitical, at least when it comes to politics.

“But there is a bell ringer,” says Harry. “Guess who shows up as a major donor?”

“Nick.”

“How did you know that?”

“Call it a hunch,” I tell him. Tresler knew him. A politician with three hundred thousand constituents in his district isn’t likely to remember your first name unless you fall in one of two categories: You have clout or you’ve done something for him recently.

“How much?” I ask.

“Maybe you’d like to guess that too? Pick a number.”

“A thousand?” I say.

“Try ten,” he says.

This sits me up in my chair. No wonder Tresler knew his name.

“And to get around the giving limits,” says Harry, “he set up a PAC. Citizens for County Government.”

Harry is talking about a political action committee, people with a common interest pooling their money for effect.

“They gave in five-thousand-dollar increments over two years. All of it to Tresler. Nick shows up as the treasurer. He gave to the individual max, two hundred and fifty dollars each year.”

“Let me see that.” Harry hands me the computer printout. I scan down the list. I don’t have to go far to find the PAC. The donors are listed in the order of the amount given, large contributors at the top.

Harry can tell by my look that this is not something I had expected.

There are twenty names on Nick’s PAC, a separate list for each year, but the names are pretty much the same. Some of them are out of county. Two are out of state.

“Did you ever know him to get involved?” asks Harry.

“Nick didn’t have a high interest in civics,” I tell him.

“That’s what I thought. But I checked it anyway. He didn’t give to anybody else. I looked for local, state, and federal, under donor names. Not a single hit for Nick, except on Tresler. So what do you think he was after?”

I shake my head. Not a clue.

“We can assume,” says Harry, “that this would be a lock, ten thousand, to put his wife on this commission. But you’d have to admit it’s a bit of an overkill. Especially for a guy who’s missing house payments.”

I settle back in my chair, still studying the list of names underneath Nick’s.

“There was no hint from Tresler when you talked to him, right?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should go back and ask him.”

“He’d just tell me what every politician tells anybody who asks. ‘I’m above all that. I never look.’ He’d act surprised and tell me that Nick must have been a follower of his philosophy-senile belligerence,” I tell him. “That’s if I got through the front door. By now Tresler probably has my name on the list under ‘cranks and the demented’ with security in the lobby. Still he didn’t try to hide the fact that he knew Nick.”

“It’s good to know that at least Nick’s money bought him a little recognition, even if it was posthumous,” says Harry. “We’re no better off now than we were before.”

The phone on my desk rings.

“Except now we have more questions.” Harry finishes the thought as I answer the call.

“Hello.”

“I don’t know any other lawyers answer their own phone.” I recognize the raspy voice on the other end. “Joyce here,” she says. “I bet you thought I died and went to hell.”

She tells me she and Benny checked out the neighborhood, the drug dealer’s house last night. “But not to worry,” she says. “Benny had his gun. Double-barrel shotgun, both of them loaded. We had to make sure of the address,” she says.

“You didn’t trust me?”

“We’re professionals,” she says. “Like to do it right.”

I can see her up on the porch with one of those flashlights that takes a battery the size of a bread box, with a notepad writing down the names off the mailbox, while Benny sat in the car at the curb with his blunderbuss, ready to blow the shit out of the front of the place if anybody walked out the door. There are at least three felonies here that I can count. It’s the problem with Joyce. I know mobsters with more discretion.

“What did you find out?”

“Your man. It’s one Hector Saldado,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We got him dead,” she says. “Trus’ me.”

“Just a second.” I grab a pen and some Post-its from the holder on my desk.

“Spell it?”

She does. “Not only is he the only one with a cell phone lives there,” she says. “You know, of the other names you gave me?”

“Yes.”

“But he makes regular calls down to Mexico.”

She can tell by the silence coming from my end that this is something of note.

“I thought you might be interested,” she says. “There were a lotta them. These calls. At least three or four almost every day. None of them long. You know, a minute, maybe two. But how long can it take to order up some drugs? I mean, less time than a pizza, I’m sure. There’s no special toppings.”

“You have his cell statement?”

“I tol’ you I’d get it, didn’t I? You want it all? It’s pretty long. You know, a minute here, two minutes there. A lot of the same phone numbers too,” she says. “I checked it. The country code and area. Mexico,” she says.

“Where? Do you know what part of Mexico?”

“Just a sec,” she says. “Let’s see, I got it here someplace.”

I can hear her hand muffle the mouthpiece, papers shuffling.

“Here it is,” she comes back on. “Cancun. Quin-tan-aroo? Is that right?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I tell her. It’s the area Metz visited when he did business with the two Ibarra brothers. “Listen. I have another job for you.”

This afternoon I am pressed for time. I have a flight north at four, business in Capital City with an errand on the way. I should be at the airport by three, but I am stuck doing lunch, Adam style, in the private dining room next to his office. Tolt sits on one side, me on the other, a table the length of a runway. It is covered by a linen tablecloth and two candles in sterling silver holders. They match the silver chargers resting under the eggshell china dishes in front of us.

The firm retains a chef for special occasions, as well as a company that sends waiters in white livery whenever they are needed to work from the kitchen that is through another door. Everything you need to run a five-star restaurant.

“You handled it very well,” says Adam. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think anyone could have done better. You played the hand you were dealt, and you got a good result.”

“For who?”

“For your client,” he says. He reaches across with his butter knife and stabs one of the little squares in the dish, takes it back, and spreads it on a warm French roll that he’s plucked from the linen-lined basket on the table.

“I know what you think, that I snookered you by using the settlement to cover the money she took. The fact is…”

“The fact is you recovered your money,” I tell him.

“Right.” He smiles. “What can I say? Sometimes things just work out,” he says.

I have a feeling they work out for Adam a little more than they do for the rest of us.

The occasion is the receipt of the check in settlement from the insurance carrier. Dana has compromised her portion and authorized me to deliver payment, a check made out to Rocker, Dusha to cover the missing funds from the firm’s trust account. All of this with interest. This now rests in an envelope on Adam’s desk as we break bread.

“So that you know, she has no basis for complaint. I trust you told her that.” What he means is with money in the bank instead of jail time over her head.

The waiter brings out the main course, poultry braised in red wine, with long grains of wild rice, a medly of roasted vegetables, and a new selection from the vintner, five different wines to choose from.

“Piece de resistance,” says Adam. Another waiter follows with assorted side dishes, stuffed mushrooms and asparagus in a glazed butter sauce, fare rich enough to give a poor man the gout.

“The pheasant is roasted in Madeira,” says Adam. “I first tasted the dish on a trip to Portugal. I guess it was four years ago. I tried to get the recipe, but they wouldn’t give it to me. So I had Armand call the restaurant in Lisbon. He’s our chef and the chief chef at Marmande,” he says.

“I guessed as much.”

“They gave it to him. Professional courtesy. It’s the same in every field,” he says.

The waiter lifts the glass cover from the dish he has set in front of Adam. My waiter does the same. Adam slips his fork into the bird, burying it to the top of the tines. He cuts a small piece with his knife and tastes it as the waiter pours wine.

“Tell Armand he’s outdone himself this time,” he tells the waiter.

The guy smiles, neatly bows at the waist. “Is there anything else?”

Adam looks at me.

“I suppose we could do it reclining like the Romans,” I tell him. “But if there’s anything else, I can’t think what it would be.”

“No, that’ll be all,” says Adam.

They leave.

“I would have invited Harry,” says Tolt. “You have a wonderful partner there. Good man. From the old school. I recognize it,” he says.

For some reason, the two of them have hit it off. I would not have expected this, Adam the world traveler, confidant of the powerful, and Harry who irons his own shirts.

“I was impressed with the thoroughness of his research, the points and authorities you gave to the carrier. That was his work?” He looks up at me.

“Every bit of it. Harry has saved me on more than one occasion,” I tell him.

“Every knight needs a good armorer,” says Tolt. “I would have invited him, but I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

Somehow I knew Adam wouldn’t celebrate like this unless there was some other purpose.

“Some more wine?” he says.

“No thanks.” I look at my watch.

“Not to worry,” he says. “I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.”

“My bags are already in the trunk of my car,” I tell him.

“You can park it in our garage. The driver will get you to the airport in ten minutes and drop you at the curb. That way you won’t have to find a parking space. Give him your flight, he’ll pick you up when you come back.”

“I couldn’t have you do all that.”

“Nonsense.”

“Keep it up. You’re going to spoil me, Adam.”

“That’s the idea.” He smiles and takes another bite.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” I’d like to know what the charges are.

“I didn’t ask you why she took the money. Dana, I mean. Mrs. Rush. I assume she was pressed financially. So I suppose no harm, no foul. But I would like to know one thing.”

I’m sitting back, sipping wine, listening.

“The insurance, her taking of the trust fund checks. Did any of this have to do with Nick’s death? I don’t need to know any details,” he says. “Whatever passed between the two of you in the confines of lawyer- client should stay there. And I will accept whatever you tell me. If you can’t say anything, I understand. My concern regards the firm. I merely want to know whether we can expect more repercussions from this?”

“You want to know if I think Dana killed Nick?”

He makes a face. “I suppose. In a word,” he says. “I’ve dragged my feet, covered some things. And I have my neck stretched out, just a little at the moment. I did it to protect the firm. But if there is something, and the police start looking, well, they’re going to find the checks she forged. And then I’m going to have to explain to the bar, and possibly to the police, why I didn’t report it.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you would.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you. Not because I don’t want to,” I tell him. “The fact is I don’t know. She says she didn’t have anything to do with it. She says Nick left her high and dry. That’s the only reason she took the checks from his desk.”

“Do you believe her?”

I laugh without doing it out loud. “I gave up trying to read those entrails long ago. She did know about the insurance. She had a copy of the policy. She told me she didn’t find it until we spoke the first time. But to be honest, I don’t believe her. She had to know Margaret’s name was on the policy.”

“So she lied to you.”

“More than once.”

“And the issue of double indemnity?”

“She didn’t know what it was called, at least that’s what she led me to believe. But she picked up the theory pretty quickly as soon as I told her Nick’s death was an accident. I don’t think this was news to her. She had to be reading the papers, following the investigation. The police were already speculating in public. Whether she might have talked to somebody else who gave her chapter and verse on a claim, I can’t say.”

“But your instincts. You’ve certainly developed those if you’ve dealt with criminal defendants. What do they tell you?”

I give him an expression like maybe I’d rather not say. But then I do. “My instincts tell me Dana is trouble. I’m not saying she killed her husband. I’m saying that you’d have a hard time trying to figure out what’s going on behind those blue eyes at any given moment. Is she capable of it? I suppose. I don’t mean pulling the trigger.”

“You mean hiring somebody else?”

“It’s been known to happen. But…”

“But what?”

“These people were professionals.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was there. I heard the shots. If Dana hired somebody to kill Nick, it would probably be somebody she met someplace, in a bar, maybe a wayward lover she recruited. That kind of person usually doesn’t have access to automatic weapons, semiautomatic maybe. But what killed Nick and Metz was a submachine gun. Nine millimeter. I saw some of the spent cartridges on the ground. They were ejected out of the car window when he fired.”

“Hmm.” Tolt sits back in his chair, chewing a piece of pheasant slowly as he considers this.

“So you don’t think she did it?”

“I’m not saying that. She certainly had motive. And it’s possible she’s more resourceful than I think. She could have crossed the border. Flashed some money in the right places down in Tijuana, and you can probably find cops who will introduce you to people with Uzis, AKs, as well as the talent to use them. They might even do it for you themselves if you pay them enough. It’s the thing about San Diego, the proximity to the southern border creates a whole new dynamic,” I tell him.

“Then she could have done it?”

“It’s possible.”

“What you’re saying is that anything’s possible.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to allow me to sleep much better at night,” he says.

“It is what it is,” I tell him.

We finish the main course and they bring on creme brulee for dessert, along with coffee and a little cognac. He offers me a cigar and I pass.

“Nick used to love them. Smoked them like a chimney at the last Christmas party,” he says.

“That’s the difference between us,” I tell him.

“Not the only one,” he says. “I feel bad for Nick. I don’t mean just because he’s dead. He wasn’t treated as well as he should have been while he was here at the firm. And I blame myself for that. I set the tone, and over the last year or so it’s been one of not caring. But my wife was sick.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. Cancer,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. She beat it,” he says. “But you never know how long you have to spend with those you love. So for the past two years, I’ve spent what extra time I had with her instead of here. And I’m afraid Nick-he was one of our newest additions-I’m afraid he fell through the cracks. I can’t but think that maybe whatever he got involved with… Metz I mean… well, that perhaps it was the result of his seeing his potential here as somehow limited. You knew him best. Did he ever say anything?”

“He… ahh… well there’s no denying he was disappointed,” I say.

“So he told you. I knew it. And I have to blame myself. I was just too damn busy to pay attention.”

“You can’t help something like that,” I tell him. “I know. I’ve dealt with it.”

He looks at me, a question mark.

“I lost my wife to cancer six years ago.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right. I know what it’s like. The time it takes. Your life stands still. But time doesn’t. You stop living for a while. It took almost a year after she died before I could function fully again.”

“Then you do know. Thank God I didn’t have to go through that. But you live with the constant thought that maybe you will. And in the meantime, the firm kept going, growing. It’s what happens when you get too big. You start going for quantity instead of quality.”

“You’re saying Rocker, Dusha is getting too big?”

“I hope not.” He smiles. “All the same, Nick got caught up in that machine. No doubt he viewed his problems as a bad mix with corporate chemistry, that he didn’t fit in. After all, he came here from a solo criminal practice. He may have fit better than he knew. But I wasn’t around to tell him.” At the moment Tolt is not looking at me as much as through me, to the wall beyond, taking personal stock, and not pleased with the picture he is seeing.

“Twenty-nine years with the firm. I’m sixty-seven years old. Pretty soon they’ll put me out to pasture. And I suppose I should go gracefully. Still, I’ll think about Nick and wonder whether if I’d been here he might still be alive.”

“Perhaps you need to be a little more fatalistic,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“Lincoln had to get out of bed every morning knowing that before his day was out, he would likely have to review casualty reports. He considered himself lucky if these contained thousands of names, and not tens of thousands. After a year of this, he came to view the war as the result of God’s hand at work, punishing the nation for the sin of slavery, and that he was just a tool. Lincoln came to believe that no matter what he did, or how he exhorted his generals, he couldn’t end the war until God was ready.”

“So you think I should be more like Lincoln?”

“Oh. I think everybody should,” I say.

“You’re not a fatalist, you’re an idealist,” he says.

“No. I’m a cynic because I know it’s not going to happen. But I understand your feelings.”

“I thought you would. You’re different than Nick,” he says.

“In what way?”

“You see what is practical, what’s doable. Too many of the people here don’t. I can’t judge Nick, because I didn’t know him well enough. So I won’t. He and I may have been better suited than I’ll ever know, because I didn’t take the time or have the time. I don’t want to make that mistake again. Life is too short not to know the people you work with. So I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” he says, “and I’d like to get to know you better. I would like you to come to work for the firm.”

I look at him, shocked, round eyes.

“We’ll double whatever you’re making in your current practice. And we’ll find a place for Harry. I have Harvard grads doing research for me. They could take lessons from him.”

Harry in a place like Rocker, Dusha would be like a lit cigarette next to black powder.

“I don’t think that would work.”

“I don’t want you to give me an answer right now. Think about it. Take it back to Harry. Get out your calculators and see what you both need to come on board. Think about it,” he says. “I see no reason why the two of you couldn’t continue to work together. We’ll find adjoining suites, put you both under contracts, after a year, you’d both have an ownership interest, partners. You’d report directly to me,” he says.

“I’m flattered,” I tell him. “But I don’t think…”

“Don’t think about it right now. Give it some time. We can talk after you get back from your trip.”

What can I say? I’m looking at my watch, time to go. Adam grabs the phone off the sidebar behind him, orders up his car and the driver, then walks me out the door to the elevator.

“Just press G-One, down to the garage, first level. My driver will meet you there, get your bags. Give him your keys, he’ll move your car into one of the spaces in the garage until you get back. Give him your flight and he’ll be out in front of the terminal to pick you up. Oh, and one more thing. Here, take one of these.” He hands me one of the firm’s newsletters, eight pages in four colors folded like a tabloid. “A little something to read on the plane,” he says.