Damaged Read online

  “If you were my wife, I wouldn’t let you support me. I wouldn’t even let you buy me lunch. A woman like you deserves to be treated better than that—”

  “I’m calling you about a case. I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss my personal life.”

  “Oh, strictly business. Boring. Zzzz.” Machiavelli rolled his eyes. “I heard you made partner, too. Somebody’s crushing it.”

  “Evidently, you’re representing Steven Robertson, who’s suing—”

  “Mary, tell me the truth. You can’t stand Rosato, can you? The woman has an ego the size of City Hall. You’re twice the lawyer she is, you just don’t know it.”

  “As I was saying, you filed a completely frivolous complaint against my client, Edward O’Brien, and the school district—”

  “How long did Rosato make you wait for that partnership? Six years, seven? Criminal! I know that you bill more than she does.”

  “That’s not true,” Mary shot back, though it was.

  “Come on. You and I have the same client base. I poach clients from you daily.”

  “The hell you do!” Mary took the bait, against her own better judgment.

  “You know I do. You only have the clients I let you have. I play catch-and-release with those mom-and-pop stores in the neighborhood. I throw back the little ones to keep you alive.”

  “Oh shut up, Nick.” Mary sounded like a teenager, and it was all his fault. Or hers. She felt her face redden.

  “That’s why I FaceTimed you, Mary! To see you blush! That used to happen to you at the dances, too! Remember? Do you still get those blotches on your neck when you’re nervous? Open your shirt! Let me see!” Machiavelli laughed again.

  “Listen, you filed a completely meritless lawsuit against my client. I have your demand letter, and you can stick it.”

  “Oooh! Ouch! Talk dirty to me, Mary DiNunzio!”

  “You know that none of those allegations is true.” Mary considered telling him that Robertson had punched Patrick in the face, but she didn’t want to show her hand. With any other lawyer, she could have been direct, hashed out the facts on the phone, and probably agreed to disagree, but Machiavelli wasn’t any other lawyer. She’d heard he was ruthless in pursuit of whatever he wanted and she would have to outmaneuver him to beat him. In fact, she already had a strategy in mind.

  “Aw, don’t be that way.” Machiavelli stopped laughing abruptly, eyeing her. “I’m sorry. I was being rude. That was sexist of me. Or maybe sexy of me. Either way, I’m sorry. Do you accept my apology?”

  “Now, to get back to the case—”

  “Are you really going through with that wedding? I’m still single. We’re perfect for each other. We’ve been circling each other since high school. Why don’t you give me a shot?”

  “I’m hanging up if we don’t talk about the case—”

  “You can be the Dark Princess to my Dark Prince! Can you imagine the two of us together? We’d be the ultimate power couple. Today it’s South Philly, tomorrow the world. Ha!”

  “That’s it, I’m hanging up.” Mary reached for the button.

  “No, don’t, wait. I’ll be good. You want me to let your client out of the case?”

  Mary’s ears pricked up. “Yes. The allegations are false and they won’t survive a motion to dismiss. You don’t have enough to prove assault or battery, and even if the facts in the Complaint were taken as true, they don’t rise to the level of intentional infliction.”

  “Beg to differ, darling. I absolutely will survive a motion to dismiss. The counts for assault and battery raise a question of fact that has to go to the jury.”

  “Wrong,” Mary shot back, sure of the law. “It doesn’t go to the jury if it’s just your client’s word against mine. Evidence in equipoise does not get to the jury. It takes more than that.”

  “True.” Machiavelli lifted an eyebrow, his mouth suddenly an unsmiling line. “But what makes you so sure the evidence is in equipoise? How do you know I don’t have enough to prove assault?”

  “Because it didn’t happen.”

  “It’s the aide’s word against the little psycho’s. The Duke of Puke. Who would you believe? A teacher’s aide with a spotless record or Up-Chucky?”

  Mary felt her temper bubble up on Patrick’s behalf, or maybe on behalf of bullied kids everywhere, including her. “Don’t you think it’s completely juvenile to nickname everything? The Dark Prince? The Duke of Puke? Do you realize you’re functioning on a fifth-grade level?”

  “Mary, you can’t fight human nature. Everybody has a dark side. People like to laugh at other people. Besides, nicknames are fun. Most of South Philly has a nickname. Your dad’s friend, Tony ‘Two Feet’ Pensiera? Everybody calls him ‘Feet,’ so even his nickname has a nickname—”

  “Whoa, buddy,” Mary interrupted. “Leave my family out of this. Don’t even go there.”

  “You want me to wipe that smile off my face?”

  “Yes, and while you’re at it, can we drop the Machiavelli bit? Do you really expect people to believe that you’re related to the real Machiavelli?”

  “I’m not only related to the real Machiavelli, I am the real Machiavelli.” Machiavelli smiled, but Mary thought she saw it falter, so she dug in.

  “Don’t start believing your own press releases, Nick. And I wish you luck convincing anybody that my skinny little fifth-grader attacked your big strong teacher’s aide.”

  “Oh really?” Machiavelli snorted. “I don’t know what grandpa is telling you, but he’s wrong. You’re defending the demon seed. That kid’s a school-shooter in the making. I can prove it.”

  “That’s not true,” Mary said, though a warning note in Machiavelli’s tone worried her.

  “I’ll give you some free discovery, since you and me go back.” Machiavelli shuffled some papers on his desk, and in the next moment, held up a sheet of white paper, showing only the blank side. “Do you want to know what I have in my hand?”

  “A hacky trick? We both know it’s your client’s word against my client’s word. There are no witnesses, no cameras, and no videos. Your assault story is bull, and the emotional distress claim doesn’t rise to the level on any planet we know of.”

  “Oh, honey,” Machiavelli said, his tone turning singsong. “I can convince a jury that your little freak tried to stab my client, so I have intentional infliction, too. I’m going to put that brat on trial and break him in two. If you want to prevent that, you’d better tell grandpa to settle. From what I hear, the old man has the coin. They say he lives like a miser, and he’s got it stowed away.”

  Mary felt her gut tense. She didn’t know where Machiavelli got his information about Edward’s finances, but she suspected it was accurate. She shuddered to think of Patrick on trial, a kid with an anxiety disorder being cross-examined. She could try to fight it, but any judge would rule against her. She decided that there was no point to being on the call any longer. She reached for the hang-up button again. “I have to go—”

  “Check it.” Machiavelli turned the sheet of paper around, showing the front. “Ta-da!”

  Mary hid her surprise as the white paper filled her laptop screen. It was a drawing in Sharpie, fairly detailed, of a little boy stabbing a large man in the chest. Red blood squirted from the cartoon wound in all directions, and the little boy’s face had a bizarre smile. She hit the button on the laptop and took a screenshot before Machiavelli moved the drawing away.

  Suddenly Machiavelli’s face reappeared, his dark eyes glittering in satisfaction, and he set the drawing aside with a grin. “What an artiste! Am I right or what?”

  “So what?” Mary asked, with bravado. “There’s no proof those drawings are his.”

  “Believe me, that’s your little client’s artwork. I have a complete series of his wacko drawings. Collect them all! You don’t have to be a shrink to know that he’s a child of the corn. Does he see dead people, too?”

  “Very funny.” Mary felt her heart sink, but could
n’t let it show on her expression, and Machiavelli eased back in his chair, gloating.

  “Mary, we both know the probative value of evidence like that. I think the jury will be much more inclined to believe that little Poopyface was running with scissors, since he’s obviously been planning it for some time.”

  “There’s no identification for the drawings, so they won’t come into evidence.”

  “I’ll put them in front of little Poindexter on the stand. I’ll have him authenticate them. I’ll ask him if he drew them. He won’t lie, not about this. From what I hear, he’s very proud of his drawings. He wants to be a comic book artist someday.” Machiavelli chuckled. “Except that he can’t read. Oops!”

  Mary felt her fists clench. She knew that Machiavelli was low, but she hadn’t thought he was low enough to make fun of a disabled child. He was no better than the bullies in the schoolyard, then it occurred to her that maybe schoolyard bullies grew up to be lawyers.

  Machiavelli was still smiling. “So the evidence will come in. I’ll put him on the stand after my favorite psychiatric experts, who will testify that the kid is a danger to the school, the community, and Western civilization.” Machiavelli folded his arms. “Now. You want to consider meeting my settlement demand? A hundred grand would do it, but you must act now. Supply limited!”

  “I’ll see you in court,” Mary said, hitting the button to end the call, shaken. She remained motionless a moment, her chest tight. Her neck felt aflame, and she knew there were blotches underneath her shirt, blossoming like poisoned roses. She eyed the Amish quilt, but her moment of Zen had vanished into thin air. Dust motes whirled around in the shaft of sunlight, disturbed by unseen currents.

  Mary hit a button to print the drawing and collected her thoughts. The drawings were what lawyers call “bad facts,” but she still doubted that Patrick had attacked Robertson. That said, she wondered if there was other evidence she didn’t know about.

  Mary rose, reminding herself that it took more than one punch to knock her down.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mary grabbed Patrick’s drawing from the printer, left her office, and was heading back to the conference room when she was flagged down in the hallway by Anne Murphy, one of the other lawyers. Anne was the office fashionista, having been a catalog model before she went to law school, and she had long red hair, bright green eyes, and a dazzling smile. She was naturally slim, and today she had on a white pique dress, which proved that everybody but Mary could wear white and not look like a Beluga whale.

  “Mary!” Anne said with an excited, if glossy, smile, grabbing her arm with a manicured hand. “Tonight is the night! We get to see our dresses! I can’t wait!”

  “But we saw them already, it’s only the final fitting.” Mary tried to switch mental gears. Edward was waiting for her in the conference room.

  “Mary, the proper fit is everything.” Anne looked at Mary like she was nuts. “We all needed tailoring, and they have to get it perfect. Don’t forget to bring the shoes you’re going to wear and the right bra.”

  “What’s the right bra?”

  “Anything but the one you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks.” Mary turned toward the conference room. “Plus I might be late tonight, I have a new case. You two go without me.”

  “But this is your dress we’re talking about! You can’t be late!” Anne’s lipsticked lips parted, in girl shock.

  “We’ll talk later,” Mary called over her shoulder, then she reached the conference-room door and opened it to find Edward looking at her expectantly, cell phone in hand.

  “The pediatrician said she’d see Patrick right away.”

  “Well done.” Mary crossed to the conference-room table with the drawing. “I told opposing counsel we weren’t settling.”

  “Things are really moving quickly.” Edward’s gray eyebrows flew upward, as before.

  “Yes, and I did learn something I need to share with you.” Mary sat down and placed the drawing on the table in front of Edward. “Did Patrick draw this, do you know?”

  “My God!” Edward recoiled.

  “Do you think he drew it?”

  “It looks like it. Where did you get this?”

  “From opposing counsel. Are you sure Patrick drew it? That’s the threshold question.”

  “I have to admit, it does look like it’s his but I had no idea he could draw something so … violent.”

  “Have you ever seen him draw anything like this before?”

  “No, not at all. He does his drawing in his room. He hasn’t shown it to me in a long time.” Edward kept shaking his head at the drawing.

  “Is there any doubt in your mind that he drew it? Could it have been another little kid?” Mary was no expert, but a lot of kiddie artwork looked alike to her.

  “No, he did it.” Edward lifted his gaze to her, his aged eyes stricken. “I don’t know what to say about this.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” Mary kept her tone reassuring. “In the drawing, does the man being stabbed look like Robertson?”

  “I don’t know. I never met Robertson.”

  “Hold on a second.” Mary turned to her laptop and logged on to the website for the Philadelphia School District, then drilled down to find Grayson Elementary School. She hit a button for FACULTY AND STAFF, then navigated to teacher’s aides, where she found a thumbnail photo of Steven Robertson. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and he looked about thirty-five years old, with a dense thatch of dark hair, round brown eyes, and a round and fleshy face, with a wide nose and brushy mustache.

  Edward looked over, squinting. “Is that him? My eyes aren’t so good.”

  “That’s him.” Mary clicked on VIEW and enlarged the page. “Did you ever see him before?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t look like the man that Patrick is drawing. For one thing, he has a mustache. So that’s good news.” Mary slid the laptop aside. “Is there any other male figure in Patrick’s life?”

  “No.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “Not really.” Edward thought a minute. “I only have one friend. My stockbroker, Dave Kather, and he’s more like a business acquaintance. He comes by sometimes or we meet for lunch. I like to keep an eye on my investments and we talk about the market and such.”

  “Does Patrick know Dave?”

  “Sure, but they’re not ever alone or anything like that.”

  Mary was getting the picture of an insular family life. “What about in the neighborhood? Is there any man he knows, a next-door neighbor? The UPS guy?”

  “No. I don’t get much from UPS.”

  “How about the father of any of his friends?”

  “He doesn’t have any friends.”

  Mary felt terrible for Patrick, though the gruesome drawing made her wonder if he was more troubled than she’d originally believed. “Does he have any male teachers?”

  “No.”

  “Has Patrick ever complained to you about Robertson or anybody else at school? Saying that he wanted to hurt them?”

  “No, not really.”

  Another question popped into Mary’s mind, and it gave her pause, but she asked it anyway. “What’s your relationship to Patrick like? Does he ever get this angry at you? Do you fight?”

  “No, not really.”

  Mary blinked. “Edward, it would be normal for you to fight. I wouldn’t think less of you, and it’s okay to admit. I adore my parents, but we fight sometimes.”

  “No, we don’t fight.” Edward shook his head, his mouth setting firmly. “I never raise my voice, I don’t have to. He’s a gentle, nervous boy. He’s very obedient. He’s fearful, if anything. Why are you asking me that?” Edward’s hooded eyes flared. “Are you thinking that it’s a picture of me that he drew? You think Patrick wants to stab me?”

  “I didn’t think it, but I do have to ask.” Mary hated ruining the rapport they had built so far. “Edward, as a technical matter, my client is Patrick
. I always have to put his interests paramount, even as against your own. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, but I never, ever raise a hand to him. I love him. He’s all I have, I’m all he has.”

  “Okay.” Mary picked up the drawing, trying to move past the touchy subject. “So you didn’t know that he had such violent drawings?”

  “No, not at all.” Edward’s tone turned unmistakably defensive.

  “He used to draw trucks and cars and animals. He liked jungle animals. Tigers. But now he draws a lot of superheroes, and he imagines he’s a superhero. He used to show me his drawings when he was younger. I hung them on the refrigerator.” Edward smiled briefly. “He liked that. It made him proud of himself, and he’s a very good artist.”

  Mary found herself wishing Patrick wasn’t such a good artist. “You say his father left before he was born?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Patrick ask about his father?”

  “No, not anymore. He used to when he was little, but not anymore.”

  “What did he ask?”

  Edward shrugged. “Only a few questions, like what was his name and what did he do. And why did he leave. He asked his mother.”

  “What did she answer, do you know?”

  “She told him the truth.” Edward frowned. “Are you thinking that the man in the picture could be his father?”

  “Possibly. We’re going to have to get Patrick a psychological evaluation, not for the lawsuit, but for his own sake. If he’s feeling angry, we need to know that, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Does Patrick take art in school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his art teacher male or female?”

  “A female, I think. Yes, she is. Ms. Gilam.” Edward ran his hand over his bald head, and Mary could see his fingers were trembling slightly, so she wanted to wrap this up.

  “And he never told you that he wanted to hurt anybody at school, or anyone at all?”

  “No.” Edward shook his head. “It’s just not like him. He never said anything like that to me. This drawing, it’s completely out of character.”

  “And you’ve never sent him to a psychiatrist or anything like that?”