5
The
first thing I did on coming into the office Thursday morning, after turning my
computer on, was to call Sarah Scott. She was evidently expecting my call. She
confirmed everything that Libby had told me about Laura Perinos life in 1972,
and we agreed that I would try to arrange for a deposition at her house on
Saturday afternoon. There was another hike on Mount Tam scheduled on that day,
and one of my fellow hikers, Robin James, is a freelance court reporter who
lives in Corte Madera. I had made arrangements of this kind with Robin before,
and I e-mailed her about it as soon as I finished my call with Sarah. I noticed
a number of new messages in my inbox, but none that seemed in urgent need of
reading, except Rose Bargallos reply to the message I had sent her the
previous night. Yes, she had been out of town Saturday and yes, she was back
and would come in to talk on Friday. Her message had a postscript: Say hi to
Jerry for me.
Next, I reread the Supreme Courts decision in Lockyer v.
City and County of San Francisco, S122923. On the face of
it there seemed to be no doubt. Not only did the Court rule that the
same-sex marriages authorized by the officials are void but also of no
legal effect, meaning that they could not be interpreted as taking the place
of registered domestic partnerships, as could civil unions registered in other
jurisdictions.
My case, I mean Libby Schlemmers case, was beginning to
look like a slam-dunk, or a piece of cake. Getting derogatory information about
Andy would be icing on the cake. I tried to think of more
cliché metaphors to
describe the situation but couldnt come up with any.
Undermining Andys reputation would serve mostly, I
thought, to discourage Margo from wasting her time and mine by pursuing his
case. Not that I seriously expected Margo to be easily discouraged. But I
needed all the artillery another metaphor! that I could muster.
It was time to call her, or at least to leave a message on
her office answering machine; Margo never answered calls directly, and she
chose to make do without an office assistant.
Hi, Margo, I spoke into the telephone. Its Gary. This
time I need to talk to you as lawyer to lawyer, and it has to do with Peter
Harts estate.
She called back about twenty minutes later. Whats your interest
in Peters estate? she asked curtly, without a greeting.
I decided to lead up to it gradually. As a matter of
fact, I have a client whos interested in it.
And who might that be? A relative of his? The sardonic
tone of her questioning led me to assume that she had his Ohio family in mind.
Yes, I said simply.
Who?
His daughter.
It was one of the very few times that I ever managed to
catch Margo off guard, and I savored the moment. She was silent for an
exquisitely long five seconds or so.
What did you say? she finally asked slowly.
She had heard me perfectly well, and there was no point in
repeating my previous answer. It seems that when Peter was still straight,
kind of, before we even knew him, he fathered a daughter. He never knew about
her, but I have pretty good circumstantial evidence of his paternity.
And she wants her half of the estate?
That isnt the point. What I want for her is what shes
entitled to by law, which is all of it, unless any other children turn up.
But Andy
I just reread Lockyer versus San Francisco. The
marriages are void and of no legal effect, it says. I emphasized the words and
of no legal effect. And Peter and Andy never filed a DDP, which they could
have done, but chose not to.
I heard Margo sigh. If I didnt know her as well as I did
I might have thought that she was conceding defeat. But I knew that she was
preparing for battle.
Can we talk about this next week? she said.
It was what I had expected. Sure, I said. By the
following week I would have even more ammunition in my arsenal.
After hanging up I went back to my e-mail. There was no
reply from Robin yet. I replied to Roses message, suggesting 10:30 as a
meeting time, and adding the postscript I will. Of the other ten messages in
my inbox, two were reminders of the parties I was due to attend that weekend,
two were inquiries from prospective clients, and four were communications of
various kinds from current clients, including the software magnate. The last
two were spam that had managed to get through the filter.
It was now almost ten, my usual time for a midmorning
cappuccino. I had intended to go out for it alone, but as I was walking out of
my office and heading toward Dianes desk to tell her that I would be out for
about half an hour, I saw Barbara doing exactly the same, as though mirroring
me. She smiled at me and said Java time?
In our neighborhood there are two coffeehouses (three if
you count Starbucks, which I dont): a newer one with Java in its name
and a much older one without it. Those of us who have been there for a long
time, and remember it as the only one, call it simply The Coffeehouse,
and we refer to the other as the Java place, with a touch of
condescension that is lost on newcomers such as Barbara.
Barbara Kaminsky is a criminal lawyer and is the youngest
of our quartet; she is about six years younger than Nina, who in turn is five
years younger than Jerry and I. She is also the only one who identifies herself
as LGBT. She pronounces the initialism with a stress on the B making it sound
like an Arabic surname, El-Jibiti probably in order to emphasize her own
status as a bisexual. But nearly all of her relationships that I have observed
have been with men, including three separate short-lived flings with Jerry
Brucker, and several with her clients. From conversations with her and her
acquaintances (including Margo) it appears that her inclinations were more
lesbian in her twenties.
Jawohl, I said, pronouncing the J as in Java.
Barbara laughed. She likes puns.
On the way to the Java place I asked her, Do you know
Andy Stone?
She seemed to blush ever so slightly. Well, yes, she
said. In a way, she added after a pause.
Knowing Barbara Kaminsky, and knowing what Libby Schlemmer
had told me about Andy Stone, I didnt need to ask Barbara what that way might
be. But I decided to pursue the matter a little further.
Is it true, I asked, trying to sound naïve, that hes a
closet straight?
Thats an interesting way of putting it.
Its Jerrys.
Oh, she said. Well, I guess hes bisexual, as I believe
we all are, deep down, whatever the New York Times may say. She was
referring to a recent article, widely discussed in San Francisco, about the
controversial research of J. Michael Bailey. You know that, she added with a
smile just as we reached the Java place. And, in fact, she had often expressed
that belief, citing Freud, Kinsey and others in support.
Are you asking me about Andy, Barbara asked after we sat
down with our cappuccinos, because Margo is representing him in the matter of
Peter Harts estate?
Indirectly, I said. You see, Im involved in this
matter too. I began to take a sip, but quickly set my cup down. The Java place
makes its cappuccinos scalding hot.
Did you say Libby Schlemmer? she asked after I had given
her a cursory account of the case while my cappuccino cooled to a drinkable
temperature.
Yes. Do you know her too?
No, but Andy mentioned her. He said that hed never had
sex with a woman until he met this absolutely beautiful girl named Libby
Schlemmer. Thats when he discovered that women have possibilities. But they
have to be very special women, he said.
And you, of course, are one of those special women, I
said, trying to sound sincere. Barbara blushed again, smiled and said nothing.
Barbara is attractive enough, but the idea of her
belonging to a special category of which Libby Schlemmer is the prototype is
ludicrous. Andy was, then, a liar, pure and simple. Or perhaps, as that famous
bisexual Oscar Wilde said about the truth, rarely pure and never simple.
At a nearby table someone was looking at the Datebook
section of the previous days Chronicle. Its back page was visible to
me, and in particular the Bad Reporter cartoon whose tagline is The
lies behind the truth, and the truth behind those lies that are behind the
truth. At that moment I resolved to find the truth behind Andy Stones
lies, whatever relation it might have to Libby Schlemmers case.
How did you meet Andy? I asked Barbara.
At a party at Margo and Joyces, as a matter of fact.
Was Peter there?
Oh, no. Peter was long past partying by then. It was
about two years ago I think it was a Labor Day barbecue.
Back
in my office at ten-thirty, I decided to begin my quest without waiting for
Rose Bargallo by googling Andy Stone. I dont actually use Google; Im a
Yahoo user from way back, and I dont change habits easily unless theres a
good reason. Not that Im a Yahoo loyalist: I acknowledged the power of Google
by selling my Yahoo stock (with a 400% profit in two years) when Googles came
out. And Ive come to use google as a generic verb meaning use a
search engine, whatever the Google people might think of such usage.
Andy Stone brought up some fifty thousand hits,
referring to hundreds of different persons. Thomas Anderson Stone
brought only a few, all referring to dead people. This, then, was not going to
be the way.
While I was googling, a message alert told me that Robin
James had replied. She would not be hiking on Saturday, but she would be available
for an afternoon deposition.
Having Roses and Robins messages in my inbox reminded me
that I had not yet set up a folder for Libbys case. I promptly did so, with a
subfolder for e-mail messages, and I started a Word file in which I jotted
down, at random, all the relevant facts and eventualities to date. As I was
typing, visions of Libbys face and body kept drifting past my consciousness.
It would be nice to have a photograph of her in the folder, I thought; it would
help me focus.
After saving the file as Notes I closed the folder
and went back to work on other cases. There was enough to keep me busy for the
rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon, when I had two
appointments scheduled: one with a current client a man and one with a
prospective one, a woman. I prayed to no one in particular that it would
not be another Libby Schlemmer.
Friday
morning there was no fog and the weather began to turn warm at last. I went to
the Coffeehouse earlier than usual and got back to the office at ten-fifteen.
Rose Bargallo wearing, unusually for her, a knee-length skirt and a
sleeveless blouse was already there, chatting with Diane and, it seemed to
me, looking at the stairs expectantly. She acknowledged my arrival with a nod
and a smile but soon turned her head back to where it had been.
Sure enough, after a minute or so Jerry came down the
stairs, accompanying a male client. As soon as the man left, Rose rushed up to
Jerry and they went up together. Diane and I exchanged smiles and I went into
my office.
At ten-forty Rose knocked and entered without waiting.
Unlike the previous days broker, nothing about her appearance gave any
indication of what kind of activity she had just engaged in.
Hi, Gary, she said, looking fully composed and relaxed,
and more feminine than I had ever seen her, as she sat down facing me. I was
tempted to say to her that evidently quickies worked for her, but restrained
myself.
Hi, Rose, I said. And just as I had done with Barbara
the preceding day, I began by asking, Do you know Andy Stone?
Not personally, but I know who he is.
Do you know anything about him before he came here?
No.
Well, it seems that he graduated from the University of
Oregon in nineteen-ninety-two, and he showed up here at Peter Harts side three
or four years ago. I would like you to find out what you can about the ten
years in between.
Is this in connection with a case of yours?
Yes, I said, and explained the matter to her as briefly
as I could, but taking care to include everything I knew about Andy.
But if youre working contingency, she said when she was
done taking notes, Ill need to be paid, win or lose.
You will, I said.
After
Rose left, I began to feel some misgivings about having hired her. The work she
had done for me, locating missing heirs, had always been straightforward, but I
knew that on some of her jobs for other lawyers she could resort to underhanded
methods of gathering information. Ideally, one could find out about Andy
Stones past by asking him about it. But the situation was not ideal for two
reasons: one, that Andy was probably a liar; two, that I was representing a
client who was in an adversarial position to him, and so could not talk to Andy
without his attorneys presence.
My misgivings quickly evaporated. I went back to work.
I
left the office fairly early that afternoon. I needed to do some shopping at
Trader Joes and to prepare something to bring to Ann and Jeffs party.
I have known Jeff Schneider since we were both
undergraduates at Berkeley, and we have kept in touch without becoming close
friends. He was at my wedding, and I was at both of his. We have generally
invited each other to parties. In recent years, since my divorce and especially
since he has been living with the very convivial Ann Mason, the stream of
invitations has been fairly one-sided. I have tried to reciprocate by
contributing generously with food and drink.
By and large, I dont know the people who come to Ann and
Jeffs parties, except from having met them there before. And theres a good
chance that one of them will be a single woman that Ann or Jeff will try to fix
me up with.
On the way home from Trader Joes, I heard ominous news
about Hurricane Katrina on NPRs All Things Considered: the storm was
gathering strength in the Gulf of Mexico after drenching the Miami area early
in the day, and was expected to make landfall again as a Category Three storm
on Monday morning.