“Did he need the money?”
“Things weren’t going too well at the firm,” she says.
This is the first I’m hearing of this.
“Ben was busy politicking for most of last year. His draw from the firm was way down. We needed some of the money to live on. The rest he said he needed to cover some business debts.”
This is like Talia, little details that seemed to slip through the cracks. She is filling me in now.
“What debts?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Business,” she says, as if this covers the universe.
“Does your accountant have a current financial statement, something he can fax me fast, for the hearing this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she says. “I think so.” She gives me his name but can’t remember his number. I’ll have to get it from information.
“Bail’s always relative,” I tell her. “It turns on what the court thinks is necessary to compel your appearance. If you’re strapped, the magic figure may be lower.”
She looks around her at the dreary gray walls and the scarred countertop where she rests one elbow, the arm holding the receiver. On Talia’s side of the glass, the gray metal is carved with the initials of some former occupant. One must wonder where that soul obtained the sharp tool for this task, and the boldness to wield it as a guard looked on.
“I don’t know if I can stand another night in here.”
She sweeps the hair back from her eyes. Talia without makeup is still a striking woman. But her hair in twelve hours has already surrendered its luster to a single shampoo with a stringent disinfecting soap. This along with other indescribable indignities is the cost of admission to this place.
“I’ll get you out,” I say. But I almost choke on my own words. I’m beginning to sound like Cheetam.
“If Ben were here he’d …” She stopped, killing this threat in mid-sentence, a victim of its own lack of logic. “If Ben were here, none of this would be happening.” She laughs. “I’m not thinking very well, am I?”
“Can’t imagine why,” I say.
This draws a little smile.
“Are you in a single cell, alone?” I ask.
“For most of the night. They put somebody in the other bunk early this morning. The noise in this place, how does anybody sleep?”
“It’s not billed as a five-star hotel.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Listen, I don’t have much time and we have a lot to cover.
I’m going to get you out, but until I do, a few rules.”
She looks at me, bright-eyed, eager to cooperate.
“First, don’t talk to anybody. The police, the district attorney-no one. Do you hear? If the cops want to talk, you ask for me. They can’t question you after that unless I’m present. That should curb their curiosity.”
She nods.
“Rule number two. This is more important than rule number one,” I tell her. “Don’t trust anybody in this place, no matter how nice, no matter how helpful. Don’t get involved in conversations with any of the occupants. Don’t discuss your case. Don’t tell them why you’re here. If they watch TV or read, they know. You’re a hot item.”
She looks at me, a little naive. Then it settles on her. The curse of every jailhouse, the informant.
“It’s not just a confession you have to worry about. It’s the little details of your life. Tell some of these people where you were born-or your mother’s maiden name-and in twenty minutes they’ll craft your confession, sewing in these little facts for color. They’ll tell the DA that you told them in the night, in the depth of depression, between sobs in a crying jag, that you bared your soul to them because you trusted them. Believe me,” I tell her, “they will package and sell you for an hour off their time in this place.”
“I can believe it,” she says.
“I’ll get you out of here. That much I promise.” It was a blood oath. If for no other reason, my debt for complicity in Cheetam’s debacle.
I take a deep breath before tackling the next topic. It’s ticklish.
“Cheetam’s gone. Maybe you already know?”
She nods. “Tony told me he couldn’t go beyond the preliminary hearing, something about a conflict. He said he would try to get me somebody else.” Her eyes are pleading with me. “Why can’t you take it?” she says.
“You and Tony talked about that?”
“A little. He thinks you’d do a good job.”
“This from the man who gave us the gold-plated reference for Gilbert Cheetam.”
“I didn’t know Cheetam. I know you.”
“It doesn’t look good,” I tell her, “your case.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
I’m thinking I will have to deal with Nikki, her wrath, if I take Talia’s case, and obtain her signature if I’m to get the money to do it.
“You said you’d stay with me.” Talia now calls this in like a chit.
“I did, didn’t I.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, then I guess if you want me, I’m yours.”
“I want you,” she says.
There is a little giddiness here on her part. Her mood, elevated, expansive. She throws a mental party on the other side of the glass. I sense that she was less than confident that I would take the case. I can tell that I have made her day.
“I know it’s not the time, but we have to talk about finances.”
“Pick a lawyer and the first thing he wants to talk about is money,” she says.
“Besides my fees there will be costs,” I say, “expert witnesses, lab tests. All the things that Cheetam either didn’t do or did wrong.”
“Tony’s handling all of that,” she says. “He’s handling the money.”
“I met with Tony at his office the other night. He called me. Seem’s he’s getting nervous about the costs of defense.”
“What’s his problem? He knows I’m going to sell him Ben’s share in the firm when this is over.”
“Yeah, well, I hesitate to break the bad news, but I think he’s looking for a discount.”
She says a single word of profanity, to herself, under her breath. She is holding her head in her hands now, tilting it to one side and cradling the phone with her shoulder, elbows propped on the countertop. I can no longer see her eyes. They are lost behind a shower of stringy ringlets cascading over her face.
I’ve knocked the wind out of her, killed the euphoria of her celebration-my news and this place, which breeds manic-depression.
“What does he want?” She speaks from this pit.
“He’s offering cash in advance for a buy-out of your entire interest in the firm.”
“How much?”
“I got him up to three hundred thousand. I think he’ll go higher.”
She shakes her head, hair tangled in her eyes, looking at me now, almost accusing. I can hear the little voice in her head: “You got him up to three hundred thousand for full partnership interest in a firm worth ten million. Wonderful! Were you able to do me any other little favors while you were at it?”
“It’s absurd,” I tell her. “I told him I’d communicate the offer, but that I wouldn’t recommend it-that I was confident that you would not take it.”
These words are brave, considering that Talia now sits in jail, perhaps lacking the financial wherewithal to post her own bail.
“Skarpellos.” She shakes her head in despair. “Ben always said he had a gift for business.”
“The man knows when to make an offer,” I say.
“The man’s a world-class shit,” she says. It’s the first harsh word I’ve heard from her during the months of her travail. The first time she has blamed another living soul for any part of her plight. Talia is many things, but never a complainer. I take it as a sign of the stress she is under.
“What else can I do?” She’s says this matter-of-factly. As if she has made a mercurial decision to take the Greek’s offer.
“You can keep your cool. Don’t panic. For now I have him believing that money is no problem. Seems I’ve broken his lever.” This thought gives me happy eyes, which she reads from beyond the glass.