Blood of the Tribe, page 21
part #2 of Boston Law Series
She had just spoken to the bank. She and Pierre, like their neighbors, could not get a mortgage. Griffin’s lawsuit had ruined their credit rating.
So, almost unbelievingly, they were in a financial predicament. When they had sold the property she had rescued from Bruce’s scam, they had been left with almost $2 million after paying taxes. They had funded their retirement account and the girls’ college funds, paid cash for a house, put a few hundred thousand into the stock market, and given the rest—close to a half million dollars—away to family and charity. Their feeling was that, without a mortgage and college and retirement to worry about, they would only have to earn enough to pay the weekly household expenses.
But they hadn’t planned on the stock market crashing. And they hadn’t planned on moving back to Massachusetts and paying $600,000 for a house. And they definitely hadn’t planned on Rex Griffin. Already he had cost them over $100,000 to clean up Pepto-Bismol Pond, plus close to that again to rebuild their house. Not to mention legal fees. They owned the house without a mortgage, but now they couldn’t even tap into that equity because of Griffin’s lawsuit. And though they still had fat retirement accounts, Shelby had warned them that if they accessed them and converted them to cash that the money would be fair game for Griffin to go after.
The truth of the matter was that they were asset-rich and cash-poor.
And even that would have been tolerable if their lives weren’t so dreary. It was bad enough that Griffin tormented them on a daily basis, but she sensed that Pierre had begun to drift away from her over the past few months, especially since his refusal to agree to the settlement. She had tried to be supportive of his decision, but she knew he could hear her unspoken words: This all would be behind us if you had just signed the settlement agreement.
Not that she would ever voice those words. She knew how important it was to Pierre’s psyche to win this battle. It had taken Pierre half a decade to rebound from playing Pinocchio to Bruce’s Gepetto. She and her girlfriends used to joke about it, but the male ego really was a fragile thing. Pierre was anything but a chauvinist, but that didn’t mean he didn’t pride himself on being able to support and care for his family.
But he had bounced back, started over again in Baltimore, re-established himself as an Alpha Male.
And then Griffin had bested him again, humiliated him. What was the phrase they used in boxing? Slapped him silly. That’s what Griffin was doing to Pierre, slapping him silly. They all knew it, and it was making Pierre miserable.
* * *
Griffin and Justin settled in to their regular booth at the Burger King in Plymouth. A young man wiped down their table, then moved a few feet away to empty the garbage bin.
Griffin noticed a glob of ketchup that had survived the wipe-down. It was the type of thing that drove him crazy: How could you miss a quarter-sized glob of red ketchup in the middle of a white table? He turned toward the worker. “Boy, you missed a spot here.”
The young man apparently didn’t hear him. Or was purposely ignoring him. Griffin read the worker’s nametag, snarled at him in a low, steady voice. “I said, Bruce, that you missed a spot here. Clean it please. Now.” It was the way he had to speak to his dog sometimes. It usually worked.
And it did this time as well. The young man scurried over, wiped up the spot, rubbed until it squeaked. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Griffin nodded, watched as the worker fussed over the adjoining table as well. Griffin pulled at his bow tie, turned his attention to Justin. “Well, Justin, I see that Junior has set his sights on Congress. He’ll fit right in with the other criminals, I’m sure.” Griffin had worded his comment that way on purpose. His second sentence—by saying “he will fit in” rather than “he would fit in”—pre-supposed that Junior would, indeed, be elected. And that pre-supposed that Griffin would not sabotage the campaign. Justin was sharp—he would understand, the implications of Griffin’s words, would look past the aggressive tone Griffin had used to deliver the message. Sure, it would have been easier to be more direct with Justin. But this kind of nuanced message served to distract Justin, to keep him a bit off-balance.
Justin nodded his understanding, eyebrows flopping. “I’m glad to hear that you’re still willing to honor our deal.”
Griffin paused here, sipped from his coffee. What he was about to ask of Justin was not particularly onerous, but he wanted to make the old lawyer squirm for a few seconds. It would make him that much more likely to agree to the relatively painless request. He played with his coffee lid for a few seconds, then purposely dropped a few french fries on the floor and watched in satisfaction as the worker scampered over to sweep them up. He turned back to Justin. “As I’ve always said, I have nothing to gain by ruining Junior’s political career. But I will expect a favor in return. In addition, of course, to your continued spying.”
Griffin waited patiently for Justin to respond to his comment. Finally, Justin sighed deeply. “I’m listening.”
“It’s really not so bad. In fact, you may even like the idea. I wanted to talk to you about my mortality.”
Justin cut him off. “You’re right. I do like the idea. I’m all in favor of it.”
Griffin smiled, nodded. He enjoyed the repartee with the bushy-eyed barrister. So much of his time was spent alone in thought, plotting and scheming. Or in the company of his sister Denise. “Well, then, you’ll be happy to know that I’m feeling particularly vulnerable right now. The recent attack on me has made me wonder whether it might happen again.”
“So what is this, a deathbed confession? I’ve only got a couple of hours.”
“Good one, Justin. But I don’t need you to hear my confession. I need you to help me put my affairs in order.”
“What do you mean by your affairs? Do you want me to sue your doctors after you die?”
“Another good one!” Griffin banged the table in mock appreciation. “No, I mean my siblings. I am the legal guardian for Denise and my brother, Donald. He’s autistic, so they’re both legally incompetent. I am also to be the guardian for Denise’s baby. You know, don’t you, that she is pregnant?”
“Yes, I heard about it. You’re quite a little matchmaker. Sick, if you ask me.”
Griffin bowed his head. “Yes, well, I admit it was far from my finest moment. But necessary, I assure you. In any event, if something happens to me, I need someone to be executor of my will, take care of Denise and her baby, act as their guardian, make sure the trusts I have set up for them are managed correctly. I know I might not strike you as a doting brother, and I know it might sound a bit maudlin, but I promised my mother before she died that I would take care of Donald and Denise. And, quite frankly, I’d rather see them get my money than have it fall into the hands of my creditors. We have an old family friend up in Maine who can be Donald’s guardian, but Denise and the baby will need someone close by.”
“You realize that you can’t be the legal guardian for the baby until the baby is born and the court appoints you, right?”
“Yes. But the baby’s father and his family have already agreed to it. My understanding is that the court generally will rubber stamp something like this.”
“That’s right. But they agreed to you being the guardian, not me.”
Griffin smiled. “Do you think they’d really mind if I was out of the picture? They’d do cartwheels or smoke their peace pipes or whatever it is they do.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t know, Griffin. I’d think anybody would be thrilled to have a Neanderthal like you responsible for their child.”
“Well, be that as it may, what the Victors have actually agreed to is that the baby will have the same guardian as Denise, whether it’s me or somebody else.”
“What if I decide the baby would be better off living with the father?”
Griffin shrugged. “Personally, I don’t really care where the baby lives, Justin. But I do ask that you take Denise’s feelings into consideration. Otherwise, I just want to make sure the Victors don’t get their hands on any of the trust money.”
“I see. So, other than the small matter of blackmailing me into it, why choose me? It’s a pretty obvious conflict of interest for me.”
Griffin waved away the conflict comment with his hand, then dropped his eyes and lowered his voice. “Well, quite frankly, because I don’t know anybody else I could ask. I had a bit of a disagreement with the attorney who use to handle my affairs….”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Anyway, you’re a lawyer, so you’re qualified to handle the job. And the court would definitely approve of you. And so would the Victors. Plus, you seem, for the most part, to be a man of integrity.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“You’re right, perhaps integrity is too strong a word. What I really mean is that you’re too old to chase girls or buy fast cars, so I trust you won’t need to steal too much from my heirs.” Actually, he had no doubt that the duty-bound old lawyer would serve selflessly and faithfully. Unless, perhaps, somebody else had pictures of Junior.
Griffin paused to offer a small smile to his adversary. “Look at it this way, Justin. If I were to die, it would be a bit of a hassle for you, dealing with my will and my sister and the baby and all that mess. But just think of the bright side. Junior would be in Congress. And I wouldn’t be around to outsmart you anymore.”
* * *
Pierre scampered to his left, lunged for the ball. It ticked off the tip of his glove, skidded into center field. Base hit. Or maybe error, shortstop. Either way, the runner was standing on first base. And Pierre was feeling every one of his 42 years.
He slammed his fist into his glove, pulled on one of the leather glove laces as an excuse to avert his eyes from his teammates. At 22, he would have skipped to his left, reached down and snapped the ball off the dirt with his glove, maybe even styled a bit to add some flare to the play. At 32, he would have moved to his left before the ball had even hit the bat, anticipating the flow and recognizing the patterns of the game, and again made the play routinely, his body rotated to make the throw to first even before the ball had settled into the leather web. But, at 42, he had lost both his quickness and his feel for the game. The quickness part he could, grudgingly, accept—he wasn’t the first athlete whose reflexes had slowed. But there was no excuse for the loss of his baseball intuition—that was simply a matter of focusing, of concentrating, of engrossing himself in the task at hand. None of which he had been able to do since Rex Griffin had entered his life.
Having Griffin as a neighbor was like having water in your ear while you tried to hear the breathless words of your daughter in her first school play. Or dirt in your eye while you tried to watch your wife’s reaction as she lifted the lid on that special anniversary jewelry box. But it was worse than that, because it was constant. No matter what Pierre did, he couldn’t forget the fact that Griffin was out there, somewhere, plotting and scheming and terrorizing. Everything in his house reminded him of Griffin. When he looked at his girls, his first thought was to protect them from Griffin.
And when he played softball, the aluminum bat gripped tightly in his hands, he saw Griffin’s face on the ball as it arced slowly toward him….
So, to be fair, it wasn’t all bad. He couldn’t field very well any more, and he missed the ball almost as often as he hit it. But when he hit the ball, he hit it hard. And it felt good. Real good.
* * *
Amisha dreaded the sound of her husband’s car pulling into the garage. Sure, it was lonely in the house without companionship—isolated from family and friends, alone in a new country, a terrorist living only a few houses away. But it was worse when Rajiv was home.
This was supposed to have been her dream home. She had worked for months with a professional designer to get find just he right balance—she didn’t want opulence, she had said, she wanted dignified good taste. They had settled on lots of cherry-wooded furnishings and cabinetry to give the feel of old world elegance, but had offset if with skylights and oversized windows to soften the sobering effect of the dark wood. It had seemed like a good idea in theory, but no matter how many floral arrangements or fruit bowls or knickknacks she added, the home simply refused to feel warm. But she knew she couldn’t blame the designer for that.
Tonight would be ugly. She would have to tell Rajiv about the latest in the Rex Griffin saga. He had been away on business, so he didn’t know about the lawsuit and the possibility of an attachment on their house and a freeze of their bank accounts. She hoped he wouldn’t beat her, as he had when she had allowed Griffin to access his computer.
But she feared the worst. He might not know yet about Griffin’s latest offensive, but he did know that his company’s stock price had dropped to $3 per share, down from a high of $140. And he did know they had a major problem with the IRS, a result of some arcane rules relating to the exercise of stock options. Amisha didn’t exactly understand it, but the end result was that they owed the IRS close to a million dollars on “income” they had never seen, all because Rajiv had exercised some stock options back when the shares were trading in triple figures. Unfortunately, Rajiv had stubbornly refused to sell any of the shares, unwilling to acknowledge the reality of the high-tech stock crash, and had therefore missed any chance of cashing in on the stock’s inflated value. So not only did they lose close to ten million dollars in share value by not selling, but they also now owed the IRS $900,000 for phantom “gains” on the very shares that were now virtually worthless.
Rajiv trudged through the door, dragging a garment bag and a small suitcase behind him. He had only been gone five days, but it seemed to Amisha as if he had somehow grown even rounder while on his trip.
“Namaste,” she said, greeting him in their native language. But they did not kiss, did not embrace. He would mount her later, she knew, panting and pawing, but otherwise their marriage lacked intimacy. It did not have to be so, even for an arranged marriage. But for Rajiv, the weekly rutting was enough. That, and his work.
She switched to English, as was his preference. He wanted to be in the habit of it for when they had children. Not that they’d had any luck in their attempts so far. “Come, I have dinner waiting for you.” The smell of curry filled the room. “How was your trip?”
Rajiv grunted, waddled into the kitchen, dropped into a chair. “Not good.” She gritted her teeth—he spoke in that exaggerated singsong voice that so many Indians and Pakistanis used. She knew that Westerners mocked it, and she prided herself on not being so melodic when she spoke. “The economy is so bad that nobody is willing to invest in any new technologies. I will have to leave on another trip tomorrow morning.” He pinned a flight itinerary on the refrigerator with a magnet.
Good. Another trip. “I am sorry to hear that.” She took a deep breath, turned toward the stew on the stove. She never should have married below her caste—Rajiv may have been a successful businessman, but he would never have the culture or refinement of one born into the Brahman class, as she had been. He was of the Kshatriya class, and always would be—money and an expensive car could never change that. But he had been captivated by her beauty and had made her father a financial offer he could not refuse. So it had been done.
And based on his behavior in this life, the Kshatriya class was as high as Rajiv’s soul would ever ascend. In fact, he’d be lucky in his next life to return as anything more evolved than an insect. Amisha smiled at the thought—Rajiv, and Griffin too, both punished for their sins in this life by reincarnation in the next as mosquitoes, fated to be flattened into oblivion by the slap of a hand before they even had their first taste of blood. The Hindu religion was a bit rigid at times, yet at least it offered the promise of punishment in the next life for the wicked people of this one.
But, in this life at least, she was stuck with ill-tempered, ill-mannered, abusive Rajiv. She had thought about leaving him; indeed, she thought of little else lately. But she had no friends or family in the country, and he kept her passport locked away. Not to mention the stigma divorce still carried in the Indian culture—when she had complained about Rajiv once to her mother, her mother had reminded her that she must think of her husband as her god, and to fast and pray for his long life. Even so, divorce was possible here in America. She had no money, but the house had been put in her name to protect it from Rajiv’s creditors. If only she could access the equity in it…. But to do that she’d first have to get rid of Griffin and his lawsuit. “Rajiv, I have some more unfortunate news. Rex Griffin has filed a new lawsuit against us. It relates to the attack on him a few months ago. He has alleged that it was a neighborhood conspiracy, that we all had a hand in his assault.”
Rajiv waved a hand. “More bunk. This man is a charlatan.”
Amisha remained focused on the stove. “I agree. But the result is that we will not be able to get a mortgage on this house, or to sell it.”
Rajiv slapped his hand on the table. “Why is that? We need that money to pay the tax authorities!” His voice squeaked as he yelled.
“It seems that a bank will not lend us money while we are involved in litigation….”
Rajiv stood, moved toward her. He was not a tall man, and was close to twenty years older than she, but he was thick-chested and powerful. She backed up against the stove, reached behind her for a knife she had been using to cut vegetables. He had regularly slapped and cuffed her during the course of their marriage, but the beating he gave her after she had allowed Griffin to access his computer had been brutal, savage. Her face had been bruised and swollen for almost two weeks, and her ribs sore for twice that long. She swore it would not happen again.
“Woman, the affairs of the house are your responsibility! You chose this house. Then you let that monster into my office, left him unattended to use my computer. What else did you do with him while he was here—perhaps suck his dick, you whore?” She could see his breathing quicken, the veins in his neck throb. “And now you tell me you can’t even get a simple mortgage! You are nothing but a pretty face. You have failed to give me children and you have failed to manage our home!”
