Read Online Suspicion of Innocence by Barbara Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Parker
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bring him up to date."
"Excellent." Larry nodded, then stood up. "Well, duty calls. Another damnable staff meeting."
Gail walked with him to the door.
He glanced at someone passing by, lifting a hand in greeting, then looked back at Gail. "I'm having lunch with Jack in the partners' room upstairs at noon. Why don't you join us?"
On the penthouse floor, connected to a four-star continental restaurant, the firm had a private dining room, one area for lowly associates and another, grander space for partners and their guests.
She smiled. "Certainly."
When he had gone she closed the door and leaned against it, grinning to herself.
Three gold-framed oil portraits hung in the main lobby—the men who had founded Hartwell Black & Robineau in the twenties, when the land boom hit Miami. The firm had survived the boom, the bust, hurricanes, depression, and immigration from both north and south that had turned Miami from a sleepy tourist town to the unofficial capital of the Caribbean. Flashier, bigger law firms had formed, died, and reformed, clustered in the sleek glass towers lining Flagler Street or Brickell Avenue, but nobody could match Hartwell Black for longevity or tradition.
She had been with the firm for eight years, ever since the summer before her final year of law school, hired as a clerk against stiff competition. They hadn't mentioned Judge Ben Strickland, but of course they knew. Gail was an honorary member of the club. Since then, she had worked damned hard, and had the clients and the cases to show for it.
There were eleven women attorneys out of sixty-seven, not a bad ratio for a crusty old firm like this one. But only two women partners. Gail intended to be the third.
Back at her desk, she dropped the new tape into her recorder, ready for the stack of legal pleadings which had arrived since Friday. Miriam had already assured her that none of them was vital enough to warrant a same-day reply. Gail worked her way through four of them, then stared at the next.
"I do not believe this. The absolute balls—" It was a motion for recusal on Darden v. Pedrosa Development, asking that Judge Arlen Coakley disqualify himself and send the case to another division. George Sanchez's signature appeared at the end for Ferrer & Quintana.
Disbelieving, Gail scanned the motion. "... the close business and personal relationship between not only the court and plaintiffs in this case but between the court and said plaintiffs' attorney, prejudicing thereby the rights of the defendants to a fair, just, and equitable result in this matter." She recognized the overblown prose—definitely George. Accompanying the motion was a notice requesting that the court set a special hearing. That alone could take anywhere from three to six weeks.
Of course she knew the judge, but he wouldn't do her any special favors. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to Coakley that he was an old friend of Senator Hartwell. The motion was only going to piss him off.
Then again . . . Coakley might throw the case out of his division if he was that pissed.
"Damn." Gail tossed her pen on the desk. George had written the motion, but was he devious enough to have thought of it?
She picked up the phone and dialed. Anthony Quintana had talked about settlement. He had come to the funeral with that little double-photo frame for Irene. How nice of him. Now this.
After two rings a female voice answered—a bilingual answering machine. Gail waited, tapping her nails on the arm of her chair.
"This is the law firm of Ferrer and Quintana. Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana. You may leave a message at the tone. Deje su mensaje al sonido electrónico. Gracias." Beep.
"This is Gail Connor, Hartwell Black. Please have Mr. Quintana call me as soon as he gets in." She recited the number, then let the receiver down sharply, glancing at her watch. Eight-fifty.
After dutifully writing point-two in her log, Gail paper-clipped the duplicate time slip to the
"Excellent." Larry nodded, then stood up. "Well, duty calls. Another damnable staff meeting."
Gail walked with him to the door.
He glanced at someone passing by, lifting a hand in greeting, then looked back at Gail. "I'm having lunch with Jack in the partners' room upstairs at noon. Why don't you join us?"
On the penthouse floor, connected to a four-star continental restaurant, the firm had a private dining room, one area for lowly associates and another, grander space for partners and their guests.
She smiled. "Certainly."
When he had gone she closed the door and leaned against it, grinning to herself.
Three gold-framed oil portraits hung in the main lobby—the men who had founded Hartwell Black & Robineau in the twenties, when the land boom hit Miami. The firm had survived the boom, the bust, hurricanes, depression, and immigration from both north and south that had turned Miami from a sleepy tourist town to the unofficial capital of the Caribbean. Flashier, bigger law firms had formed, died, and reformed, clustered in the sleek glass towers lining Flagler Street or Brickell Avenue, but nobody could match Hartwell Black for longevity or tradition.
She had been with the firm for eight years, ever since the summer before her final year of law school, hired as a clerk against stiff competition. They hadn't mentioned Judge Ben Strickland, but of course they knew. Gail was an honorary member of the club. Since then, she had worked damned hard, and had the clients and the cases to show for it.
There were eleven women attorneys out of sixty-seven, not a bad ratio for a crusty old firm like this one. But only two women partners. Gail intended to be the third.
Back at her desk, she dropped the new tape into her recorder, ready for the stack of legal pleadings which had arrived since Friday. Miriam had already assured her that none of them was vital enough to warrant a same-day reply. Gail worked her way through four of them, then stared at the next.
"I do not believe this. The absolute balls—" It was a motion for recusal on Darden v. Pedrosa Development, asking that Judge Arlen Coakley disqualify himself and send the case to another division. George Sanchez's signature appeared at the end for Ferrer & Quintana.
Disbelieving, Gail scanned the motion. "... the close business and personal relationship between not only the court and plaintiffs in this case but between the court and said plaintiffs' attorney, prejudicing thereby the rights of the defendants to a fair, just, and equitable result in this matter." She recognized the overblown prose—definitely George. Accompanying the motion was a notice requesting that the court set a special hearing. That alone could take anywhere from three to six weeks.
Of course she knew the judge, but he wouldn't do her any special favors. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to Coakley that he was an old friend of Senator Hartwell. The motion was only going to piss him off.
Then again . . . Coakley might throw the case out of his division if he was that pissed.
"Damn." Gail tossed her pen on the desk. George had written the motion, but was he devious enough to have thought of it?
She picked up the phone and dialed. Anthony Quintana had talked about settlement. He had come to the funeral with that little double-photo frame for Irene. How nice of him. Now this.
After two rings a female voice answered—a bilingual answering machine. Gail waited, tapping her nails on the arm of her chair.
"This is the law firm of Ferrer and Quintana. Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana. You may leave a message at the tone. Deje su mensaje al sonido electrónico. Gracias." Beep.
"This is Gail Connor, Hartwell Black. Please have Mr. Quintana call me as soon as he gets in." She recited the number, then let the receiver down sharply, glancing at her watch. Eight-fifty.
After dutifully writing point-two in her log, Gail paper-clipped the duplicate time slip to the
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