A Knight at the Opera (13 page)

She seemed amused by the project. "Do we have a client who killed
someone?"

"I hope not," I said. "I sincerely hope not. But we need to look at the statute and
figure out who has the burden of proof, whether it's by a preponderance or some other
evidentiary standard, and exactly what they need to prove."

"That's a piece of cake. Anything else?"

"Actually, there is. Let's assume that somebody, call her Person A, happens to be
with someone else, call him Person B. She knows Person B is in an impaired condition, but
she leaves him and something disastrous happens to him. Can she be charged with a crime?
And, if so, what crime?"

"Can you give me a little more detail?" she asked.

I did, and she left my office to start her research.

My next activity was to call Seymour Millpond, attorney at law, the lawyer
Gretchen Markowsky had hired to eject Joyce from her own home. I knew that Millpond
was running an eviction mill. His firm filed hundreds of cases and processed them en
masse. Someone from his office would show up in county court with dozens of files and go
through them one by one with the judge in open court, asking for default judgments when
the defendants failed to file an answer, and going to trial in the few cases where the
defendant bothered to appear.

His receptionist asked for the case number and property address, and said she
would forward my message to Mr. Millpond. What she didn't say, but I had a feeling she
was thinking, was, "And he won't bother to call you back."

I knew how firms like his operated.

Next I called Joyce. "Are you doing okay?"

"I think so. Thank you for being here this afternoon. I don't know what I would
have done without your help."

"Oh, we're just getting started," I told her. "I've been doing some research for the
eviction case. We're going to have to hire another lawyer to handle the trial for you."

"What do you mean?" she said, sounding alarmed. "You're not dropping me as a
client, are you?"

"No, of course not. It's just that, for ethical and practical reasons, I can't be your
lawyer at the hearing." I explained what the problem was and how I proposed to resolve it.
When I was finished, she seemed perfectly satisfied.

"So, do I have to go out and find this other lawyer?"

"No. There's a man I used to work for. I suppose you'd call him a mentor of sorts,
although he didn't do much mentoring other than hand me files a few days before trial and
tell me I was on my own. His name is Leonard Foote. He's a bit quirky, but he's
incomparable as a trial lawyer. Do I have you permission to contact him?"

"Yes. Is he expensive? I'm getting worried about all the fees I'm running
up--especially if that witch Gretchen has her way. I could be flat broke."

"I don't think it's going to turn out that way. And, as to Lenny, he's semi-retired.
He has all the money he needs. He might not even charge you. I can see how he would find
this case amusing. Remember, the hearing is set for one-thirty Monday afternoon. You need
to be there."

"I understand. Do we need to meet ahead of time and prepare?"

"Actually, no. You won't be testifying."

"I won't? How--"

"I see no need for us to call you as a witness. And if the other side calls you,
you're going to assert your Fifth Amendment rights and decline to answer."

"Okay," she said. "You know what you're doing. Oh, I almost forgot! Before the
police showed up this afternoon with the warrant, I managed to get through to someone at
Bank of America."

"Good work. And?"

"They're mailing me copies of three of his credit card bills. Ninety days is as far
as they could go back without charging me a fortune."

"That should be enough for now. Please let me know when they show up."

"I will. See you in court on Monday."

Ann had padded into my office during the tail end of the conversation. "Is that
the client who may be disqualified as a beneficiary?"

"It is. Although I don't--well, let's just leave it at that. Have you found
anything?"

Her lips curled in a little sign of amusement. "Always the man of mystery. Yes, I
have found something. It's section 15-11-803, Colorado Revised Statutes. I'll put together a
memo. When do you need it?"

"Before Monday at 1:30."

"No worries. The statute is pretty clear, but there's not a lot of case law. The
basic rule is that Person A has to be convicted of killing Person B before she is
disqualified."

"So if she's never convicted?"

"No disqualification."

"You're a gem," I told her. "I'm glad you're going to stay with the firm."

* * * *

Before I left the office, I called Jana to see how she was doing.

"I'm fine," she said. "The headache's gone, and I'm getting used to this stupid
cast."

"Glad to hear it. Do you want me to stop at Ling's on the way home?"

"Yes," she said enthusiastically. "Kung pao chicken and vegetable fried
rice."

"Your wish is my command."

"Hah! That'll be the day."

She was definitely getting back to being herself.

I arrived at Fort Larsen at a little after seven. Jana had set up a virtual office in
the den. She was simultaneously watching "Dancing With The Stars," working on her
computer and trying to do her nails.

"Multi-tasking again?" I said playfully. She flashed me a smile and went back to
what she was doing. I headed into the kitchen and unpacked the Chinese food. For myself,
I'd gotten an order of chicken with garlic sauce. I fixed each of us a plate, carried them into
the den, and laid out our dinner on the coffee table. We ate in a comfortable silence, while
half a dozen men and women danced their hearts out, only to be rudely skewered by the
judges. Evidently, it was one of the early rounds, and the contestants were still getting
acclimated. When it was over, I commented, "What a way to get your fifteen minutes of
fame."

"It's not just fifteen minutes," she observed. "It's an addiction. An obsession. But
it's fun to watch."

I swallowed my last bite of chicken. "I suppose we all face our unique forms of
humiliation in life."

"Yeah," she said in a sour tone. "Some of us let some creeps hit us over the head.
And break our arm."

"You may yet get your do-over, my dear."

"You think? I'd like that a lot. Next time he won't have the element of surprise."
She regarded me as implications started to sink in. "What are you saying? Do you know
who he is?"

"No. But I think I may be making progress."

"Really? Tell me."

I explained in general terms what had happened that day, including the search
warrant, but omitting most of my conversations with Joyce because of the attorney/client
privilege. I ended with the phone call about the credit card bills.

"They won't tell you all that much," she pointed out. "We already know where
the bills were going, and who they were addressed to."

"True, my dear skeptic--but they'll tell us what he's been buying. Which may
help us figure out who attacked you. Which may help you get your rematch."

She said, "I'd like that."

"I figured you would." I thought, but didn't say, "Which could also lead us to the
mysterious woman at the opera."

The Denver county courts, civil division, were located on the fourth floor of a
former hotel at Fifteenth and Cleveland Place. At one-fifteen Monday afternoon, I had
cleared security and was waiting with Joyce in the hallway outside Division 7. She was
wearing a nicely tailored yellow suit.

Lenny Foote came bounding out of the elevator and strode rapidly to the metal
detectors. He was wearing a burgundy sport jacket and pink tie, with gray slacks and his
traditional white leather shoes. His hair had turned completely white since I'd last seen
him, but he was still wearing it long enough to drape down over his shoulders.

You couldn't miss Lenny when he was in the room.

"Good afternoon, young man," he said boisterously to one of the security guards.
"How are you doing on this splendid day?"

"Just fine," the guard said, not bothering to conceal his amusement at the
spectacle that was Lenny Foote. "I need you to remove your belt and empty your pockets of
all metal objects."

"It's your risk," he cautioned the guard. "I've lost twenty pounds, and when I
remove my belt, there may be an incident, if you know what I mean."

The guard was still amused. "We'll take our chances."

Lenny removed his belt, cinching his pants at the waist to make sure they didn't
fall down. He had, in fact, lost considerable weight since I'd last seen him. I'd heard rumors
that he'd stopped drinking, which would be comparable to the Pope giving up religion.
When I worked for Lenny, it was rare to find him sober after the noon hour, which he
frequently referred to as "quality time with my old friend, Jack Daniels." Somehow, a few
shots seemed to enhance his skills as a trial lawyer. He'd once told me it helped him shake
his inhibitions. My own observation was that he didn't have any in the first place.

After feeding his belt back through the loops and securing the buckle, he
snatched up his keys and strolled merrily down the hallway. "Adam Larsen! What a
splendid thing to see you again. Is this Ms. Markowsky?" He reached for her hand. "Lenny
Foote. Always delighted to meet a lovely woman."

I could see that she was also amused by Lenny. His buoyancy was
contagious.

She said, "Nice to meet you, too."

He turned to me. "Are we ready for the battle?"

"We are. I--"

Joyce gestured with her eyes toward the elevator. "There's the barracuda."

A fortyish woman with an angry face was marching toward security. She looked
as if she'd never had a happy day in her life. Next to her was a man I assumed was her
lawyer, Seymour Millpond.

Between Thursday and Monday afternoon, I'd left him three phone messages,
but he hadn't called me back. He was probably five-six, in his mid-thirties, and though he
was a white guy, he walked with a strut like George Jefferson. I wondered if he had a wife
named Weezie. His gray sport jacket was too big for him, and his black slacks were about
an inch too short.

When they had cleared security, Millpond's client looked our way and said
something to him. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. He shook his head vehemently.

They walked wordlessly past us, heading directly toward the courtroom. He
copiously ignored me as he walked by, aiming straight for the door. I could have told them
it was still locked for the lunch hour, but since he was wearing his "game face", I let him
find out for himself.

I glanced over at Lenny, who was watching them the way a hungry lion watches
a young gazelle. He ate people like Millpond for breakfast. Washed down, no doubt, with a
double shot of Jack Daniels. Lenny and I exchanged amused looks as Millpond tried the
door and realized it wouldn't budge.

Promptly at one-thirty, the courtroom door swung open and the clerk beckoned
us inside. I had appeared before Judge Contos many times over the years. He was a pleasant
man who, I thought, deserved to be promoted to district court. However, nobody had ever
asked for my opinion on the subject, and there he sat in county court. People streamed into
the courtroom. Lenny and I grabbed a couple of seats in the inner ring, where only the
lawyers were permitted to sit. Joyce found a seat in the second row of the gallery.

A door opened behind the bench, and the judge emerged from his chambers. "All
rise," the clerk called out, and everyone complied.

"Be seated," the judge said. "Mr. Millpond? I presume you have your usual quota
of cases?"

Millpond came forward and stopped beside the podium. "Yes, Your Honor." They
went through about a dozen files, with Millpond asking for default judgments in each of
them. When they came to our case, the Judge said, "I see the defendant has filed an answer.
Mr. Foote?"

Lenny stood and breezed into the center of the courtroom. "Present and
accounted for, Judge."

The judge smiled. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Foote. It's been quite a while." He
turned to Millpond. "Have you gentlemen spoken about this case?"

"No," said Lenny cheerfully. "We tried, but evidently Mr. Millpond is a busy man
and couldn't see fit to return our calls."

Millpond said, "Last week was a hectic week, Your Honor." He added, with a
mean look at Lenny, "Besides, there was nothing to talk about."

The judge said, "Whatever. Do you gentlemen want to go out in the hall and
discuss this case?"

Millpond glanced back at his client, who was still seated in the gallery. She shook
her head vigorously, her hands crossed stubbornly in front of her. "It wouldn't be fruitful,
Your Honor."

"I see," said the judge. "Fair enough. Let's hear your case."

I gestured for Joyce to come forward, and Millpond did the same with his client.
Gretchen muscled her way first, and Joyce didn't make an issue of it. She stepped aside
graciously and let Gretchen pass. I gave her a surreptitious wink, letting her know I
approved. That little gesture of decency could only help us make the right impression on
the judge.

As the two women took their places at the plaintiff and defendant tables, the
judge said, "I see Mr. Larsen in the courtroom. Is he here on another case?"

Lenny said "He's our star witness, Judge. Maybe our only witness."

With an amused smile, Judge Contos said, "That should be interesting. Mr.
Millpond, let's hear your opening statement."

Millpond was short and succinct. "My client, Gretchen Markowsky, is the ex-wife
of Karl Markowsky. She is entitled to ownership of the home at 137 South Glencoe Street in
Denver, Colorado. The defendant, Joyce Markowsky, is occupying the property without
right or title, and we are asking that she be removed from the premises. The defendant is
barred by C.R.S. Section 15-11-803 for taking ownership or possession of any property of
the decedent's estate." He left the podium went back to his seat.