Dark Moon, page 16
“Michael got mad when we came home from the party that night because I didn’t want to have sex with him. It was too soon after the baby, and I was exhausted by everything that had happened that day. I was pretty upset about being fired. He tried to force me and wound up breaking my arm. When we got to the hospital, he said if I told the ER doctor the truth about how I’d been hurt, I’d never see the children again. So I lied.
“A week later, I went to see Diane Gomez, a family law attorney whom I’d seen before right after I found out I was pregnant with Meggie. That first time, she told me there was no way I could prove Michael had abused me; and if I left California and took a job in D.C., Michael could get an order for full custody of the baby as soon as it was born. In other words, I was a prisoner of the state because I was pregnant.
“A week after Michael broke my arm, I went to see her with the cast on. I told her that now I had a witness, Guadalupe; and I wanted to take the children back to D.C. where I knew I could get a job in one of the top appellate firms. But she said no one would ever believe Guadalupe because she was my nanny. A judge would think I had put her up to lying about Michael, so I could have full custody of the children.
“And then the day after I talked to Diane Gomez, the INS came for Guadalupe. I suspect Michael or Coleman found out I’d seen Diane, and they arranged to have Guadalupe deported, so I couldn’t file for divorce and tell the truth about Michael. After Guadalupe was gone, I decided to buy the gun and learn how to use it.”
“Were you a decent shot?”
“I got really good at it.”
“Did Bob Metcalf ever try to find Guadalupe?”
“No. He didn’t know how; and honestly, I don’t think she would have cooperated anyway. She was terrified when the INS came to get her.”
“Where did they take her?”
“To a holding cell, briefly. I called the attorney at the firm who’d used Guadalupe for her own children and asked her to get some of Warrick’s immigration attorneys involved. But no one had time, and the next day–without even a hearing–they sent her back to Mexico.”
“So someone wanted her to disappear quickly,” Jim said.
Alexa nodded. “I assume Coleman arranged the whole thing because Michael asked him to. But I’ve never said that to anyone because I couldn’t prove it.”
She was fading. “You look tired,” Sarah said as she stood up. I’d better go so you can get some rest. They are coming at ten in the morning to fit the ankle monitor, so we should have you home by lunch time.”
Alexa looked over at Jim, who smiled. “I’ll be here to bring you breakfast,” he said. “And I’ll help you get comfortable for the night now.”
Alexa smiled up at him, and Sarah saw what a dangerously charming woman she was on the way to becoming once again. Her razor sharp intellect was hidden under a veneer of naive, sweet femininity. No wonder Michael Reed had pegged her for the role of long-suffering wife who would never object to any of his affairs.
As Sarah gathered her bag, she watched Jim arrange the pillows at just the right angle so Alexa could sleep comfortably with her head elevated. He also made sure the pitcher of ice chips was within her reach. He was still helping Alexa when Sarah got to the door. He turned quickly and said, “Wait. I’ll walk you to your car.”
But she shook her head. “No, I’m fine. You stay and make sure Alexa is comfortable. I’ll meet you here in the morning at nine-thirty.”
* * *
It was eleven thirty when Sarah got home. She had stopped at Trend for a drink in an effort to forget Jim and Alexa. But sitting at the polished bar, staring out at the dark ocean and fending off pick-up artists, had not made her forget a thing. She’d kept wishing that by some miracle Jim would walk through the door.
You could call him, she told herself, as she sipped her wine and watched the waves dance under the stars. And if he’d made it home by now, he’d probably drive up from Pacific Beach and join her. But she knew she wouldn’t feel any better because she would spend their time together thinking about the way he’d settled the pillows behind Alexa’s head, and Alexa’s smile of anticipation when he’d said he’d be back in the morning.
She sat in her dark car in her dark garage for a few minutes, summoning her courage to go inside and face the too quiet house where her own thoughts could swarm unchecked. Suddenly she felt tears like pin pricks behind her eyes, so she got out of the car quickly and hurried into the kitchen to self-medicate with more wine before she could actually begin to cry. That was another one of her hard and fast rules. Never look back; and above all, never cry. She poured a large glass of cabernet and took a few quick gulps before going into the bedroom and slipping into her black silk pajamas.
She crawled into bed and settled comfortably against the down pillows. She tried to concentrate on the mystery thriller she was reading. But the picture of Alexa and Jim in the hospital continued to haunt her.
Bob Metcalf was right about Alexa. She was a sweet woman. Sarah thought they would probably have been friends if they’d had jobs at the same law firm. Craig, Lewis always liked to recruit former Supreme Court clerks as associates, and the ones who went the distance with the firm always became partners. Sarah would have liked having a young associate in her practice who knew constitutional law as well as Alexa did. She would have enjoyed mentoring her to partnership in the firm. If only she hadn’t thrown away her career and her life by marrying Michael Reed.
“It’s your job to get them back for her,” the Universe reminded her in the too-quiet house.
“I know. But I’ve already told you, I don’t want that job.”
“Too bad because it’s yours.”
“But I want off this hook.”
“Want away, but you have to come through for her. It’s your only hope of redemption.”
Suddenly her phone began to ring. The clock said midnight, and her heart began to flip flop like a teenaged girl’s, hoping Jim was calling.
“Hey, babe!” David Spineli. Her heart stopped dancing and became as still as stone. “You’ve been ignoring me these last three weeks.”
“No, I haven’t. I meant it when I said it’s over.”
“And I meant it when I said it’s not over until I say it’s over. And I haven’t said it’s over. Tessa used her half mil to buy herself a boy toy. We’ll have lots more time together now that she’s happy.”
“I’m not interested. I’m trying to save a woman’s life.”
“And does that just happen to include sleeping with your investigator?”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone. But if I were, it would not be your business.”
“Wrong again. It is my business, and I’ve got my man watching you right now. You’re lying to me about that investigator.”
Sarah shivered. “I’m going to get a restraining order for you and anyone connected to you first thing Monday morning.”
David laughed. “Please do. You know those orders aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”
And that was only too true.
“Don’t cross me any more, Sarah. You don’t want to get hurt. And no one would ever know I’m responsible. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Why do you think Tessa stays in line so nicely?”
She shivered once more but said firmly, “Good night.”
A wave of raw terror washed over her as soon as she put down the phone. She crept through the silent house and peeked through the blinds in the front hall without opening them. Some sort of generic white car was parked in front of her neighbor’s house. It hadn’t been there when she’d come home.
She stood in the hall trembling and considering what to do. One part of her wanted to call Jim, but yet another part of her knew she should not become dependent upon him. She had always fought her battles alone; nothing had changed in that department. She moved silently down the hall and into her bedroom. She decided not to turn out the light because she didn’t want whoever was in the white car to think she was going to sleep. She picked up her phone and dialed the San Diego police.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I live in La Jolla Shores and there’s a suspicious car that’s been parked in front of my neighbor’s house for over an hour. My neighbor isn’t home, and I think the driver is casing the place for a burglary.”
“Ok, ma’am. We’ll get right on it.”
And ten minutes later, Sarah smiled as she watched the police shine a bright light into the private investigator’s car. Five minutes after that, he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Third Wednesday in October, 2013, San Diego Office of Warrick, Thompson, and Hayes
Exactly two weeks to the day after they had settled Alexa in her tiny Pacific Beach cottage, Sarah sat on the couch in Alan Warrick’s glass-walled corner office high atop the Emerald Plaza building in the storied Emerald Shapery Center in the heart of downtown San Diego’s power district. Jim occupied the opposite end of the sofa. He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was lost in thought, studying the city thousands of feet below as it shimmered in the brilliant blue October sun. She’d seen little of him since Alexa got out of the hospital. When he hadn’t been with Alexa, he’d been back in D.C., interviewing Justices Steiner and Moreno, both potential character witnesses in the penalty phase of Alexa’s trial if the jury found her guilty. And he’d had a visit with Cody that seemed to disappoint him.
Sarah listened to the quiet shuffle of feet in the corridor and the low, intense tones lawyers use to greet each other and realized she had forgotten what it felt like to be inside the halls of a major law firm. She had forgotten the sense of power it had given her to have hundreds of support staff ready to do her bidding at the snap of a finger. Suddenly she regretted her decision to work alone with only poor long-suffering Martin to collect the mail and answer the phones. She wished she were defending Alexa with a team of Warrick, Thompson’s finest, instead of sailing her boat solo into the raging waters of Coleman Reed’s desire for revenge.
Alan Warrick appeared at that moment, hurrying across his enormous office to shake her hand and then Jim’s. He had remained a handsome man, Sarah reflected, even at sixty-eight. His square-jawed good looks and expressive dark eyes would always endear him to juries. Sarah wondered if he still tried cases. He had been a legendary securities litigator in his time. He and David Thompson had built the firm against all odds after doing a few years as associates at Latham & Watkins. Gerald Hayes, the third name on the letterhead, had been ten years older than Alan and David. He’d been a Latham partner before the two young bucks persuaded him to join their venture in creating an international law firm with a reputation for excellence.
“Sit down, please,” Alan said, after the handshakes and introductions. “My secretary is right behind me with coffee.”
Sarah sipped the intoxicating brew of Blue Mountain beans in the solid black ceramic mug and regretted serving her clients Starbucks in paper cups with plastic lids.
“So how is Alexa doing?” Alan asked as he took off his suit jacket and settled opposite them in his shirt sleeves with his own mug.
“Things have been rough,” Sarah said, and gave him a quick rundown of events since her appointment. “We’re going back on Friday for a redetermination of her competency to stand trial. And Judge Tomlison has threatened to set an early trial date.”
“You certainly have the odds against you,” Alan agreed. “How can I help?”
“We have a lot of questions, starting with why did you fire her?”
Alan shook his head. “That was not one of my finest moments. I’ve made personnel mistakes over the years, but letting Alexa go was the biggest.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I’m going to give you a completely honest answer, but some of the things I’m going to say will have to remain private. I can’t testify to anything covered by attorney-client privilege.”
“I understand,” Sarah nodded.
Alan took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “There are two explanations for why I let Alexa go. And I didn’t fire her, by the way. It was a genuine ‘leave of absence.’” The public explanation is there wasn’t enough work for her. And that was true. Chuck Reilly, our appellate partner, has always had trouble keeping himself busy. Sometimes he’s had to take depositions for the litigation partners to make his billable hours quota. So, in truth, he never really had any work to give her. And that is exactly what I told Coleman Reed when he insisted I hire both Alexa and Michael. I told him Alexa wouldn’t have anything to do.”
Sarah frowned. “What did Coleman Reed have to do with your hiring decisions?”
Alan grimaced and put the cup down. “Okay, here’s the part that has to stay private, and it’s something neither I nor my partners are proud of. We allowed ourselves to be owned by Coleman Reed.”
Sarah noticed that Jim, who had been taking notes, stopped writing, and studied Alan’s face for a minute. Then he asked, “How could one man ‘own’ a firm as big as this?”
“Coleman was a young partner at Eliot, Fitzgerald in New York with the reputation of being a genius rainmaker. Gerald Hayes got to know him because they represented some plaintiffs in a big class action suit against some drug companies. Gerald liked him, and learned that Coleman had a huge portfolio of clients. Gerald persuaded me and the other founding partner, Dave Thompson, to bring him into the firm as a full partner. Big mistake.” Alan stopped and refreshed his lukewarm coffee from the pot.
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Because before long Coleman’s clients grew to be forty percent of the firm’s business. Whatever Coleman asked for, we had to give him. And Gerald, Dave, and I didn’t like what he was asking for.”
“Which was?” Jim looked up from his notes again.
“Coleman played fast and loose with the ethics rules. He like to put big sums of client money into his personal bank accounts before putting them into the firm’s Client Trust account where they belonged. The three of us talked to him about it many times, but he always laughed and said he’d never get caught. And then he’d remind us we weren’t in a position to lose forty percent of the firm’s business. Of course, we suspected he was money laundering, but we couldn’t prove it. And even if we could, the scandal would have destroyed the firm.”
“So what did you do?” Sarah asked, pouring more coffee into her own cup.
“My partners and I decided to open up our checkbooks and get him kicked upstairs to a federal judicial appointment. We started handing out campaign contributions to every senator we could think of who could get him nominated to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. But, then, as luck would have it, in 2003, a vacancy opened up on the Supreme Court. So we started writing checks to presidential candidates or potential candidates. Having him in D.C. would be even better than booting him up the road to Pasadena because it was all the way across the country.”
“You mean you bought Coleman Reed a seat on the United States Supreme Court?” Jim looked up again from his notepad as he spoke.
“If you want to put it that way, yes. Campaign money talks. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“What about Michael? If you’d wanted to get rid of Coleman, why’d you hire him and then make him a partner in only three years?” Sarah asked.
“To be honest, no one wanted to. Coleman relies on his cunning, but he’s also a very intelligent lawyer. Michael, on the other hand, washed out of his job as an associate at Steptoe for a reason: he’s just not that bright. And, although he’s clever, he’s definitely not in his father’s league when it comes to the ability to manipulate people and situations.
“But Coleman wanted us to hire him, and we did. And Coleman forced us to make him a partner, too. What I didn’t realize until it was too late was that Coleman’s reason for sending Michael here was to have someone to watch over Coleman’s stable of clients. Pretty soon, Michael was making demands on all of us just like his father used to.”
“And he was also depositing client money in his own bank accounts before putting it in the Client Trust account,” Sarah said.
“How did you know?”
“Bob Metcalf, who represented Alexa in the divorce, said they tried to subpoena Michael’s bank records but could never get them because he claimed they were covered by attorney-client privilege.”
Alan nodded. “That sounds about right.”
“So is that why you cut those checks for Michael on the firm account for the Stacy O’Connor business? In essence, Michael or Coleman or both could blackmail you, if you didn’t go along?”
“Yes. I realized the firm was right back where it had been when Coleman himself was here. I was too ashamed to tell Gerald and Dave. It should have been obvious what Coleman was after when he made us hire Michael.”
“Who in the firm knew about the O’Connor checks?”
“Just me. I ordered them from accounting and gave them to Michael. Later, Alexa told me how she wound up with them.”
“Do you think Michael destroyed them?”
“Without any doubt. When Ronald Brigman labelled Alexa a liar over them, I wanted to come forward on her behalf.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Coleman made it clear Michael would walk with all his clients if I did anything for Alexa. Including give her a job.”
“So that’s why you had to pay her cash under the table for the work you sent her?”
“Right. Michael was constantly subpoenaing her bank records, trying to figure out where she was getting the little money she had.”
“Did Michael pressure you to let Alexa go after Sam was born?”
“He and Coleman. Michael gave me this long song and dance about how the second baby had made her emotionally unstable and how she couldn’t cope at home with two children. And I blew him off. But, then, Coleman called from D.C. with his usual series of threats. And, in truth, there wasn’t enough work for her. But it wasn’t her fault. She’s a very fine lawyer, and I contributed to destroying her career. I regret that more than I can say.”
