The Arraignment (19 page)

“Maybe you should ask Margaret after she stops foaming at the mouth,” says Harry.

“You haven’t heard the bad news yet,” says Tolt.

He opens a manila folder on the desk in front of him, a few pieces of paper and a folded spreadsheet.

“There’s a problem. Not with the insurance settlement. Another matter. The firm’s been conducting an audit since Nick’s death. It’s routine whenever a partner leaves.” He makes it sound like Nick resigned.

“We review their cases to see what commitments the firm has, examine their client trust records. That sort of thing.”

Harry and I sit listening.

Adam covers his mouth with a fisted hand and clears his throat a little. “The problem is we’ve come up light on Nick’s accounting for the client trust fund.”

It’s the kind of news that tends to drain the blood from your head if you’re a lawyer.

“Are we talking a minor error in math?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not. It’s out of balance a little more than fifty-seven thousand dollars,” he says.

“You’re saying Nick invaded the client trust account?”

“Not exactly,” says Tolt. “All the checks were drawn over the last sixty days.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The checks were drawn after Nick died.” He says. “It appears that someone gained access to blank checks and signed Nick’s name to them. They were drawn to specific amounts in different names and deposited in several banks around town. We’ve checked those accounts. The funds were withdrawn, and the accounts closed all within a few days of the deposits. It appears that whoever did this gave some thought to how it should be done. We can’t get information as to social security numbers for the people receiving these funds because of banking privacy laws, though with a subpoena or a search warrant from the authorities this could be made available. I suspect that whoever did it may have used false employer I.D. numbers or bogus social security numbers, whatever. Of course I can’t be certain of that unless we inquire further. But we do have some of the canceled checks. None of them were endorsed since they were for deposit only, but the signature for the payor is not Nick’s. We do know that. We haven’t yet reported this to the police.”

“But you’re taking the time to tell us?” I say.

“Given the circumstances, I thought that it might be best.”

“Why is that?”

“The firm has no interest in stirring up a cloud of bad publicity unless it can’t be avoided. It seems your client removed a number of Nick’s personal effects from his office a little over a week after the shooting.”

“Dana?”

He nods. “According to one of our senior secretaries, the trust checks were in a drawer in Nick’s desk before Mrs. Rush visited. They were missing after she left.”

“This is a careful secretary,” says Harry. “How would she know?”

“Ordinarily she wouldn’t,” says Tolt, “but the police had just removed their yellow tape from Nick’s office door that morning. I’m just guessing, but I suspect that Mrs. Rush had called them to inquire as to when she would be able to collect her husband’s personal effects. The secretary in question, at the firm’s request, conducted an audit of everything in the office that morning, in preparation for boxing it up and reassigning client files.”

“I see.” Tolt has Dana painted into a corner.

“It’s an awkward situation,” he says. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to report the discrepancy to the State Bar. It would be good if the money could be restored before that time.”

Harry and I look at each other, but neither of us says a word.

“The bar has no jurisdiction over lay persons, and the firm would have no reason to file a criminal complaint once the money is returned. We’d rather not get law enforcement involved unless it’s necessary. Please understand I don’t want to cause any more pain than is absolutely necessary.” The way he says this, the conviction in his voice makes me believe he is telling the truth. If the information is accurate, he’s already gone farther than he should have to protect Dana, and he’s assumed some risk in doing it.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to her,” he says.

“Did you know this when we met with the carrier?”

“If I had, I would not have participated,” he says.

“But you realize the settlement may be the only source from which she can make reimbursement?” I tell him.

“I’ve considered that. I would not like to put pressure on her to settle on terms you feel are unfavorable. But you have to understand our position as well. If the insurance company were to get wind of this, they would no doubt withdraw their offer.”

Tolt is right. They would force Dana into court and take
their chances there. In the meantime, they know we would have to involve the cops. Criminal charges would be filed against her.

“You see the problem?” he says.

I offer him nothing but a painful expression of concession. It’s one of those times when words can only make things worse.

“And then there is the one final aspect,” he says.

“Which aspect is that?” says Harry, as if it couldn’t get any worse.

“I prefer not to go there. I don’t believe it for a minute,” says Adam. “But if the police have to be told about this, given their natural suspicion, an open and unsolved double murder. Well . . .” He cocks his head to one side and shrugs that shoulder.

“They might wonder whether a woman that desperate for money might not hire somebody to kill her husband for the insurance on his life. Is that it?” I say.

“As I said, I don’t believe it for a minute.”

But it does add a whole new dimension. It looks as if Dana will be compromising her share of the settlement whether she likes it or not. If what Tolt tells me is accurate, I have little interest in laying my body on the blocks to push the carrier farther, even if I could.

“I would ask you to talk to your client and see what can be worked out. And to do it as quickly as possible. Of course, I’ll send you copies of the trust records for your review.”

I agree to talk to Dana, make no promises beyond that. There’s not a lot of choice.

“Good. Now that that’s done.” Adam gives up a sigh. You can almost see the tension rise from his body like heat waves. “Not a pleasant task,” he says, “but I had to play the cards I was dealt. I hope you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Have you folks heard anything more about Nick’s death? The police are coming and going here,” he says, “asking questions, but offering no answers.”

“They’re known for that,” I tell him. “We read the papers.
That’s about it.” I don’t tell him about Espinoza. For the time being, those details are best left between Harry and me.

“Same here.” He shakes his head, takes off his glasses, and settles back into his chair. “You know, what I can’t figure is why would a man like Nick get involved with someone like Metz?”

He’s not talking about attorney-client relations now, but the partnership, Jamaile Enterprises.

Following our meeting on the insurance settlement, Adam told me that the cops were probing, questioning some of the partners and staff. They brought up the limited partnership. According to Tolt, who has now turned over every rock in the firm, this is a mystery to all of them.

“I’ve wondered the same thing. Let me ask you, did the cops ever mention a name, Grace Gimble?”

He looks at me, then Harry, thinks about this for a second, then shakes his head slowly. “No. Not that I know of. Why? Who is she?”

“I’m not sure. The name cropped up on the partnership records. One of the original directors.”

“Probably a secretary. Somebody who was around when they put the thing together. When was this, the formation?”

“A little over a year ago.”

He allows this to settle in as he calculates. “Nick was with the firm over three years,” he says.

“That’s why I thought you might know the name.”

“I don’t think anyone by that name works for us now, but I could have somebody check personnel records. Assuming we have them that far back.” He makes a note to himself on a pad on his desk, then puts the pen down on top of it.

“So what we have are two points of contact, this business Nick was involved in and his wife Dana, who was on the arts commission with Metz.”

“There’s another aspect to this thing,” I say. “Nick tried to hand Metz off to me, before he was charged. He told me the firm had a conflict with Metz, so he couldn’t handle it. Something about some contracts Metz had, that Rocker, Dusha was on the other side of.”

“I can check. But if we had an adverse interest, how did Nick get around it for the arraignment?” he asks.

“He told me he disclosed it to Metz, and I assume the other client, and they all waived.”

“The man seems to keep turning up in Nick’s life like a bad penny,” says Tolt. “We don’t know why or how they got together on business. Does anybody know how Metz got on the arts commission?”

“Zane Tresler appointed him,” says Harry.

I look at my partner, surprised at the source of this information and how readily it comes pouring forth.

“Well, you were getting wrapped around the axle, so I just thought I’d check it out,” he says. “He also appointed your pal, Fittipaldi.”

“Who is this?” says Tolt.

“A friend of Dana’s,” I tell him.

“Dana’s term is up in three years, unless she gets reappointed. Fittipaldi has a year,” says Harry. “Metz had two years when his ticket got punched. Anything else you want to know? It’s the same Tresler as the museum they’re planning downtown. You have heard about that?” he says.

Word of the museum has been in the papers two or three times in the last year, a thirty-million-dollar museum and gallery planned for a location somewhere near the waterfront, set to start construction in the next year or so.

“Actually the museum is being named for his father. Zane, Senior.” Tolt is leaning forward, elbows on his desk, smiling at the verbal swordplay between Harry and me. “A combination of some public money, mostly federal grants, and matching contributions from the Tresler Family Foundation. The old man died back in the late sixties. There’s a son, grandson, and I’m told a great grandson.”

“Which one is on the board of supervisors?”

“Zane, Junior, the son. He’s been on the board twenty years I guess. As long as I can remember. He chairs the board’s courts committee. I know that much. The judges have to grovel in front of him yearly to get their heat turned on in winter and the air turned up in summer. He controls
funding for staff, desks, pens, paper clips. He has more juice with the local courts than the appellate bench. I’d bring him into the firm as a full partner. He wouldn’t even have to come into the office,” he says, “but unfortunately he’s not a lawyer.” Adam makes it sound as if this might be only a minor impediment.

“What does he do besides supervise?” I ask.

“Not much. The grandson runs the family businesses now. Mitchell Tresler. He’s in his thirties. Not quite as quick as his father. I guess the genes have been watered down,” he says. “I’m told there’s a fourth running around out there somewhere, probably in grammar school. If I had a pretty little granddaughter, I’d send her to that school and tell her to make friends. The kid’s going to be rich someday.”

“Where did the family money come from?”

“Mostly real estate development,” says Adam. “They do large projects, malls, major subdivisions. That and give a lot of money to charities.

“The family started in real estate back in the early part of the last century. Zane One put most of it together. I never actually met the man, but from what I’ve heard, you wouldn’t want to get in his way if there was a land rush. The wheel ruts in your body would be deep. And he was well connected. A friend of William Mulholland, the engineer who built the Owens Aqueduct. Anyway, the family ended up owning a good part of the eastern end of the county. This was back when it was nothing but sagebrush and jackrabbits. The Treslers bought it up for a song. Then the water project came through, the diversion from the Colorado River. Suddenly old man Tresler was sitting on a fortune.”

“Funny how that works,” says Harry.

“Isn’t it?” says Adam. “The rest is history. Zane, Junior, grew up with the county, and now he runs it. This year it’s his turn to be chairman of the board. He also heads the regional joint powers commission.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“The city, the county, and the port authority signed a joint
powers agreement a few years ago. They formed a special regional powers entity to govern land along the waterfront and most of the commercial property downtown. They have the final word on development in that area. Tresler’s the chairperson. It gives him a huge hammer. What he wants he gets.”

“That’s a little dicey, isn’t it?” asks Harry. “I mean sitting on a county governing body that settles zoning disputes when your family’s company is doing development?”

“Tresler is a careful man,” says Adam.

“And if you’re smart, you don’t ask questions, is that it?” says Harry.

“Not if you want his vote on anything that’s important,” says Tolt. “And to be honest, I think you’ll find him above reproach. There’s nothing anybody can give him that he doesn’t already have—money, power, you put it on a list, Zane Tresler has it. They call it politics, and as I said, he’s a careful man.”

Though many might not believe it, the most potent side of government resides at the local level in this state. Here things like contracts for picking up your garbage, down-zoning and obtaining variances to do as you please on your own land can make you a millionaire, or a pauper, overnight.

Some county supervisors operate like feudal lords. They are untouched by the restrictions of term limits and largely ignored by the glare of the news media that is interested only in covering the A-list in Washington and the state capital. Supervisors in large counties in this state have constituencies larger than members of Congress. They reign over districts more vast than the Spanish land grants. And like the colonial dons of early California, some are in the habit of exercising unquestioned authority.

In a state where many citizens don’t read, write, or speak English, where voters trudge through their daily existence like vassals, paying their taxes and asking few questions, a well-greased machine can maintain power for decades on nothing but its own perpetual motion. If you want your streets swept, your sewers unplugged, and the doors to your health clinic
kept open, you’d better sign on to your local supervisor’s oath of fealty. In some shining communities, it has reached the level of Stalin’s utopian state. Here it no longer matters who votes. It only matters who counts the vote. It’s the old ward system, alive and well in sunny Southern California.