Special Circumstances (24 page)

The receptionist gives me a warm smile, and I take a seat between asuntanned woman with bleached hair who is hiding behind a pair of darksunglasses, and a man I recognize as a local television personality.Dr. Kathy Chandler’s clientele is pretty well-heeled.
At exactly four o’clock, the door opens and I’m granted entry into theinner sanctum. The receptionist shows me into a tastefully furnishedroom with more muted tones and ferns. Quiet music surrounds me. Oneof those tacky miniature artificial waterfalls cascades behind Dr.Kathy Chandler’s desk. In all fairness, the whole thing is verysoothing.
I feel like Dorothy waiting for the grand entrance of the Wizard. Thedoor opens. I expect to hear trumpets. I’m not prepared for what Isee. The posters on the buses and in the reception area don’t begin todo her justice. Dr. Kathy Chandler is about six feet tall and CindyCrawford beautiful. I’m beginning to see why Bob Holmes paid her afortune to spend forty-five minutes a week with her.
“I’m Dr. Kathy Chandler,” she purrs. Her tone is soothing. Shepushes her long blond hair out of her striking blue eyes.
“I’m Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman.”
“I know.” The voice is pure caviar. She sounds better in person thanshe does on the radio.
“Dr. Chandler,” I say, “I understand Bob Holmes was a patient ofyours.”
“Yes he was, Mr. Daley.” She licks her lips.
“It’s a terrible tragedy.”
“Yes it is.” Composure.
“Dr. Chandler, how long had you been treating Mr.
Holmes?”
“Not for very long. Probably about three months.”
“I see. And how was his treatment going?”
She pouts.
“Mr. Daley,” she says, “you’re a lawyer. You know I’m not permittedto talk about my patients. It’s privileged.” She blinks her big blueeyes and gives me a look that says she’d love to help me, but the bigbad lawyers won’t let her.
“I understand your concern,” I reply, “but the privilege ends when apatient dies.” This isn’t exactly true, but she isn’t exactly alawyer.
“And it would be very helpful for us to understand the nature andextent of your treatment of Mr. Holmes.”
The kitten like facade disappears. The claws come out.
“Mr. Daley,” she says in a businesslike tone, her voice dropping atleast half an octave, “it has always been my policy not to discuss thetreatment of my patients with other people.”
This is an interesting argument from a woman who gives free advice onthe radio every night.
“Dr. Chandler,” I say, “I’d rather just ask you a few questions. Ifyou insist, I’d be more than happy to come back with a subpoena.” Andthen you’ll really have a lot to talk about from seven to tentonight.
The kitten reappears and the voice goes back up.
“Very well. Ask your questions. If I don’t want to answer, I’ll tellyou so. And if I need to get my lawyer involved, I will. Believe me,I will.”
I believe you, Dr. Kathy Chandler.
“Dr. Chandler, what were you treating Mr.
Holmes for?”
“A lot of things. But mostly, he had relationship issues. He’d beendivorced several times.”
No shit.
“And he was about to get divorced again.”
“So I understand,” she says.
“I was working with Mr. Holmes on creating a foundation for solidrelationships—and to try to temper his enthusiasm for extramaritalactivities.”
“I see. And were you aware that he was having an affair with DianaKennedy?”
“Oh, yes. That’s really where his treatment started. He and Ms.Kennedy had been seeing each other for about a year. When Mrs. Holmesfound out at the beginning of December, she asked Mr. Holmes to leave.About the same time, Ms.
Kennedy broke up with Mr. Holmes. He was quite upset.”
“Did he try to reconcile with his wife?”
“Yes. The reconciliation was unsuccessful. He began seeing someone inlate December. I assumed he had rekindled his relationship with Ms.Kennedy, but it may have been somebody new. He was terribly conflictedabout it. He missed his last couple of appointments.”
I decide to probe a little deeper.
“Was Mr. Holmes depressed the last time you saw him?”
“In the clinical sense, no. He was quite distraught, but he wasn’tclinically depressed.”
“Was he upset about the breakup with his wife?”
“Yes. But not terribly upset.
He seemed to have expected it.”
“I see. And was he upset about the breakup with Ms. Kennedy?” Shesmiles.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Daley. He was terribly upset about it.”
“And are you aware of any attempts to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Daley. But it’s possible.”
“Do you think it’s possible Mr.
Holmes attempted to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy and she rejectedhim?”
She pauses.
“If you were my lawyer, you’d instruct me not to answer a hypotheticalquestion.”
“That’s true. On the other hand, we have reason to believe that hedid, in fact, attempt to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy. And we know, fora fact, that she was not agreeable to such a reconciliation because shehad decided to leave the firm.”
She looks surprised.
“I didn’t realize that,” she says. Put-up or shut-up time.
“What this is leading to is the question of whether you think BobHolmes was so distraught about his pending divorce and his breakup withDiana Kennedy that he may have committed suicide. In your professionaljudgment, did you see any signs that he was suicidal?”
She laughs.
“Mr. Daley, I’d been seeing Mr. Holmes for only about three months.
He was an unhappy man with some serious relationship issues. We werejust beginning to work on those issues. But, in answer to yourquestion, it is inconceivable to me that he was suicidal. He didn’tdisplay any of the tendencies or signs. And if I’m called upon incourt to testify, I’ll say just that.”
It’s more or less what I expect, I’ll see you on the radio, Dr. KathyChandler.
You’re of no help to our defense.
CHAPTER 28
DID YOUR COME TO GLOAT?
“We are confident we will be able to work out a deal with our creditorsthat will allow us to continue our practice without interruption as weproceed through the bankruptcy process. We will continue to providethe highest-quality legal services to our clients during thisdifficult period.”
—arthur patton. san fsancisco chronicle. monday, march 2.
“Jeff Tucker, please,” I tell the person at First Bank who answers mycall on the morning of Monday, March 2. I’m studying the article in theChronicle detailing the bankruptcy filing of my former law firm. Ifigure it might be a good time to get reacquainted with the bank’sgeneral counsel. As Jeff promised me a few weeks ago, the bank hasforeclosed on S&G’s equipment loans right on schedule.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Michael Daley.”
My first reaction to the article could be summed up by the words “Nyahhnyahh nyahh—you went bankrupt, and I got my capital back!” I realizethis may not be the most mature reaction to the impending meltdown ofmy professional home for the better part of the last five years. Thenagain…
“Jeff Tucker speaking.”
“It’s Mike Daley.”
“Hi, Mike.” He pauses.
“You saw the note in the paper about the S and G bankruptcy filing?”
“Indeed I did. Couldn’t miss it.”
“I don’t take any pleasure in any of this, Mike,” he lies.
“Me neither.” Hell hell hell. I’d give everything I own to see thelook on Art Patton’s face right now.
“Jeff, do you happen to know if the loans were recourse ornonrecourse?” If the loans were “recourse,” the bank can try tocollect from the partners and perhaps the former partners of the firm.If the loans were “nonrecourse,” the bank can seek repayment only fromthe assets of the firm, but not from the assets of the individualpartners and former partners. I learned this from Joel. It’s all Iknow about commercial law:
recourse—bad; nonrecourse—good.
“They’re all recourse loans. Fully guaranteed by each of thepartners.”
Shit.
“And,” he adds gratuitously, “since you were a partner at the time theloans were taken down, and at the time of the default, you’re still onthe hook.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Wait a minute,” I say.
“I left on December thirty-first. How do you figure I was still apartner at the time of default?”
“That’s when the loans were due. You were still a partner. Ipsofacto, you’re still on the hook.”
I hate lawyers who talk Latin.
“But you extended the due date. I wasn’t a partner when the extendeddue date came up.”
“It wasn’t an extension. We simply decided not to foreclose until thesixty-day grace period ended yesterday. Our foreclosure guys lookedinto it. All the S and C partners who were at the firm on Decemberthirty-first are still on the hook. That includes you.”
And you’re an asshole. I’m sorry we didn’t fire you sooner, you littleshit.
“Look,” he says in a condescending tone, “the fact is, the bank doesn’twant to spend a lot of time and money suing the partners individually.If you’re like most of your partners, all your money is going foralimony and fancy cars.”
He’s right about that—except in my case, there’s no fancy car.
“I’m sure we’ll end up cutting some sort of a deal with the firm,” hesays.
“We’ll probably take the firm’s receivables and sell off some assets.We’ll sue the partners individually as a last resort.”
Somehow, I don’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling from this conversation.Maybe I’ll ask Wendy about one of those sleazy tax shelters in theBahamas to hide some of my assets.
At eleven o’clock the same morning, the reception area of Simpson andGates looks considerably different. Only one receptionist is workingthe phone console. The double doors are closed. There are no freshflowers. The Currier and Ives lithographs are gone. If I’m guessingcorrectly, the artwork at the First Bank headquarters has improveddramatically since yesterday.
Art Patron’s secretary escorts me to his office. The long hallwayslook barren without the high-priced artwork. The plants are gone, too.His door is closed when we arrive. She knocks and opens the door. I’msomewhat surprised he’s agreed to see me. Then again, it gives him agolden opportunity to yell at me if he wants to. I suspect he’d ratherdo it in the privacy of his own office, rather than in open court. Artis standing behind his antique desk, bellowing into his telephone.Something about the repossession of the computers and phones. Hemotions toward a dark brown leather chair. I admire the view of theGolden Gate Bridge as he castigates some poor collection attorney.
He slams the phone down. He looks like a bulldog shaking himself afterhe’s had a bath.
“So,” he snaps, “what the hell do you want? Did you come to gloat?”
As a matter of fact, I did.
“Art,” I lie, “I take no pleasure in this. I think it’s unfortunate.”I look solemn. I decide to lay it on thick.
“Some good people are going to lose their jobs.”
It seems to disarm him slightly, at least for a moment. His chinsjiggle.
“The bankruptcy filing was just a precaution,” he growls.
“We’ll still be here when the dust settles.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
“I hope you’re right.
I’m on the line for the equipment loans along with the rest of you. Ihave a vested interest in resolving this, too.”
He doesn’t seem mollified.
“So,” he grumbles, “besides making your little speech about firmfinances, why the hell did you come here to see me?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Joel’s case.”
“We’ve been through this. We’ve told the police everything we know. Ifwe find out anything new, I’ll call you.” He picks up his telephone.
“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about informally. Ifyou’re going to be a shit, I’ll get a subpoena.”
He hangs up the phone.
“What things?”
“It’s a little ticklish.”
He looks right at me.
“You aren’t going to start up again about that nonsense about asexual-harassment claim, are you? It’s all bullshit. I have a goodmind to file a lawsuit for slander against you for the stuff youbrought up at the prelim.” The best defense is a good offense.
“This isn’t easy for me, either,” I say, “but, if you won’t cooperate,I’ll have no choice.” I let my words trail off and look away fromhim.
“What is it?” he asks.
“First, two people are prepared to testify you were pro positioningDiana at the retreat, and she rejected your advances.” I watch himclosely. He doesn’t flinch.
“One person said you touched Diana in the bar and she stormed out.
Another person said you asked her to go to bed with you at your party.When she refused, you followed her back to her room and… well …we aren’t sure what happened.”
He turns red. The pit bull comes out.
“That’s a crock of bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are cominghere and making these wild accusations? What the fuck is wrong withyou, anyway?”
I try to keep the tone measured.
“I take it that means you deny those accusations?”
“Damn right, I do.”
“And you’re prepared to testify to that effect in court, ifnecessary?”
“Of course.”
I nod.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve eliminated any misunderstanding on thatsubject.”
I fold my hands.
“Is it true that you and Beth Holmes have a social relationship?”
“I should throw you out of my office right now.” He starts to pick upthe phone again.
“Art,” I say, “let me show you something.” I take out a picture of himentering Beth’s house.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he blusters.
“I understand. But here’s a picture of you leaving Beth’s house thenext morning. My investigator is prepared to testify that you spentthe night.”
The beady little eyes flare.
“You little shit. You had me followed? Are you trying to blackmailme?” He grits his teeth.
“Beth and I have had a social relationship for some time. It’s one ofthe reasons for my divorce. My wife knows all about it.”
“I see. Did you know Bob was going to write Beth out of his will justbefore he died?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. So what? She doesn’t need the money. If youwant to get up in court and tell the jury that Beth and I were sleepingtogether, so be it. It proves we were having an affair. She’s myex-wife. We still have feelings for each other. It doesn’t haveanything to do with your client’s case.”
Unfortunately, he may be right about that.
“Let me ask you about something else. Didn’t you and Bob invest in arestaurant together?”
“Yes, we did. Le Bon Vivant in Palo Alto.”
“How was the restaurant doing?”
“Great. Except in the restaurant business, you can be doing great, butit doesn’t mean you’re making any money.”
“I see.” I’m surprised he admitted it.
“We were thinking about closing the place down. I’ve lost all themoney I intend to lose on that damn thing.”
“I don’t suppose you had a key-man policy on Bob for the restaurant?”It’s a shot in the dark.
“No, we didn’t.”
“Thanks for your time, Art.”
When I return to the office that night, I find Wendy is sitting at atable in the hallway, studying copies of life insurance policies.