skewered on the witness stand. His turn would come.
“Now, Mr. Middleton,” Patterson began in a tone of affection and deep respect, “how much money did your company expend on market research, consumer testing, and the like?”
I didn’t hear the answer because Percy was whispering suggestions in my ear. Clients always second-guess their lawyers-and often sue them-so it’s good to listen, or at least pretend. I doodled on a yellow pad so the jury thought I was taking notes. Percy was saying the jurors should taste both companies’ products. I wasn’t sure. The opposition’s chicken was soaked in a slimy grease, while Percy’s was dry, stringy, and coated with salt. I didn’t want to make the jurors sick and risk a mistrial. Trying this case once was enough.
At the end of the day, Marvin the Maven stopped me in the corridor. “Even though you didn’t ask, Jake, I think you’re meshuga, leaving on that woman, number four.”
Mrs. Kvajic. Late forties, a handsome woman with a big smile. “Dr. Weiner liked her earrings,” I said. “Large hoops, a little flamboyant. Figured she’d go for the chicken farmer over the big company.”
Marvin screwed his face into a septuagenarian’s pout. “Earrings, schmearrings. Did you look at her shoes, boychik? Charles Jourdan, three hundred bucks at Mayfair. She’s establishment all the way.”
Then Marvin walked away muttering to himself, not telling me how much I needed him.
3
The waiter served hors d’oeuvres on a silver tray.
I turned down the phyllo triangles stuffed with curried chicken and headed for the table stocked with iced- down stone crabs. On a small stage, a woman plucked at the strings of a harp, lending a formal air to the festivities. I gathered my beer and a plate of crabs and parked myself in front of an ice sculpture that towered over a bowl of shrimp. At parties, you can always find me within a fourth-and-one of the food.
I heard his voice before I saw him.
“There are four manners of death-accident, suicide, natural, and homicide-and the coroner’s first job is to ascertain one from the other.”
Doc Charlie Riggs was surrounded by a gaggle of young women. Most were taller than the bandy-legged and bearded wizard. The women wore cocktail dresses and jewelry that sparkled in the flickering reflection of the patio torches. We were on the broad expanse of red Spanish tile behind a Mediterranean mansion on Palm Island, one of the luxury landfills between Miami and Miami Beach. Years ago, Al Capone was an island resident. The current neighbors-lawyers, investment bankers, bond traders-aren’t as law-abiding.
“Right before I retired,” Doc Riggs was saying, “we had a hanging death that baffled the detectives. They couldn’t determine if it was suicide or homicide. A thirty-year-old married man was found in a hotel room. Bound, gagged, and dead. He was wearing a black brassiere and matching panties. His ankles were bound with a clothesline fastened to a dog collar around his neck. The body was positioned so that the man could see himself in the mirror, at least while he was alive. The panties were stained with seminal fluid.”
“A ritualistic torture murder?” one of the women guessed. She was a platinum blonde who squirmed with delight inside a skintight red leather mini.
“Colombian cowboys?” another offered, licking her glossy lips. “A revenge killing in a drug war. Or maybe a Santeria ritual?”
“A transvestite’s suicide?” said a third, a willowy model in a bare-shouldered silk dress patterned with cheetahs.
While the women were cooing and fluttering, Doc Riggs scratched his bushy beard. He pulled off his old eyeglasses, still mended with a fishhook where they had tossed a screw. “No, no, no, just like the police, you’ve come to a consensus audacium, a rash agreement. You’ve all assumed it was a homicide or a suicide.”
“But what else could it be?” asked the one in red leather, somewhat petulantly.
“ Non semper ea sunt quae videntur. Things are not always what they appear to be. Or as Gilbert and Sullivan put it in song-”
“‘Things are seldom what they seem,’” I chimed in. “‘Skim milk masquerades as cream.’”
Charlie whirled toward me. “Eureka! Jacob Lassiter, my favorite downtown mouthpiece. Jake, do you know these young ladies?” Charlie gestured toward his admirers with his drink and wrinkled his forehead. “Gracious, I do believe I have forgotten your names, but they all end in v’s, i’s, and double e’s. Candy, Bambi, Sandee, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, say hello to Jake Lassiter, shyster to the stars. So, Jake, what was the cause of death?”
“Got me, Charlie. And not for the first time.”
“Accident!” Charlie thundered. “Sexual asphyxia. A botched attempt at a rather elaborate masturbation. The deceased intended to heighten sexual pleasure by increasing pressure on his neck. You probably know that Eskimos often choke each other during sex.”
“Didn’t know,” I said. “My bedmates usually wait till afterwards.”
“This poor soul got carried away, used too much pressure with his legs, and strangled himself. Just an accident, that’s all.”
While I was trying to figure the moral of the story, the young women started drifting away. I wondered if it was my body language again, but then I noticed that the music had stopped and so had most of the talking. Our host, Matsuo Yagamata, had taken the stage. He was short and stocky and wore his custom-made English suit a tad on the tight side. His eyes were dark and bright, and he had the air of unquestioned authority that successful men acquire if they are not born with it.
W hen I had arrived at the party earlier in the evening, Yagamata smiled pleasantly and shook my hand with a grip that could crack walnuts. “Still in shape, number fifty-eight?” he asked, flattering me with the recognition and drawing attention to himself with the show of strength. “And how are my legal eagles at Harman and Fox?”
“Fine and dandy, as long as Yagamata Imports has us on retainer,” I replied.
He let my hand go and smiled. “Did you solve that duties problem on the European art, or do I have to bribe a customs inspector?”
You can never tell when some people are joking. “Better to pay your lawyers and let them sweet-talk the customs people,” I responded.
“Right. Bribes aren’t deductible.”
Okay, so he wasn’t joking. There had been a scandal in Japan, some government ministers on a secret payroll of his electronics exporting firm. With the investigation pending, Yagamata moved to Miami, a more forgiving place in both the private and public sectors. Businessmen here don’t earn their bones until they’ve been subpoenaed by a grand jury. Local politicians courting publicity gain greater name recognition once they’ve beaten an indictment for bribery or tax evasion. County commissioners once named a street after a major campaign contributor who also happened to be one of the largest drug dealers in town. With his lobbyists and legislator pals, Yagamata could have a whole subdivision christened in his honor.
“And what of our hotheaded Latino friend?” he asked. “Will it cost me a fortune to tidy up that little mess?”
That little mess. The rich have quaint ways of dealing with other people’s tragedies.
“I’m not doing Crespo much good right now,” I told him. “He’s covering for someone, and he’s going to get hit with major league time unless he opens up.”
Yagamata stared at me with those dark, impenetrable eyes. “He told you this?”
A grand jury couldn’t get that information out of me with a crowbar. But I was hesitant to brush off the guy paying Crespo’s bills with a speech about the sanctity of the attorney-client privilege. On the other hand, Crespo had told me to keep his boss informed. Senor Yagamata es mi amigo. I felt Yagamata’s eyes probing me. “I can tell he’s holding back,” I said, finally. “I’ve known Francisco Crespo a long time.”
“So I am told. It is fortuitous, is it not?”
For whom, I wondered. Maybe for Yagamata. Get one of his expensive lawyers to clean up that little mess, some nasty blood on the floor of his warehouse. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It makes it tougher for me. His mother is a saintly woman who’s anguished by what’s become of him.”
