Firm Ambitions Page 11

  “What?”

  “Hand him the fucking code of professional responsibility. While he reads it, sit back and listen to the most beautiful sound an opposing lawyer can ever hear.”

  “Which is what?” I was grinning.

  “The sound of your opponent’s testicles ascending into his pelvic cavity.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ann’s arrest made page three of the morning’s Post-Dispatch, beneath the headline

  LADUE WOMAN CHARGED IN FATAL

  POISONING OF EXERCISE GURU

  Fortunately, there was no mention of the photo album or her romantic involvement with Andros. But that would all come out—every last juicy, humiliating detail—if her case went to trial. I’d been the plaintiff’s lawyer in one such case—a sexual-harassment lawsuit in Chicago—and I knew that Ann’s trial would attract the trash weeklies and “sweeps week” local TV news producers the way fresh chum attracts hungry sharks. Even if we could overcome the state’s circumstantial case—a big if so far—there was no way Ann could avoid a media feeding frenzy. Unless we could find a way to avoid a trial altogether.

  Avoid the trial.

  That was our principal goal, I reminded myself as I pulled into the driveway of Ann’s English Tudor home. Ann was in the kitchen, seated on a bar stool at the counter talking on the portable telephone. She gave me a wan smile as she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Mom.” She pointed to the counter. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Those are blueberry muffins.”

  I filled a mug with coffee. Leaning against the refrigerator, I took a sip of coffee and studied my little sister. Everything was back in place—her hair, her clothes, her makeup, her kitchen. The breakfast dishes were already in the dishwasher, the countertops were spotless, the floor was swept clean. Fresh coffee in the pot, fresh blueberry muffins arranged on a platter, a roast defrosting in the sink. Although there were bags under her eyes, Ann was coping. Between yesterday afternoon and this morning she’d somehow found a way to tap her inner strength. My little sister had inherited more from my mother than high cheekbones.

  “Gotta go, Mom,” she said. “Rachel just got here. I’ll call you later. I love you.” She clicked off the phone and looked over at me.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She gave me a weary sigh. “Hi.”

  “Kids at school?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is Richie at the office?”

  “Yes,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “Thank God.”

  “Bad?”

  Ann nodded glumly. “You know Richie—he’s not a big one for sharing feelings. Something personal comes up between us, he grabs the remote, hits the power button, and turns to ESPN. Well, last night he was mainlining ESPN. I feel like shit every time I look at him.” She paused, her lips quivering. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

  I came over to her side of the table. “Neither do you, Ann.”

  She looked down. “More than him.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Ann, someone set you up.”

  She pulled her arm away and shook her head. “Rachel, I was the one who had the affair, not him. No one set that up. I did that all by myself. And look at what’s happened to me, to Richie, to my poor children. My God.” She stopped, her eyes filled with tears. I squeezed her arm. She took a deep breath and frowned, determined to continue. “I tried to talk to Richie about it,” she said, with a defeated shake of her head, “just like you said. But he won’t let me. All he says is ‘That’s okay, hon, that’s okay.’ I can’t stand it. I want him to scream at me. I want him to start breaking dishes. I mean, if he was the one who’d cheated on me, if he was the one whose name was in the newspaper, I’d be coming after him with a rolling pin.” She was breathing hard, her voice shaking. “He hasn’t even raised his voice. All I get is ‘That’s okay, hon, that’s okay.’”

  I gave her a hug. “It’s going to take time, Ann.”

  “At this point, I don’t know.” She got up and took her coffee mug to the sink. She stopped at the sink and turned toward me with a frown. “Hey, why aren’t you at work?”

  “We have to see what’s in Uncle Harry’s box.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She put her mug in the sink. “Let’s go take a look.”

  We went down to the basement and got the box down off the top shelf of the storage closet. I opened the box and removed the chemical containers one by one.

  “Darn,” I said when we were through. There was no cyanide.

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “Sodium cyanide is extremely difficult to buy in pure form,” I explained as I closed the box. I reached up and put it back on the top shelf. “In fact,” I said as I turned to her, “I doubt whether you would even be able to buy it. At least in pure form.”

  Ann gave me a quizzical look. “That’s good, right?”

  I nodded. “Normally. Because the prosecution has to explain how an ordinary person like you got hold of a container of that stuff in the first place. That’s where Uncle Harry’s box of chemicals comes in. It’s the perfect explanation for them: you didn’t need to go out and find any cyanide because you already had a can of it in the basement.”

  She frowned in puzzlement. “But I didn’t.”

  “That’s the point,” I said as we started up the stairs to her kitchen. “The prosecutor can explain away the difficulties you would have had to overcome to get a can of cyanide by telling the jury that the cyanide the police found in your basement must have come from Uncle Harry’s box. You see, for us it would have been better if we found a container of cyanide in the box. Then there would be two containers—the one the police found and the one in Uncle Harry’s box. It would tend to show that you were set up.” I turned to her at the top of the stairs. “If you already had a container in Uncle Harry’s chemical box, why would you have gone to the trouble of getting a second container?”

  Ann followed me into the kitchen. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I bet Richie could get his hands on a container of it. He uses a bunch of different chemicals in his practice. I’ll call him now.”

  It was my turn to frown. “I’m not following you.”

  Ann walked over to the coffeepot and poured herself another mug. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “You said if there had been some cyanide in Uncle Harry’s box, it would help make it look like I was set up. Right? Well, let’s put some cyanide in there.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  Ann tilted her head in surprise. “What do you mean, no?”

  “No way.” I shook my head. “I don’t like it.”

  Ann gave me a look of disbelief. “Come on, Rachel, they’ve charged me with murder. Don’t be such a Girl Scout.”

  “Being a Girl Scout has nothing to do with it. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “What risk?”

  “Of having your credibility destroyed on the witness stand. Even assuming you could find an old container of cyanide— and it would have to be an old one to match the dates of the other chemicals in that box—even assuming that, and assuming that the police don’t give you a lie detector test the moment they hear about the container, very few witnesses are good liars. Trust me on that.” I refilled my coffee mug and joined her at the kitchen table. “Ann, a decent lawyer can sense when a witness is lying and knows how to expose it on cross-examination. The case against you is entirely circumstantial. That means the jury’s going to start off on your side. But it also means that they’ll turn on you if you betray their trust. I can’t let you take that risk. Adding the cyanide adds too many variables, too much risk. Trust me on this. We’ll stick to the truth.”

  “The truth?” She shook her head in dismay. “That’s all?”

  I shook my head earnestly. “My goal is to get you out of this before trial.”

  “But how?”

  “By doing what the police shou
ld be doing. Now that they have you, they’re going to treat the case as solved, which means they’ve stopped looking for suspects. We’ve just got to keep looking. I’ve already found a few promising leads. I’ve got Benny checking out others. We’re making progress. I promise we are, Ann. Which reminds me.” I stood up. “I want to show you something.”

  The phone rang while I got my briefcase in the front hall. “Here,” Ann said, handing me the receiver when I returned. “It’s for you.”

  I took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Rachel, Charles Kimball, returning your call.”

  I had tried to reach him earlier that morning and had given his secretary my office number and Ann’s number.

  We exchanged the usual opening pleasantries and then I got to the point. “Charles, I want to meet with you. I want to talk about my sister’s situation.”

  Ann looked up from her coffee mug in surprise. I nodded at her.

  “Certainly,” Kimball answered without any hesitation.

  I had my pocket calendar open on the counter. “The sooner the better. How about today?”

  “Let’s see. No, I’m afraid today doesn’t look good. I have appointments the rest of the morning and a sentencing in federal court at two-thirty. I have to be back in my office by four to prepare a client for an appearance before a grand jury tomorrow morning.”

  “Any time tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Hmmm, I’m afraid that won’t work either. I’m booked on the eight-a.m. flight to New York. I’ll be up there the rest of the week. Can this wait until next week?”

  “I guess it’ll have to,” I said, disappointed.

  “I have an idea. Why not join me for dinner this evening? We can talk about it then.”

  “Dinner?” I said unsurely.

  “I can rearrange my plans for the evening.”

  “I don’t want to put you to that trouble.”

  “I can assure you, Rachel, it is no trouble at all. I would much rather dine with you, and the sooner we talk about your sister’s situation the better. How does Tony’s sound? His veal goes perfect with homicides.”

  I laughed. “That sounds wonderful.”

  “I’ll call Vince and see if he can set us up in a private corner. Shall we say seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll see you then, Charles.”

  When I hung up, Ann asked, “Who was that?”

  “Charles Kimball.”

  “The lawyer?”

  I nodded.

  She looked at me uncertainly. “Why do you want to talk to him about my situation?”

  “Well,” I said carefully, “I want to run some thoughts by him. A couple strategy points. Maybe see if he’d like to help out. If we can’t get the charges dropped before trial, we’re going to need a good criminal lawyer at trial, and we’re going to need to get that lawyer on board as soon as possible. Charles Kimball is one of the best criminal defense attorneys.”

  “But you’d still be my lawyer?” There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.

  “Of course,” I assured her. “It’s just that we’re going to need a specialist to help us.” I reached for my briefcase, eager to change the subject. “Take a look at this picture.” I pulled out the photocopy of the 8x10 glossy, the one with Mike Tyson and Andros in the middle. “This guy was at the funeral yesterday.” I pointed at the dark-haired man with the tan and mustache who stood to the right of Andros. “Do you know who he is?”

  Ann took one look and nodded in disapproval. “Don’t ask Richie about him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Nick the Greek.” She made a face. “A real creep.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “Now? He’s got some sort of gambling business. I think he’s an owner of that new riverboat casino on the east side. But he used to be a dentist.”

  “A dentist?” I looked down at his picture. A dentist? It seemed incongruous. “Is that how Richie knows him?”

  She nodded darkly. “It was a real scandal. About six years ago. You were still in Chicago.”

  “What did he do?”

  “His female patients, that’s what.” She snorted in outrage. “Several women, and a couple high school girls, too. A real sleaze. He’d give the women laughing gas. Once they were high, he’d slip off their panties, unzip his fly, and fill one extra cavity, if you know what I mean.”

  “He got caught?”

  “His nurse figured out what was going on. She complained to the dental board. Richie was on the board back then. In fact, he headed up the investigation. They found two female patients who were willing to testify. They held a hearing and voted to suspend him indefinitely.” She shook her head in revulsion. “There were criminal charges, too. Rape, I think. He ended up pleading guilty to something and surrendering his license.”

  “Did he do any time?”

  “I don’t think so. He ended up filing for bankruptcy, though, after about thirty of his female patients filed a big lawsuit against him.”

  “I take it Richie doesn’t like him.”

  “I guess so,” she said with a shrug. “But it’s more like Nick can’t stand Richie. I think he must blame Richie for screwing up his dental career, as if he didn’t do it to himself. We ran into him at the Zoofari ball last year.” Ann’s eyes widened at the memory. “Believe me, Rachel, if looks could kill, Richie would be dead.”

  “And now this guy owns a riverboat casino?”

  “Part owner, I think. After he declared bankruptcy, you didn’t hear anything about him. He just sort of disappeared. Then about three years ago he started showing up in gossip columns as some sort of gambling promoter. You know, those three-or-four-day gambling junkets to Las Vegas and Atlantic City.” She pointed at the 8x10. “This is probably one of them. He was sort of like a casino travel agent. Still is, I think. Except his specialty is down in the Caribbean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ann shrugged. “I guess they have casinos down there. San Juan, Freeport, places like that. He puts together junkets, or at least he used to. Anyway, I read in Berger’s column about a month back that he’s going to be one of the owners of that new riverboat, the Cajun Belle.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Kazankis. Nick Kazankis.”

  “Did Andros ever mention him to you?”

  She thought it over. “I don’t think so.”

  I stared at the photograph. “Did Andros ever talk to you about his gambling?”

  “Not much. He knew that Richie and I went to Las Vegas every year. He told me he went, too. He used to joke about how we should try to schedule our trips out there for the same time so I could sneak up to his room.”

  “What did he say about his own gambling?”

  Ann frowned, trying to remember. “He liked craps. He told me the odds were better at craps than blackjack. He said he’d teach me someday. He never did.” She thought for a moment and shook her head. “That’s about all I remember.”

  “How about gambling debts? Did he ever mention any?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  I pointed at Andros in the picture. “There he is, out there in Las Vegas with Nick the Greek. Someone with real pull got Mike Tyson to pose for that picture. From what you say, it sounds like that someone was Nick. It’s always possible that Nick was a good friend of Andros, and did it because they’re friends. After all, he was one of the pallbearers. But maybe he did it because Andros was a heavy hitter. They do things like that for heavy hitters—comp them on suites and meals and hookers, get their pictures taken with celebrities, things like that. If Andros was a heavy hitter, he was probably a heavy loser once in a while. Maybe too heavy. From what I’ve heard, running up big debts out there can be hazardous to your health.”

  Ann stared at the picture, trying to recall. “It doesn’t ring a bell,” she f
inally said. “I don’t remember him even mentioning gambling debts.”

  I pointed to the woman standing to the left of Mike Tyson in the photograph, the slender woman with the sad smile, sharp features, and long black hair parted in the middle. “Is that Nick’s wife?” I asked.

  Ann nodded. “Sheila.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not really. She used to go to Firm Ambitions. She stopped going maybe six months ago. Sometimes I see her at the supermarket. She’s very shy. People say she’s sweet, though. Kind of a homebody. Poor thing stayed by his side through that whole laughing-gas scandal and the investigation and the bankruptcy.”

  “You say she stopped going to Firm Ambitions six months ago?”

  “About that time.”

  “Any reason?”

  “No idea,” Ann said. “She just stopped. Why?”

  I looked down at Sheila in the picture, and then I looked up at Ann. “She’s in the photo album.”

  “Sheila?” Ann looked down at the picture and shook her head sadly. “God, her, too.”

  I stared at Sheila’s face in the 8x10 glossy. It was definitely the same sad smile I’d seen in the photo album. “There was another picture in his office,” I said as I looked up at Ann. “Another celebrity shot.”

  “Who?”

  “Donald Trump.”

  “No kidding?”

  I nodded. “Trump, Andros, and Nick. No Sheila, though. Guess who the woman in that picture was?”

  “Maria Maples?”

  “Christine Maxwell.”

  Ann raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  I nodded. “In a slinky dress. She was standing next to Andros with her hand on his back.”

  Ann leaned forward, her eyes animated. “Was she in the album, too?”

  I shook my head. “Is Christine still married?”

  “Oh, no. He’s dead. She killed him.”

  “She killed her husband?”

  “Well, not like murder. It was more of an accident. Down at the Lake of the Ozarks. They were out water skiing. She was driving their boat and he was skiing. He fell and she brought the boat around to pick him up. Something got stuck or jammed in the motor, and the boat ran right over him.” She winced. “The propeller cracked his head open. I think he died immediately.”