Dirty Blonde

Heading for the expressway.

Cate introduced herself to the young receptionist, who snapped her moussed head up from her paperback, so wide-eyed that her liquid eyeliner disappeared.

“Judge Fante, well, please have a seat in the waiting area,” the receptionist said, too genuine to hide her surprise.

“Thanks.” Cate entered the faux-hip reception room. Two businessmen in suits occupied separate chairs, pointedly avoiding her eye. One talked too loudly on a cell phone, and the other read the Inquirer. Cate caught a glimpse of her own photo, staring back at her. Her face grew red, but she seated herself as if she weren’t the town slut.

Green amp; Wachtel had undergone an extreme makeover since the old days, when it looked like the law firm where Ralph Lauren went to die. Its old mint-hued maps of colonial Philadelphia and scenes of fox-hunting in Chester County had been replaced by vast canvases of Self-Important Modern Art, abstract washes that made Cate think somebody had too much water in his tin of Crayola watercolors. Also gone were the burgundy-leather wing chairs with the shiny bullet tacks, and in their place stood massive sectional seats of black suede. Their color reminded Cate of coal slag, but she had Centralia on the brain.

“He’ll see you now, Judge,” the receptionist said, turning from her desk and motioning. “His office is that way, the last door on the hall.”

“Thanks.” Cate got up, squared her shoulders, and tried not to hear the receptionist pick up the phone as soon as she was out of earshot. She walked down the well-appointed hallway, completely aware that every secretary was staring as she passed. She had a lifetime of people whispering, and at the end of the hall, George Hartford was standing to meet her. His smile looked plastic, but it always did.

“Judge Fante, great to see you again,” George said, at the door to his office, and Cate shook his hand. “Come in, come in. Can we get you some coffee?”

“Great. Cream and sugar.”

“Easy, peasy.” George signaled to one of the secretaries. “Jen, two with everything.”

“Say ‘please’.” Cate paused as she entered the lawyer’s immense office. “My mother was a secretary.”

“Please?” George called after the secretary, who undoubtedly flipped his preppy ass the finger. “Please, sit down. Please.”

“Thanks.” Cate took a seat in the leather club chair opposite a supremely uncluttered mahogany desk. Ralph Lauren Home was still alive here; in fact, it was a knock-off compared to this office, which reeked of old Bryn Mawr. Real silver frames gleamed from retro black-and-white photos, and mahogany end tables shone with hand-rubbed finishes. Sunlight filtered through sheer muslin curtains in the windows, and even the dust mites wore penny loafers.

“Here we go!” George said brightly as a young secretary hurried in with china cups and saucers of aromatic coffee, which she placed on the end of the desk, on coasters. “Thanks so much, Jennifer,” George said pointedly.

“You’re welcome,” the secretary said, stealing a glance at Cate before she left.

“See, I’m educable,” George said with a stiff smile. “Old dog that I am.” He wore a gray pinstriped suit and an Hermes tie of the palest blue. His dark blue shirt, of British birth, sported a white cutaway collar. But something about him was different.

“Don’t you wear glasses, George?”

“Not anymore. I had my eyes lasered.”

Can you say midlife crisis? Radial keratotomy is the new red Porsche.

“I lost only a few hours of work, and the procedure is remarkable. And I was made managing partner last week, did you hear?”

“Congratulations, and I hadn’t heard. I’ve been too self-involved.”

“So we do have something in common,” George said with a sly smile, and Cate caught a lechy note in his voice.

“Then you are too old.”

“Ha! Some would say I’m in my prime.”

“You’re not.” In other words, back off.

George laughed, and Cate joined him so she could pretend she was kidding.

“George, I need a lawyer. A very good lawyer. You did a great job before me at trial, and after Beecker, this is the second-best law firm in the city.”

“But still the most expensive.”

Cate laughed, and George joined her, so they could pretend he was kidding. Lawyers were easy to get along with, once you knew how.

Cate said, “You’ve been following my troubles in the news, I’m sure.”

“Yes, and after last night, I’m surprised to see you looking so well.” George let his gaze run over her silk blouse. “What happened? Detective Russo tried to run you over? Is he a lunatic or what?”

“In short, he doesn’t think that Richard Marz killed your client, Art Simone. He thinks I did.”

George’s new eyes widened. “That’s absurd.”

“Of course I didn’t kill anybody. But what if he’s half right, and Richard Marz didn’t kill your client?”

“Impossible.” George reared back, and his neck wattle chafed his white collar, with its edge stiff enough to cut hard cheese. “The police said they had videotape of Marz shooting him.”

“It’s not clear that it’s Marz on the tape.” Cate sipped her coffee and set it back down. “Take a second to tell me what happened that day, at dinner with Simone. You were with Simone at that dinner that night, right?”

“Yes. I told the police, in detail.”

“So now tell me, your new favorite client.”

George smiled, relaxing. “Well, after you ruled from the bench, we went to an early dinner at Le Jardin, on the riverfront. I knew that Art liked French restaurants and it was the only one we hadn’t been to. I told him we were saving it for our victory dinner.”

“Sure of yourself, huh?”

“I was right on the law. I know you weren’t happy with the equities, but the legal principle was sound. I represented the principle.”

“Let’s not go there. Who was at the dinner?”

“Art, the jury consultant, and me.”

“The jury consultant was the pretty redhead, with my taste in clothes?”

George chuckled. “Courtney Flavert.”

“What about your associate, from the trial? She wasn’t at dinner?”

“No. Let’s put it this way, she has a brilliant legal mind.” George laughed.

Nice. “What time did you get there?”

“Around four, as I recall. Early. We went straight from court.”

“You took a cab or had a driver?”

“Cab. We couldn’t all fit in one, so Courtney and I took one, and Micah and Art took the other.”

A double date. “But Micah didn’t go to the dinner.”

“No, I think Art dropped her off, and took the cab on to the restaurant.”

Cate made a mental note. “Do Courtney and Art know each other?”

“Yes, from working together. Art was very interested in the jury-selection process.” George pursed his lips but still managed a smile. “Nothing untoward took place, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Of course not. I wonder why Micah didn’t go to the dinner celebration. She was in court every day. Why wasn’t she included?”

“Art didn’t think of her that way. She was a glorified secretary.”

Ouch. Cate let it go, but it still didn’t square. “By the way, did you know that Simone was going to do a TV series based on me?”

“I had no idea, and I’m sorry about that.” George frowned suddenly. “Hold on, Judge. It’s not Art’s estate or his production company that you want to sue, is it? Because of course, I’d be conflicted out of that. Though one of