Steve Martini - The Arraignment

Harry is also gloating over an article that appeared two days ago in the Trib. It’s a boiled-down version of Adam’s newsletter, crediting us for settling with the carrier. It was the lead on a page-two story reporting that the police still have no suspects in the killings. Newspapers and two television stations have been calling the office asking questions and requesting on-camera interviews. Adam is making the most of the settlement. At this point the press will take anything to fill the news void in a double murder investigation that seems to be going nowhere.

So far, for some reason, the cops have made no effort to question Espinoza. Why they would ignore him, after Harry’s tip from his friend in the D.A.’s office, I don’t know, but they would have to come through me to get to him, and no one has tried.

I have asked Susan Glendenin for a meeting with Margaret Rush this morning for one reason. It’s possible that Margaret may have some answers to one of the more puzzling riddles concerning Nick’s last year, his business dealing with Metz.

I take the garage elevator up to five. When I get there, the office air-conditioning is running on overtime. The city has been in the grip of a record-breaking hot spell for five days, with breezes wafting out of the desert like the Sahara.

As I enter reception with one finger hooked in the collar of my suit coat, holding it like a sack over my shoulder, I notice that Susan’s door is closed. She is cloistered with Margaret, so after the secretary tells them I am here, I wait a couple of minutes before Susan opens the door.

She’s cheerful as ever. She has facilitated this meeting out of natural graciousness and because it is the reasonable thing to do. Glendenin is the kind of lawyer who would make courts and judges obsolete if only her opponents would show the same levelheaded good sense.

“How are you, Paul?”

“Fine.”

“Still hot out there?”

“Like a torch.”

“How about something cold to drink?”

“Water sounds great.”

“Come on in.”

She orders up some iced bottled water from the secretary, then leads me into her office.

As I enter, Margaret is seated in one of the client chairs, facing away from me. She doesn’t turn to look or greet me until Susan makes it obvious that to ignore me might be impolite.

“Margaret, I think you know Paul Madriani?”

She turns her head, looking down, a tight smile and a nod is all I get. She immediately returns her gaze to the other side of the desk where Susan is now settling into her leather BodyBilt, with its high headrest and custom swivel arms. Lawyers now prize their executive chairs in the way they did their Porsches a decade ago, testing the levers of the air cylinder that control height and the tension of the back support for ride as if they are cruising at light speed toward the new world of geriatrics.

I take the other client chair and hope that Margaret’s freeze will thaw before my ice water arrives.

“I have been meeting with Margaret,” says Susan, “and discussing your request. She has agreed to answer whatever questions she can but with certain ground rules.”

“I see.”

“She does not wish to talk about the divorce or the property settlement agreement with her former husband. She would also prefer that we not discuss his subsequent marriage, if at all possible.”

“I understand.” Susan has been able to get this meeting only by telling Margaret that Dana was forced to compromise her position on the insurance settlement. This seems to have touched something profound and gratifying within Margaret: revenge.

If she knew that Dana forged checks from the firm’s trust account, she would lay rubber with big blue, scorching the asphalt all the way up Broadway to get the news to the cops while it was fresh. No one knows this except Adam and me, along with a few minions in his office who have pledged an oath of silence, collateralized by their careers.

“Perhaps I should start,” I say. The door behind us opens and the secretary enters with a tray, glasses, and three large plastic bottles of water from the refrigerator each sweating with condensation. I wait until she leaves to pick up the conversation.

“The questions I have regard what appear to have been business dealings that Nick had during the last twelve to eighteen months of his life,” I say.

“Then you’re talking to the wrong person,” says Margaret. She’s still not looking at me. I have committed the unpardonable sin of being a friend of Nick’s.

“Perhaps, but I thought you might have heard something, maybe from others.” What I am gambling on is that her lawyers in the divorce turned over every rock.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever heard of a business entity, a limited partnership or a corporation known as Jamaile Enterprises?”

She thinks about this, the features of her stern expression softening as mental energy is diverted to firing up the memory cells. “No. I don’t think so. No, wait a minute,” she says. “Yes, once. It was during the divorce.” She breaks her own rule. “My lawyers found out about it. They thought Nick was using it to hide assets from the marriage.”

“Was he?”

“No. I really didn’t want to get into this,” she says.

I look at Susan, who gives me a face, like she wishes she could help but can’t.

“At least they couldn’t find anything in that company when they looked at it.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“No.”

“Do you remember during the court proceedings whether they asked Nick any specific questions about it?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the divorce.”

“It’s an easy question,” says Susan. “Either you remember or you don’t.”

“Fine. I don’t remember,” she says.

“Did you ever hear the name Gerald Metz used in connection with Jamaile Enterprises?”

“Wasn’t that the man who was shot with Nick?”

I nod. She has to look over at me to see this, so we finally make eye contact.

“Are you telling me they were in business together?”

“Apparently.”

“Do the police know this?”

“They do. Did your lawyers ever look into Mr. Metz to determine who he was and what this business deal might have been?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to them.”

“I did. They wouldn’t discuss it with me without your written consent.”

“I’d have to talk to them about that,” she says. Both Margaret and her lawyers are wary of anything having to do with the divorce and in particular the settlement agreement. They are probably worried that Dana might renew arguments that Margaret had no lawful claim to the insurance.

Susan raises a hand off of the arm of her chair, as if perhaps I shouldn’t press on this any further, that maybe I should move on.

“Have you ever heard the name Grace Gimble?” I ask.

With this she looks at me, almost snaps her neck doing it. “What does Grace have to do with this?”

“You know her?”

“Yes. She’s a friend,” she says. “One of the few friends we both had. I mean one Nick and I both knew, who maintained a friendship with me after the divorce.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“Maybe. But first tell me why you want to know.”

“Her name shows up on documents creating this limited partnership. The one I told you about. Jamaile Enterprises. Can you tell me who she is? Why her name might be on those documents?”

She thinks about this for a second, quietly to herself, eyes studying the oak surface of Susan’s desk, perhaps wondering if someone involved with Nick was a friend after all. “That’s easy,” she says. “After Grace retired from the government, she did some private secretarial work. Paralegal, they call it. To make a little money on the side. I know Nick threw some work her way from time to time, before he went to work for the firm. Before we were…”