Monday morning, I was sitting in the conference room on the fourth floor of a modern building near Sixth Avenue and Simms, watching my construction case client get sworn in for his deposition by the court reporter. I would have preferred to be cleverly concealed in some corner at the City and County Building, staking out the door to Courtroom Six so that I could witness firsthand whatever was going to occur. Would somebody show up with a key from Nora Walsh's purse, hoping to find the briefcase? Ten thousand dollars was real money. I could understand someone wanting it back. Or maybe it wasn't the money they were after. It could have been the briefcase itself, or even the GPS device.
The setup was simple. Two members of law enforcement would be stationed inside the clerk's office. If anyone showed up and used the key, he or she would be arrested on the spot. There had been some discussion, which began while Swain and I were still at the courthouse on Sunday and was evidently concluded later that afternoon, as to whether the two officers would be Denver Police or Denver Sheriffs. I found out later that they had compromised and agreed to one of each.
My client did better than I'd expected in his deposition. He fumbled a few questions, but it was clear that he was being truthful, and he got his point across. Years earlier, lawyers could make objections in ways that coached the witness as to how to answer a question. With recent changes in the Rules of Civil Procedure, that was now considered a "deposition abuse," which could land an attorney in serious hot water with the judge. I had to content myself with, "Objection, form and foundation," and hope the client figured out that I was trying to tell him there was something wrong with the question.
By and large, he did okay.
Throughout the morning, I kept wondering what was happening at Courtroom Six. As it turned out, nothing was happening. Swain called me late Monday afternoon to tell me that nobody had showed up, with or without a key. After spending a tediously boring day doing nothing but wait, the two officers had finally been ordered to return to their normal duties.
Swain suggested that perhaps the clerk was merely the victim of a random burglary gone wrong. I scoffed at the notion and made a comment about flying pigs. He conceded that the odds favored cause and effect over coincidence. He also asked me for a favor.
"I spoke this morning with Judge Wheaton," he said. "I felt she ought to know about the money in the briefcase."
I couldn't resist a bit of sarcasm. "Did you also tell her I wasn't the one who took it?"
"No, we didn't discuss how it got there. She was more concerned with what it contained."
"I can imagine. What was her reaction?"
"She wasn't pleased, but she didn't seem surprised. It's becoming more and more obvious that Gumauer was involved in shenanigans. Do you remember the man who was in the courtroom the day Gumauer died?"
"Mr. Park?"
"Right. His first name is Yun but everyone calls him Jim. He's been calling Mary's office nearly every day since Gumauer died, claiming the judge was corrupt. Before that, he was hounding the Court Administrator. With the discovery of all that money in Gumauer's office, there is now a legitimate basis for him to question what happened in his case."
Not seeing what was coming, I said, "That makes sense. He may be just one of many people Gumauer shafted."
"Mary thinks he needs a good lawyer."
"I agree. If he acts soon enough, he could set aside the judgment based upon judicial misconduct. Or fraud. That would help right at least one of Gumauer's wrongs."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Adam" Swain said. "He says he can't afford a lawyer. Judge Wheaton thought you might be willing to help him out on a pro bono basis."
Now, of course, I realized what I had walked into. My mind had been distracted by something else he said, and I hadn't been paying enough attention.
"That's awfully generous of her," I said in a mildly ironic tone. "Does she have any other free work she wants me to handle?"
Swain chuckled. "I don't know. Would you do it? I'd consider it a personal favor."
I thought it over. "Fine. Tell her to have him call me. I'll take a look at his case."
"Thank you. I'll be in touch."
After we hung up, I spent some time mulling over my conversation with Swain. There was another possible reason why no one showed up to look for that briefcase.
And it had some very dark implications.
Mid-morning, I received another call from Henry Antrim.
He didn't waste any time with preliminaries. "Larsen, I'm not sure what your role is in the Braxton and Callahan case, but I have an offer for you."
"I don't have any role," I told him. "You should be having this conversation with Heather Tumley."
"I can't communicate with that crazy woman. Every time I try, she just gets hysterical. Typical female lawyer. I'd rather talk to you and you can pass it on to her."
I glanced down at the calendar on my desk. It said 2015. For a moment, I had a feeling we'd suddenly shifted back fifty years in time, when male lawyers regularly had conversations that were "just between us boys."
"What's your offer?"
"My clients would settle for a hundred thousand dollars. I understand her people may not have the cash on hand. They could pay it out over ninety days."
I didn't mask my incredulity. "Really? A hundred thousand? What about their first born child, too?"
"Not funny, Larsen. My clients think that's quite reasonable."
We both knew that was absurd, but there was nothing to be gained by pointing it out. This wasn't even my case.
"I'll pass it on," I said. "But you really need to talk to Ms. Tumley. I'm not involved."
"Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that. Tell me, just between us, how can you not be involved? You showed up in open court on their behalf."
"As you recall, I was sitting in the gallery. I didn't enter an appearance. I didn't even—"
"That's just splitting hairs. What was going on?"
"You know I can't discuss it."
"Right. Attorney-client privilege. That just proves my point."
"Which is what?"
"You're their lawyer. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a privilege."
"I'm not, but there's nothing to be gained by debating it." I decided to shift the subject. "In the bigger picture, it's inconsequential."
"Maybe to you it is. Not to me."
"Well, I can't help you with that."
"Or you choose not to. Shall I ask, what's this 'bigger picture' you're referring to?"
"I don't know if you heard, but Gumauer's division clerk was murdered yesterday."
"Yeah, I did hear. Evidently, she walked in on a burglar. Bad timing on her part."
His cavalier tone irritated me. "Assuming that's what happened."
"Oh? You know something different?"
"Nope. It just seems like quite a coincidence, don't you think? Someone breaks into her house and shoots her to death a week after her boss kills himself?"
"Hell if I know. If it isn't a coincidence, what happened to her?"
"I don't know."
"You gonna find out?"
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. You seem to have a habit of mixing into things that don't concern you."
I couldn't tell if it was an insult or a threat. I toyed with telling him what sort of habits he had. But what would that accomplish? Instead, I said, "I'll forward your offer to Ms. Tumley."
"Let me know."
As I cradled the receiver, I realized that Ann had quietly slipped into my office. "Like the fog rolling in on little cat's feet."
She stared at me. "What?"
"Carl Sandburg. Sorry, Free association. It's from a poem they made us memorize in middle school. What's up?"
She gestured toward the telephone. "Antrim again?"
"It was. How did you know?"
"Diana. It upsets her when he calls."
I laughed. "It upsets me, too. His clients are demanding a hundred thousand dollars to settle their case."
She looked perplexed. "Why would he—"
"He thinks I'm 'involved'."
"Are you?"
"Actually, I'm still doing my best not to be. But I keep getting sucked into the vortex."
She said, with a look of genuine sympathy. "You really can't help it." She dropped onto one of the black leather chairs in front of my desk. "How can he demand a hundred thousand dollars?"
"Anyone can demand anything, Ann. Getting it is an entirely different matter. He knows the Braxtons aren't paying his clients that kind of money."
"Then what's his point?"
"I see several possibilities. It could be that he's actually trying to settle the case."
"By demanding something absurd?"
"We're supposed to believe he's completely confident of the outcome. The idea is to steamroll the Callahans into paying more than a normal person would ever consider paying."
"And the other possibilities?"
"One of them is that the settlement offer is just a ploy so that he can pump me for information."
"About our meeting with Gumauer?"
"Not just Gumauer. There have been developments." I proceeded to tell her about the previous day's events, including the money-laden briefcase.
When I was done, she said, "Do you think the ten thousand dollars came from Antrim?"
"It's a distinct possibility. Somebody ransacked the clerk's house. They were looking for something."
"No one showed up at the courthouse this morning," she pointed out. "Doesn't that tend to show that wasn't the plan?"
"That's one possibility. Another is that whoever is behind this found out the briefcase had been found. Then, of course, he wouldn't go looking for it. It would be an admission of guilt."
"But how would anyone have found out?"
"That's the question that concerns me, Ann. The only people who had that knowledge are involved in law enforcement."
"This is getting scary," she said.
While Ann was still in my office, I dialed Heather Tumley's office number. After three rings, the call went to voice mail and I left a message for her to call me. About an hour later, Diana put her through.
"Hi, Adam. How are you?"
"Fine," I said. "Have there been any developments in the Callahan case?"
"Actually, there have. The case has been reassigned to a new judge. Not Judge Wheaton, by the way. We received a Minute Order, directing us to set a status conference. Also, last spring, I filed a motion to dismiss most of the plaintiffs' claims. Judge Gumauer denied it with a one word order that just said, 'Denied.' The new judge hinted that he's seriously considering it and wants us to be prepared to discuss it at the status conference."
"Interesting. I received a call from your opposing counsel this morning."
"Antrim?"
"Right. I asked him what I'm sure you're wondering, namely why was he calling me?"
"What did he say?"
"He claimed he can't talk to you because you get emotional and—"
"That's ridiculous! He hasn't even tried to talk to me. I've never—"
"Count to ten, Heather. I'm just the messenger."
"Sorry. That man makes my blood boil."
"That's what he's best at doing. He asked me to tell you that his clients are ready to settle the case, for a mere hundred thousand dollars."
"A hundred thousand," she sputtered. "Is he crazy? My clients don't have that kind of money. And even if they did, there's no way they'd pay it to his clients. I hope you told him to stick it."
As she spoke, it occurred to me that Antrim might be right about her. She did tend to get emotional. Of course, I kept that thought to myself. My grandfather once pointed out, "Not every thought that flows into your brain needs to come spilling out through your mouth." What I did say was, "I didn't tell him anything, except that I'm not the Callahans' lawyer, but as a courtesy I'd forward the offer to you. Antrim knows your clients aren't going to pay his clients that kind of money."
"Then what's the point of the offer?"
"I don't know. Start high and hope for the best, I suppose. Especially if he knows the new judge is considering throwing out some of the claims."
"So what do you recommend?"
"Have you tried mediation?"
"We did. It was a waste of everyone's time."
"Are your clients interested in paying anything to the Callahans?"
"No. The way they see it, the Braxtons owe them money."
"Then make a counteroffer, if your clients are willing. Tell Antrim how much they'd accept to settle the case. I would make it very clear that the payment is coming from his clients to your clients, and not the other way around. Antrim is fully capable of twisting the offer and claiming you've reached some agreement that you didn't intended to make."
"Good point," she said. "He's a snake. I'm only communicating with him via email, so there's a record of everything we say."
"That's a good idea." I debated telling her about the briefcase, which tended to support the notion that Gumauer had been accepting bribes, but decided not to mention it for now. After all, there was nothing to tie Antrim to anything improper—other than the sheer one-sidedness of the judge's rulings. "If your new judge is seeing things your way, then time would seem to be on your side."
"That seems logical. I'll talk to them and see what they want to do. Thank you, Adam. I appreciate the call."
Mr. Park called me a few minutes later. He had an energetic voice, high-pitched and slightly nasal, with no trace of an accent. "Mr. Larsen, my name is Jim Park. I saw you in court the day Judge Gumauer died."
"I remember. I understand you were unhappy with him."
"Was I ever! He screwed me royally in my divorce case. And he was outright nasty about it."
"And you filed a grievance against him?"
"I sure did. Is it okay for me to talk about that? They told me those are supposed to be confidential."
"They are," I said. "We can't discuss the details."
"No problem. I got a call this morning from the new Chief Judge's clerk. She told me I should call you. I hope that's okay."
"It is. Judge Wheaton has asked me to take a look at your case and see if anything improper took place."
"Oh, it did, for sure. I got screwed."
I smiled to myself. There was something likeable about this young man. "Why don't you come down to my office and we'll see if that's really what happened?"
"That would be great," he said. "Tell me when, and I'll be there. I should tell you up front, though, because of what Gumauer did to me, I'm flat broke. I'd have to pay your fees over time. Or borrow the money somewhere."
"We can discuss that, too. How does tomorrow look?"
"I'll make it work. What time?"
"Ten o'clock?"
"I'll be there. Where's your office?"