Brian Freemantle - The Namedropper

‘You got all the papers now?’ demanded Jordan.

‘The first of the formal exchanges, yes.’ It was a tossed aside blazer in a heap today, the shirt less strident than before, although the bison belt was the same. ‘Alyce’s lawyer is a guy named Bob Reid: don’t remember him from when I practised down there.’

‘How’s it look, as far as I am concerned?’

‘On first reading I think there’s enough for me to apply for a pre-hearing dismissal of some if not all of the damages claims,’ said Beckwith. ‘The dates are in your favour. Alyce is citing two gals by name – a Sharon Borowski and a Leanne Jefferies – and others unnamed, all the adultery before you and Alyce met in France. And she’s claiming the same sort of criminal conversation damages against one of them, Leanne Jefferies.’

‘Why not Sharon Borowski?’ broke in Jordan.

I don’t know at this stage.’

‘Tit for tat,’ declared Jordan, suddenly. ‘I’ve been trying to remember something Alyce said, when we were together. I asked outright about her marriage, used a silly expression like “what’s the status of your marriage?”. She said there wasn’t one, that it was over. I suggested she was playing tit for tat, she said “something like that” and asked if I was offended, at being used by her. I told her I wasn’t.’

Beckwith concentrated on one of the document bundles on his desk, before leaning eagerly forward over it as he had at their first meeting. ‘Her exchange doesn’t say anything like that! But then I wouldn’t expect it to. It’s certainly something I can put to her if we ever get into a full divorce court hearing.’

‘Would it help?’

‘Like hell it would help,’ insisted Beckwith. ‘It fits with what you already told me of her coming on to you… the woman scorned syndrome.’

‘What does she say, about her and me? About what happened in France?’

‘She doesn’t contradict your account at all, that it was a holiday thing with some revenge on her part. That her marriage was over and that what happened between you was a no-strings situation, certainly – most importantly – that nothing was prearranged. The covering letter from her attorney wants a meeting, ASAP.’

‘What for?’

‘Undefined,’ said Beckwith with a shrug. ‘I’m guessing a co-operating defence.’

‘I’d like to think that, too,’ said Jordan, meaning it. ‘My more immediate thought, though, is that it doesn’t look as if this is a conspiracy between her and her husband.’

‘Mine too,’ agreed Beckwith. ‘But let’s not get to feel too comfortable too soon.’

I also don’t think Appleton’s case makes sense. If there’s chapter and verse in Alyce’s divorce application, with proof of Appleton screwing two named women as well as various others before Alyce and I even met, where the hell’s his case against me? It’s ridiculous.’

I told you already that I know David Bartle and his firm, by reputation. And that they play hardball. At the moment I don’t think it makes any more sense than you. But Bartle wouldn’t be going this route if the judge might repeat your word – ridiculous – when he comes to make his judgement on the claims.’

‘Lesley told me in London the point of exchanging intended evidence is to prevent surprises in court?’ questioned Jordan.

‘It is,’ agreed Beckwith. ‘They’re making me work from the first gun.’

‘So you think they might be holding something back?’

‘They’ll be doing so at their peril. Dramatic, last presentation of evidence is OK for movie or television. You try it in reality and you’re likely to get it struck from the record. Which loses – defeats, in fact – the whole nonsense of trying it in the first place.’

‘You going to meet Alyce’s lawyer…?’ He stopped, not able to remember the name.

‘Reid, Bob Reid,’ supplied the other lawyer. ‘Talk, certainly. Hear what he wants to discuss. That’s where the indication might come from, of Appleton’s game.’

‘I want to know everything there is to know about Alfred Appleton himself,’ announced Jordan.

Beckwith shuffled through his papers. ‘Got the profile here,’ he said, not looking up. ‘We’ll flesh it out further through our own people, of course: try to find the things he doesn’t want us to know. Here’s what there is so far. He’s a graduate from the Harvard Business School, actually born in Boston. Old family, old money. Father was a banker. Set up his own commodity business shortly after his marriage to Alyce when they settled in Manhattan, according to what his side have supplied. Predominantly trades in metals although there’s a spread – cereals, pork belly on the Chicago market, some currency – through others in the firm. Company turnover of $75,000,000 in the last pre-tax year…’ The lawyer looked up at the same time as making a note to himself on a yellow legal pad. ‘I’ll need to get in much more detail Appleton’s personal trading history in view of the itemised claims he’s filed.’ Beckwith made another note. ‘Full medical history, as well, for the mental and physical suffering he’s alleging you caused.’ Beckwith returned to the file supplied by Appleton’s lawyer. ‘Married Alyce Bellamy – that’s another old family, old money North Carolina name – ten years ago. No children. A yachtsman, sails out of East Hampton. Manhattan address on West 94th.’ He smiled and looked back up. ‘That’s about it.’

That didn’t amount to even half of it, judged Jordan. But Beckwith had been encapsulating. ‘You think I could have my own copy of Appleton’s personal details? Alyce’s too?’

Beckwith frowned, although lightly. ‘You going to do the research or am I?’

‘I want to know everything – and more – about a man you say hates my guts. And who you describe as the reason for that hatred. I read it all, I might come up with something else, something that fits, like I did today remembering her tit for tat response.’

‘I was trying to lighten things up a tad,’ said Beckwith. ‘Of course you get your own copies. I want you to have your own copies. There are reasons.’

Now it was Jordan who frowned, not understanding. ‘What reasons?’

‘Read everything for yourself first. Take your time.’

‘What about my being there at the meeting with Alyce’s lawyer?’

Beckwith shook his head, his uncertainty genuine now. ‘I’m not sure about that: if I want it or if Bob Reid would want it. Let me speak to him first, see what he’s got in mind. Might be something I hadn’t thought of.’

‘I hope not!’ said Jordan, too quickly, although at the same time admiring the unexpected humility.

‘So do I,’ replied the lawyer with a grin, ‘but you’re still doing it, speaking before you properly think.’

Jordan ignored the rebuke. Instead, mocking, he said, ‘I also think – after full and proper consideration – I should stay on until you see Alyce’s guy, don’t you?’

‘A day or two maybe,’ allowed Beckwith.

‘Can I have my copies: something to read through while I’m waiting? And the advance I asked for?’

Suzie’s outfit today was an aquamarine tube dress with the same effect as the previous tight sweater and skirt. She said, ‘Hi!’ as before, after collecting what needed to be duplicated, but this time there wasn’t any flirtatious repartee.

Beckwith said, ‘You got over the flight now?’

‘Totally,’ assured Jordan. ‘Spent the last couple of days in Atlantic City.’ He had considered Las Vegas, which he knew well, against Atlantic City, which he didn’t, but decided upon somewhere to which he could conveniently commute from Manhattan.

‘How’d you make out?’

‘Dropped a little. Nothing disastrous but it’s why I’d like a cash infusion. Need to get the feel of the place.’ Jordan preferred European to American casinos, believing that the electronic surveillance of the individual tables in the American ones – in addition to the alertness of the croupier, dealer and pit boss – was far more likely to catch his minimal stake technique. His two long nights on the Atlantic coast had cost him close to $2,000, which he philosophically accepted was about right for the all important pieces of paper.