“As the Court is aware, and I set this out in full in my trial memorandum, the Uniform Partnership Act permits a limited partner to have some degree of control over the conduct of the business with which he is involved. Mr. Tish has done nothing more than the limited partners did in the Grainger case or the Rathke case. I don’t want to go into this too much more, because I’d just be repeating the brief, but I don’t see where the plaintiffs have established liability. If the Court has any questions…”
“No, Mr. Stafford. I’ll tell both of you gentlemen that this question is too close for me to make a decision now. I’ve read your briefs, and I want some time to do some independent research before resolving this. I’ll try to have a written opinion in a week or so. If you have any supplemental authorities, you can submit them in letter form. Anything further?”
The attorneys shook their heads.
“Then we’ll adjourn. Have a nice lunch, gentlemen.”
The judge rose and disappeared through a door behind his seat. Larry Stafford started collecting his notes and putting them into his file in an orderly manner. The notes, written in a neat, precise hand, were set out on index cards. Andrew Tish, Stafford’s client, asked for an opinion on how the case had gone. Stafford tucked a law book under his arm and hefted his attache case as he shook his head and started for the courtroom door.
“No way of telling with Rosenthal, Andy. The guy’s bright, and he’ll give a lot of thought to the case. That’s about all I can say.”
Walter Greaves was waiting in the hall outside the courtroom.
“Larry.”
Stafford stopped and asked Tish to wait for him.
“I talked with my people, and they’re willing to come down on the settlement offer.”
“I’ll tell Tish, but I’m going to advise him to hang tough.”
“I’m just conveying my client’s offer.”
Stafford smirked and walked down the hall that led to the elevators. The courthouse had four corridors that ran along the sides of an empty central shaft. Greaves picked up his briefcase and walked toward the rear of the building. He did not like dealing with Stafford. He was too cocky. Very…superficial-that was the word. Nothing under the surface. Come on like Mr. Nice Guy one minute, then you find out you’ve been double-crossed. And in this case it had not been necessary to do some of the borderline ethical things the boy had done. Hell, Stafford had him dead to rights. His clients were just trying anything they could to prop up a dying business. Greaves shook his head and moved aside to get out of the way of a young man dressed in jeans and a work shirt. This young man had a dark complexion, a shaggy black mustache, and thick black hair and he was staring down the corridor toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom.
“And then what happened, Officer Ortiz?”
“My job was to wait outside the residence in case any of the suspects attempted to escape. The other officers went inside to execute the search warrant, and Officer Lesnowski and I waited near the front of the building.”
“Did you actually take part in the search?”
“No, I did not.”
“What happened then?”
“Shortly after, Officers Teske and Hennings exited the residence with the two prisoners and a bag containing evidence. Officer Teske gave me the evidence bag, and he and Hennings drove to the station house with the prisoners.”
“Did you talk with either of the prisoners or look in the bag?”
“No, sir.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
Judge McDonald nodded toward the public defender, who was conferring with his client, a teenage black man accused of possession of cocaine. Ortiz relaxed. He had been cross-examined by this asshole before, and he expected the interrogation to be long and stupid, even though he had no information of interest to anyone.
But the prospect of cross-examination didn’t bother him. He was happy just being back at work. First there had been the stay in the hospital, then the vacation he had not really wanted to take. The department had insisted, though. It wanted him to rest and get his memory back, because his memory was the only thing the department had left in the Darlene Hersch case.
He had dropped in on Crosby before going to court, and nothing had changed. No fingerprints, no other witnesses, no leads. Crosby had moved around the edges, not wanting to ask the question directly. Probably under the orders of some department shrink. So Ortiz had answered the unspoken question. Nothing had changed. He still had trouble sorting out what had happened. His memory was getting better every day, but it blurred and faded, and even when his idea of things seemed clear, he could not be sure if what he was seeing was what had really happened.
The public defender was still gabbing, and Ortiz shifted in his chair in the witness box. Thinking about his memory and that night had spoiled the feeling of peace he had experienced when he had started giving testimony. It was Darlene that troubled him. He was afraid of the pictures he would see when his memory came back. Afraid that he had been responsible for her death. Everyone assured him that it wasn’t so, but how did they know? How could they be so sure of what had happened that night?
The public defender looked up from his notes. Ortiz waited for the questions, grateful for a chance to escape from his own thoughts.
“Officer Ortiz, what happened to Officer Murdock and Officer Elvin after Teske and Hennings left the scene?”
“They remained in the residence.”
“Thank you, I have no further questions.”
“You’re excused,” the judge said. Ortiz was surprised he had gotten off so easily. Maybe the schmuck was learning.
Jack Hennings, Ortiz’s partner, looked up from his newspaper when the courtroom door opened.
“You’re on,” Ortiz said.
Hennings handed the paper to Mike Elvin and went through the door. Ortiz turned toward Elvin to ask for the sports section when he noticed two men talking at the other end of the corridor. His hand started to shake and his chest felt suddenly constricted. The two men concluded their conversation, and the older man walked toward him. Ortiz did not see him. His eyes were riveted on the younger man-the blond. He had started down the hall that led to the elevators, but Ortiz was seeing him in a different place. He was remembering a man with curly blond hair walking quickly along the landing that ran outside the rooms at the Raleigh Motel, and he was seeing a face spotlighted for a moment in the doorway of the motel room where Darlene Hersch had died.
The older man passed him, and the blond disappeared around the corner.
“Tell Jack to wait for me,” he said to Elvin. Elvin looked up, but Ortiz was already halfway down the corridor.
There was no one in the hall when Ortiz reached the corner. He looked up at the floor indicator. Both elevator cars had reached the ground floor. Ortiz walked back toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom. The law student who served as the judge’s clerk was reading a textbook in the empty courtroom and munching on a sandwich.
“Excuse me,” Ortiz said. The boy looked up.
“There was a lawyer in here just now, with blond hair. Can you tell me who he is?”
“Why do you ask?” the boy asked suspiciously.
Ortiz realized that he was dressed for undercover work and looked as grubby as the degenerates he had to mix with. He walked across the room and flashed his badge.
“Now, can you tell me his name?”
The boy studied his badge, then hesitated. Ortiz knew he was thinking about the constitutional rights his professors had told him he had.
“I don’t know if-” the boy began.
“You’d better,” Ortiz said softly, and there must have been something in his tone, because the boy spoke.
“Stafford. Larry Stafford.”
“And where does he work?”
“The Price, Winward firm. It’s in the Standard Plaza Building.”
Ortiz put his badge away and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.