“I asked my friend at the Coroner’s to get me an old case file.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Something is most assuredly fucking up.”
“Another floater,” I said. “Similar tox profile but nothing more, so far.”
She beamed. “Poirot is cooking.”
Rancho El Bosque formed a right triangle with the Valois home and Fuller, Gilligan & Fuller, LLC’s office in downtown San Jose. The gate guard leaned from his booth to eye my elderly RAV4, deciding whether to redirect me to the service entrance.
He waved me through with a stern reminder that the speed limit was five miles per hour.
Greenbelts insulated the grounds from the surrounding suburbs: quiet on quiet, punctuated by the occasional tink of a tee shot.
I pulled beneath the clubhouse overhang, activating a stable of valets. They didn’t betray any disappointment at the car. I could be a billionaire. Silicon Valley is funny.
The restaurant hostess escorted me to a private room.
Fuller, Gilligan & Fuller, LLC’s website listed nineteen attorneys, including Shelby Fuller III, a white-haired, Stanford-educated lion of the law, and his ruddy, thick-necked, Stanford-educated scion, Shelby IV. Partners both. I wasn’t sure whom to expect behind the paneled door.
Drumroll, please...
¡El Cuarto!
Five-ten, late thirties, with chestnut-brown hair thinning but meticulously groomed. His office had granted our meeting with the proviso that Mr. Fuller had a four p.m. tee time. He was ready for it: formfitting robin’s egg golf trousers and an argyle double-knit shirt in and out of fashion fifty times in as many years. Gold wedding band, gold class ring with a big S overlaid on a red stone.
Mine, from Cal, had a blue stone. I hadn’t wanted it, but my parents had insisted. It occupied a place of honor at the bottom of a sock drawer.
Two dozen chairs circled a mahogany table the size of a skating rink, set with a carafe of iced tea, tumblers, and a non-disclosure agreement.
Shelby Fuller IV said, “Read it if you like.”
As I did, he said, “I had our people look you up.”
“Who’s your people?”
“The Ackerman Group.”
Multi-city power hitters, corporate investigations, mostly. “What was their verdict?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The NDA had two sections. Part one covered today’s conversation and any future conversations with Fuller, binding me to secrecy. Part two was retroactive, covering all conversations, past and future, with the Valoises. In the event that I violated the terms, I forfeited my firstborn and was cursed to the seventh generation.
“My contract already includes a confidentiality clause,” I said.
Fuller smiled sourly. “Trust but verify.”
“I’m fine with the second part, but I can’t not tell Rick and Liz about our conversation. That defeats the purpose.”
He sighed. Gestured for the NDA.
Taking out a gold-and-malachite pen, he struck through a handful of clauses, added carets.
“Happy?” he asked.
I scanned. “Yes. Can I borrow your pen?”
“You may.”
He watched me sign, waited for me to give the pen back — as though I might try to swipe it. In fairness, it was a pretty nice pen.
“How can I help you, Mr. Edison?”
“Walk me through what you’ve done.”
He reviewed the playbook: writing letters, making calls, massaging connections, pulling strings, purring threats. Not content to limit himself to the investigating jurisdiction, he’d contacted law enforcement at the county and state levels, plus council members, supervisors, representatives, and party chairs.
I said, “That’s a lot.”
“A lot of nothing,” he said. “The DA retains broad discretion, and without solid evidence leading to an arrest, there’s little I — or anyone — can do. Enter you.”
His tone put me on par with a psychic or ghost hunter.
I said, “Why isn’t Ackerman handling the case?”
“The Valoises were dissatisfied with their work.”
“They were,” I said, “or Rick was?”
Fuller poured himself iced tea and ignored the question.
I said, “Your firm specializes in corporate law.”
“For the most part.”
“An individual family like the Valoises wouldn’t be your standard client.”
“The Valoises aren’t a standard family.”
“How did you come to represent them?”
“Elizabeth’s father ran a local bank that expanded. She inherited the majority stake, eight or ten branches up and down the peninsula. Wells Fargo bought them out. My father represented her during the acquisition.”
“A relationship you inherited.”
“We don’t do it for anyone else.”
“Stop me when I’m wrong,” I said. “Personally, you feel this is a fool’s errand. But Liz does what Rick says, and you do what she says, and you’re not going to turn down billable hours.”
“Would you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Fuller laughed. I often got that same laugh from attorneys.
For a hired hand, you’re not so dumb.
“I read the autopsy reports,” I said. “There are a number of things Rick left out. Makes me wonder what else he editorialized about.”
“Such as.”
“He said Adam had never been arrested.”
“And?”
“He said it a little louder than I thought necessary.”
“It’s true.”
“True because it never happened?” I said. “Or because you had it sealed?”
“Not I.”
“Your father, then.”
Shelby Fuller IV tapped the NDA. “Remember signing this?”
“It was thirty minutes ago.”
“Just reminding you. As a courtesy.”
I nodded. “Rock-solid.”
He said, “Adam, in his adolescent wisdom, brought a gun to school. Unloaded, as I recall. It wasn’t his gun, either, it belonged to a friend’s parents.”
“Which friend?”
“A troubled kid named Trevor Vogel.”
“Was he arrested, too?”
“Yes, although the charges were dropped after Adam insisted he’d removed the gun from the Vogel home without their knowledge.”
“Fallout?”
“Not that bad. The judge was inclined to chalk Adam’s behavior up to youthful indiscretion. Afterward Rick had my father petition for an order of protection.”
“Against Vogel.”
Fuller nodded. “Denied, as he and Adam were both minors. In retrospect, it wasn’t an unreasonable request. Vogel went on to do a couple of stints in jail.”
“Possession with intent and assault.”
He regarded me with new appreciation. “Correct. I’ll have you know that I pleaded with the detectives to look into him. They said they’d take it under advisement, which, as you know, is cop-speak for ‘Go fuck yourself.’ ”
“Not always,” I said. “Sometimes it means ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’ ”
Fuller allowed himself a genuine smile. “Ah. Nuance.”
“Where do I find Vogel?”
“Our people came up empty.”
“Maybe that’s why Rick was dissatisfied.”
“Better luck to you.”
“Did Adam have other run-ins with the law?”
“Not even a speeding ticket.”
“What can you tell me about Olivia Parisi?”
“Not very much.”
“They had you vet me. You must have done at least that much with her.”
“Trust but verify.”
“Anything pop up?”
He shook his head.
“Any other matters in which your firm represented Adam?”
“None.”
“Anything else I should know?”