Gourdfellas (7 page)

“I don’t know where the fingerprint room is,” I said matter-of-factly.

With an exasperated sigh, Castro led me to another small room, told the lab tech what she wanted, and then kept going down the hall. The technician, an overweight boy whose hair was cut so close I could see whitish patches of scalp, mimed his way through the printing procedure. With my encounter at the front desk still fresh in my mind, I went along with his gestures. He pointed to the table, then grasped my thumb with a hand so soft it startled me. Gently, he rolled each finger first in ink and then onto the paper. The silence doubled my apprehension. To distract myself I tried to remember the lyrics of an old Bob Marley song about some kind of vibrations. The words didn’t stick. Instead, I found myself traveling through a labyrinth of disturbing questions about casinos and friendships in jeopardy, about Marjorie Mellon lying dead in the woods, and Connie Lovett living fiercely, and Neil trying to recover from having his dreams crushed.

What could I, should I do to change any of this? That question wasn’t real, I knew—I’d given up thinking I could fix everything a long time ago. Maybe my mediation session would restore my belief that I had at least some power to make certain things right again.

The room was calm and dignified, in a low budget kind of way. Posters of mountains and a shining sea brightened the beige walls and three healthy pothos plants lined the windowsill. They helped set a tone that made dealing with angry people easier. I was too late to sit quietly and close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, a practice that allowed my personal concerns to recede. Neil and Connie and Susan and that rifle hovered at the edges of my consciousness. Marjorie drifted among them. No use trying to make them disappear completely, not today.

The case file listed Mr. Smith as complainant and Mr. Caterra as respondent. To encourage fairness, the mediation center’s policy was to tell the mediator very little about a conflict. I only knew that this was a business dispute involving a contractor and a homeowner—a relief, because this wouldn’t be the best time for me to deal with the high emotions of a truant teen or a child custody case and maintain my equanimity.

The two men sitting on benches across from each other in the waiting area couldn’t have been more different, although they looked familiar to me. I’d seen them before, around town, in the Agway, at a casino meeting, perhaps. One was tall, with a balding head tonsured in white, a navy button-down shirt, and knife-creased khakis. Smith, the homeowner/complainant, I decided. The muscular man sitting across from him wore paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt. His hair hung to his shoulders. Caterra, the contractor.

I called them into the room and we took seats around the battered library table.

“Hi, my name is Lili Marino. Thanks for coming in. I know we’re getting a bit of a late start, but we always try to accommodate everyone’s schedules. If time runs short, we can schedule another meeting.” Both men nodded at me, avoiding eye contact with each other. “Please tell me your names so that I can pronounce them correctly.”

The shorter man flipped his hair off his shoulder and grinned. “I never heard a single person pronounce my name wrong. What can you do to Smith?”

I felt my cheeks redden. I’d violated a basic principle of mediation by making assumptions about these two men based on their appearance.

I explained that mediation was voluntary and confidential, which meant that I couldn’t be called on to testify in court about anything that happened during the sessions. They’d be the ones to determine the outcome. “I’m not a judge. I’m here to help you talk to each other. We’ve found that the process works best if we observe a couple of guidelines. First, one person at a time speaks. I’ve given you paper and pencil so that you can write down what you want to say when someone else is talking. Can you both agree to let one person at a time speak?”

Mr. Caterra sat taller in his chair and rubbed his bald spot. He said, “No problem.”

Good. But it was Mr. Muscular Smith I was more concerned about. He’d been sitting with his arms folded across his chest, scowling and shaking his head. After a few seconds, I said, “Mr. Smith? Do you agree?”

He unfolded his arms and slapped the table. “He’s all agreeable now because we’re in public, but I don’t care if it’s one person or three people speaking, if he talks trash to me I’m out of here and in court. He cheated me, he promised to do work on my bathroom and he did a crappy job and used crappy materials. He charged me for the good stuff and pocketed the difference. Plus, he’s taking
my
money, the money he stole from me, and giving it to that group that thinks building the damn casino is gonna solve everybody’s damn problems.”

No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from the casino.

“You’ll have a chance to talk about everything that’s on your mind, Mr. Smith. But I want to know if you can agree to let one person at a time speak.”

“He’s got a temper and he—”

“Shut up, Caterra. I can talk for myself.” Mr. Smith gripped his pencil so tightly it nearly snapped. “I’ll try.”

He didn’t say that going to court was an expensive, time-consuming alternative that he wanted to avoid, but I could see it on his face. So far, so good—nobody had leaped across the table or made threatening gestures or stormed out of the room.

For the next fifteen minutes, first Smith and then Caterra told their stories. Smith claimed that he had hired Caterra to redo his bathroom, that the work had taken a little over a week as specified, and that he had paid $4,359 for labor and materials. He slapped a sheaf of receipts on the table, each marked paid. And then he told how a week later, a leak had caused his bathroom to collapse into the dining room downstairs. He slapped another thicket of papers on the table—estimates of damage to his table, a family heirloom, and the repair of the plumbing, the sheetrock, and all painting. He claimed that Caterra had used inferior materials and had neglected to seal and caulk crucial joints. He wanted full compensation for all the repairs and restoration, plus enough money to cover the two days he’d had to miss work.

“He thinks he’s gonna get a piece of the construction work for that casino? I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll take this jerk to court and then the whole county will know what scum he is and how he screws over honest, hardworking families. Just because I don’t have a college degree don’t mean you can run your little scam right over me like a Sherman tank,” Smith declared between clenched teeth.

There it was. In business disputes, respect was almost always one of the unspoken concerns. “So, Mr. Smith, there’s been some damage done to your furniture and your dining room ceiling. You believe that Mr. Caterra used materials and processes that were inappropriate to repair your leak. You also feel that Mr. Smith hasn’t treated you respectfully, and you’re upset that some of the money you paid him might go to help bring a casino you don’t support to Walden Corners. Did I get that right?”

Smith scowled, but he nodded. Then it was Caterra’s turn.

Caterra denied everything. He had used materials that were within Smith’s budget and his workman had properly sealed joints and edges. The problem, he said, was that Smith had dumped sludge from his motorcycle down the new drain, causing a backup and the subsequent flooding.

“And how I spend the money I earn is my business. If I want to buy a million purple lollipops or give it to a girl who wants to open a massage parlor then that’s what I’ll do. But let’s get this clear. You’re blowing foul air all over town—I want you to stop telling people I’m a crook. If you continue to badmouth me, I’ll sue your butt for defamation,” Caterra said with a smile, “and enjoy every minute of it.”

And there was the other unspoken concern. Reputation—a businessman’s make or break commodity. Again, I summarized what Caterra had said, ending with a recognition that he was concerned about maintaining his reputation in the community. Caterra smiled at me, as though it was our little secret that he was going to win this case, but I ignored his manipulation.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “it seems that there’s a lot more to talk about, but we can’t do it tonight. It’s eight o’clock, and the center is closing. Can we come back next week, same time, same place, and pick up where we left off?”

I expected grumbling from Smith, and he didn’t disappoint me. In the end, though, they both agreed to return to try to work things out.

My day had been longer and filled with more surprise challenges than I’d anticipated. And it wasn’t over yet.

 

B. H. Hovanian didn’t look anything like I’d imagined. His brown hair was cut short enough to qualify as military, his strong nose and wide mouth were just right to balance his cleft chin, and his long-lashed dark eyes softened the hard edges of his face. His six-foot-four frame was sturdy; he either had great genes or he worked out regularly. A couple of years the far side of forty, he gave the appearance of being someone who strode instead of walking, who guffawed instead of laughing, who wept instead of crying.

He listened while I told him in detail about coming home to find the rifle, leaving the house, calling the sheriff’s office. He offered one piece of news—Marjorie Mellon’s car had been found in the town parking lot. He asked all the same questions as Michele Castro, about where I’d been and who had seen me, and then he probed in a different direction.

“What was your relationship to Marjorie Mellon?” The challenge in his gaze didn’t diminish as he leaned back and watched my face.

“Relationship? We didn’t have one.” This part was easy. Telling the truth, letting my frustration give my voice a slight edge. He was supposed to be on my side, not trying to catch me in a lie. “I might have met her, let’s see, two times. Once at the Santa parade last year, and once when I was looking for a book that I’d misplaced and went to Seth Selinsky’s office after hours when she was cleaning. I didn’t say hello to her at the casino meeting. I’m not sure she even knew who I was.”

“You made public statements that you oppose the casino. Is that right?” He sat with his back straight and his hands folded on the marble top of the café table, an untouched cup of double espresso to his right.

“Me and at least three hundred other people. I don’t think it’s a good idea. But, actually, I didn’t get up and speak against it, not yet.” I watched as he lifted his cup, sipped noisily, and then set it down again. This was a man who understood timing, and I was growing impatient with the interview. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re after here. I haven’t been charged with anything, I didn’t do anything, and I would like to go on with my very busy life now, if you don’t mind.”

His laugh made Frank Vargas look up from the ham and brie sandwich he was preparing behind the counter. “I don’t mind what you do. You should know, though, that this isn’t over for you. You’ll be in the spotlight for a while.”

“Well, that won’t last long because I didn’t do anything.” A little of my defensiveness melted. This man, with his dark, darting eyes, and in language that demonstrated an ability to hold apparently contradictory thoughts about a topic, was a new experience for me, and I didn’t quite know how to respond to him.

B. H. Hovanian’s chuckle managed to convey both amusement and skepticism. “Everyone swears they’re innocent.”

“And sometimes it’s even true. If I’m a suspect because I didn’t like the idea of the casino coming in and ruining the character of the town, then about two-thirds of the citizens of Walden Corners are suspects, too.”

“Two-thirds of the citizens in Walden Corners didn’t have what will probably prove to be the murder weapon concealed in the ceiling of their bathroom,” he reminded me.

Even if I were pure in heart, mind, and deed that might not mean anything to a sheriff ’s department that needed to find someone to hang. My father’s voice whispered again in my ear.
Don’t be stubborn, Lili. Lawyer up
.

“Will you work with me?” I asked.

“If you can pay my fee.” He scribbled something and then passed a business card across the table. “Here’s my beeper number. If Castro or anyone comes at you with something else, some supposedly vital new evidence or new charge, call me. Meanwhile, I have to get on with my case. Cases,” he corrected himself.

“You’re not doing this as a favor to me. I’ll pay your regular hourly rate. So don’t rush me out with a dismissive wave of your hand. I have another question.”

To his credit, he didn’t roll his eyes or sigh, nor did he offer pretend apologies. He just sat there, large-knuckled hands folded atop the table, and waited.

“What’s your name? I feel weird calling you B.H. It sounds too much like a camera store in Manhattan or something.” He might take for granted that his physical size and his reputation would be imposing, that not telling his real name to an adversary or even a client would create a power imbalance, but I was not about to buy that brand of intimidation.

His head dropped forward, and when he picked it up again a huge smile brightened his face. “Berge Hartounian. Call me whatever you like. My ex-wife had a lot of names for me, but you probably won’t be using those.”

I laughed. Now that the full Armenian glory of his name was revealed, I felt silly to have been so prickly.

“Here’s my real question,” I said. “If the sheriff’s department is already convinced that I’m the one they want, how will they find the killer? I’m not willing to sit around and be railroaded just because the local bureaucracy suffers from a lack of imagination.”

I expected to be treated to a speech about letting the law enforcement agencies do their job. But B. H. Hovanian’s sigh was not followed by a lecture. Instead, he said, “Can you afford a private investigator? I’d guess that once you pay all your bills, including mine, the answer is no. So we’ll have to convince the sheriff’s department that you were nowhere near those woods today. You’ll do that by providing me with as much corroboration for every statement you make as you can, and you’ll share any thoughts or observations you might have with me. About other possibilities, I mean.”