“Emma, it’s Lupe. Hi.”
“Hey, girl, where have you been?”
“Busy, real busy. Listen, are you free for lunch today? I need to pick your brain on a case I’m working.”
“Name it and claim it.”
“Joe’s at twelve-thirty.”
“Great. I love a free lunch. Lucky me, I didn’t even eat breakfast.”
Emma Gillespie was one of my closest friends. We were classmates from kindergarten through high school, but we didn’t really get close until later, when Mami was sick. Emma lost her own mother as a child, and looked me up when she heard about Mami. I found out she’d gone north to Harvard for college and law school, worked a stint as a federal prosecutor, then become one of the most respected criminal defense attorneys in Dade County.
I owed Emma a lot, and not just because she helped me get through a nightmarish time in my life. She was also a great contact for me because of her clout in the legal and law enforcement communities. After eating with Emma, I’d interview Regina. With any luck, I’d have enough leads to possibly nail down the Moreno case in a few days.
By the time I reached Miami Beach I was ravenous. I knew what Emma and I would have—two orders of the jumbo stone crabs, hash brown potatoes, creamed spinach, key lime pie for dessert, and a frigid cold white wine to wash it all down. The only variable was the wine—I liked it dry and Emma favored it sweet. Today was her turn to pick.
When I parked at Joe’s I saw Emma’s fire-engine-red Porsche pulling away, driven by a valet. It wasn’t even twelve-thirty yet. Emma was the only person I knew who could make me feel late when I was early, but I ran on Cuban time; she ran on WASP time. I roared up to the valet drop-off area, nearly giving the attendant a coronary.
Emma was just giving the maître d’ her name when I came into the dark waiting area. I was glad to see her dressed casually, in a pink cotton T-shirt, cotton pants, and espadrilles—it meant we could have a leisurely lunch without the hassle and stress of afternoon meetings or court appearances. She had on her favorite well-worn straw hat, with a fuchsia peony flower pinned to a black velvet ribbon around the crown. With her fresh good looks and perfect skin, Emma could pass for the Ivory soap girl. She radiated health and clean living and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Her opponents often learned the hard way that her innocent appearance masked a razor-sharp mind.
As soon as she spotted me she flew over and hugged me, almost knocking me down. We were only a few months apart in age, but she was a perpetual teenager.
“There’s only a few people ahead of us,” she said, straightening her hat. “It shouldn’t be long until we get a seat.”
I looked into the crowded dining room. At least it wasn’t dinnertime; then, the wait ran from one to three hours. Joe’s didn’t take reservations, seating everyone in the order they arrived.
“You slipped the guy some money, didn’t you?” I whispered.
“Of course.” Emma smiled at the maître d’ as he arrived with menus to take us to our table. Walking ahead of me, she turned and leaned down to talk into my ear. “Democracy in action,” she said.
We were still giggling when we sat down. Joe’s owners always vigorously insisted that theirs was a fair, first-come, first-served institution. Only two kinds of customers believed that: the truly gullible and tightwads who claimed to stand on principle.
We didn’t talk for a minute because Emma was immersed in her menu. She truly seemed never to change. She was the only woman I knew who used Jean Naté cologne past the age of sixteen, and the few times she went hatless, mostly in court, she wore her hair parted in the center and flowing free down her back—just as in high school. One of the Miami social magazines did a piece on the ten most beautiful single career women a couple of years ago, and Emma was in it. When the editor asked how she kept her golden hair so lovely, Emma casually told her the truth—that she washed it with whatever shampoo was on sale at the time, and dried it by aiming her car air-conditioner vents at her head on the way to the office. Once, in her haste, she had even used her dog’s flea and tick shampoo. The editor must have been completely humorless, because the episode never saw print.
Emma placed our order—everything I’d predicted, down to the sweet wine—and reached across the table and took my hand. “It’s good to see you, it’s been too long,” she said, then took her hand back. “But it sounds like you mean business today. What’s up?”
“Remember a few years ago, you told me you had a trial against Elio Betancourt?”
“That son of a bitch?”
“That son of a bitch.”
Emma frowned like she had just bitten into a rotten lemon. She was trying to look disgusted, but she was simply too cute to pull it off.
The busboy arrived with a basket of bread and thick slabs of butter. The waiter came right behind him and started pouring the wine; as soon as Emma sipped it and pronounced it drinkable, we clinked glasses and drained them. The waiter, his eyes a little wide, quickly refilled our glasses. I could see the hope come to life in his eyes: we might be a two-bottle table.
“What do you want to know?” Emma asked.
“Well, I have a case he’s closely involved in.”
Emma slathered a quarter-inch-thick slab of butter on a roll. “Good luck, and watch your back,” she said.
I split an onion roll in half, stuffed it with butter, and took a bite. Neither of us was cowed by the tyranny of the fat-free brigade.
“Tell me what your case is about,” Emma said, her mouth full of bread. She reached over to the wine bucket and grabbed the bottle in a smooth motion. Four men seated at the table nearest us gave her an admiring look. Not many women today display their appetites in public.
I gave her a brief account of what the Morenos told me and the follow-up I had done. I knew I could trust Emma, both as a friend and as an attorney.
“Wow,” she finally said. “What a rat! I knew he was shady and unscrupulous and all of that, but I never thought he was involved in anything downright criminal. I knew he was in bed with some marginal clients, but this is unbelievable.”
The waiter arrived with a huge tray that brimmed over with our order. When Emma and I get together and eating is involved, there is no debate. We set Betancourt aside and concentrated on business. The waiter offered plastic bibs, but we waved him away. Bibs are for tourists. We set into the cold stone crabs, alternating between the mustard sauce and the drawn butter. The hash brown potatoes were, as always, delicious and greasy. It was only when we took a halftime breather that I addressed what Emma had last said.
“That’s what I thought too,” I said, wiping my hands. “I already knew he was no Mother Teresa, but what’s a criminal defense attorney doing in adoptions—legal or illegal? Does the guy need money? How’s his practice going these days?”
“God, Lupe, calm down.” Emma forked another load of potatoes into her mouth. “What do you think I am, an Elio Betancourt expert?”
“Come on, all you criminal defense attorneys keep track of each other,” I said. “After all, who knows when you might need representation of your own.”
Emma crinkled her nose with amusement as she took another long drink of wine. “You should talk, Lupe. Have you broken any laws yet investigating this case?”
I dug into my food and didn’t answer. “What about his personal life?” I asked. “Any skeletons you know about?”
“Well, I know he plays around like crazy on his wife. He considers anything in a skirt fair game.”
“You sound like you’re talking from experience,” I said.
The guys at the next table had finished their lunch and all rose together. I could sense them trying not to stare as they walked by our table.
Emma seemed oblivious. “Well, it was certainly an easy proposition to turn down,” she said. “Anyway, the wife—Margarita—is only interested in her social life. I heard he’s had a series of mistresses through the years. Maybe that’s why he needs the money. Those kinds of women aren’t cheap.”
“Come on, Emma, wake up. He’s Cuban. Of course he has mistresses. It’s probably built into his budget under fixed costs. What else do you know about him?”
“Hold on a second,” she said. The waiter had just brought our key lime pie. “Can I have a cup of coffee with this?” The waiter nodded and made for the kitchen.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” I said, “that Joe’s refuses to serve Cuban coffee in the unofficial capital of Latin America, or that you’re willing to drink that watered-down American junk.”
Emma shrugged. “That Cuban stuff tastes like tar with sugar in it, if you ask me.”
I bit into my pie. We could never agree about coffee or wine, but we were willing to tolerate each other’s tastes.
“So anyway,” Emma said, already half done with her pie when the coffee came, “Betancourt’s client list reads like a who’s who of the drug crowd. I’m sure you know that. I’ve heard that he conducts himself in such a shady way to get back at his wife by playing head games with her. She’s so preoccupied with social standing, and he’s always trying to undermine her.”
“Isn’t that kind of extreme?”
“I don’t know. Ask me when I get married,” Emma said. “But the irony of all this is that he’s considered a pretty good lawyer. He did some personal-injury cases a few years ago and got great results for his clients. He also took on the Dade County School Board for some teachers who got fired for some bullshit reason. I don’t remember what—but he won.”
“He sounds like a complex guy.”
“That’s for sure.”
I motioned to the waiter to bring us the bill. The wine had made me sleepy, and I still had to meet the Morenos at their home, then drive to Sweetwater to meet Regina.
The bill paid, we stood outside in the bright afternoon glare, which blinded me and gave me an instant headache.
“If I hear anything else, sweetie, I’ll let you know,” Emma said when her car arrived first.
I took a pass by Ocean Drive. The sun played on the water, forming crescents of light that danced upon the blue surface. I always felt relaxed after seeing Emma. Her ease with the world rubbed off on me. Only the thought of a critically ill little girl, and that I was her last hope, kept me from having peace.