suspect that pets may have been part of Miguelito’s life at some point. An empty pizza box lies on the middle of the floor, melted cheese hardened like white plastic stuck to its cardboard innards.
Child-woman reaches for the button on the television. The baby stops crying for a second, then starts up again.
“He likes the noise of the television,” she says. “Sometimes it quiets him.” She pulls the blanket back and strokes the infant’s head, cradling him in the other arm, as she tries to comfort him.
“What did he say? Can you get him out of jail? I don’t have any food left in the house,” she says. “Can Michael get some money to me?”
“Are you his wife?”
She nods.
“What’s your name?”
“Robin. Robin Watkins. Espinoza,” she says. “We were married last summer.”
“Do you have some proof? A marriage license.”
“Why should I have to prove it?”
“It’s necessary if I’m going to represent your husband.”
“Somewhere,” she says.
“Can you find it?”
“Just a minute.” She half runs and skips down the hall, footfalls nearly imperceptible even on the worn pad of this threadbare carpet. I stand near the entrance to the living room surveying the litter on the floor. Against the wall is a sofa that has seen better days, upholstery that has been shredded on one arm. Signs of a cat.
I hear mother and child rummaging through things in the other room, drawers opening and slamming closed, things dropping on the floor. After a minute or so, I hear her coming back down the hall. Walking this time, quickly but more composed. She straightens her hair with one hand, conscious for the first time that her appearance may be important to her husband’s welfare. She juggles the baby and an envelope in the fingers of the hand cradled under the child. She holds the envelope out and I take it.
“Can you get him out on bail?” she asks.
Inside the envelope is a single-page document. I take it out and unfold it. It’s a marriage certificate issued in this county the previous July to Miguelito Espinoza Garza and Robin Lynn Watkins. Robin lists her age as eighteen. I would not want to have to verify this under oath.
“Can you?” she says. “Get him out?”
“I don’t know. I need you to sign something.”
“They wouldn’t let me even talk to him,” she says. “They got him down there in that big building. The tall white one downtown. I went inside and they won’t even tell him I was there.” Her right cheek has a smudge of dirt on it, Little Orphan Annie. “They told me I had to leave or they’d arrest me.” More than likely they’d call a truant officer to pick her up.
“Do you know if he’s represented by anyone else?” I ask. “The federal public defender?”
She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head. “Like I said, they wouldn’t tell me nothin’.” She looks at me with big blue empty eyes.
“How long have you known Michael?” I ask.
“Why do you wanna know?”
“It would help to know some background.”
“We met at the fair up in Pomona. Last summer. I was working one of the kiddy rides and Michael came by. He saw me.” She smiles with thoughts of love at first sight, not looking at me, but off into the distance, kind of dreamy. “We lived together for a while,” she says. “But then Michael said I could get some money from the county if we were married. He wasn’t here a lot so… Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“It’s all right.”
“I get welfare. It’s for my baby,” she says. “I’m probably not supposed to. But Michael’s not around. He travels. I’m getting worried,” she says, “cuz I got no more money for formula. I spent it. My baby’s hungry.” She’s back to stroking it’s head, kissing the little face lost in the blanket.
Under my arm I’m carrying a thin leather folder. I open it and take out a single typed sheet I prepared before leaving the office. With a pen I print her name under the signature line at the bottom.
“This is an authorization and an agreement for legal services,” I tell her. “It allows me to represent Michael. Here.” I hand her the pen. We juggle the baby and I end up holding it while she takes the folder, paper, and pen.
“Where do I sign?”
“On the bottom. The line above your name.” I point with one finger from under the baby. It is still screaming, pangs of hunger.
She doesn’t ask why I need this, if I’ve already seen her husband. Instead when she looks up she says, “How am I gonna pay you?”
We exchange baby and briefcase. I put the signed paper back inside, then I lift my wallet from the inside pocket of my coat and open it. In the billfold I have four hundreds and some smaller bills. I pull the hundreds out and hand them to her.
“Here, this is for you. Michael and I will make arrangements. Don’t worry about it.”
Her eyes light up. “Get some food for the baby, and groceries for yourself.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mid June and we are huddled in Adam Tolt’s walnut-paneled conference room.
“Glenda. Adam here. You can show them all in.” Tolt replaces the receiver in its cradle and settles against the high back of the tufted leather chair as he looks at me. We are seated against the glistening surface of the table in the executive conference room that adjoins his office. This is the holy of holies, the place where the firm’s management committee meets quarterly to chart the bottom line, where it doles out bonuses and inducts new partners into the fold, no doubt with secret handshakes.
“I’m gonna let you handle it,” says Tolt. He’s referring to the negotiations about to start.
“I’ll just make the introductions, and then if there’s anything I can do… well.” He makes an aristocratic gesture, a sweep with the back of one hand you might expect from a Venetian doge. His hand passes over the leather folder with its gold corners and the black Mont Blanc pen resting atop it like a sleek torpedo.
Tolt’s eyes study the door behind me as the fingers of one hand, adorned by a gold university ring, tap the tabletop in a drumroll one might expect as a prelude to an execution.
Adam has by instinct taken the place of honor at the head of the table. It is his turf. He does not think much of my chances here today, particularly in light of the intractable positions taken by the two women, Dana and Margaret Rush. Neither is willing to settle for less than two million, the full face amount of the policy on Nick’s life, though I suspect I could cause Dana to buckle if I pushed. I have not shared my arguments with Tolt. I am not sure whether I can trust him. So he will be hearing everything for the first time as I lay it out.
The door across from me opens, and I look up. Tolt’s administrative assistant plays usher, shepherding them in. The first face through the door is ruddy, red with rosacea, a man about six feet tall, well built, I would guess in his late forties, with close-cropped blond hair, combed over and parted on the left like a prairie banker. He wears a well-turned dark suit, power pinstripes for whatever psychological advantage it might provide. He studies me briefly through searing blue eyes offering nothing but the confidence of his grin, the kind you get from politicians feeling their oats and business types who have climbed over other bodies on the way to the top.
According to the playbook and the descriptions I have been given by Tolt, I am guessing that this is Luther Conover, senior adjuster and vice president for claims at Devon Insurance, the principal underwriter on the key-man policy for Nick’s life.
“Luther. Good to see you.” Tolt gets up out of his chair. “It’s been a while.”
“It has. Too long. When was the last time? I think it was up at the northern regionals when our board met. When was that? Two years ago?”
“Sounds right. How’s Julie and the kids?”
