Suspicion of Betrayal (27 page)

"This is not a wedding dress. This is your daughter's future."

Gail held up a hand. "Okay. You're right." She laughed. "This morning I got a call from the couturier asking me to come in for a fitting. And of course it should be soon, because the portrait photographer wants to take pictures well in advance of the ceremony. My mother thinks I should put off the wedding till all this is over."

Charlene's brows arched. "No. Don't give in to your fear." She swung her foot. "But I can't say I'm not nervous for you. You and Karen. Are you eating? You've lost weight."

"I have no appetite anymore." Gail sipped her martini. "God, Charlene, is there
any
vermouth in this?"

"Sissy. Drink up."

"I have a hearing at one-thirty," Gail said, "so I need to maintain an appearance of sobriety. It's the Sweet case, and I'm going to ask the judge to throw Wendell's miserable ass in jail. He didn't give me the documents." She took another sip. "I don't know why I'm working so hard. Jamie could slide right back to him. I want to help her, but how can I when she won't let me? She still thinks this guy who slammed her in the teeth is worth loving! What am I supposed to do?"

"Do? Make sure your bill is paid up. What do you mean,
do
?”

"I hate divorce cases. Nobody wins." Gail leaned back in the chair. "When I worked for Hartwell Black, I was so tough grown men would shake. I had that huge legal machine behind me, you see. Now I've got myself and one and a half secretaries, and the only recourse is to be a bigger s.o.b. than the next guy— the only way to survive on your own."

"Do you see me that way?"

"No. I didn't mean you." Gail exhaled. "I meant . . . me.”

Charlene smiled. Her salt-and-pepper hair was like fine strands of pewter, wiry and strong. "Well, you could go back to the machine. Or you could give it up entirely and live on Anthony's money. Or move to a women's commune in Arizona or some damn place and make pottery." She pointed at Gail. "You're a lawyer. You like it, bloody knuckles and all. You will continue to go into court because you believe that whether or not your client is dumb enough to love the guy who slammed her in the teeth, she still deserves to be fought for."

Gail smiled. "Why, Charlene, all this time I thought you were such a cynic."

"I should feed you martinis more often."

On Monday Gail had expected hundreds of pages of documents from Wendell Sweet relating to his offshore investments. When he sent fewer than fifty, Gail telephoned Judge Ramirez's office to schedule an emergency hearing, and lucked into a cancellation at one-thirty on Wednesday.

Jamie Sweet didn't have to be there, but Gail asked her to show up, hoping that Jamie's innocent, motherly expression would catch the judge's attention. They sat on a bench in the hall to wait. The court reporter arrived with her machine, and she and Gail made some chitchat. At 1:29 Sweet and his lawyer got off the elevator. Marvin Acker smiled, double chin showing. "Well, well. Ms. Connor." Wendell Sweet sullenly lagged behind, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped like James Dean.

"I hope," Gail said, nodding at Acker's fat briefcase, "that you've brought the documents I asked for."

"Wendell says they don't exist, and he gave you what he has."

Without moving her lips Gail murmured, "Do you really believe that, Marvin?"

"Sure. I never doubt a client's word—unless he stops paying my bills."

Wendell Sweet was staring at his wife. His black hair glimmered in the dim light of the hall, and his little red lips were pursed like he'd been sucking a lime. Jamie stared back at him. Her freckles stood out on her bloodless face. Gail grabbed her by the elbow and escorted her inside.

The hearing was held in chambers, a narrow room with windows looking west, the Everglades a hazy green line in the distance. The style was bureaucratic
moderne
—bookcases and plaques, long table with chairs along either side, judge's desk at one end. The court reporter set up her machine, and Gail put Wendell's documents in the center of the table, a stack less than a half inch thick. With only ten minutes allotted, she quickly stated her case: The court had ordered Wendell to produce, he hadn't, and now he should get slapped for his contemptuous disregard.

The judge, who was about to go on the bench in another case, took his robe off a hanger behind the door. "How do you know, Ms. Connor, that he didn't give you everything? Maybe this is it."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wendell Sweet smirk behind the fist supporting his chin. "Mr. Sweet has done business as a consultant to oil companies in the southern Caribbean for fifteen years. To give me fifty pages is ludicrous. It's insulting to the intelligence of the court."

The judge chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder."

Marvin Acker laughed, showing he could appreciate a joke. Then he grew serious. "Judge, most of Mr. Sweet's business is done on a handshake basis. He gave Ms. Connor what he has. Anything else would be in the custody of the companies he worked for."

Astonished and appalled, Gail could feel the case lurch out of her grasp. "Does Mr. Sweet expect us to believe that he has no records?"

The judge looked at his watch. "I don't know how you expect to prove what Mr. Sweet did or did not turn over, and frankly, Ms. Connor, there's not much I can do about it."

"Judge, it was clearly stated in our last hearing— by you—that Mr. Sweet was to produce all records. Everything. Look. Here's a copy of your order. And now he's telling us that he doesn't have copies because they're in the custody of persons whose names we don't even know."

"Well, file a motion to compel Mr. Sweet to divulge the names." The judge zipped up the front of his robe. "When you have the names, have them served with a subpoena."

"Most of them are out of the country!" Gail lowered her voice. "I hope that the court is not going to allow Mr. Sweet to play these games."

"Don't get mad at me, Ms. Connor. I don't make the rules. Excuse me, folks. Gotta run."

Marvin Acker stood up. "Is there an order, Judge?"

"I'm ruling that the respondent, Mr. Sweet, is in substantial compliance."

"And you'll reconsider the alimony and child support at the next hearing. You said you would, Your Honor, if Mr. Sweet doesn't have the means to pay."

"If I said it, then sure, we'll reconsider." With a swirl of black robe he was gone.

Gail's hands were clammy with perspiration. She wanted to scream at the
judge,
You should be thrown off the bench. This is outrageous!

Wendell smiled, not bothering to hide it. He leaned across the table and patted Jamie's arm. "Hey, honey. Tough luck."

"Get your slimy hand offa me." Her fluffy red hair was like fire around her face.

Acker pushed his heavy frame out of the armchair. "Come on, Wendell, let's leave before the ladies throw a hissy fit."

Gail smiled through clenched teeth. "Marvin, you are very close to the line."

"Well, ya win some, ya lose some."

"We're not going to lose this one. Count on it."

The court reporter snapped her machine back into its case. "Ms. Connor? Would you like a transcript?"

"I'll let you know." She turned to Jamie Sweet. "I swear to you, Jamie, it isn't supposed to go this way. I want to file an appeal. Honestly, this is so wrong."

"Wendell don't make it easy. Never has." Jamie slung her heavy purse over her shoulder and straightened the hem of her jacket. "Don't appeal it. I want to get this over with."

Gail gritted her teeth as she and Jamie Sweet rode down in a packed elevator. Anthony had promised her he would talk to Harry Lasko. Had
promised.
By Friday. On Monday. Next week. Sorry, Gail, he's out of town. I'm in trial. I'll call him in the morning.
Bonboncita.

The polished chrome doors of the elevator opened, disgorging passengers into the echoing lobby of the family courts building. Outside, the sun glared brightly. Squinting, Gail reached for her sunglasses. Wind snapped the flags on the plaza.

"Jamie, listen. When you go home, search the remotest corner of your mind about Wendell's activities. Who he talked to, who his associates were. Try to remember who you met in the islands. If we can find just one or two people willing to testify at trial, we could nail him."

When she got no response from the woman beside her, Gail stopped walking. "Jamie? Come on, you can't give up. Did you see the way he was gloating?"

Jamie bit down on her lips to keep them from trembling, and Gail realized she was at the point of tears. "If you want to keep on fighting him, go ahead, but I can't pay you. I'm done."

Standing close, Gail tucked her arm through Jamie's. "What do you want? Just tell me. Never mind the fees. What would you like to do?"

"Oh, Lord. If it was just me, I'd say, Wendell, you horse's ass, give me what you want, and if you give me nothing, that's all right. But he shouldn't do the children that way. He's thinking of his own self more than what they need, and that's wrong. So I guess I'd like to keep going."

"Yes. Good." Gail nodded. "We'll start preparing for your trial. You don't need to worry about it. Okay?" She squeezed Jamie's hand and felt the fingers close tightly around hers.

"I feel so tired. And I can't stand seein' Wendell look at me like I was dirt on his shoe."

"Do you
care
what he thinks?"

"You know, it's funny, but I do. I still do. Just weak-minded, I guess." She laughed. "I keep thinking how he used to be."

"But the bad side was there too. And it's not going to go away."

"I'm just a prisoner of love." She laughed. "I had a lot of men, I guess you know that, but Wendell . . . Oh, my. You are the queen of Egypt and I am your slave. He'd say shit like that. I'll get over him, like I got over drinkin'. Give up a bad habit, you sure miss it, though. I might find me a nice guy one of these days, somebody who won't do me like Wendell. But I don't know if anybody's gonna touch me in my heart like he did either."

At the bottom of the escalator to the Metrorail station, Gail put her arm around her. "You'll be fine, Jamie. You'll be great."

"I keep hoping. Thank you, Gail."

Sunlight glinted on the escalator, and Jamie rose slowly, a beautiful woman with freckles and milk white skin, her red hair blowing around her face like a flag. Gail waved, but Jamie didn't notice.

The parking garage was a block away, and by the time Gail reached it, she had taken off her jacket, letting the air get to her sleeveless linen shirt, although the breeze was nearly useless in this heat. She took the elevator up to the fourth level and automatically glanced around before getting off. Nearing her rental car, she shifted her briefcase to reach the keys in her shoulder bag.

Because she had been careful she did not expect to hear footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Wendell Sweet. Her heart seemed to squeeze the blood through her chest in one massive surge.

She pulled in a breath. "What do you want?"

"Well, hi." A lopsided smirk lifted one side of his little red mouth. His collar was open, and his tie was loose. He had stowed the coat to his thousand-dollar business suit somewhere. In his car, Gail realized. They had parked in the same garage, and he had spotted her, probably by chance. His face glowed with rage, and his eyes danced with it. "I would like to ask you a question, Miz Lawyer. What kind of satisfaction do you get out of destroying a marriage? Does it make you feel powerful? Are you a man hater? Is that it?"

Gail was calculating the amount of time it would take to run to her car, turn the key in the lock, open her door, get inside ...

Her voice was level and calm. "Your marriage was over before Jamie hired me. If you want someone to blame, start with yourself." Keeping an eye on Wendell Sweet, Gail walked toward her car.

He followed, closing the gap. "You ought to be ashamed, brainwashing my wife. Jamie and I love each other. That must be hard for a dried-up dyke like you to comprehend."

"Stay away from me." She backed toward the door. "I'll scream."

"Oh, my goodness. Would I hurt you, even though— yes, let's admit it—you probably need your jaw fractured?" He stood by the rear door, trapping her between her car and the one in the next space.

The key rattled against the lock, then slid in. "Touch me, you're dead. My fiancé
would come after you without a second thought."

His mouth made an O of feigned alarm. "Quintana? I don't think so. He knows better."

Gail gripped the door handle but did not turn it. "What do you mean?"

"There's information I possess. Are we curious? I'll make you a little bargain. You advise my wife to drop this, I won't take Quintana down. Deal?"

"What are you talking about?" Gail demanded.

"Why don't you ask him?" Wendell Sweet blew her a kiss, a moist smack off the tips of his fingers, then turned and walked away.

FIFTEEN

Greeting Gail by name, the receptionist at Ferrer & Quintana told her that Anthony had just called. He wanted to let Ms. Connor know that he was running late but would arrive shortly. Would she care to wait in the conference room? No, the lobby will do, Gail told her. Would Ms. Connor like something to drink while she waited? Tea would be lovely, thanks.

She found a seat on a long sofa that curved to follow a wall of glass blocks. The outside light made a wavery grid on the silver-flecked granite floor. The monotones of the lobby were relieved by a series of abstract paintings that looked like bright tropical plants.

Gail sipped her tea while thumbing through a news magazine, and only by chance looked up and saw a gray suit and a pair of black glasses. Hector Mesa. He was noiselessly crossing the polished floor, and his image moved with him, upside down. Spots of light from the ceiling fell on his shoulders as he passed under them. The man and his double glanced at Gail but did not stop. He punched a code on a panel of the interior door. It opened, then swung shut behind him. She had not known he could come and go as he pleased.

How would it be, Gail wondered, to have a guard dog like Mesa? One who did not question. Who might say, if he were ever asked, that it would be impertinent to demand explanations.