The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (28 page)

"There's another problem, I'm afraid."

The relief washed back out like a sudden tide.
"What?"

"The night Mr. Gant was killed, he had dinner
with a woman in a Vietnamese restaurant."

Just a slight nod.

I said, "I'm hoping you can tell me who she
was."

"How . . . how would I know that?"

I stopped smiling. "Mrs. Herman, Mr. Gant was
very active socially. He rarely bragged about it, but 'rarely'
doesn't mean 'never'."

"You bastard."

She said the words flatly, no anger or other emotion
driving them.

"Mrs. Herman—"

“
You absolute, son-of-a-bitch bastard."

Still no emotion. I waited her out.

She hung her head. "Once."

"I'm sorry?"

Karen Herman lifted her chin. "I had sex with
Woodrow Gant once, and it was nothing for him to 'brag' about."

Slowly, I said, "If we talk it over now, there's
a chance nothing has to come out at Mr. Spaeth's trial."

"But only a chance."

"Yes."

Herman seemed to settle into herself, taking a few
breaths before saying, "El1iot and I wanted to have a baby. We
tried very hard, but nothing seemed to . . . happen. I was about to
consult a fertility expert, to see if that was the problem, when
Elliot stood me up one day for lunch downtown because some client
meeting was running over."

"About when was this?"

"When? Last April."

Six months before Gant's death. “You're sure?"

A lifeless expression on her face. "I have
reason to be. That same day—the lunch date—I saw Woodrow in the
lobby of the firm's building as I was stepping off the elevator. He
asked what brought me into the city, and I told him about Elliot not
being able to keep our date. Woodrow said he'd just settled a custody
case during trial, so he was unexpectedly free. Before I could reply,
Woodrow suggested we have lunch instead. I didn't know him that well,
but he was kind of Elliot's boss, so I didn't want to offend him,
either. And besides, he—you never met Woodrow, right?"

"Right."

"Well, he was . . ." Herman's right index
finger went to the mole under her eye again. "Engaging. A very
engaging man. And I was a little ticked off at Elliot—no, a lot
ticked off. I'd gotten all dressed up, and gone all the way into
Boston, and we were so frustrated over . .  Herman ran down,
then looked down, wringing her hands.

"I had some wine while Woodrow got us a table,
and more at lunch, and then some more still, until I was in no
condition to drive home. So Woodrow said, 'Let's walk a little, huh?'
And it seemed like a good idea. Only somehow we ended up . . . in a
hotel room."

Herman now looked away. I felt badly.

"Anyway." she said, "it turned out
that . . . that I wasn't the infertile one."

I felt worse, a lot worse.

Herman came back to me. "I hadn't taken any
precautions, of course. Not for months. And Woodrow should have used
a condom—no. No, I shouldn't have been there in the first place.
But I'd had too much to drink and too much to deal with, and it just
happened. Not rape or anything. I was just so . . .stupid."

Quietly, I said, "You became pregnant."

She looked away again. "Briefly."

"Did your husband know?"

Her head snapped back. "About the abortion? Of
course not. I borrowed the money for the clinic from a girlfriend,
and—"

"Mrs. Herman, did your husband know about you
and Mr. Gant at all?"

"No. No, I wasn't that—wait a minute. You said
Woodrow bragged about me."

"I did, but—"

"Who?"

"Mrs.—"

"Goddamnit! I need to know who told you, if
Elliot could somehow find out the way you did."

"Nobody told me."

Her features seemed to empty. "Nobody?"

"I was going on your reaction to me at the law
firm, and here at the front door, plus the fact that you match the
description of the woman Mr. Gant had dinner with the night he was
killed."

Herman watched me, something like comprehension
seeping into her eyes. "You lied to me."

"Not exactly, but in effect."

"All of this . . ." Propping an elbow on
each knee, she lowered her face into her hands, speaking through the
fingers. "You put me through all of this to find out if I was
the woman in that restaurant?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't."

"Mrs. Herman, I had to know."

She raised her face. "Know something else, then,
all right? You know what the hardest part was?"

After what I'd just done to her, Karen Herman was
entitled to have me play along. “No."

"It was waking up in the clinic's recovery room,
after the abortion. Waking up to find myself crying. I knew it was
Woodrow's baby, I knew it. But I wanted a child so badly, I couldn't
stop crying. And then I looked around at the women on the other beds,
and they were all crying, too. A room full of almost-mothers, crying
our eyes out."

I didn't say anything.

"Well, Mr. Cuddy, I don't have any more tears.
But if I did, I'd be crying them now. For what I went through then,
and what you just put me through again."

"I'm—"

"When you asked me, I said I don't work. My
parents paid for four years of college, so I probably should, but I
don't. And the closest I've ever come to being a mother myself was in
that clinic. But I'd rather wake up in its recovery room a dozen
times than lie to people for a living the way you do."

I kept quiet.

"I've told you what
you wanted to know." Karen Herman folded her arms across her
chest. "Now get out of our home."

* * *

Driving toward the Brookline/Boston border, I tried
not to think about the hurt I'd just resurrected, but it was hard.
Especially because I expected to be following roughly the same course
twice more that night.

I parked downslope of the highrise tower, arriving at
the buzzer system and security door just behind a teenaged kid
wearing a red paper hat and carrying a brown, leatherette case shaped
slightly bigger than a large pizza. Over his shoulder, I could see
him press the button for "POLLARD, J". The tinny voice with
that trace of Olde England came over the intercom. "Pizza?"

"You got it," said the delivery boy.

"I'm letting you in. Twelve-oh-seven."

"Hey, the van's double-parked." But he was
talking into dead space as the door buzzer sounded.

Stepping in front of the kid and grabbing the handle
of the door, I said, "Tell you what."

He half-turned to me. "What?"

"I'm going to twelve, anyway. How about if I pay
you, and she pays me?"

The delivery boy squinted. "Yeah, and where's my
ass if she calls the boss ten minutes from now with 'The fuck is my
pizza?' "

For some reason, the kid's suspicious nature lifted
my spirits.

"I don't know what's on the pizza. Inside the
case like that, I can't even smell the toppings. Figure the chances
I'm going to keep it."

The kid looked toward the curb, then started to slide
the pizza box out of his case. "Fifteen-fifty."

I gave him a twenty. "Keep it, ease your mind"

He left without a proper thank you.

Jenifer Pollard wasn't waiting at the elevator, with
or without a can of pepper spray. But I remembered which way to turn,
and after a few seconds was knocking on 1207.

"Get that, can you?" I heard Pollard say
inside the apartment, dishes clattering.

A male voice answered. "Yeah."

The door swung open, and Thom Arneson, ADA, stared
out at me, holding his wallet in one hand.

“
Whoops," said I.

Arneson had on a dress shirt—unbuttoned twice down
the chest—and the pants to a gray houndstooth suit. No tie. Or
shoes. "What the hell is this?"

I stepped by him into the apartment, Pollard turning
to look at her front door. She wore tennis shorts tonight, with a
gauzy singlet top that would qualify as a mite racy for entertaining
polite company.

Setting the box on the kitchen counter, I said to
Arneson, "Put your wallet away. The pizza's my treat."

Pollard looked from him to me and back again. "He
followed you?"

Arneson still held his wallet, but more like he
wanted to brain me with it. "I don't see how. Or why."

"I wasn't following anybody. Just decided to
stop by for a little visit, ran into the delivery boy downstairs,
and—"

Arneson said, "How about if I tell you to go the
hell back downstairs?"

"Then you'd be out of line, counselor. It's Ms.
Pollard's apartment."

He took a step toward me, still hefting the wallet.
"How about if I just throw you down the stairs?"

I said, "Then you'd be out of your depth as
well."

Pollard didn't like the turn things were taking.
"Perhaps instead we could all just sit down for a few minutes
like civilized beings and find out what's going on?"

Arneson gave her a glare, but backed up and took the
day-bed as she followed him, perching on a corner of it, close enough
to touch the man. Which left the rocking chair for me.

Looking out through the big windows, I said, "The
view's even more impressive at night."

Arneson didn't react, so Pollard must have told him
about my earlier visit. Probably before I'd seen him at the D.A.'s
office.

Pollard said, "Mr. Cuddy, I thought you got
everything you needed the last time you were here?"

It had been "John" back then, but her
double meaning was still firmly in place. "A few new facts have
surfaced."

"What facts?" said Arneson.

"Let's start with the current situation and work
backwards. How long have you two been seeing each other?"

Arneson didn't surprise me when he said, "None
of your fucking business."

"Thom." Pollard laid her left palm on his
shoulder, symbolically holding him back, I thought. "Mr. Cuddy,
I really don't understand how any relationship I have now could
possibly relate to your problem."

"Even a relationship with your dead husband's
former office-mate?"

"My dead ex-husband, to be precise. And given
how long it's been since I had any connection to Woodrow, I really do
think Thom is right."

More of the old country was creeping into her voice
and phrasing. "I take it you're not counting the insurance
proceeds as a 'connection.' "

Arneson gritted his teeth. "I don't like what
you're implying, Cuddy."

"A hundred thousand up-front looks pretty
attractive for a woman living in a studio apartment, even with this
kind of view."

Arneson got more angry. "That was part of Jen's
divorce settlement, years ago."

Pollard said, "And it was a hundred only at the
beginning."

I looked to her. "What?"

She took her hand off Arneson's shoulder, using her
fingers to tuck a hank of the auburn hair behind her left ear. "The
policy amount was to be a hundred the first year, eighty the next,
then sixty, and so on. Just enough to cover an annual twenty thousand
dollars of—what did the judge call it? Oh, yes. 'Rehabilitative
alimony'." A smile and the vamping pose.

"To get me back on my feet after the crushing
blow of losing Woodrow." Pollard eased off the pose. "So,
I'd be down to only forty thousand by now, wouldn't I?"

I shook my head. "One of the attorneys at Mr.
Gant's firm told me the face amount of the policy was still a
hundred."

Arneson and Pollard exchanged glances. She said, "I
didn't know that." No posing at all now. "Why would Woodrow
have kept up a larger policy than required?"

Arneson put into words what I was thinking. "Less
trouble, Jen. He probably just bought a five-year term policy, and it
was easier to keep that than go back for renewals and maybe new
physicals. Might even have been cheaper, too."

"Well," Pollard said, clearly pleased, "I
certainly don't intend to argue the point." She looked at me.
"But given this good news you've brought us, I must insist on
covering the pizza."

I watched the two of them. They couldn't have known
I'd be coming over, and unless they'd rehearsed awfully thoroughly,
this felt too natural to be anything but spontaneous. And therefore
honest.

Arneson said, "Cuddy, what Jen means is that you
can leave now."

"Just a couple more questions. Ms. Pollard, you
told me Mr. Gant liked . . . wigs and things."

Arneson looked down at the floor rather pointedly,
but Pollard's eyes glittered a little as she said, "Especially
the . . .things."