“Those
depositions will make the front page of the
Chronicle,”
he
said.
“For
months,” I replied, “if not years.” Smiling, I reached across the table and
patted his head. “Good thinking for someone who’s not a litigator. It’s
perfect, Grant.”
Grant
looked at me and smiled nervously. “Well, not quite perfect,” he said. “As I
understand it, the only people entitled to bring the suit would be Hugh’s
executors or his heirs.”
It
took a moment before I understood. “Katherine Paris.”
“I’m
afraid so,” he said.
*
* * * *
Katherine
Paris lit a cigarette and eyed me suspiciously from across my desk. We were in
my office. This was the first time I’d used it for business since I’d leased it
three months earlier. There was a film of dust on the bookshelves and the file
cabinets. Both were empty. The only objects of my desk were three newly
purchased volumes of the code of civil procedure, the probate code and the
evidence code, a yellow legal tablet, my pen and the plastic cup into which
Mrs. Paris tapped her cigarette ash.
“Tell
me again how this works,” she said, “preferably in English. I cannot follow you
when you start quoting the law at me.”
I
smiled as charmingly as I knew how. Her hard, intelligent face showed no sign
of being charmed. I had virtually pulled her off a plane to Boston to get her
to talk to me. Her baggage had gone on without her. Now she planned to leave
that night on another flight. The clock was ticking away.
“It’s
called a wrongful death action,” I said, “and it’s a law suit brought by the
heirs or estate of someone who died through the negligence or wrongful act of
another. The most common instance is a suit brought by the family of someone
killed in a car accident or on the job.”
“I
would hardly classify homicide as an instance of neglect,” she remarked
impatiently.
“But
it is a wrongful act.”
“Oh,
at the very least,” she snickered.
“Mrs.
Paris, please — I know it sounds like hair-splitting, but there are precedents
in the case law that permit the heirs of a murder victim to bring an action
against his murderer.”
“So
you want my consent to bring this wrongful death action against Robert’s
estate.”
“Exactly.”
“And
you intend to ask for two hundred and fifty million dollars in damages?”
“Yes.”
She
stubbed out her cigarette. “What you want is permission to conduct a circus.”
I
began to respond but she cut me off.
“Mr.
Rios, you are a very clever man and I have no doubt that you were devoted to
Hugh but this idea of yours is absurd.”
“It’s
not absurd,” I said, “It’s entirely plausible.” She remained unimpressed. “Mrs.
Paris, you stand to gain by this suit whether we get to trial or not.”
“What
are you talking about?”
“I
know that you were left nothing in Robert Paris’s will. There’s enough truth to
this suit that even if we can’t prove the allegation that the judge had Hugh
murdered, the suit has considerable harassment value.”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“It
takes five years to get a relatively simple civil lawsuit to trial. A case of
this magnitude could drag on for a decade, easily. At some point the judge’s
executors will simply decide to pay you off and settle the suit.”
“But
what would you get out of that, Mr. Rios? Surely you have other motives for
wanting to sue Robert’s estate than my further enrichment.”
“I
intend to pursue this case through the pages of the
Chronicle
so that
even the fact of a settlement will be an admission of Robert Paris’s guilt.
That will satisfy me, Mrs. Paris,” I said with rising emotion, “even if it takes
the next ten years of my life to accomplish it.”
Visibly
startled by my vehemence, she sat back in her chair.
“It
won’t bring Hugh back to life,” she said softly.
“Mrs.
Paris, do you have any doubt that Hugh was murdered?”
“No,”
she said, without hesitation.
“And
do you have any doubt that Robert Paris was his murderer?”
In
a softer voice she said, “No.”
“But
the police say Hugh killed himself, shot himself full of heroin and drowned in
three feet of water. You saw the body.”
Her
face went white. Her cigarette burned unheeded. She nodded.
“How
can you allow your son to be slandered with this ridiculous explanation of his
death? It’s as if you left his body to the vultures. Doesn’t he deserve a
decent burial, a peaceful rest?”
“Spare
me,” she whispered.
“I
can’t,” I said. “I loved him.”
She
lit another cigarette and proceeded to smoke it, all the while looking out the
window as dusk gathered in the sky. Once she lifted a long finger to the ivory
cameo at the neck of her blouse. Perhaps her husband had given it to her,
perhaps, even, it had been given to her by Hugh. At length she turned her face
back to me and studied me for a long time. I did not avoid her eyes but looked
back into them.
“You
loved him,” she said, at last, echoing me. “I told you once I didn’t understand
that kind of love.”
“That
love differs only in expression but not quality from the love you felt for him.”
“No,”
she said. “The quality is different. Yours — it’s much finer.”
“May
I proceed with the suit?”
She
said, “All right.”
The
words fell like two smooth pebbles and clattered on the desk between us.
“Thank
you, Mrs. Paris.” “But I intend to catch that flight for Boston tonight. You’ll
be on your own.”
“I
understand that.”
“Yes,
I imagine you do,” she said. “You strike me as someone who was born to be on
his own. I know I was.” These last words were spoken with sadness, resignation.
Recovering herself, she said, “I suppose you want me to sign something.”
“No,”
I said. “You’ll either be good at your word or you won’t. If not, a piece of
paper won’t compel you.”
“You
needn’t worry about my word. I never give it unless I intend to honor it.”
I
nodded, slightly, in acknowledgment.
“However,”
she continued, “I wish to add one condition of your employment by me. You may
take your thirty percent if and when we win. In the meantime—” she dug into her
bag and withdrew a leather checkbook, “you’ll need money to proceed.”
I
watched her write out a check for ten thousand dollars and lay it on the desk
between us.
“I’ll
expect an accounting, of course,” she said. “If you need more money notify me
at the address on the check. But do remember, Mr. Rios, while I may be well-off
I’m counting on you to make me truly rich, so spend wisely.”
“I
will.”
She
rose and gathered up her things. “Now tell me, Mr. Rios, truthfully, if we do
get to trial what are our chances of winning?”
“Let
me give you a legal answer,” I said. “I would say we have two chances, fat and
slim.”
She
let out a low, throaty laugh that echoed in the room even after she’d left.
*
* * * *
The
next morning I stepped up to the counter of the clerk of the superior court,
wrote out a check, handed it over with a stack of papers to a young black
woman, and with those actions commenced the suit of
Paris versus Paris.
Along
with the complaint and summons, I filed a request for discovery and a
restraining order against the disbursement of Robert Paris’s estate pending the
outcome of this action. Simultaneously, a courier service I’d hired with some
of Mrs. Paris’s money served copies of the documents upon Grayson, Graves and
Miller as executors of the judge’s estate. The clerk stamped my copies of the
papers and handed them back to me, wishing me a good day as she did. I thanked
her and stepped out into the hall and into the glare of television cameras.
“Sir,
look this way, please,” a voice called to me. I turned to the camera. A blond
man in a gray suit spoke into a microphone, explaining that I had just filed a
two hundred and fifty million dollar lawsuit against the estate of Robert Paris
claiming that Paris had murdered his grandson. He spoke with no particular
urgency and in a normal tone of voice, but to me it was as if he was shouting
his words to the world through an amplifier on the tip of the Transamerica
pyramid.
At
length the blond, introducing himself as Greg Miller, turned to me and said, “Mr.
Rios, why have you filed this lawsuit rather than going to the police?”
I
cleared my throat and told my story.
*
* * * *
When
I woke the next morning the phone was already ringing. I let my answering
machine take the message as I got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to
start the coffee. I caught the tail end of the message — a reporter from the
L.A.
Times
requesting
an interview.
I’d
gotten to bed at three that morning, having spent the previous twelve hours
talking to reporters from newspapers and television stations from Sacramento to
Bakersfield. I put on a bathrobe and stepped outside to pick up the
Chronicle
and the
local. I’d made the front page of both. I glanced at the stories — they were
the usual jumble of fact and fantasy but the slant was decidedly in my favor.
I
skimmed the rest of the
Chronicle.
On the next-to-the-last-page, in the society section, I saw a picture of John
Smith. He’d attended a charitable function the night before and was shown
arriving at the Fairmont. By his expression I saw that he was used to having
his picture taken but not particularly tolerant of the practice. He looked away
from the camera, both his eyes and his mind visibly occupied on another matter.
I had a good idea of what it was.
I
folded the paper across Smith’s face and went to the window. Outside the sky
was clouded over. Knots of red and yellow leaves waved back and forth in the
trees like pennants. There was a lot to be done that day. Grant was expecting
me for lunch where we would map out our litigation strategy. The phone messages
would have to be responded to. I needed to hire a secretary and have a phone
installed in my office. Abruptly, I had become a practicing lawyer. It felt
good.
I
rinsed out my coffee cup and went to the bedroom where I changed into my sweats
and running shoes. I stretched in the living room for a couple of minutes and
then went out. It was about seven and there weren’t many other people on the
road. A Chinese boy came flying by, long, skinny legs pounding the sidewalk,
black hair flapping like silk at the back of his head. We nodded acknowledgment
as we passed each other.
It
had been some time since I’d last run and it took longer than usual to catch my
stride. I swiveled my head back and forth, trying to relax my neck. It was
then that I noticed the silver Rolls.
It
was gliding a few feet behind me, too slowly and with too little sense of
direction. I increased my speed and turned a comer. I looked over my shoulder,
and it was still following. Suddenly, the car sped up, turned the corner ahead
of me and stopped in my path. I slowed to a trot. The front passenger window
was soundlessly lowered. I felt a surge of prickly heat across my chest as my
blood rushed not from exertion but from fear. I stopped. The only person in the
car was the driver. He was a middle-aged man with silver hair, wearing a black
suit, white shirt, black tie and a visored black cap. He turned his face to me
and smiled.
“Mr.
Rios?” he called out. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
Cautiously,
I approached the car close enough to talk without shouting.