CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The prosecutor, Montie Carver, had one of those tans you know come from a tanning booth, every inch of his body under his clothes the same unblemished bronze. His yellow hair was expensively long, and except for his gray suit and cuff links he looked like the kind of parking lot attendant who collected big tips.

My father wore one of the suits he had hand tailored in a shop off Union Square. It was a suit that didn’t look expensive, the sort of business outfit you barely notice, with a crisp white shirt and a dark tie. When he saw Georgia and me he gave us a thumbs-up, and he nodded and gave his award-winning smile to acquaintances in the courthouse audience.

But the courtroom was crowded, and many of the people saw my father’s smile and looked right back, unsmiling, stonily silent. Cindy occupied a seat in the front row, a navy blue, nearly nautical blouse, her hair gathered back into a gold clasp. The effect was prim; she looked younger than I did.

The witness swore to tell the truth and took his seat. Carver asked him to state his name and occupation. He was Allen Post, the owner of a foundry that manufactured every kind of manhole cover, from the big steel disks you see in intersections to the little ones in the sidewalk that seal pipes and cables. “People walk on my product all the time, and never know it,” said Mr. Post.

Carver didn’t bother looking at his notes, but unlike the lawyers you see in movies, he didn’t wander around the courtroom. “Mr. Post, did you file a suit with the Isabella Construction Company?”

“Yes, my new house—the house I had built—was a delight to my wife and myself. It was a beautiful place, but it had cracks in its foundation.”

Carver raised a hand, glanced at Her Honor, and cautioned the witness not to answer everything all at once, let the testimony come out little by little. The judge was a woman with white hair and glasses, the theatrical sort of glasses frames that make the person wearing them look small and big-eyed.

“Who was your legal representative during this lawsuit?” asked Carver.

Mr. Post had a gray mustache and shaggy gray hair surrounding a bald spot. A broad shouldered, ham-fisted man, he looked like he could pick up a manhole cover and skim it like a Frisbee. He could not help looking briefly at my father as he answered, “Harvey Chamberlain.”

“Was your lawsuit successful, Mr. Post?”

“There were cracks you could put your hand into, and this is a three-story house, with a view of the whole Bay Area. A view like a jewel box. But the first serious rain and the structure was going to slide.”

“Mr. Post,” said Carver, with a little laugh. “Could you answer my question?”

“The construction company settled out of court,” said Mr. Post.

“What was the amount of the settlement?”

“The entire house had to be jacked off its mooring, the old foundation broken up. It was our dream house, my wife and I planned that place our whole lives.”

“If you could tell us the amount of the settlement, Mr. Post.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

“When did you receive this payment from the construction company?”

Mr. Post found it difficult to say: “I never did.”

“Did you ever receive any explanation for this?”

“A zillion explanations.” The witness did not want to look at anyone, gripping the wooden arms of the chair. “Every time I called Mr. Chamberlain, he said the company still hadn’t sent the check. For two years, he said the construction company was sitting on the money.”

Jack sat beside my father, his head in a medical turtleneck. With every question my father’s attorney seemed to grow a little taller in the chair.

“What did you do?” asked Carver.

“After so much time, I couldn’t wait any longer. I got on the phone myself, made some calls, to the president of the construction company. He said they had sent a check to my lawyer, Mr. Chamberlain, for the entire amount, right after the settlement had been reached.”

Jack hitched himself to his feet, objecting.

Georgia craned her neck as Mrs. Jovanovich found her way to the witness stand. “It’s dear old Mrs. What’s-her-name,” whispered Georgia in a tone of surprise.

It took a long time for her to cross the courtroom with the help of two metal canes tipped with white rubber. Finally, a bailiff, with his holster and his badge, offered her an arm, and she made it to the witness stand at last.

She is the kind of woman you imagine as an empress, elderly but in full command of both her army and her navy. When she speaks, though, you are reminded of the inroads age has made on her powers.

“And what legal help did you seek in managing your estate, Mrs. Jovanovich?” Carver was asking.

“I couldn’t begin to collect the rents and deal with the tax documents, and then when one of my properties had fire damage, and an apartment building suffered in one of our earthquakes, I had so many pieces of paper it was bewildering.”

Carver met the judge’s eyes. “Just take your time, Mrs. Jovanovich,” he said, gently, but speaking clearly, “and answer the questions slowly. We all want to hear what you have to say.”

“And please speak right into the microphone,” said the judge with the sort of kindly smile people give frail people.

Mrs. Jovanovich crooked the mike a little closer, with something like a practiced touch, and her voice resounded. “I asked Harvey Chamberlain to help me, and he said he would.”

“He acted as your attorney?”

“He was my legal and financial advisor. In collecting insurance money, pursuing money owed to me, and in helping sort though my expenses. I have so much to do, and I can’t do it all anymore, Mr. Carver. Mr. Chamberlain is always such a pleasure to be with. He is so full of life. My late husband and he used to play golf together, although I do believe Mr. Chamberlain let my husband win.”

Carver slumped a little. “Could you estimate for us, Mrs. Jovanovich, the size of your estate, in terms of dollars?”

“I should have brought my financial records with me,” said Mrs. Jovanovich. “I’m so terribly sorry—”

“Just roughly, to the best of your recollection,” said Carver.

“Oh, I’m afraid I deal with hundreds of thousands of dollars, Mr. Carver. I have to apologize, because I know some people have so little.” Her face wrinkled into a kindly apology, as though ashamed of her relative wealth. “My husband and I worked hard to build up a considerable amount of property.”

“Could you tell us, please, how you began to question the professional services Mr. Chamberlain was providing?”

“You phrase it so politely, Mr. Carver,” said Mrs. Jovanovich. “You’re being very kind, and I appreciate it.” She lifted a finger to silence Carver, and continued, “I discovered that Mr. Chamberlain was deceiving me. He was robbing me.”

Jack climbed to his feet, said something in an exasperated tone, but before the judge could address the witness, Mrs. Jovanovich’s amplified voice was saying, “Mr. Chamberlain is a thief.”