Dirty Blonde, Page 3

  “Did you consider that generous?”

  “Yes and no.” Russo raised a large, cautionary hand. “Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Marz is an all right kid, but him and myself, we spent a lotta time developing the ideas for the series. Working at night, making up the four characters and their histories. The lead was gonna be me, the good-lookin’ one.”

  Again, smiles all around, but for Cate, who knew the ending to this episode.

  “Detective, was it your intention to quit your job after the show was produced?”

  “Yeah, but this woulda been like winning the lottery. Marz quit his job to work on it full-time.” Russo shot Simone a hard look. “Glad I kept mine, the way it turned out.”

  “Detective Russo, was your agreement with Mr. Marz ever written down?”

  “We shook on it, and that was good enough for us.” Russo eyed the jury, who got the message, rapt, to a member.

  “No further questions,” Temin said, obviously pleased, and took his seat.

  Cate faced defense counsel. “Any cross, Mr. Hartford?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” he answered, standing up and approaching the lectern. “Mr. Russo, to the best of your knowledge, was the alleged agreement between Mr. Simone and Mr. Marz ever reduced to a written contract?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Detective Russo.” Hartford looked at the dais. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Temin stood up. “No redirect, Your Honor, and plaintiff rests its case-in-chief. We would like to reserve rebuttal.”

  “Of course, and thank you, Mr. Temin.” Cate excused Detective Russo from the stand and looked expectantly at defense table.

  Hartford stood tall. “I would like to call Arthur Simone to the stand, if I may.”

  “You may,” Cate answered, shifting forward in her chair. She wanted to hear from this character.

  CHAPTER 3

  From the lectern, Hartford asked, “Mr. Simone, could you tell the jury a little bit about yourself?”

  “Sure. I’m from Reno and went to UNLV, in Vegas. Graduated an English major. You know what that means, job-wise.” Simone smiled crookedly. “‘Hello, my name is Art and I’ll be your waiter tonight.’”

  A chuckle ran though the gallery, especially from the redheaded jury consultant and Simone’s assistant, Micah Gilbert. Gilbert, who looked to be in her early thirties, sat with her legs crossed in tight pants, and her long, dark hair flowed to her shoulders in a sexy curl. She took almost constant notes, and Cate couldn’t help wondering if her dedication to her boss was more than professional.

  “I went to law school at Hastings, but as much as I loved reading cases, I got bored. I don’t know how law school manages to make winning and losing, life and death, justice and injustice so deadly dull.” Simone scoffed, and his fine hands rested on the edge of the polished wood, showing a thick gold wedding band. “I always loved TV, so I moved to L.A. and got into the business as a gofer, then moved up to producing my own true-crime shows and selling them to cable markets. Then I started writing and producing Attorneys@Law.”

  Hartford flipped a page of his legal pad. “Mr. Simone, you heard Mr. Marz testify that he gave you the idea for the series that eventually became Attorneys@Law, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did hear him say that.”

  “Is that true?”

  “No.” Simone’s good humor faded. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Cate saw Marz lean forward in his chair at counsel table.

  “Mr. Simone, what gave you the idea for Attorneys@Law?”

  “My imagination. One day in the shower, I realized that none of the current lawyer shows showed the inside view. The way lawyers really work, in court and out. So I said, if I want to see it, I guess I have to write it, and that was that.”

  “Did you copy the idea from anyone or anywhere?”

  “Of course not. Let me state the obvious. The idea of a lawyer show isn’t copyrightable, and it isn’t even new, and there were four main lawyers in L.A. Law, Ally McBeal, and Boston Legal. Marz didn’t invent it, and neither did I. It started as far back as Perry Mason, and I live in the same world as anybody else.” Simone shifted forward, warming to the discussion, though Hartford’s confused expression suggested that his client was veering from their script. “By that I mean, I’m influenced by reality, by my own life. I’m being sued in this ridiculous lawsuit, and on the bench sits an attractive woman judge, with real star power.” Simone turned suddenly toward the dais. “Do you mind if I suck up, Judge Fante?”

  Cate flushed, caught off-balance. “Is this relevant?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m trying to explain that my ideas often come from my life. For example, I could turn this very lawsuit into a TV series. Write a spin-off from Attorneys@Law, and call it Judges@Court. And it could star a blond female judge who’s a lot like you, Judge Fante. Charismatic, attention-getting. The most alive person in the room. What do you think?”

  Cate stiffened at the flattery, but the jurors and gallery held their breath, waiting for her reaction. Most federal judges would have admonished him, but that wouldn’t defuse anything. She answered, “Great idea. Get Charlize Theron, for me.”

  “Done!” Simone laughed, and so did everyone else.

  Hartford cleared his throat. “Now, Mr. Simone, were you ever friends with Mr. Marz?”

  “No, not at all. He was one of my campers, that’s it. Long story short, we barely stayed in touch over the years. We were never close.”

  At counsel table, Marz scowled, and his wife looked equally unhappy.

  Hartford asked, “Were you sitting in this courtroom when Mr. Marz testified that he met with you on three occasions?”

  “Yes, I did hear Mr. Marz testify, but what took place at them wasn’t what Mr. Marz said. At the June meeting, Mr. Marz told me he had an idea for a TV series, and I gave him my time because he was a nice kid and he was in dire straits. Things weren’t working out for him at the DA’s office and—”

  “Objection,” Temin interrupted.

  “Overruled.” Cate shook her head, and Simone continued before she directed to do so.

  “Mr. Marz said he wanted a new career. I thought I’d do him a favor and listen to him talk. But that’s it, and that’s all. I promised him nothing, I offered nothing.” Simone turned to the jury, his tone newly agitated. “His idea isn’t what became Attorneys@Law. I was already working on the scripts for Attorneys @Law when we met and I set it in Philly because I’m from here, too. It’s pure coincidence that both shows are about lawyers. What show isn’t about lawyers and crime these days? Law & Order. Monk. The Sopranos. CSI. They’re all the same hook.”

  The jurors looked disapproving, obviously disbelieving Simone in this credibility contest. Even the courtroom deputy looked down, examining his nails, his fingers curled like a grappling hook.

  “Mr. Simone, skip ahead to the final meeting at Le Bec Fin. You heard Mr. Marz testify that you and he made a deal at this meeting, and you allegedly said to him, ‘If I make money, you’ll make money.’ Did you hear him testify to that effect?”

  “Yes, I heard that, but it’s absolutely not true. We had no agreement or deal. I never intended to buy his idea or his treatment, and I never, ever said I would. And I certainly never said, ‘If I make money, you make money.’”

  At counsel table, Marz gasped, and Temin touched his arm to silence him.

  Hartford asked, “Did you discuss a price term? That is, how much you would pay Mr. Marz for his idea?”

  “No, not at all. He’d quit his job at the DA’s office to work on his treatment, and I listened to him talk and nodded a lot, which is all I did to encourage him. I wanted to cheer him up.”

  “Did he cheer up?”

  “After a few bottles of Dom, everybody cheers up.”

  The jurors didn’t laugh, and Cate knew they didn’t get the Dom reference. She wouldn’t have, either, but for her legal education.

  Mr. Hartford made a note. “Let me ask you
a question. If you didn’t want to buy his ideas, why did you accept his notebooks?”

  “I couldn’t not. He kept insisting, so I took them. As soon as I left the restaurant, I threw them in a trash can.”

  At plaintiff’s table, Marz stirred, and so did his wife, behind him.

  “Now, to finish up, did there come a time when you heard from Mr. Marz again?”

  “Yes, he attempted to contact me a few times after that, but I didn’t respond. I was busy, and he asked me if I read his treatment, which I hadn’t, as I said. Then when Attorneys@Law became a hit, Mr. Marz wrote to me, alleging that I stole his idea. Then he filed this lawsuit against me and my production company.” Resentment edged Simone’s voice. “You know the saying, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’”

  “Thank you, Mr. Simone.” Hartford flipped the pad closed and looked up at Cate. “Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

  “I have cross, Your Honor.” Temin shot to his feet.

  “Go ahead, Counsel,” Cate said, and the plaintiff’s lawyer began an earnest cross-examination of Simone that didn’t change anyone’s view, least of all hers.

  Hartford rose to his feet. “Your Honor, at this time, the defendant moves for a judgment as a matter of law under Rule 50.”

  Temin argued, “Your Honor, plaintiff opposes any such motion.”

  Cate banged the gavel. Crak! “Arguments at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, gentlemen.”

  She left the bench, checking her watch on the fly: 5:05. She had to get going.

  She had a standing date.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Honey, I’m home!” Cate called out, and from the kitchen came a laugh. She let herself into the town house and shut the front door against the cold night.

  The living room was dark, but light and music emanated from the kitchen. At this hour, her best friend, Gina Katsakis, would be washing leftover dishes and playing Mozart on the Bose. Of necessity, this household ran on a rigid schedule and listened 24-7 to The Magic Flute. And Gina, the biggest disco fan in their law school class, had adapted to that change in her life, and many others.

  Cate set her purse and an aromatic brown bag on an end table, then slid out of her sheepskin coat, shook off the winter chill, and turned on a table lamp. The light illuminated a living room littered with toys, but it was no ordinary kiddie clutter. An orange Fisher Price sliding board had been upended, color flashcards and activity books had been strewn among dry Cheerios, and a Minute Maid juice box spilled over a denim beanbag chair. Cate picked up the juice box, then collected the flashcards and stowed them in the Reebok shoe box.

  “Fante, stop cleaning!” Gina called from the kitchen.

  “In a minute!” Cate picked up an activity book, lying open to a page titled ALL ABOUT ME, updated with a new photo. An adorable little boy with round brown eyes and shiny brown-black hair, whose bangs had been scissored off in a raggedy homemade cut, posed in front of a landscape found only in Wal-Mart’s photo department. A closer look at the picture revealed that the child’s gaze focused to the right of the camera, and his smile curved off-kilter. Cate reshelved the book, picked up a BabyGap sweatshirt, and set it on the couch.

  “Stop now!”

  “Gimme a minute!” Cate brushed the Cheerios back into an overturned Dixie cup and stood up, having improved the room only because it was so small, a far cry from Gina’s predivorce Tudor in suburban Villanova.

  “Don’t make me yell!”

  Cate grabbed the trash and brown bag and went into the kitchen, where Gina stood at the sink in an oversized pink cable knit, and mom jeans that couldn’t hide a killer body. She was emptying a large pot of boiling water into the basin, steaming up the window and filling the tiny kitchen with starchy fog. Spaghetti was on the menu tonight; it was the only thing Warren ate.

  “I hate when you clean.” Gina turned from the sink, frowning in mock offense. Even ersatz emotion animated large brown eyes that flashed darkly, thick eyebrows like bold slashes, and a strong nose that fit full cheekbones and generous lips, easily coaxed into too-loud laughter. Gina Katsakis was Maria Callas with a JD.

  “Hey, girl.” Cate threw out the trash and set the brown bag on the kitchen table, next to Warren. The three-year-old sat in his blue-padded high chair, taking no notice of her, his gaze focused on the steam blanketing the window. Cate knew he needed time to get used to her being here, so she didn’t greet him. Instead, she said, “Dinner is served.”

  Gina scuffed to the table in tan Uggs and peeked in the brown bag. “What’d you bring me?”

  “What I always bring. Crack cocaine.”

  “Chicken curry!” Gina reached an eager hand inside the bag. “And it’s still hot!” She pulled out a white Chinese food carton and held it up with a broad smile. “You know what I love about this?”

  “That it’s free?”

  “No, the carton.” Gina pointed to the red letters on the white waxed pint. “The politically incorrect Asian font. Only a Chinese restaurant can get away with that. ‘We love our customers.’ How great is that? They love us!”

  “How could they not?” Cate asked, but she didn’t have to say anything. She knew that her friend needed to talk, pent up from the day. It struck her that this was Gina’s Miller time.

  “It’s like my dry cleaners.” Gina set the container down and unpacked the other one, then pint-sized rice boxes and tinfoil trays of egg rolls, with plastic tops. “The paper on the hanger says, ‘We heart our customers.’ I love that, too. I need more love in my business relationships. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t even need love in my love relationships,” Cate answered, then caught herself, but Gina barely heard.

  “You just missed a great Dr. Phil.”

  “What about? People who love Dr. Phil too much?”

  “No, fault-finders, like Mike. Remember he was like that? He found fault with everything. Marks on the walls, laundry on the floor. That’s the whole problem, nobody’s kind anymore.” Gina went to the drawer, retrieved silverware, and grabbed two prefolded napkins on the way back. “We got a new speech therapist today, and she’s horrible. Not anywhere near as dedicated as Lisa. The new one’s just mean. Cold.”

  “That’s too bad.” Cate opened a cabinet and slid two dinner plates out of the stack, on autopilot. They set the table the same way, every time she came to babysit on Monday nights, moving around each other like an old couple. Their friendship had lasted almost fifteen years, spanning a marriage and divorce for each. They had even been each other’s maid of honor, and if they’d just married each other, they’d still be together.

  Gina was saying, “You can’t have three different speech therapists in six months, not for a kid like him. How can he make progress, with that kind of turnover?”

  “They probably don’t pay them enough.” Cate set the plates at their chairs, each catty-corner to Warren. She glanced at him, but he was still gazing at the cloudy window. “So you had some fussing in the living room today, huh?”

  “Just a little. How’re you?” Gina lined up their silverware beside the napkins, and a wiry black curl fell onto her cheek. Her hair was growing in again, and she tucked the shiny strand into its stubby ponytail. “How’s the big trial?”

  “Fine.” Cate went to the refrigerator and grabbed two cold Diet Cokes from the door. The white wire racks held only a few green peppers, a dozen eggs, a head of romaine, and a row of strawberry Yoplait. “You need food, honey.”

  “They really dumb down the trial coverage and they don’t even mention you on the news. They just call you ‘the judge.’ They don’t even say ‘Judge Fante.’ They give Simone all the attention, and his preppy lawyer, who I want to smack. Every day, he’s holding press conferences.”

  Cate returned with the Cokes. “I should’ve gagged him. It would’ve been my first gag order. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “A girl never forgets her first.” Gina sat down behind her plate and opened a container.

  “And how’s the bab
y?” Cate walked around the table to Warren, who still stared out the window. There was nothing there but bare trees obscured by vanishing steam. Cate lowered herself into the child’s field of vision before she spoke to him, as she’d been taught. “Hello, Warren.”

  Warren didn’t respond. At about eighteen months old, this happy, bright, and communicative boy simply withdrew, growing quieter and more still, slipping bit by bit from everyone. He used to call Cate for a big hug and cling to her with a kitten’s tenacity, but that had stopped after a time and he’d gradually lost all speech. Cate believed he was in there, behind his eyes. “Warren? Hello, Warren.”

  “He’s still got that ear infection. He’s not feeling so good.”

  “Warren, hello,” Cate repeated, modulating her voice, because he was soothed by singsong phrases. He loved classical music, too, which was why the Mozart. She checked his plate, covered with cooling spaghetti. “He isn’t eating much.”

  “He will.” Gina ate a forkful of chicken, dripping mustardy curry. “He had a hard day. After the bitchy speech therapist, we had to go to CVS to refill his Amox scrip. I wish they delivered.”

  “Hello, Warren.” Cate knew he heard her. She ignored the constriction in her chest. “I’m very happy to see you.”

  “It’s okay, let it go. Come and eat.”

  “Warren, it’s you and me, after dinner.” Cate went to the table, pulled out a chair, and picked up the small container. White rice fell out in a solid block, reminding her of the sand molds she used to make down the shore with Warren. They’d pack dark, wet sand in a blue plastic castle and turn it over. He’d been creeped out by the filmy-shelled sand crabs that would burrow away, and frankly, so was Cate. It seemed so long ago, but it was only last year.

  “I’m wondering if I should go tonight.” Gina broke up her rice with the side of her fork, eyeing Warren.