The Jezebel Remedy (3 page)

In Roanoke, she parked at the physician's building and took the stairs to the third floor, thinking the exercise might help cancel the smokes she'd had during the ride. A nicely mannered receptionist showed her to a conference room and asked if she'd care for bottled water or coffee, both of which she declined. She'd arrived a few minutes early, and she was surprised to see Brett Brooks seated at the table beside the young attorney who was representing the insurance company. A court reporter was stationed in the corner. Lisa had met Brooks only at cocktail parties and legal seminars, and he was regarded—rightfully so, by most measures—as one of the best in the state, a high-flyer with a degree from Yale and a flawless sense for the courtroom, perhaps an inheritance from his father, a flamboyant Montana con man who'd spent a portion of Brett's childhood in a federal pen—or so the scuttlebutt had it. He stood to greet her, and the other lawyer scrambled to his feet as well, banging his knee on the underside of the table as he rose.

“Lisa,” Brooks said, “great to see you.” He walked around to where she was and shook hands. “You know Chip Maxey, from Woods, Rogers?” He stood beside her and nodded in the direction of Maxey, who was stranded on the other side of the room.

“Hello, Mrs. Stone,” Maxey said.

She'd checked, and Maxey had been with the firm almost three years. He was an eager young kid from a top-tier law school, just starting his career, sent over to do a routine deposition in a relatively minor case. “Hi, Mr. Maxey. Nice to finally meet you.” They'd spoken on the phone several times.

“Same here,” Maxey said.

“Looks like I'm about to be double-teamed,” Lisa joshed. Addressing Brooks, she asked, “What in the world brings you to a run-of-the-mill personal injury dep?”

“Just here to watch the master do her magic,” he replied, the modesty and compliment both sounding genuine. “I've already told my friend Chip he can expect a firefight.” Everything about Brooks was impeccable—his pricey suit, his speech, the tidy tie knot that filled in
around his collar. He was wearing a fancy belt, loaded with silver and turquoise.

“Ah,” Lisa said, “I'm guessing you're here to watch over our young defendant.”

“Bingo.” Brooks smiled.

“We didn't even sue for the policy limits,” Lisa remarked. “He doesn't have any exposure. This is totally Allstate's problem. Their check.”

“I told him the same thing,” Maxey said, still standing. “And I tried to convince my client's father there was no need to hire other counsel.”

Brooks shrugged. “Do you know Miles Covington? Miles is very much his own man. He's also the president of one of the largest banks in the South; if he wants me to monitor the case, who am I to refuse?” He—very quickly, deftly—smoothed his lapel. “Though, believe me, I told him in no uncertain terms that Mr. Maxey could expertly handle this, and that he and his son were not at risk. They have a million in coverage. Your plaintiff sued for, what, seventy-five thousand?”

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “Seventy-five.”

“So”—Brooks grinned—“I'm simply here to watch and learn. Truth be told, I informed Mr. Covington he was wasting his money on me.”

“A damn good gig if you can get it,” Lisa replied.

“Yeah,” Brooks said. “I'm not complaining.”

Dr. Anthony Corbett came into the sparse conference room wearing his unbuttoned white physician's coat and carrying a thin file with numbers handwritten across the tab. A stethoscope was bunched in a commodious pocket at the bottom of the coat, and coils of black rubber spilled willy-nilly. His name was embroidered on the jacket, followed by the letters “M.D.” Corbett was around fifty, with long limbs and kinetic eyes. His hair was thinning, he wore glasses, and like most physicians, he was not the least bit happy to be in the company of lawyers, about to be quizzed while under oath, especially since he had already sent a letter explaining the plaintiff's fairly routine injuries and prognosis to Lisa Stone.

Corbett was also grumpy because these self-important yakkers would no doubt exceed their scheduled time, and this nonsense would clog his waiting room and put him behind for the rest of the day. The attorneys would parse his every word, repeat questions ad nauseam
and pepper him with legal jibber-jabber, all on account of a simple low back sprain and a broken arm that had fully healed without complication. And make no mistake, these sharks and their venal, bloodthirsty ilk were the very bastards who would sue
him
if they thought they could turn a profit, trial lawyers who kept his malpractice premiums through the roof, six figures every year thanks to their frivolous lawsuits and state-sanctioned extortion.

He said a curt “hello” and “good afternoon,” took a seat, opened his file. Before being prompted, he raised his right hand and glanced at the court reporter. “I'm ready to start if everyone else is,” he said, his tone leaking impatience. “I don't mean to rush, but I have a packed office today.” For the first time, he paid attention to the other people in the room, and when he focused on Lisa Stone, he hesitated, couldn't help himself, blinked and ducked and wet his lips and aimlessly moved around his file, and his expression practically shouted “Wow!,” and then he ineptly tried to play it off and made his gaffe even worse, more obvious.

Without uttering a syllable, Lisa had disarmed him. Brought the doctor over. Enlisted a convert. “Delicioused” him was Joe's colorful expression for her gift, a term he'd invented upon witnessing the effect for the very first time at a law school keg party. Watching Lisa sip a beer and immobilize a semicircle of men, he'd been reminded of his granddad Wilbur using a Barlow pocketknife to cut Golden Delicious apples into quarters and drop the pieces inside a rabbit gum. He'd take young Joe along with him on fall mornings to empty his traps, traps that were usually full of doomed, nose-twitching, grayish brown wild rabbits who'd chased the bait to a dead end, even though the creatures had to realize no meal could be worth pushing into a narrow plank box with a door curiously suspended above its entrance. Wilbur would kill and skin the rabbits on the spot, then carry them home for stew or to coat in flour and fry in a black skillet.

Not only was Lisa Stone smart as hell, but even in her forties she was also gorgeous, the beneficiary of a rarefied, finely fashioned perfection, her birthright a ceaseless allure, the va-va-voom craft of a very accomplished—and perhaps puckish—divine hand, as if she were Aphrodite's off-the-books project. Embedded in this loveliness was a
profound streak of decency and an unmistakable kindness, and her hospitable heart was always present, too, just as apparent as her striking features and starlet's figure, so much so that very few people—men or women—ever resented her extraordinary looks, and she could convey it all, the whole delicious, rabbit-gum kit and caboodle, with as little as a smile or the set of her head.

“Thank you for your time,” she said to the doctor. “I'm sorry we have to inconvenience you. I'm sure you're busy. We're all grateful and appreciate you disrupting your practice to see us.”

“Okay,” he replied, attempting to sound gruff, but clearly a reformed man now.

Lisa adeptly moved him through a series of questions, and she knew precisely how and where to nudge him toward a favorable answer, and when she was through with her examination it was clear the plaintiff had an unexpected ally, a jaded, experienced physician—not the usual hired gun—who was certain the case involved a permanent disability that would cause the unfortunate victim pain and suffering for years to come. Blindsided, Chip Maxey tried to impeach Dr. Corbett with a series of office notes and prior reports, directing the doc's attention to his own diagnosis and comments, none of which mentioned any long-term problems.

“Listen,” Corbett finally told him, his tone contentious, “I'm the doctor here, okay? I know what my own notes mean. But just because everything healed doesn't mean it won't hinder him down the road. No one asked me about residual injury until today. Now that I've been asked, I'm telling you.”

When the physician had departed and the three lawyers were left with the court reporter, Brooks glanced at Maxey and asked what his company was willing to spend. The younger lawyer was still miffed, almost punch-drunk, and he grunted and spread his hands, more bewildered than angry, and he finally mumbled, “We'll have to reevaluate our position, I guess.”

“Very wise of you,” Brooks encouraged him. There was no condescension in his voice. He was seated close to Maxey, and he patted him on the shoulder. “It happens to the best of us,” he added. “Not much you can do if the doctor turns sour on you.”

“Yeah,” Maxey said.

“Nor is this Mrs. Stone's first rodeo. She certainly lives up to her advance billing.” He looked at Lisa while he was speaking.

“Listen, gentlemen,” she remarked, “this isn't a big case, and the truth is I caught a break with the doctor. We'd offered to settle for twenty-five thousand. Our position improved today, plus now I've got more time and money invested. I'll take fifty-five and be done with it if we can wrap this up by the end of the week. That's a fair number for everyone.”

“I'll check with my client,” Maxey said dismally.

Maxey was anxious to leave, and after he'd managed to regain a semblance of composure and shake hands, and after his briefcase—not properly snapped shut—spilled open, and after he'd collected his papers, files, cell phone, calculator, two energy bars, pen and a sailing magazine with the assistance of Lisa and Brooks, he finally was able to hoof it through the lobby and put the deposition and other attorneys behind him. The court reporter said her goodbyes and followed Maxey out, her equipment expertly stored and rolled away on a compact, two-wheeled cart.

“Nice kid,” Brooks volunteered when he and Lisa were by themselves. “He has some skills.”

“Yep,” Lisa said. “I agree.”

Brooks was standing, and he relaxed against the rounded corner of the conference table, crossed his legs at the ankles and fiddled with a shiny silver beast of a wristwatch. The attention to the watch seemed ordinary, not contrived or foppish. “It's close to quitting time. I'm on the verge of a scotch or cold beer. Haven't decided which yet. You're certainly welcome to bend an elbow with me.” He began looking her in the eye roughly midway through, near the “haven't decided” part.

Because she'd spent a lifetime on the receiving end of men's overtures, some clumsy, some sophisticated, some raw, some pitifully pleading, some as practiced and delicate as Brooks's, and because she could X-ray the come-on right out of all the innocence, she immediately understood that Brett Brooks had a grander agenda than happy hour cocktails and a bowl of salty bar snacks, and damn—the recognition
showed in a faint pull at the corners of her mouth—she was impressed he was skilled enough to drop the flirt virtually deadpan, tucked away in a rake's code and dispatched on a very private frequency, at once deniable and altogether unmistakable.

“Well, I'm surprised,” she answered. She let the sentence hang, tweaking Brooks, sending back a confirmation instead of putting the kibosh on his mischief and thanking him just the same and declining as if nothing had happened.

He cocked an eyebrow, abandoned the watch. “Surprised?”

“I never would've pegged you as a man who drank before five. Or a beer guy.”

“Noon's my bright line. You might be pleased to learn this means I've never bothered with a mimosa. No dog hair for me, either.”

“Well, it's been a pretty grim week. Heck, it's been a pretty grim year. A drink would be a welcome perk. Let me give my husband a call so he won't be concerned.” She put on her coat. “I'll yield to your local knowledge. Where should we go?”

Walking to her car, she used her BlackBerry to leave a message for Joe, told him the deposition went well and that she was stopping off for a meal on the way home, and then she followed Brooks to Metro!, a restaurant on Campbell Avenue, where they sat at the bend in the L-shaped bar, cater-cornered to each other. Brooks settled on scotch, she informed the barkeep in black pants and a white shirt she'd like a martini with lots of olives. She'd considered her order during the drive, what she'd drink…and what her choice would signal, another hint and cipher in their shadow conversation. She'd renewed her lipstick, but not too much, and checked herself in the rearview mirror.

She and Brooks talked shop and swapped funny legal stories and commiserated about how difficult and cutthroat their trade had become, and he asked the bartender to bring them a plate of the house sushi. After folding her arms across her chest and glancing at the art deco wall clock, Lisa agreed to another martini and Brooks pushed his glass toward hers and nodded for another drink as well. She debated a cigarette but thought better of it. He mentioned a recent client charged with killing his wife and described how the cops had seized this moron's computer and discovered hundreds of Google searches for “poison,” “hit man,” “overdose” and, of course, so there'd be no doubt,
“how to kill your wife.” The lamebrain had even adopted cats and dogs from the local pound so he could experiment with different poisons and doses, a twist that caused Brooks to breach the boundary between personal and professional and despise his own client.

She steered the conversation more personal after that, asked him whether he had pets, and he told her he didn't but wound up reciting all his great childhood purchases from Roses department store and the tiny-print ads in the backs of magazines: sea horses that materialized when a pouch was emptied into water, chameleons, iguanas, fighting fish, hamsters and painted turtles.

“Remember those turtles?” he said brightly. “They were so cool for a kid. You kept them in a plastic bowl. The bowl came with a raised center island and a flat green plastic tree that notched into the island. You filled the bowl with colored gravel flecks. I always seemed to get red or pink gravel.”