Read Online Cold Winter Rain by Steven Gregory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Gregory
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near the Washington Monument.
Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr was, therefore, somewhat interested in Vincent Foster.
Foster’s lawyer objected to the subpoena.
Considering that objection, the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit held that the attorney-client privilege “weakens” after the client’s death, and ordered Hamilton to turn over his files.
Hamilton appealed the issue to the United States Supreme Court. The Supreme Court reversed the lower court and held, 6-3, that “[i]t has been generally . . . accepted, for well over a century, that the attorney-client privilege survives the death of the client in a case such as this.”
The fact that a lawyer was consulted, however, is not privileged, even while the client is alive, and I had already told the coach that I'd been hired to find Kris Kramer.
“Don Kramer traveled to my office in Gulf Shores on Saturday and hired me to look for Kris. I’m a lawyer, but looking for missing persons is -- uhh -- something I do.” I didn’t see any point in telling her my office was in the back of a bar.
Kronenberg walked back to the desk at the end of the room underneath the window and stuck her feet into a pair of blue thongs. Then she opened a desk drawer and clipped on a small black leather fanny pack.
“Let’s not talk here. I’m seeing soccer balls in my sleep, these days. Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
“ All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you, Coach.”
On the second floor of the student union building, the coffee shop commanded a view of the dormitory quadrangle through huge double-hung windows. For some reason the shop was named The Basement.
I ordered a medium regular coffee. The coach ordered a tall skinny latté, and we settled in at a small table beneath one of the windows.
Coach Kronenberg poured a blue packet of Equal into her latte, stirred, then looked up at me. “Well, Mr. Slate. I don’t know what you know and what you don’t know,” she said. “So why don’t you start?”
“ I don’t know much.” I told her about Kramer’s visit to Gulf Shores and about the early morning phone call from Grubbs and identifying Kramer’s body. I left out the part about the rain falling into his unseeing eyes.
Sally Kronenberg didn’t say a word while I spoke. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.
When I finished, she picked up her latté and took a sip. “Coffee here is good,” she said. “‘One hundred per cent Columbian,’ like the sign says.”
“ Yeah. Not bad. I read somewhere it’s the roast, though, not the beans.”
“ I wouldn’t know. I just drink the stuff. So. What do you want to know?”
“ What kind of girl is Kris Kramer?”
“ You’re hoping I will tell you I suspect she does drugs or is into kinky sex or something.”
“ I just need to know the facts.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head enough to make the hair on the sides of her face swing past her cheeks. “If a missing girl was into drugs or bad boys, it would make it easier to start looking for her, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so. There would be a place to start, the end of the thread to start pulling.”
She was silent for a moment, sipping her coffee, a slightly faraway look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Kris is one of the best girls I’ve ever coached. Incredible work ethic. Smart. Steady. No drugs. No bad boys. No boys at all as far as I know.”
“No boys?”
“ No girls either.” She took another small sip of her latte. A tiny bit of foam clung to her lower lip. “Not all female athletes are lesbians, Mr. Slate.”
I had a sip of my own coffee, now almost cool enough to drink. “I may be a redneck,” I said. “But even I know that.”
“Umm.” She made a little motion with her head that could have been agreement
Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr was, therefore, somewhat interested in Vincent Foster.
Foster’s lawyer objected to the subpoena.
Considering that objection, the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit held that the attorney-client privilege “weakens” after the client’s death, and ordered Hamilton to turn over his files.
Hamilton appealed the issue to the United States Supreme Court. The Supreme Court reversed the lower court and held, 6-3, that “[i]t has been generally . . . accepted, for well over a century, that the attorney-client privilege survives the death of the client in a case such as this.”
The fact that a lawyer was consulted, however, is not privileged, even while the client is alive, and I had already told the coach that I'd been hired to find Kris Kramer.
“Don Kramer traveled to my office in Gulf Shores on Saturday and hired me to look for Kris. I’m a lawyer, but looking for missing persons is -- uhh -- something I do.” I didn’t see any point in telling her my office was in the back of a bar.
Kronenberg walked back to the desk at the end of the room underneath the window and stuck her feet into a pair of blue thongs. Then she opened a desk drawer and clipped on a small black leather fanny pack.
“Let’s not talk here. I’m seeing soccer balls in my sleep, these days. Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
“ All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you, Coach.”
On the second floor of the student union building, the coffee shop commanded a view of the dormitory quadrangle through huge double-hung windows. For some reason the shop was named The Basement.
I ordered a medium regular coffee. The coach ordered a tall skinny latté, and we settled in at a small table beneath one of the windows.
Coach Kronenberg poured a blue packet of Equal into her latte, stirred, then looked up at me. “Well, Mr. Slate. I don’t know what you know and what you don’t know,” she said. “So why don’t you start?”
“ I don’t know much.” I told her about Kramer’s visit to Gulf Shores and about the early morning phone call from Grubbs and identifying Kramer’s body. I left out the part about the rain falling into his unseeing eyes.
Sally Kronenberg didn’t say a word while I spoke. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.
When I finished, she picked up her latté and took a sip. “Coffee here is good,” she said. “‘One hundred per cent Columbian,’ like the sign says.”
“ Yeah. Not bad. I read somewhere it’s the roast, though, not the beans.”
“ I wouldn’t know. I just drink the stuff. So. What do you want to know?”
“ What kind of girl is Kris Kramer?”
“ You’re hoping I will tell you I suspect she does drugs or is into kinky sex or something.”
“ I just need to know the facts.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head enough to make the hair on the sides of her face swing past her cheeks. “If a missing girl was into drugs or bad boys, it would make it easier to start looking for her, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so. There would be a place to start, the end of the thread to start pulling.”
She was silent for a moment, sipping her coffee, a slightly faraway look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Kris is one of the best girls I’ve ever coached. Incredible work ethic. Smart. Steady. No drugs. No bad boys. No boys at all as far as I know.”
“No boys?”
“ No girls either.” She took another small sip of her latte. A tiny bit of foam clung to her lower lip. “Not all female athletes are lesbians, Mr. Slate.”
I had a sip of my own coffee, now almost cool enough to drink. “I may be a redneck,” I said. “But even I know that.”
“Umm.” She made a little motion with her head that could have been agreement
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