Reilly 02 - Invasion of Privacy (15 page)

14

FOR SEVERAL WEEKS NINA DID NOTHING FURTHER about Kurt Scott. She appeared in court, went to Bobby’s softball games, and stayed out of it. She owed him nothing, as he had said. The gnawing curiosity she kept in check, though talking to him had only brought new questions.

April turned to May, and the snow retreated upward to the high mountains. Most of the ski resorts finally closed, defeated by the harsh mountain sun. Occasional news came to her. Bail had been denied because of the seriousness of the charge. Riesner had agreed to a fast preliminary hearing, and Kurt had been bound over for trial. She heard nothing about either the videotape she had learned of at Collier’s office or the progress of the police investigation. Even the Tahoe Mirror, inhibited by the lack of new information, limited itself to minor updates on the case.

Presumably, Riesner was working late nights, reviewing the police reports with experts he consulted, filing pretrial motions, hearing Kurt’s story until he could recite it by heart. She told herself to presume these things, presume Riesner would help Kurt just as she would have helped him. Even if Kurt had killed Terry, and she assumed he had, there would be extenuating circumstances. Riesner would call her eventually, and she would appear as a witness if it would help. That was all she could do. She only hoped Collier would not decide her testimony would somehow be useful to convict Kurt.

Many times at home she noticed how movements of Bobby’s, like the way he rubbed his forehead when he was tired, now reminded her of Kurt. She saw him from a new perspective, as a boy who belonged in definable ways to the man who was his father. He became a constant reminder of the man in jail.

Bobby didn’t try to talk to her anymore about Kurt. He had heard things, she knew, but he held his feelings inside. She felt the chill of separation from him, from the remote way he answered her questions to the way he shrugged off her hand on his shoulder on their walks up the hill behind the house. She knew she needed to talk to him, but she didn’t know how.

Matt and Andrea, too, seemed preoccupied. They knew who Kurt was, but they avoided the subject, giving her room to think, or maybe, in Matt’s case, just hoping the problem would go away.

The usually boisterous and open household seemed quieter than usual as Nina mulled over Kurt in private, as if they had all picked up the habit of secrecy from her, as if they all had things to hide. And wasn’t that a ridiculous thought on Nina’s part? What secrets would any of them have from her?

Angry at his brash thrusting into her affairs, Nina didn’t return Paul’s calls. If she told him now what his snooping around had caused, he’d come crashing up, shattering the already fragile situation. News of a homicide in Tahoe would not necessarily be reported in Monterey, so he probably had no idea. If he had stayed out of her private affairs, Terry would still be alive and Kurt would be ... safe, somewhere.

One morning Nina stopped at the bank and pulled the papers from her safe-deposit box. She pulled out her old journal, a small, spiral-bound book of black cardboard wrapped in rubber bands. During the summer with Kurt, alone in her cabin at Fallen Leaf, she had recorded snatches of their conversations and details of their meetings. She had meditated endlessly on him. Reading the journal after so long, she relived the night she had allowed herself to fall in love with him.

She had been at Fallen Leaf Lake almost two weeks, and had seen Kurt almost every day. They had sat on the rickety porch of the cabin that endless evening, watching shadows lengthen over the lake and talking until the mosquitoes drove them inside.

Kurt sat down at the old stand-up piano and began to play, his hands light and gentle at first, the music light, then deepening. She knew little about classical music; she had always thought it too forbidding and highbrow for her. She couldn’t make personal contact; she imagined men in powdered wigs and dirty satin playing to lords and ladies in castles. It had nothing to do with her.

This was different. She leaned against the piano, watching Kurt. Now and then he looked up and smiled, his eyes half-closed. For a long time the music made a background to the picture of him, his fingers rippling over the keys like water in wind. After a time the music worked on her. She joined him in its tides, letting him lead her through it. She heard him play the languor of the evening, the coolness of the lake, the breezes springing up. He was courting her now, embracing and caressing her with the notes....

She lit candles beside the bed, and left him there to wait for her. The water in the shower fell on her skin as softly as his music had fallen. Finally, pink from the heat, she put on his gift, a yellow silk robe that felt soft as talcum, and walked barefoot across the pine floorboards toward the flickering light.

He waited on the bed, naked, hands behind his head. He glowed there, the dark night all around them, magical, attractive, hungry, as alone as she was, with nothing but the dark night and forest for miles around.

She sat down beside him, saying nothing, bending over him, letting her damp hair fall around them like a curtain to enclose their kisses. She felt the connection formed in those minutes would always exist invisibly, that they created one being, a new person, not him or her, someone better than them both.

He took her by the shoulders, laying her gently down, opening the robe. She saw how he looked at her body with amazed pleasure. She bent up toward him, like a lily bending toward moonlight.

His skin like velvet, and the hardness of his muscles underneath ... she let him lead her through it.

Her utter trust in him made nothing forbidden. In that way, she expressed her love.

All this she had written in her journal, the journal of a young woman in love. All this she had forgotten. All this she had felt.

And never felt since.

"I wanted to talk to you about your client," Nina said in Riesner’s office the next afternoon.

"I’m feeling very benevolent and helpful today," Riesner said. "Witness my rearranging my schedule to accommodate you. So plunge right in. Amuse me." He arranged a red Japanese vase full of pussy willows on his desk.

His office reeked of success. There were pictures on the walls she couldn’t afford the frames for; oil portraits next to cherrywood bookcases with leaded glass doors displaying backlit artifacts from Asia and Africa, and leather volumes. Even the pen he wrote with was valuable and beautiful.

She could easily visualize the television ad: Jeffrey Riesner surrounded by the fetishes of his success, his low-end baritone hovering artificially in that masculine bastion, the bass zone. With this man, you are safe. You, too, can own a suit like this. Call today.

She should have picked up the phone.

"I’d like to know how the London murder case is going," Nina said.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I thought you wanted to have a civil conversation. Why should I be civil when you seem to be incapable of it?" Riesner unwrapped a large, fragrant cigar, lighting it with a large silver lighter. "Oh. Excuse me. Would you like one? Cuban, rather rare." He blew a gamy cloud of smoke her way.

"No. Thank you," Nina said.

"That’s better. You were saying?"

"I’d appreciate your discussing the Scott case with me. I’d like to know what your general strategy will be. I understand there is some damaging eyewitness testimony. And that the police have some sort of videotape. Is there any direct physical evidence? Have they found the gun, for instance?"

"The attorney-client privilege prevents me from telling you much," Riesner said thoughtfully, gazing down at the cigar between his thumb and forefinger as if for advice.

"How strong is the eyewitness? Have you interviewed him yet?"

"In due course," Riesner said. "I have his statement to the police."

"May I see it?" Nina said.

"No."

"You won’t let me have a look at any of the reports?"

"Why should I? It’s not your case. I don’t want any interference."

"What do you think are his chances of acquittal based on the preliminary hearing?" Nina said. Riesner was enjoying her visit, her need to approach him, but she knew him too well to think he would say anything at all he didn’t specifically intend to say.

"The D.A. established that there was a body, that it was a homicide, and that there was probable cause to believe my client did it. Three cops and criminologists, one medical examiner, one eyewitness, and a partridge in a pear tree. Three days and he’s bound over to the Superior Court for trial."

"You chose not to present any defense?" Nina said.

"I never waste my time with that sort of thing at a prelim," Riesner said. "With the standard of proof being probable cause, he’s going to go to trial no matter what I might have said. It’s a bad idea to let the D.A. see what you’ve got. I learned a few things on the cross-exam."

"Do you think he’s guilty?"

"Let’s put it this way," Riesner said. "He was seen running from the studio. The rifle used in the shooting was originally registered to him years ago. There’s no record of a sale or transfer of ownership. He left his blood on the rug, and he admitted to the cops he was there that night. Hallowell has a dying declaration from Terry London on video, where she says my client popped her. The D.A. didn’t even bother to use it at the prelim. He had enough without it.

"So you can draw your own conclusions. I don’t ask myself that particular question. It might hinder me in the zealous performance of my duties."

"Has he admitted to it?" Nina asked.

"Do any of them ever admit to it?"

"So he says he didn’t do it?"

"It doesn’t matter what he says. Self-defense or involuntary manslaughter are his only possible defenses. Innocence is not an option."

"I know Kurt told you about me. You probably know by now that—"

"About the love nest at Fallen Leaf Lake? He told me all about it. Funny how it didn’t come as a total surprise. You have a way of insinuating yourself into unsavory situations."

"It was a long time ago."

"Even so," he said, examining the fine ash on the tip of the cigar. Nina would have to wash her hair after she left. "You’ll probably have to testify."

"I didn’t see anything. I knew nothing then about Kurt’s relationship with his ex-wife. I didn’t even know who she was. I’d never met her until she called me about this case last fall, and she certainly never told me about her prior marriage."

"What about the fact that my client returned to Tahoe solely to protect you? Don’t you think the jury ought to hear about that?" Riesner said.

"Terry never really hurt me."

"Apparently he knew her better than you did. He had good reason to believe that, had she lived, you would have become some kind of target."

"Let me see if I’m following you," Nina said. "You’re going to tell the jury that he came here from Germany because he wanted to tell Terry to lay off me, and he killed her when she refused? You’re putting me right in the middle of some harebrained scheme?"

"Why not? You adore the spotlight, we both know that. Enjoy the notoriety."

Nina gritted her teeth, trying not to show her reaction to his words. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "You’re going to have to try the case," she said. "He’s never going to agree to a plea bargain, no matter how you pressure him."

"I’ll try the case, if his assets hold out. Why wouldn’t I? I want him to get his money’s worth." Riesner tapped the edge of the cigar against an onyx ashtray. White ash fell neatly in.

"Have you thought about whether you might have a conflict of interest? You still represent the plaintiffs in the Sweet v. London case. It seems to me one defense consideration might be, did one of them kill her? Or did someone else do it, someone depicted in that film?"

"Why should anyone do that?" Riesner said. "We were still litigating whether the film could be distributed. With all the money Tamara Sweet’s parents were spending in court, it seems to me everyone would wait to see how the case came out before they started shooting."

"You have to look at those people as possible suspects."

"I’ll handle the case as I see fit."

Nina felt Riesner was more interested in analyzing his bank account than his defense strategy. "I want to work with you. I could help."

"What?" He was well and truly amazed. She could tell by the way he dropped the cigar he had been twirling between his fingers, glared at it, and took a long time to recover it, roll it around in his fingers, move his mouth on it when he had it inserted back between his lips. With Riesner, she would take her pleasures where she found them.

"I’ll help you line up experts, prepare for trial. I can associate in. We don’t get along, okay. We’ll divvy up the work so we don’t have to see each other much. I’ll work for free."

The man behind the desk smiled benevolently, back in the driver’s seat where he belonged. "If I want help, I go to competent experts." He chuckled. "Turns out you can be funny. I can see how this might work. You would help me by taking away my clients and you would help me right out the door of my office. You would help me right out of town, if I let you." He puffed on the cigar. The tip glowed and dulled as he sucked vigorously, his face suffused with pleasure.

"Why don’t you just head back to that game of cowboys and Indians you like to play with that dimwit secretary of yours?" he said finally, leaning back in his chair.

"You know, you look just like you’re giving that cigar a blow job," Nina said, getting up swiftly, writing the whole thing off and not caring what she said anymore. "Think about it next time the mayor offers you one after dinner.’’ She left before he could kick her out.

15

BAREFOOT, HER BRIEFCASE AND HEELS LYING ON THE floor tiles, Nina called Sandy from the kitchen at home to let her know where to reach her.

Bobby got home at three-thirty. He was now old enough to ride his bike when a friend was available to ride with him. Like every other jump forward in his life, this one made her nervous, but what good was life without freedom? Relieved, as she always was, at the sight of him pushing his bike up the driveway, she gave him something to eat, chatting with him about his day.

While he ate, he told her that he had stopped off with some friends at the shopping center on the way home, making a saga out of the short story, as his grandfather Harlan often did. He held out a small toy harbor seal for her to examine. They both played with the soft gray toy, squeezing its stomach for a squeak. Bobby was getting old for stuffed animals, but ever since his trip down to Monterey he’d shown unusual interest in the topic of seals, even writing an essay for school about them.

Matt dropped the two younger children off a few minutes later. Troy joined Bobby at the homework table upstairs, and Brianna turned on her favorite kids’ show in the living room.

"Cup of coffee?" Nina asked her brother, still in her work clothes, unable to get herself up from the comfortable padded vinyl kitchen chair.

"Can’t," Matt said. "I’ve got work to do while it’s still light. I’m getting things in order for the summer season. I need to get some equipment out of the shed and order some materials."

"You’ve been avoiding me and stomping all over here like a man with something on his mind. Even Andrea has mentioned it."

He lingered uncertainly in the doorway.

"You’re the one who’s always after me to slow down and smell the coffee. Come smell the Antiguan blend."

"Okay." He let the door swing shut, watching as if he was sorry to see it close. "One quick cup." He got a mug and filled it, turned a chair around and straddled it, leaning against its back.

"Where’s the paper?" Nina asked. "I can’t even find the recycling."

"I’ve been hiding it," he said. Getting up and walking over to the wall by the window, he tore paper towels off the roll, wet them under running water in the sink, and proceeded to lift the plants on the windowsill, wiping assiduously under each.

"Oh," said Nina.

"Because of Kurt Scott." Tossing a dirty wad at the trash can, he put cleanser on a sponge, squeezed and rinsed it, and wiped the table, motioning Nina to move her arms when he wiped her side.

"Matt, stop fiddling. Andrea told you about him and me, didn’t she?"

"And Bob told me the name when he got back from Monterey. Also, remember, I helped get Bob registered at the school last spring? You needed a birth certificate. I looked."

"So you know all about it."

He stopped the kitchen cleaning long enough to say, "Mom taught us well, didn’t she, Nina? Taught us all about keeping secrets. It’s sad, all this energy put toward hiding things." He sounded more resigned than upset at the thought.

"We all have things in our lives that we don’t want to talk about."

"Not Andrea." He dumped coffee grinds from the pot into the sink, then turned on the water and ran the garbage disposal. "That’s one thing I love about her. She blabs everything."

"Well, let’s talk."

"You went to see him."

"Yes."

"What’s he like? What kind of a man is he?"

"I really don’t know. It’s been a long time."

"After all this time... do you still have feelings for him?"

She considered this, finally saying, "I don’t know."

"This is a helluva thing." Matt began to unload clean dinnerware from the dishwasher, stacking plates into steep piles and hurling silverware from the basket unsorted into the drawer, raising a racket that made Nina shudder.

"Matt, please stop! Sit down! I can’t hear myself think!"

He sat back down at the table, tossing the towel down in front of her.

"Tell me what’s bothering you."

"Who’s bothered? Bob’s father’s back! I’m delighted for both of you! Oh, except—there’s a minor problem. He’s in jail on a murder charge."

"That’s not your problem, is it, Matt?"

He looked at her, his expression unreadable, shaking his head. "Right. There I go again, thinking what happens to you and Bob has something to do with me and my family." He fell into a long silence, broken only by the thrumming of his fingers on the table. When he spoke again, he caught her eyes in his own, and held them, demanding an answer. "Did you think you could keep Scott’s arrest from Bob, like you did everything else?"

"I plan to speak with him."

"Do all of us a favor. Don’t tell him what he doesn’t have to know. Maybe he won’t find out until the guy’s been shipped off to some penitentiary far away."

"I don’t know—"

"I hate this."

Her heart sank. With her and Bobby living at his house, he’d never have the peace he had come so far to find. "I’m sorry, Matt."

"Just keep us out of it," Matt said.

"I’ll probably be called as a witness."

"Most cases don’t go to trial, right? That’s what you said."

"Well, this one won’t, if Riesner stays on as the defense attorney."

"And just what do you mean by that?" All Matt’s restraint evaporated. "You’re not thinking about getting involved, are you?" he said in disbelief.

"He’s Bobby’s father, Matt," Nina said. "I might be able to help him."

"Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare drag us into this," Matt said. "I’m warning you."

"How can I live with myself if Kurt’s convicted for something he didn’t do? Riesner won’t give him the kind of defense he deserves—"

Matt slammed the screen door behind him.

That night, brushing her teeth on her way in to bed, Nina admitted it to herself. She was feeling out the degree of opposition she’d get if she took over Kurt’s defense—if he wanted her to, if his story seemed credible, and if she could wrest it away from Riesner.

She couldn’t go any farther without Paul’s help. Crawling into bed, pulling the yellow cover up around her, she punched his number, saying "Howdy, stranger!" when he answered.

"Can’t talk now, I’m smack dab in the middle of a menage à trois," he said, but there was no real anger.

"Just keep your ear free. Really. Are you ... busy? Because I can call back."

"In another month? No, the girls are already putting their clothes on. You’ve ruined everything. They’re leaving now. Whoops! Hey, Eva, you’ll need this out there! This better be good."

The joke had a hard edge to it. "You’re still mad at me?"

"I can take only so much rejection before I take a breather. First we make love, then you won’t take my calls."

"It’s me that should be mad at you."

"What’d I do?"

"No idea, huh? How about that little trip to Germany, digging into my past?"

"Oh, that."

"And how about the fact that you said something that brought my son’s father flying back here for a showdown with Terry London, and now he’s in jail on a first-degree murder charge?"

For once, Paul had nothing to say.

"Well?"

"Well, I’ll be an egg-suckin’ dog."

"Go on. Bark."

"What does he have to do with Terry London?"

"He was married to her when he met me." Nina listened closely for his reaction, a mistake, as he whistled into the phone.

"He killed her? I knew she was your client. Now I can guess where she fit into his life. She must have been the crazy one that he was so scared of. I had no idea they’d arrested him for her murder. Uh, I owe you an apology, don’t I?"

"It’s too late for that. Paul, did you say anything at all about Bobby?"

Paul said, "You think I’m stupid?"

"Well, thanks for that. You stomped through my past, invaded my privacy, tracked down my old lover. But at least you left my son out of it."

"It’s like an instinct or a bad habit. I got carried away. I thought I could find out what was keeping you away from me."

"You told Kurt we were getting married. You’re an arrogant, high-handed, macho—"

"I have my bad points too."

She had to laugh.

"Thank God," Paul said. "Will you forgive me?"

"I already have."

"Will you marry me?"

"All right, Paul, quit teasing me."

"I’m not teasing. Let’s get married."

"You’re serious!" She laughed again.

"Will you?" Paul said. His tone had changed. He meant what he said.

"I can’t marry you," she blurted out, but he didn’t seem bothered by her graceless response to his proposal. Not that the proposal had been the most suave one she’d ever had.

"Why not?" he said.

"You’re not supposed to ask that, are you?"

"Why not?" he repeated.

She felt compelled to be honest. "I went to the jail to see Kurt, but I haven’t talked to Bobby yet about what’s happening. I’m bewildered and unsure about this whole situation. Marrying is the last thing on my mind."

"You sure?"

For the first time it hit her. Paul might give up on her and move on. Why did he have to pin her down now? Why couldn’t they just stay friends and colleagues? But she knew better than to say those things to him. Instead she said, in her softest, most soothing voice, "I need time, Paul."

An inarticulate grunt emanated from the other end of the phone line. She imagined him at his apartment, silently cursing the female gender, its indecision, ambivalence, and ability to make a man spiral like a kite on a string. She felt embarrassed and thrilled by this power, a strictly female one she rarely allowed herself to experience.

"I can’t believe my own stupidity," he finally said. "I mentioned you were in Tahoe, and Scott left me holding hands with the waiter."

"I want to hear all about that trip. Soon."

"So not yes, but not no, either," he said, and fell into silence. After a few moments he said, "You’re afraid of my love." This sentence came out in the doleful tone she associated with the talking bear he had given her. Down where it counted, he was as romantic as she had ever been, but, as with everything else about him, his love was bigger, stronger, and more formidable. He wanted to take over for both of them. She wondered whether she could stand up to him as his wife. She barely stood up to him now. This thought, which should have been unpleasant, made her smile.

"Maybe so," she said. "But I sure do feel flattered at the offer." Paul didn’t press her further. She congratulated herself, thinking, I got past that one for the moment. Now back to the real subject of my call.

"Er, Paul. I wondered, if by some event it should shake down that way—if I took over Kurt’s defense— not that he’s asked me, or I’ve made up my mind or anything—would you be willing to help?"

A few seconds passed while her question registered with him. Through the next long silence she waited, sensing an immense volcanic pressure building up down there in Carmel, the man glowing hotter and hotter....

"So," Paul said, his voice suspiciously soft. "It is him. It’s always been him."

"I just can’t leave him to Jeffrey Riesner. He says he came back here to warn me that Terry had reasons to want to hurt me or my family. I owe him something for that—"

"I can’t help. Find a guy who doesn’t give a damn about you to help with this one."

"I don’t think I can do it without you."

"Good thinkin’. Now you listen to me, Nina. We’ve been friends for a long time. Above and beyond everything else, right?"

"I’m really glad to hear you say that, Paul."

"Well, as your old pal, I’m begging you. Don’t take this case. It’s going to screw up everything. Your life. Bob’s. Matt’s." He waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he exploded. "For God’s sake, woman, what perverse character flaw is it that drives you to take the good life you’ve earned and pound it into hammered dog shit?"

"Could we leave it that your answer is not yes, but not no, either?"

"No! My answer is no!" Paul shouted.

She couldn’t sleep after talking to Paul. She spent the night trying to decide what to do. Doing nothing would be as decisive as doing something, it seemed to her. Either way led to a cataclysm for them.

Matt and Paul had made their wishes known. Without their support, she would really be on her own. And did she really believe Kurt enough to go against her family and friends? She wanted to believe him, which didn’t amount to the same thing.

"Mom?" Bobby stood in the doorway wearing his red plaid flannel pajamas, backlit by the hall light and striped in front by the golden light of dawn creeping through her blinds.

"What’s up, honey? Can’t sleep?"

He came over and sat on the edge of her bed. "I heard you."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard you and Uncle Matt shouting yesterday."

So he knew. She had not been able to protect him. Putting her arm around his narrow shoulders, she told him how Paul had found his father, feeling her words travel through him like voltage as his breath came faster and he pulled away from her to jump out of bed.

Hitting his fist into his palm, he said, "I knew he’d find him! I knew it! Where is he, Mom? Can we see him? What did you tell him about me?" He had a million questions, and in his elation he knocked an elbow into her nightstand hard enough to bruise himself without seeming to put the slightest dent in his spirits.

She had never seen him so agitated. "Sit down here." She patted the bed beside her. Instantly receptive to her serious tone, he settled back down on the bed, jiggling a foot but otherwise calm.

"He’s here in Tahoe, Bobby." She didn’t know how to say this, so she dove in, unable to see a way around the brutal truth. "He’s in jail, charged with a serious crime."

"Murder, right? They’re saying he killed someone. Who, Mom?"

She’d already said more than she ever wanted to have to say about Kurt. "I promise, we’ll talk more later."

"Don’t say that. You always say that."

He was right, she did.

Apparently realizing she would add nothing further, he asked, "When can I visit him?"

"You can’t." Because she wouldn’t allow it, not until she knew, incontrovertibly, that Kurt Scott was an innocent man. Even as she had the thought, she knew that moment might never come.