I’d been to see a movie and it was close to eleven when I got home. I parked half a block down the street in the only space I could find at that hour. I got out and locked the car. The street was dark and empty. A skittish wind blew, sending a tumble of leaves across my feet like an undulating wave of mice escaping from a cat. The moon was intermittently visible, obscured and then exposed by the erratic movement of the trees. I thought I was the only one out, but as I approached Henry’s gate, I caught sight of Solana standing in the shadows. I secured my shoulder bag and shoved my hands in the pockets of my parka.
She stepped forward when I was abreast of her, blocking my path.
I said, “Get away from me.”
“You put me in hot water with the county. A bad move on your part.”
“Who’s Cristina Tasinato?”
“You know who she is. Mr. Vronsky’s conservator of record. She says you paid a visit to her attorney. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“Bad language is unbecoming. I gave you more credit than that.”
“Or maybe you didn’t give me credit enough.”
Solana stared at me. “You were in my house. You picked up Mr. Vronksy’s pill bottles to see what medications he’s on. You set the bottles down not quite in the same place so I could tell they’d been moved. I pay attention to such things. You must have thought you were immune from discovery, but you’re not. You took his bankbooks as well.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but I wondered if she could hear my heart careen off my chest wall like a handball.
“You’ve made a serious mistake. People who try getting the best of me are always wrong. They learn the meaning of the word ‘regret,’ but by then it’s too late.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not. I’m offering advice. Leave Mr. Vronsky alone.”
“Who’s the big goon you have living in the house?”
“There’s no one living in the house except the two of us. You’re a suspicious young woman. Some would call you paranoid.”
“Is he the orderly you hired?”
“There’s an orderly who comes in, if it’s any business of yours. You’re upset. I can understand your hostility. You’re strong willed, used to doing as you please and having everything your way. We’re very much alike, both of us willing to play to the death.”
She put a hand on my arm and I shook it away. “Cut the melodrama. You can eat shit and die for all I care.”
“Now it’s you threatening me.”
“You better believe it,” I said.
The gate squeaked as I opened it and the sound of the latch catching punctuated the end of the exchange. She was still standing on the walk as I rounded the corner of the studio and let myself into my darkened apartment. I locked the door and shucked my jacket, tossing it on the kitchen counter as I passed. The lights were still off as I moved into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the shower to check the street outside. By the time I peered out the window, she was gone.
29
As I was letting myself into the office Monday morning I heard my phone ring. A bulky package was leaning against the door, left by a courier service. I tucked it under my arm and unlocked the door in haste, stepping over a pile of mail that had been shoved through the slot. I paused to snatch up the lot of it and scampered into the inner office, tossing the mail on my desk while I made a grab for the phone. I caught it on ring five and found Mary Bellflower on the line, sounding remarkably cheerful. “Did you get the documents Lowell Effinger messengered over to you? He sent me the same batch.”
“Must be the package that was left at my door. I just now walked in and haven’t had a chance to open it. What is it?”
“The transcript of the deposition he took from the accident expert earlier this week. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.”
“Sure thing. You sound happy.”
“I’m curious at any rate. This is good stuff,” she said.
I shrugged off my jacket and tossed my shoulder bag on the floor beside my desk. Before I opened the packet, I walked down the short hall to my kitchenette and set up a pot of coffee. I’d forgotten to bring in a carton of milk so I was forced to use two flat packets of fake stuff once the coffee had finished dripping into the carafe. I returned to my desk and opened the manila mailer. Then I leaned back in my swivel chair and put my feet on the edge of the desk with the transcript opened on my lap, coffee cup to my right.
Tilford Brannigan was a biomechanical expert who doubled, in this case, as the accident reconstructionist, wearing two hats at once. The document was neatly typed. The pages were stapled together at the top left corner. Each eight-by-eleven page had been reduced in size and formatted to fit four to the sheet.
The first page listed correspondence, marked “Plaintiff’s Exhibits #6-A Through 6-H,” and went on down the numbered lines. Included was Brannigan’s curriculum vitae, Gladys Frederickson’s medical summaries, Request for Production of Documents, Plaintiff Response to the Defendant Request for Production of Documents, Supplemental Request for Production of Documents. Dr. Goldfarb’s medical files had been subpoenaed, as had the files of a Dr. Spaulding. There were numerous depositions, summary/medical records marked Plaintiff’s Exhibit #16, along with the police report. Various photographs of the damaged cars and the accident site had been entered as exhibits. I quickly flipped to the last page, just to get a feel for what I was in for. Brannigan’s testimony started on page 6 and continued to page 133. The proceedings had begun at 4:30 P.M. and concluded at 7:15.
A deposition is, by nature, a less formal proceeding than an appearance in court since it occurs in a lawyer’s office instead of a courtroom. Testimony is given under oath. Both plaintiff’s and defendant’s attorneys and a court reporter are in attendance, but there’s no judge.
Hetty Buckwald was there representing the Fredricksons, and Lowell Effinger was on hand in Lisa Ray’s behalf, though neither the plaintiffs nor the defendant were present. Years before, I’d looked up Ms. Buckwald’s bona fides, convinced her law degree was from Harvard or Yale. Instead, she’d graduated from one of those Los Angeles law schools that self-promotes by way of big splashy ads pasted on freeway billboards.
I cruised through the repetitious early pages, where Ms. Buckwald worked to suggest that Brannigan was inexperienced and ill qualified, neither of which was true. Lowell Effinger objected at intervals, mostly intoning, “Misstates the prior testimony” or “Asked and answered” in a voice that, even on paper, sounded bored and annoyed. Effinger had tagged certain pages to make sure I didn’t miss the import. The gist of it was that, despite Ms. Buckwald’s persistently snide and wearing questions that cast aspersions on him wherever possible, Tilford Brannigan was steadfast in his insistence that Gladys Fredrickson’s injuries were inconsistent with the dynamics of the collision. There followed fourteen pages of testimony in which Ms. Buckwald picked away at him, trying to get him to yield on whatever minor point she was pursuing. Brannigan held up well, patient and unperturbed. His responses were mild, sometimes amusing, which must have infuriated Ms. Buckwald, who relied on friction and animosity to rattle a witness. If he conceded the smallest detail, she leaped on the admission as though it were a major triumph, completely undermining testimony he’d given before. I wasn’t sure whom she was trying to impress.
As soon as I’d read the file, I called Mary Bellflower, who said, “So what did you think?”