Running From The Law

how many times would you say he sent you flowers?”

Her forehead creased again. “I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Would you say they came often or rarely?”

“Uh, often, I guess.”

“Don’t guess,” Julicher said in a growl.

And don’t lie. “Miss Sullivan, would you say that Judge Hamilton sent you flowers three times in seven months?”

“Uh, no.”

“More times or fewer times?”

She shifted in her chair. “I don’t remember.”

She did remember, a fool could see it. “Did the judge send you flowers more than three times in seven months? Before you answer, I remind you that you are under oath.”

“Objection!” Julicher said. “There’s no call for that!”

“More,” Patricia answered, agitated. “More than three times. But… I don’t know how much. How many.”

Julicher’s thick lips formed an unhappy line and he scribbled another note on his legal pad.

“Miss Sullivan, which florist did the flowers come from?”

“Cowan’s, I think.”

The best in Wayne. I made a note to get a para-legal on it, to see if it was a standing order. Then I remembered something. Fiske had a thing about spider mums. He thought they symbolized true love and they were the subject of countless courtship stories told by his devoted wife, Kate. “What kind of flowers did the judge send you, Miss Sullivan?”

“Objection as to relevance!” Julicher shouted, tossing his pen onto the table, where it skidded into the stack of exhibits.

“Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”

Patricia looked from me to Julicher. “Do I have to answer? Does this matter, Stan?”

“Of course not,” Julicher said. “Come off it, Rita. The line of questioning is irrelevant.”

“It’s highly relevant, and you can’t object to relevance during a deposition anyway. Let her answer the question or I’ll call Judge McKelvey and get a ruling.”

Julicher scowled, then looked away, simmering. “Go ahead, Patricia. It’s ridiculous, but you can answer.”

She smoothed back her hair. “Well, the judge sent spider mums.”

“What color?” Yellow.

“Yellow, I think.”

“How many, each time?” Eighteen.

“Eighteen.”

Eighteen, not twelve, because he wanted the vase to look overfull. “Why not a dozen, do you know?”

Julicher exploded. “What’s the point what color, how many? This is a waste of time! None of this has to do with her allegations!”

“Why not a dozen, Miss Sullivan? I remind you again that you are under oath.”

“I don’t remember!” Patricia said, flustered.

Liar. So Fiske was having an affair. And it was a love affair, not just sex. Had he expected me not to find out? What the hell was going on? “Did Judge Hamilton give you anything else?”

“Yes,” she said, looking worriedly at Julicher.

“What did he give you?”

“He sent me some oils and painting supplies.”

Julicher frowned and the Cadillac emblem did the watusi. Maybe he had bought Patricia’s sexual harassment story from the start, but more likely he wanted deniability too much to quiz her in any depth. Then again, maybe he anticipated Fiske wouldn’t want to defend by proving they had a consensual love affair, and Julicher knew he had a winner either way. I was the one in the lose-lose position. And Fiske.

“Miss Sullivan, how many times did Judge Hamilton send you paints and supplies in the seven-month period?”

“Once or twice. Uh… once.”

But Fiske didn’t paint, he played tennis. “How did he know what to send?”

“I don’t know. I never asked for the supplies. Never.”

“You didn’t send them back, did you?”

“No.”

“Did Judge Hamilton ever give you any money?”

Her eyes flashed defensively. “Absolutely not. He offered to lend me some, but I turned it down.”

“Don’t volunteer, Patricia!” Julicher shouted, loud as a schoolyard bully. “I told you that!”

“Sorry. Sorry,” she said, rattled.

“Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton offer you the money before or after he bought the paintings?”

“Before.”

So after she’d refused the money, Fiske bought her paintings. I put two and two together, unfortunately without the aid of my client. “Did he ever commission a painting from you?”

She didn’t answer but reached for her water with a shaky hand. The court reporter remained poised over the stenography machine, its unlabeled black keys a mystery to everyone but her. The room got very quiet, and Julicher looked up from his notes when the silence caught up to him.

“The judge commissioned one painting from me,” Patricia said finally. “A portrait.”

“Of who? Whom?”

“Of you and the man you live with.”

What? My throat caught. “The painting was of me?”

“It was from a photograph taken in Bermuda, I think the judge said. You were standing under a moongate.”

Paul and me. Our first trip together. It was after we had dinner, the first night. A man from Iowa had taken the photo.

“You wore a white dress, like silk,” Patricia said.

Paul had loved that dress. I bet him he couldn’t unzip it with his teeth. Then he did.

“I think the portrait was supposed to be an anniversary surprise.”

I remembered Paul slipping out of his jacket, then unbuttoning his dress shirt. Why are you taking your own clothes off? I had asked him. Because I can do it faster, he’d said, laughing.

There was laughter in the conference room. “Earth to Rita,” Julicher said with a smirk, and I fumbled for my stride.

“Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher leaned forward. “Now what’s the relevance of that?”

None, but I wanted to know. “Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher laid a hammy hand on his client’s arm. “Objection! You’re asking her to