Reckless Disregard (26 page)

“No judge would rule against me just because I—”

“Anita Grass would. In a heartbeat. But tell me this—why did you lie to me about Scotty and then blindside me with the truth in a deposition?”

“Because I wasn’t under oath when I was chatting with you. I’m not telling anyone who Scotty is, so why get you all hyper about it?”

“I’m tired of your games, Poniard.”

“Tired or not, we’ve established long ago that you’re not quitting the case no matter what. You’re in love with your hot opposing counsel. Seeing her, that’s understandable. And you’ll stay on the case because you want to know what happened to Felicity, because you don’t want Bishop to get away with what he did to her.”

There’s a hard knock on the door. Before I can respond to it, Lovely comes in, followed by Janine.

“Five minutes are up,” Lovely says.

She asks a series of questions that hammer away at Poniard’s deception about appearing on Skype. Then she leads him through various scenes in
Abduction!
, asking about solutions to the various levels. He testifies only as to the levels that the public has already solved and says that he doesn’t know the solutions to future levels.

“Didn’t you create all the levels for
Abduction!
?” she asks.

“No,” he says.

“Which levels didn’t you create?”

“I did not design the levels where Bud Kreiss was murdered or where Judge Triggs was stabbed.”

“How did those levels get in the game?”

“My server was hacked.”

“By whom?”

“By your client, Ms. Diamond. Or, more accurately, by his minions at Parapet Media.”

“How do you know?”

“Who else would it be?”

“I’m taking this deposition, so I don’t have to answer your questions, even though you have to answer mine,” Lovely says. “But I will answer that one. I think you created those levels, Poniard, and that you did so in some misguided attempt to lay blame on my client. Which is the same reason that you killed Bud and Isla Kreiss. You did kill Mr. and Mrs. Kreiss, didn’t you?”

She waits for the obvious objection, as does Poniard. Even Janine turns away from the monitor and looks at me expectantly.

“Poniard can answer the question,” I say. “Unless he thinks he should plead the Fifth.” I’ve just committed malpractice, but I want to hear the answer, and I have the best chance of getting it now. Lovely shakes her head in disbelief, and Janine inhales audibly and turns back to look at the screen.

The puppeteer, whoever that is, makes the avatar shake his head in sadness. “I shouldn’t dignify your ludicrous and insulting question with a response, Ms. Diamond. But the answer is no. I didn’t kill anyone. Your client did.”

“There’s hasn’t been a lot of dignity in this entire deposition,” Lovely says. She goes on to ask a series of innocuous questions about how Poniard creates video games, during which he gives us a primer on game design. Just after asking a question about the type of software a designer might use to create high-quality graphics, she says, “Did you know that Felicity McGrath had a daughter named Alicia?” Most junior lawyers follow a predictable script, but Lovely has already learned the technique of suddenly switching to another topic to catch the witness off guard.

A heavy sigh comes out of the speakers. “Yes, she had a daughter.”

“Have you ever met her?”

“Yes.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

Poniard waits a long time before answering. “I certainly do, Ms. Diamond. But I’m not going to reveal her whereabouts.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s in hiding, and I feel I’m duty bound as a soldier and a revolutionary and a proponent of the truth to protect her. Which means I’m not about to expose her to William the Conqueror and his private army of thugs.”

New Year’s Day has come and gone. I went to a New Year’s Eve party at the home of a former Macklin & Cherry partner, a disaster because his wife tried to fix me up with her recently divorced sister who wouldn’t stop asking questions about
Bishop v. Poniard
, the Church of the Sanctified Assembly, and the celebrities I’ve represented. Worse, everyone decided they wanted to watch DVDs of cheesy old movies from our hosts’ collection, one of which happened to be my big hit
Alien Parents
. It wasn’t all that coincidental—most of them grew up loving that movie. I left after the opening credits, mumbling,
Sorry, I never liked that kid
, and stayed up until midnight nursing a Hennessy cognac at a Scottish pub in Marina del Rey populated by septuagenarians who knew all the verses to “Auld Lang Syne.”

Now I spend my days preparing for William Bishop’s upcoming deposition, where I’ll use Ed Diamond’s information and hope that Bishop will be so shaken that he’ll drop his lawsuit in exchange for confidentiality. I haven’t even told Brenda about my conversation with Ed. The element of surprise is crucial. I just hope that Ed hasn’t told Lovely in a fit of remorse that he kept the information from her.

It’s a Tuesday evening, and as a favor to a former law professor colleague, I’m scheduled to speak tonight at St. Thomas More School of Law to a group of law students who want to become entertainment lawyers, just like every other law student in Los Angeles. I took the gig last August while I was still working at JADS and before
Bishop v. Poniard
disrupted my life. I’m tempted to make up some excuse about flu-like symptoms, but when I say that to Brenda, she says, “Don’t cancel. It’ll be good for you to be around other people and away from the case.”

“Law students aren’t other people,” I say. “All they’ll want to hear about is
Bishop v. Poniard
and my trial against the Sanctified Assembly and the horrible fallout from that. I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

“Give your presentation tonight. You made a commitment. Trust me, it’ll be good for you.”

So I go and find myself sitting on a dais in a large lecture hall and watching the room fill to capacity, probably more because of the free pizza than out of interest in what I have to say. The heavy aroma of pepperoni grease, garlic, and cardboard makes my stomach churn, and while my stage fright has never seeped outside the confines of the courtroom, I always worry that it will someday.

My law professor friend told me that the presentation would be informal, that I wouldn’t have to prepare and could just answer questions, but when he announces to the gathering that I’ll speak on how best to pursue a career as an entertainment litigator, I realize that I’m going to have to lecture for forty-five minutes.

Like a basketball player who hits a desperation jump shot at the buzzer because there’s no expectation of success, I make my improvised presentation work. I lose myself in my personal history—interviewing with mid-size Macklin & Cherry though I’d intended to work at a large national firm, joining a first-year class with some of the smartest—and, as it turned out, most troubled—young lawyers that I’ve ever encountered, and thriving as a trial lawyer because I both loved to perform and wanted to do justice. I talk about the washed-up pop singer of the early sixties who asked if I could send a limo to pick him up and take him to his deposition, about the client who hated his former business partner so much that he wanted me to schedule the deposition on a boat because the ex-partner got seasick, about the lessons in law and life that I learned from Harmon Cherry. I touch on
Bishop v. Poniard
, though I tread lightly and am amused to learn that no one in the room, not even the serious video game players, have gotten further than the second level. Philip Paulsen really was a brilliant man. I even tell them about my late partner Deanna and how she left the practice to found The Barrista, of which I’m now a part owner.

After I finish speaking, I take questions, most of them focused on how to get a job in an entertainment firm or at a studio. The one awkward moment is when a snarky, heavyset young man in the second row asks about the murders of Paulsen and the Kreisses. Some of the students hiss and boo, and the room bursts out in applause when I refuse to answer. I feel for the kid—even his forehead is flushed.

When the Q&A session ends, some of the students approach and try to hand me their résumés—I don’t take them. Others pose questions that they didn’t want to ask in front of an audience. The man who asked me about the Kreiss and Paulsen murders apologizes and then lingers. At some point, the students and I get into a discussion of the history of defamation law—they’re surprised to learn that historically, libel lawyers were viewed as gutter dwellers, their status lower even than ambulance chasers, until segregationists tried in the early 1960s to use libel laws against civil rights advocates, at which time defamation law took on a constitutional dimension and libel lawyers became exalted in the profession.

“This is so fascinating,” a young woman with short black hair and huge round nerdy-girl glasses says. “We didn’t study any of this in torts or con law. Is there any chance we can get coffee somewhere and talk more if you’re not too busy, Mr. Stern?” She extends her hand. “I’m Kat.” She has the firm grip of someone who’s studied how to make a good impression.

“We could go to the cafeteria,” the chubby man says.

“The coffee there sucks,” Kat says. “How about we go to your coffee place that you talked about. The . . . ?”

“The Barrista,” I say. “Two Rs, a pun on
barrister
. But the shop is in West Hollywood. Kind of far.”

“Fifteen minutes away at this time of night,” Kat says. “It’s in the direction of where I live anyway. Are you guys up for it?”

The others nod. I learn that the chubby guy who asked the indiscreet question is named Dylan, and the others are Lucy and Thomas. I suspect that some of them are more interested in job leads than in an arcane legal discussion, but I like law students. Lovely Diamond was my law student only a short time ago, though it seems like forever.

On the drive to The Barrista, I wonder how many of them will actually show up. They all do. Kat arrives first and sits across from me. The other three arrive together. I buy them the first round of coffee, and we talk about topics ranging from whether the First Amendment offers too much protection to the libel defendant, to how to get a job as an entertainment lawyer, to whether the Lakers will make the playoffs, to whether video games cause violent behavior among children and teens. A little before closing time, Brenda comes out of the back room and starts to wave, but then her face goes blank, and she turns on her heels and quickly walks out.

An hour later—where did the time go?—Romulo announces it’s closing time. Now it’s just the four law students and me, and we all groan. I haven’t lost myself in the law like this in a long time. Thomas and Lucy are shy (Lucy laughs nervously after she makes a point, even if it isn’t funny). Dylan, the chubby kid, is callow and earnest, enthusiastic about the law but not quite knowing what it’s about. Kat is the most poised and the smartest. She quickly grasps the legal and practical issues behind an argument.

At 12:30 in the morning the three who arrived together leave, and it’s just Kat and me in the dark, empty room. She takes a pack of chewing gum out of her purse and offers me a piece.

“For the coffee breath,” she says.

I’m not sure if she’s making a joke until she says, “I was talking about mine, not yours.” She unwraps a stick of gum, puts it in her mouth, and chews daintily.

“Thank you
so
much for meeting with us here,” she says. “You must be so busy with your case and all. I can’t lie, I’m not sure I really want to be a lawyer, but my parents want me to so. . . . They’re both lawyers and assume I’ll be one too. It’s seemed so boring all my life, even in law school, but you make it sound so interesting. Meeting all those famous people. But you’ve been in some horrible situations. The murders and the violence, the death of your friend who started this place . . . so wonderfully creepy and exciting.”

This woman knows nothing about life and even less about death. She’d think differently if she were the one who stumbled upon the body of a saintly man like Philip Paulsen. “My colleague, my friend was murdered recently,” I say. “You must’ve read about it. His death wasn’t exciting, it was horrible and mundane and bleak.”

“You have to admit, there are two things that people like in their entertainment. Violence and sex. Movies, music, video games. Especially your client’s video games. Poniard’s video games are very sexual, don’t you think?”

She puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her hand, giving a coquettish look. I didn’t see this coming. I sit back to put some distance between us, trying not to offend her.

“It’s late,” I say. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Kat.”

She starts to get out of her chair, and I think she’s going to leave, but instead she slides into the chair next to me, and only then do I realize that her olive skin isn’t natural but the result of bronzer and heavy makeup. Her face is inches away from mine, and I can smell the gum on her breath, feel her exhalations on my cheek.