Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

“No.”

“So the congressman would be quite an unusual and exciting client for you, wouldn’t he?”

“I…yes.”

“And the sum of money involved would be way more than you normally deal with, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you want this jury to believe that you can’t remember how many millions of dollars were involved?”

“I, um, it just slips my mind, at the moment.”

“Or, perhaps, you don’t know how much money was in his estate because you never met with Mr. Pope.”

“I definitely met with him. I just don’t remember how much money he had.”

Frank noticed a few jurors taking notes. He moved on.

“Are there Oregon firms that routinely represent parties in divorces who are wealthy?”

“Yes.”

Frank rattled off the names of several law firms in the metropolitan area.

“Any one of those firms would be used to handling cases with assets in the millions of dollars, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“During your years in practice, have you had ten complaints filed against you with the Oregon State Bar?”

Jarvis flushed. “I’ve had some complaints filed. I don’t remember the number.”

“Have you been suspended by the state bar from the practice of law for six months on two occasions for ethics violations?”

“Yes,” Jarvis answered angrily.

“Mr. Jarvis, do you still want this jury to believe that a man like Arnold Pope Jr., with all the contacts he had, chose to consult about his divorce with a lawyer who has rarely handled a society divorce or a divorce with these kinds of assets and who has bar complaints filed against him and who has been suspended several times for being unethical?”

“I…he didn’t tell me why he chose me. Maybe he was afraid that it would get back to his wife if he went to one of the big firms.”

“How did Mr. Pope arrange to meet you at the tavern?”

“He phoned my office.”

“Was there anything that would have prevented Mr. Pope from calling someone at a big firm to arrange a secret meeting at the tavern where you and he allegedly met?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Do you bill by the hour, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“So, you can produce a record of the initial call from the congressman if I subpoenaed it?”

“No. I don’t think there is a record.”

“There must be a record of the time spent during this conference. You can produce the file, can’t you?”

“I didn’t make a file. The congressman didn’t hire me. We just consulted.”

“But he paid you for the consultation? There’s a check, isn’t there?”

“He…he paid me in cash. He didn’t want any record of the meeting his wife could discover.”

“I assume you recorded the transaction somewhere so you’d remember to report the fee as income on your taxes?” Frank asked with a sweet smile.

Jarvis looked like a deer caught in very bright headlights. “Uh, I may have forgotten.”

“I see,” Frank said. “So, let me get this straight: there are no witnesses to this meeting, no records, no proof that it ever happened, except, of course, for your word?”

“Why would I lie?” Jarvis asked, but he sounded desperate.

“Good question. Did Arnold Pope Sr. pay you for your testimony?”

Jarvis shot an involuntary glance at Senior then pulled his eyes away as soon as he realized what he’d done. Frank couldn’t see Senior’s reaction but he did notice several jurors look in Senior’s direction.

“No. That’s not true,” Jarvis answered.

“Then can you explain where you got the money you used last month to pay off the several thousand dollars in debt on your credit cards?”

“I was in Las Vegas recently and I did very well at the tables,” Jarvis answered lamely.

“Did you report your winnings to the IRS, or did you forget to make a note of them like you did the fee Congressman Pope allegedly paid you?”

“I…I will at the appropriate time.”

“Good for you, Mr. Jarvis. No further questions, Your Honor.”

“THE STATE CALLS Anthony Rose, Your Honor,” Karl Burdett said as soon as Otto Jarvis fled the courtroom.

While one of Burdett’s deputies ducked into the hall to summon the witness, Frank reread the meager investigative report Herb Cross had put together. Rose had gone to high school in Sisters, Oregon, a small town in the center of the state. He’d been a star on the tennis team but his grades weren’t good enough for a college scholarship, so he’d enlisted in the army. Rose had made an attempt to get into the Rangers but had not been selected. Herb had talked to a few of Rose’s acquaintances, who said he’d told them he’d made jumps from airplanes and excelled in marksmanship but washed out because of a hostile officer. Rose was honorably discharged from the military and enrolled in college at Ohio State, where he’d excelled on the tennis team, making the quarterfinals of the NCAA tournament his senior year. After a brief flirtation with professional tennis, Rose returned to Oregon, where he was hired as the club pro at the Westmont.

The courtroom door opened but Frank waited for his first look at Sally’s lover until Rose raised his hand to be sworn. The tennis pro looked like a poster boy for a country club gigolo. He was handsome, athletic, and dressed in a navy blue blazer, neatly pressed tan slacks, and a sky blue shirt that was open at the neck enough to show a tuft of chest hair. Frank noticed that his smile caused the face of every woman on the jury to light up.

“Mr. Rose, are you acquainted with the defendant?” Burdett asked after a few preliminary questions. Rose locked eyes with Sally. With his head turned, the jurors didn’t see him smirk.

“You might say that,” Rose answered.

“In what capacity have you known her?” the prosecutor asked.

“In several capacities. She was my student-I gave her tennis lessons-I like to think we were friends and we were definitely lovers.”

There were murmurs in the spectator section. Frank saw several jurors scrutinize Sally Pope in a distinctly unfriendly manner at the mention of a second extramarital affair.

“How long did your sexual relationship with the deceased’s wife go on?”

“A few months.”

“Why did it end?”

Rose paused for dramatic effect before answering.

“She wanted me to murder her husband and I refused.”

Frank heard gasps from the gallery and saw shocked expressions on more than one juror’s face.

“That’s a lie,” Sally whispered vehemently.

“Can you relate the conversation in which the defendant asked you to kill her husband?” Burdett asked as he struggled successfully to stifle a triumphant smile.

“Certainly. We were at a gathering on an estate in Dunthorpe at which Charlie Marsh, or Guru Gabriel Sun, or whatever he was calling himself, was lecturing about inner peace or some such nonsense. Mrs. Pope asked me to go outside after the lecture. She led me to a secluded spot in the garden. As soon as we were alone and out of the hearing of the other guests, Mrs. Pope asked me if I would like to earn a quarter of a million dollars. I asked her how I could do that. She said her husband was planning to divorce her. There was some kind of contract the congressman’s father had insisted Mrs. Pope sign under the threat that he would disinherit his son if she didn’t. I don’t remember all of the details but the one that worried Mrs. Pope left her in bad shape financially if there was a divorce. But if her husband died before a divorce was final, she would inherit a fortune. She also said there was a life insurance policy for several million dollars. She sounded desperate.”

“What did she suggest you do to help her avoid the consequences of a divorce?”