Fatal February (2 page)

“No, I didn’t hear it, but our mother did. She already called to warn me about the dangers of working in Coconut Grove.”

“Look, Mary, the cops have arrested his wife,
Lillian. She’s at the Women’s Detention Center. Their daughter called me. I’ve been their estate lawyer. I explained this wasn’t my field, but I’d see if you could go to the jail and see her. I guess she’s very frightened.”

“You would be too, if you’d ever seen the Women’s Annex. That’s what they call it. A better name would be the women’s hellhole. I’ll get over there this evening during visitor hours, and thanks for the referral.”

Not too many neighborhoods scare me, but the Women’s Annex is at the top of the list for fright night. It’s in a high-crime area, a high-drug area, a high-robbery area. There are always characters hanging around the front of the building. Besides those desperate for a drug fix, there are the spouses and boyfriends of the inmates. They are there to intimidate the family visitors in order to keep the women in line and in fear of them. Many of the women are there because of crimes committed by their boyfriends that they’ve been pulled into.

I drove into the heavily guarded parking lot at 7 p.m. The guard rolled back the gate in the seven-foot chain-link fence, and, after examining my bar card and picture ID, pointed to a parking place. Before I could park, I heard the heavy gate close behind me. I guessed even the guards were afraid.

The entryway contained a heavy glass window with a microphone for communication and a slot to deposit my ID. No one was at the window, so I pounded loudly and waited. A woman of indeterminable age finally
appeared. “Hold your water,” she rasped. Even through the heavy glass, I could smell the stale cigarette smoke.

I passed my ID in and filled out the paper she passed back: name, bar number, office address, and the name of inmate, Lillian Yarmouth.

The woman took the paper and chuckled. “We took bets about how long it’d be before she had a high-priced lawyer in here. No public defender for the princess. I think I won the pool. I said it’d only be hours.”

She motioned me to the door and pushed the buzzer. I entered and moved to the common room. There were a dozen women seated on couches watching TV. They all turned to stare at me. I smiled and moved toward one of the attorney-client booths surrounding the area. The loudspeaker called “Fourth floor, D wing, bring Lillian Yarmouth down, attorney visit.”

Several of the women laughed and whispered. They were an odd collection. Some appeared to be no more than teenagers. Others looked old and tired. Some spoke Spanish and stayed in their own tight circle.

After a fifteen-minute wait, a pale woman of about fifty came out of the elevator, accompanied by a porky looking woman officer. I was sure this was Lillian. She had well cut golden brown hair, the kind of color that can only be achieved by frequent visits to a good salon.
She was wearing the prescribed orange smock, but she still had a look of elegance.

“Lillian?” I asked. I’m Mary Katz, Jonathan’s sister. He asked me to come and see you. I’m an attorney, too. I specialize in criminal matters. Would you like to talk with me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, with a sigh of what sounded like relief. “Can you get me out of here?”

“Hey, watch it!” Carlos’s voice pulled me back to the present. “You’re about to pass right by the building, and you came pretty close to sideswiping that truck.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve criticizing my driving,” I said. “I’m not the one that slammed into the back of your car. Remember?”

We pulled into the garage of one of Coral Gables’ high-rise office towers.

“Carlos, you better tell me a little about what we’re here for. Do you have the paperwork for the closing?”

“Yes, I’ve got everything in my briefcase, even the cashier’s check for the full amount. This is for some land downtown in the Overtown area, several acres. The people who own it got it from the estate of their parents years ago. It has some old rental properties on it.”

“What’s the closing amount?”

“Five million. I gave them one million as the down payment.”

“Six million? For rundown property? What kind of a hot deal is that?”

“Believe me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve lived in Miami all my life. I don’t need investment advice. I just need to make sure the deal goes through and all the paperwork is in order.”

We took the elevator up to the offices of Simpson, Carlyle, and Cohen. I was familiar with the firm. They do probate work. I was surprised to see Jim Clark waiting for us in the conference room. We were law school classmates at the University of Miami. His clients were an older man and woman.

Jim and I hugged and exchanged the “I can’t believe how long it’s beens.” His clients were Lois and Lawrence Feller, a brother and sister who had inherited the property. The Feller name was well known. They were benefactors of the opera and ballet. I recognized them from the society pages of the
Herald
.

Carlos pulled out a set of papers and handed them to me. I passed copies of them to Jim. We began to read.

“These papers are all dated last week,” Jim said.

“I’m just filling in for Mr. Martin’s regular attorney. Let me have a minute with my client.”

I leaned over and whispered to Carlos. “What’s the story?”

“No story. We were supposed to close last week, but it got postponed,” Carlos whispered back.

“Jim, it seems the first closing was postponed. The papers were prepared for that date. It doesn’t matter. This is a simple transaction. Only two sellers and one
buyer. Let’s just get it done now, so we can all enjoy this weekend. If we hurry, the Fellers can get this check over to their bank before they close at six.”

“I know nothing about a postponement,” Jim said.

The Fellers shook their heads.

“Well, Mr. Martin’s regular attorney is unavailable. He probably has the explanation. If we can’t conclude this deal this afternoon, Mr. Martin may change his mind. Are you sure your clients want to risk losing six million dollars for this property? Who knows when they can find another buyer,” I said.

Carlos looked at me and smiled broadly. I was really beginning to like that smile.

“Give me a minute with my clients.” Jim walked around the table and led the Fellers into the corner of the room. A vigorous conversation concluded, and they came back to the table.

“I’ll get copies made right away, and we can all start signing the originals,” Jim said. We all smiled.

“You were great in there,” Carlos said as we emerged from the elevator. “How about I buy you a drink next door at the St. Michele.”

“Well, okay, but just a quick one. I need to make a phone call to my fiancé.”

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. His voice mail answered.

“Frank, I’ve been delayed. I had to take care of some matters for a new client. Leave me a message at home about dinner and where to meet.”

We settled in at a small table in the French bistro. Carlos ordered Scotch and water and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. The waiter brought a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“So,” Carlos said, “you have a fiancé. How long have you been engaged?”

“Five years,” I said.

“Five years? That’s not an engagement, that’s a cop-out.”

Carlos turned on that sexy smile again. I had to laugh, partially to cover my embarrassment. Carlos is right, I thought.

“Don’t you want to get married? Or is he the foot-dragger?”

“I think it’s both of us. We have a comfortable relationship, and I work for his law firm. What about you? Are you married?”

“I was, but it didn’t last long, not even long enough to think about kids.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Oh, no. When people ask me if I’ve ever had depression, I tell them, no, I got rid of her.”

We both laughed.

“Listen, Mary, I need you to get the deed from today’s closing recorded as soon as the courthouse opens Monday.”

“Monday? Monday’s a holiday. It’ll have to be Tuesday. What’s the rush?”

“I’ll explain it at another time. I know I’ve kept
you too long, but I would like you to represent me again in another matter. I have an Israeli investor coming in town Monday, and there’ll be another deal to close. I was impressed with how tough you were today.”

“Well, thanks, Carlos. Here’s my card. My office is in Coconut Grove. Call me.”

I gathered my briefcase and started toward the door.

“Hey, wait,” Carlos yelled. “How am I getting home?”

“That’s what taxis are for.”

The next morning was the beginning of the world-famous Coconut Grove Art Show. It’s the largest outdoor show in the country. Visitors come from all over the Americas to view art, listen to music, and sample international cuisine. The show begins with a breakfast for patrons and art collectors at 7 a.m., followed by a walk through the show before it opens to the public. Frank and I have attended for five years, and I have gone to the show since I was a teenager. This year the show coincided with Frank’s annual golf outing in Palm Beach with his law school buddies from Harvard.

Franklin Fieldstone never tires of reminding everyone in the firm that he was a Harvard law graduate. I knew he had been near the bottom of his class. Yes, I snooped through his records one day when he was out. I graduated second in my class. So, my question is, would you rather be represented by the top of the class from Miami, or the guy who scraped through at Harvard?

I rolled out of bed at six, fed my dog, Sam, threw on jeans, a tee shirt, and sandals, and hit the road for the breakfast. I was filling my plate and trying to balance my coffee cup, when a hand took my elbow, and grabbed the cup.

“May I be of assistance?” a male voice said. I recognized the voice.

“Carlos, what are you doing here?” I realized I was pleased.

“I’m a patron, just like you. I come every year. I think I remember seeing you here last year. Weren’t you wearing a cute straw sun hat? And where is the famous Frank?”

“The hat’s over there. I left it on my table. Frank is unavailable today.”

“That’s not your table. Come with me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He took my plate and proceeded to a reserved table with the main sponsors of the show. M
ARTIN
D
EVELOPMENT
was printed on the gold sponsor board next to the table.

“Can we walk through the show together?” he asked, as people began to leave the tables.

“Sure.” I put on the straw hat and wondered why I felt so happy.

There were artists I’ve gotten to know over the years, and I stopped frequently to tell an artist where her or his picture was hanging, and to admire their new work. Carlos bought a large canvas of a tropical scene.

“You need a big wall for that,” I said.

“I have several to cover. I built a house last year in Pinecrest. It wasn’t selling at the price I wanted, so I moved into it. I’m glad, because the prices are escalating, and meanwhile I like the house. Every time I come home I say ‘Carlos, you’re a damn good builder.’ Where do you and Frank live?”

“Oh, we don’t live together. I have a house in Coral Gables with a yard for my dog. Frank has a condo on Brickell Key, overlooking the bay. He likes to look at the water. I like my little house, so he stays with me sometimes and I stay with him sometimes, but I’m not willing to give up my house.”

“What kind of dog do you have? What’s his name?”

“He’s mostly German shepherd. His name is Uncle Sam, because I found him as an abandoned puppy on the Fourth of July six years ago. He only weighed about ten pounds. He looked like a tiny bear cub. Now he weighs eighty pounds.”

We walked and talked. Carlos insisted on buying me a pair of earrings I tried on. He said it was a down payment on the next legal matter.

The crowds began to grow as the morning wore on. I spotted a familiar face moving toward us.

“Mary, I thought that was you. Where’s Frank?” It was Karl Morris, the prosecutor assigned to Lillian’s case. He stared at Carlos, who had his arm around my shoulder.

“Frank’s at a golf outing. Let me introduce Carlos
Martin. Mr. Martin is a developer. I’m doing some legal work for him.”

The two men shook hands and eyed each other like two male dogs at the dog park.

“I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the next few months,” Karl said. “The Yarmouth case is a top priority at my office. We’ve already assigned two other prosecutors to work on it.”

“So I guess that means it’ll take three of you to handle Mary’s defense,” Carlos said. He smiled at Karl, but it looked more like a smirk.

“Well, Karl, it’s good to see you out of the courtroom. I’ll call you next week. I want discovery immediately, and I plan to start depositions as soon as I can get subpoenas served. Talk to you next week,” I said, as I pulled Carlos by the arm and marched away.

“If you’ve got time maybe we can have lunch and talk about the deal I’m involved in next week,” Carlos said, as we reached the end of the show.

“I guess I could. Or is this just so I can drive you around this afternoon? How did you get here? How’s the Corvette?”

“I had the Corvette towed to the dealer. I have my Escalade here today.”

I laughed to myself. Two years ago the car of choice for the in-crowd was an Expedition, but last year the Hummer and the Escalade were the accepted status cars. Who knows? Maybe next year we’ll all drive tanks.

I left my car in the parking garage and climbed into the Escalade. Carlos drove over the causeway to Key Biscayne. The day was a perfect tourist ad. The water was aquamarine, the sky was an endless blue ceiling, the temperature a balmy seventy-two, according to the dashboard thermometer. Cruise ships were parked in the port across the bay. I wondered when I had last taken the time to enjoy my surroundings.

We pulled up to a small restaurant and opted to sit on the patio facing the water. Carlos ordered a pitcher of sangria. We sat and drank and watched the boats pass and smelled the scent of the sea. Carlos didn’t mention his new business deal, and I admit, I didn’t ask. I was too relaxed.