Perri O’Shaughnessy - Breach Of Promise

Standing in line at the rental car agency, she studied a map of the maze of freeways and streets she needed to memorize if she was going to arrive only fashionably late. The car, a radiant-blue Neon with turquoise trim, was low to the ground and zippy as a sports car. She joined the million other cars flowing through these arteries into the night, another bright corpuscle in L.A.’s lifeblood.

She turned the radio on to a song with a lot of bass and let the music travel through her, all the way down to the toes in her high-heeled shoes. All her life she had climbed a ladder routinely and without thought, slipping more often than she wanted. For the first time, she had glimpsed the top. And there, in that upper region, shiny and bright, was the payoff, a glorious mountain of gold, the Markov money.

A share of that kind of money would set her up for life. She could buy her house outright, or a bigger, better house, and finally create the kind of stable home life Bob needed. She could work less, be more available to him, maybe even be more available to a relationship that would put a man in her life and in Bob’s on a more permanent basis. She could buy Bob all the things she couldn’t afford now, the fancy athletic shoes he wanted, the computer software that was out of her price range, all the tickets he wanted to visit his father in Europe. She might even turn into the parent she wanted to be, patient, generous, and undistracted.

Pulling up in front of the hotel that housed the Yamashiro Restaurant, she handed her keys to the parking valet.

The maître d’ was expecting her. He led her past the regular restaurant, where silverware and glasses clinked and people talked in muted tones, where sounds and colors were as discreet and perfectly balanced as in a Japanese temple, into a private room of bamboo and scrolls.

A black man about six feet four, at least a foot taller than she was, stood up and held out a big hand with a diamond band on his ring finger.

“I appreciate your making time for me,” she said.

“You’re so very welcome.” She got a brief whiff of spice and starch before he stepped away. “It takes my mind off the case in progress. We’ve been in trial for two weeks. I’d forgotten there was an outside world and beautiful women with propositions for me,” he went on, “even if they happen to be the legal kind.”

With a deep, compelling voice and a solid, athletic body, Winston Reynolds inspired total confidence. He wore metal-rimmed glasses and a navy-blue suit with a crimson tie, standard trial attire. About forty-five years old, he had hair that receded a little to expose a broad brown forehead. Notes scribbled on his napkin revealed that he had kept himself occupied while waiting for her, no doubt recording things to remember after a long day in court, but he didn’t seem as wiped out as she would have expected. In fact, his eyes had caught and held hers as she came through the door. She saw his interest and brushed it aside. He had too many impersonal reasons for turning on the charm with her tonight.

“It’s a lovely restaurant,” said Nina, adjusting her skirt and setting down the ever-present attaché beside her.

“It is, isn’t it? This is a real treat. Please thank your generous client for me.” He had already ordered wine. He poured her a glass, studying her openly, approvingly. “Let me say right now how much I appreciate you flying down here just to take me out to dinner tonight.” He took a sip of his wine. “My mama would get a kick out this situation, a woman like you wooing me. Dad, too, God rest his woman-loving soul.”

A waiter silently arrived before she could respond, and they ordered. The restaurant featured fresh fish of every kind. Nina wanted shrimp but it could get messy, so she ordered beef, figuring she should concentrate on Reynolds, not on whether she was dripping sauce all over her best suit. Reynolds went for the duck.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine in the glass, and looking into its red depths gave a half smile. “Tell me about the Markov case,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what I can without violating the attorney-client privilege. Lindy Markov lived with Mike Markov as his wife. She worked alongside him for over twenty years, building a business from scratch. Those two crucial facts are undisputed.”

“I understand everything is in his name. Your secretary mentioned a few things to my assistant. I hope you don’t mind.”

“He put everything in his name and she agreed to that, because they had a deal to share everything equally.”

“So she says.”

“Yes. And so she will testify in court.”

“Has she got anything in writing?”

“You must understand we can talk more about her position when you commit to taking the job.”

“I see. You want me to get involved without letting me have a chance to evaluate the case?”

“Not at all. Here are the basic pleadings and a summary of the issues and the basic facts about the Markov relationship.” She pulled up her case as she spoke, opened it, and passed over a manila folder. Reynolds spent a few minutes looking it over, sipping thoughtfully from his glass from time to time. He was a fast reader.

“You got any rabbits in the hat?” he said when he had finished. “Because you’re gonna need lots of magic to win this.”

“Well, there is one case that has enough in common with our situation to be potentially useful,” Nina said.

“Maglica versus Maglica,” said Winston. “That’s been news for years around here. We’re all waiting to hear how she does on appeal. But I believe the lady in that case was older. She devoted her adult working life to building that business. The relative youth of your client might adversely affect your outcome.”

Nina smiled, happy he had passed his first test. “Yes, but Mr. Maglica had already established something of a track record as a businessman. The Maglites venture was his second undertaking. I think Lindy’s primary role in developing this, the Markovs’ only successful business, will be easier for us to demonstrate.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Winston.

“And while we haven’t found much in the way of legal precedents to encourage us yet, we’re confident Lindy Markov is entitled to a substantial share of Markov Enterprises. We’ve sent out our first set of Interrogatories and we’ve already scheduled Mr. Markov’s deposition for December.”

“Moving right along.”

“The Superior Court is very efficient in El Dorado county, Mr. Reynolds. We’ll be in trial in six or seven months in spite of the magnitude of this case. Mr. Markov’s chafing under the receivership the court ordered, and Mrs. Markov is in financial difficulty.”

“You don’t think you can settle it?”

“Mr. Markov has hired Jeffrey Riesner. I believe you know him?”

“I do.”

“Then you know what we’re up against. He’s hard-line and uncompromising.”

“And that’s just the beginning with him.” He was teasing.

“He hates to settle. And my client wants something she’s not going to get.”

“Which is?”

“Mr. Markov. She wants a reconciliation with him, but I don’t believe that’s a possibility. The lawsuit will drive them further apart.”

“So it’s a battle. Palimony cases are very difficult to win,” Reynolds said, “but you knew that, didn’t you, Ms. Reilly?”

“Yeah,” Nina said, feeling disappointed. She knew, but she hoped she hadn’t blown her evening and a thousand bucks just to hear a final nail being driven into the coffin of her case. “I know it, but I’m going to fight it with or without you, Mr. Reynolds.”

He laughed. “Well, at least you don’t come down here talking trash. I appreciate that.”