Man at Work Page 3

  “You know what?” he said, frowning, to the dog. He handed it half a powdered doughnut and took a bite out of the other half. “I think I’m gonna call you ‘Folly.’”

  2

  Monday, October 7

  WORD-A-DAY!

  APROPOS: adj., appropriate, most often, something suitable whether one likes it or not

  Marcy stared at her computer but didn’t see the letters on the screen. All she saw was Truman Fleming handing that dog a piece of his doughnut.

  She could think of nothing else he could have done that would have set her mind more at ease. Granted, the fact that he’d shown up and tried to steal the dog had said something good about him, but still. How was she to know he’d treat the puppy well? Maybe he’d just shut her away and ignore her. Or give her to someone on the street, thinking at least she wouldn’t be getting kicked by that awful man.

  But when he picked up that doughnut, then stopped and gave a piece of it to the dog…well, it said a lot about him, that’s all. And it made her feel a lot better about not being able to take the dog herself.

  “Marcy,” a voice boomed from her doorway.

  She jumped and glanced up to see Winston Downey, the senior partner who oversaw her cases, standing in the doorway. The fact that he was her supervisor didn’t make her half as nervous as the fact that Winston Downey was a large part of the reason she’d gone to law school. He’d come to speak at her college during her junior year and she’d thought him brilliant. So she’d written to him and found him not only intelligent but kind. He’d given her advice and encouragement on going to law school, and when she’d graduated he’d invited her for an interview. The rest, as they said, was history.

  She really wanted to impress Winston Downey.

  “I was looking at your notes on the Burton case,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe, his graying hair perfectly coifed. “They’re going to claim an insulating act of negligence, you know.”

  Marcy saved the file she was in and leaned back in her chair. As usual, her palms began to sweat immediately. “You’re talking about the painting contractor.”

  Win, a name so apt he’d been accused of changing it, nodded, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Despite working under his direction, the case of Burton v. Planners Building & Design was Marcy’s alone and she was determined not to fail. If she impressed him with this one she’d be on her way. And the law firm’s name of Downey Finley & Salem, she’d joked to herself more than once, definitely needed some punching up with a little Paglinowski.

  “They can try,” she said, relieved that she’d already researched this point. “But even if there was negligence on the part of the painters, it wasn’t superseding. They have zero evidence that a sub removed a brace from that scaffolding. They don’t even have any evidence that a brace was removed at all. It’s all just speculation.”

  “And the corresponding case—”

  “Petty versus Charles Brothers Construction,” she responded, riffling through the papers on her desk. “I’ve got the Westlaw abstract right here…”

  “That’s all right, Marcy,” Win said, and she looked up to see an approving smile on his face. It felt like daybreak after a long hard night. “Sounds like you’re on the right track.”

  He started to turn.

  “By the way,” she added, “I went by the site a few days ago and they still haven’t got any railings on the open-sided floors. I was thinking I’d go back tomorrow with a camera.”

  Win turned back with a laugh, confirming her hunch that he’d get a kick out of her investigation. “You’re kidding. Still? These guys are even dumber than we thought. Why don’t you get our man…what’s his name? The investigator. Get him to take some pictures.”

  She smiled. “Actually, there’s no need to incur the extra expense.” Someone handed Win a piece of paper and he looked down at it. She waited a second, then continued, hoping to regain his attention. “I sat in a diner across from the site last Thursday and no one paid any attention to me. I’ll just get the firm’s Nikon and take a few shots through the window at lunch tomorrow.”

  “You’ll need a corroborating witness,” he said, his eyes still on the paper in his hand.

  “Yes, I think I can get a guy.”

  She willed herself not to blush. For some reason the thought of Truman Fleming invariably brought heat to her cheeks. Not that she thought about him often…just every couple of hours since last Thursday.

  Part of that, however, was because of the case. In a brainstorm late yesterday afternoon she’d remembered the obnoxious superintendent’s words just before he’d fired Truman. Something to the effect that he’d been asking a lot of questions that weren’t his business: about the railings, the scaffolding, and the OSHA regulations. Three things that were intimately related to her case.

  Win’s eyes were on her again. “A guy…” he prompted. “Who’ll testify to the accuracy of the pictures?”

  She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “Yes, that, and I also believe he might testify to ongoing and perhaps previous safety violations at the site.”

  Now why had she said that? She had no idea if Truman Fleming would tell her anything at all and now, if he wouldn’t, she’d look bad. For all she knew he’d crawled back to Chuck and gotten his job back. If that were the case there was little chance he’d get on the stand at all. Not many people wanted to testify against their employer.

  Still, she had a feeling he would. After all, he’d stolen the superintendent’s dog solely to save it.

  “A fact witness from the site would be fortuitous,” Win said, gazing down the hall. “Stan!” he called to a passing attorney, then stopped himself. He glanced back at Marcy and said, “I just wanted to check in since we didn’t have the meeting today. We’ll talk more about this in next Monday’s meeting. You’re on the right track, though. Keep going.”

  Marcy breathed a sigh of relief as he left. She was on the right track. He approved of all she was doing. And maybe, just maybe, since he’d had nothing to add, he thought she was doing as good a job as could be done.

  She hoped so. Because she was doing as good a job as she could do.

  Tru barely heard the knock over the sound of the television, but Folly did, and ran yapping to the door. He’d had the TV loud to hear the game as he warmed his dinner—a can of Dinty Moore beef stew and the last two Brown ’n’ Serve rolls—but it had been a waste of time. The Redskins were losing. Again.

  It didn’t take much to lure Folly from begging at his side, Tru noted, moving toward the door. He wasn’t much of a cook, it was true, but tonight’s gourmet repast was straight out of a can. He’d have thought that alone—as opposed to the slop he created himself—would recommend it.

  Well, it didn’t take much to distract him from the meal either, he thought, laying the bowl of stew on the little table by his chair. Dinner was the most depressing time of day for him. It always made him think of home, which made him feel shallow and uninspired.

  He hit the volume on the TV as he passed it and grabbed the dog by its new red collar before opening the door.

  There stood Marcy Paglinowski. In the brown-gray atmosphere of the bare-bulbed hall, she looked like a porcelain figure in a Dumpster.

  Pretty, he thought. Pretty, pretty, pretty. High color stained her cheeks, and her lips, with just a hint of some natural-colored lipstick, smiled tightly.

  “Lexus!” he said, and smiled. This was going to enhance dinner a thousandfold.

  Folly squirmed in his grip and he let her go, whereupon she immediately jumped up on Marcy’s coat. Marcy held a brown paper grocery bag in one arm that Folly seemed unusually interested in.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Truman thought she was talking to him, but as she bent to pet the squirming black dog at the same time, she might have been talking to Folly.

  Which was when it hit him. She’d probably found a taker for the dog. Disappointment speared him. He should be
glad, he told himself quickly. He couldn’t keep the thing. Once he found work she’d be stuck inside all day. Still, he’d liked the puppy’s company.

  “Come on in,” Tru said, stepping back from the door and extending an arm into the living room.

  Seeing it now through her eyes, however, he wished he’d just stepped out into the hall and asked her what she wanted. For one thing, he knew perfectly well the hole in the couch—new, thanks to Folly—would look a lot bigger through a rich girl’s eyes. And the lack of rugs, pictures, tables, or even one decorative item made the place look more depressing than it actually was.

  She straightened and stepped just inside the door. Folly bounced at her side like a pogo stick.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I’d have called, but…” She shrugged and made a sympathetic face that said well, you know as well as anyone you don’t have a phone.

  “No problem.” He cast his gaze around the room once more. He hadn’t even noticed those dirty dishes on the floor next to the sagging armchair before. How long had they been there?

  “Wanna sit down?” He motioned her toward the couch.

  She paused, looking doubtful, then stepped into the room. Avoiding the cushion that was belching foam like an overstuffed washer, she placed the bag on the floor and perched on the far side of the couch, close to the arm. He sat diagonally in the sagging armchair, hoping his leg blocked her view of the dishes.

  She looked slowly around the room, her expression unreadable, before directing her gaze to his face. “So, how are you doing, Truman?”

  Why did she sound like a doctor getting ready to take his temperature?

  “I’m fine. Just fine.” Folly sat next to him and he laid a hand on her side, scratching. This was good, he thought. Marcy would never see the dishes behind the dog, and the rest of the place, while sparsely furnished, was reasonably clean. “I was just, uh, cooking my dinner. But it can wait.”

  She glanced at the TV and made a disgusted sound. “I see they’re getting killed again.”

  Truman looked at her in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re a football fan.” He laughed.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Why is that funny?”

  “Well, this year it’s funny if they have any fans at all, but you…well, I just wouldn’t’a taken you for a football-watching…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “…chick.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. The chick got her, as he knew it would. Just like sugar and doll had the other day. He didn’t do it to annoy her. Well, not just to annoy her. He mostly did it to remind himself that she was exactly the kind of woman he had to stay away from. For some reason that was hard to remember, especially when he got caught up in wondering things like how she got her hair so shiny.

  “Listen, Truman,” she said. She was looking at him now, those dark eyes so direct they made him want to squirm. “I need to ask you a few questions about that construction job you were working. The one on D Street?”

  He raised a brow. “So you’re not here about the dog?”

  She looked confused. “The dog? Oh! No, sorry. I’ve been asking around but no takers yet.” She shook her head, then glanced at his hand against the dog’s side and smiled slightly. “She looks pretty happy here, though.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, inside of which a disturbing commotion had ensued when she smiled that little sultry smile.

  “She’s all right. For now.”

  Her expression suddenly brightened. “Oh, and I brought her some food. Just so, you know, you don’t get stuck with the feeding bill on top of everything else.”

  She reached into the grocery bag and pulled out an eight-pound bag of some generic-brand food.

  “Oh, uh, thanks,” Truman said. “I just bought a bag myself.” He motioned toward the kitchen, where against the hall wall leaned a forty-pound bag of premium Eukanuba.

  Marcy looked from the bag to the bowl of stew at his side and gave him an ironic look. “You realize the dog is eating better than you are.”

  Truman flushed, wishing he’d left the canned stew in the kitchen, and asked, “You said you needed to ask me some questions?”

  She got right back to business. “Yes. I don’t know if you looked at the business card I gave you, but I’m an attorney.”

  An attorney, he repeated to himself. One more reason to keep away from her.

  “Yeah, I saw that.” It didn’t take much for him to look unimpressed. He’d in fact been disappointed when he’d seen it on her card. “Downey Fabric and Softener, or something, right?”

  “Downey, Finley and Salem,” she corrected, leaning forward to put her elbows on her knees.

  Too late, he realized he should have asked to take her coat. Of course, where he would have taken it was a mystery.

  “We’re working on a case,” she continued. “Which is why I was in that part of town last Thursday. We represent a man who was injured on the site, and I’d like to know if I could ask you some questions about conditions on the job.”

  If he’d been a cartoon, Tru knew a light bulb would be glowing over his head right now. “Bob Burton? Guy who fell off the scaffolding a few months back?”

  She nodded once. “Were you working on the site at that time?”

  “Yeah. How’s he doing?”

  “I’m afraid he has a broken back, among other things.”

  “No shit.” Tru was surprised. He’d heard Burton’s injuries weren’t bad. But then, come to think of it, Chuck Lang was the one who’d told him. “He paralyzed?”

  “No, thankfully. But he’s going to spend the better part of a year in bed at the very least.”

  “Huh.” Tru leaned back in the chair. So she was here for information. To help Bob Burton, who was an ass but didn’t deserve to spend a year of his life laid up with a broken back. “So what do you want from me?”

  She leveled those midnight eyes at him and he had to hand it to her, she was tough to read. “You were aware, were you not,” she said, “that there were serious OSHA noncompliance issues at the site?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “That sounds an awful lot like an accusation to me.”

  She sat back and held up her hands. “No, no. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It’s just, I remembered something your superintendent said. Before he fired you he complained that you’d been poking your nose into business that wasn’t yours, as he put it. Business about scaffolding, for example.”

  Truman’s mind worked fast. He knew what sort of information she wanted, and he probably had some that would help her. But the last thing he wanted to do right now was go into a courtroom and testify for Bob Burton. Or anybody. He’d had enough of courtrooms for a while.

  “Trying to remember?” Her tone was wry. As if she knew what he was thinking.

  “Look, I can tell you a few things that weren’t right. Things that shoulda been done but weren’t. But I’m not going to court or anything. I can’t testify.”

  She sighed. “I know it’s intimidating to think about going to court. But trust me, it’s not like it is on TV. Most of it’s just…well, boring, really. But let’s not go that far yet. For all we know this case’ll never get to court.”

  “Oh, it’ll get to court,” Tru muttered. With his luck it would.

  She shook her head. “No, not necessarily. It could well settle out of court.”

  “Settle, huh.” He looked at her. She was hungry for this case. He could see it in her eyes.

  “Yes, that means the company could offer some kind of settlement. Like money,” she explained, misunderstanding him. “To Mr. Burton, so that we don’t go to trial. They already rejected the idea of a settlement once, which is why we filed suit. Now we’re trying to get as much evidence for our case as possible because there’s still a chance they could change their minds and settle if we come up with something really damaging as we go through discovery.”

  She was so patient, just like a schoolteacher, he thought, amused.

  “Discovery
?” he asked, folding his hands in his lap, elbows on the arms of the chair What’s that?”

  She leaned forward again, warming to her subject. “That’s a pretrial procedure. Each party obtains evidence, documents, and, yes, some testimony, that the other party may use at trial. The more information that comes out, or rather, the more information damaging to their case that comes out, the more likely it is that it’ll never go to trial. And Planners Building and Design will settle.”

  She was enjoying this, it was obvious. Being the expert, the one with all the education. She probably hadn’t been out of school very long and so didn’t get to be a know-it-all as a junior associate at Downey Fabric and Softener, he thought.

  “I get it.” He scratched his stomach uncouthly. “So old Bob’s gonna get a windfall, huh? Some big chunka change to retire on?”

  She frowned. “That’s not how we look at it. He’s earning that money right now, with every day he spends in bed, every pain pill he has to take, every surgical procedure he may have to undergo. And usually, Mr. Fleming, clients in cases such as these would give back any money they receive in order to be healthy again.”

  “Sure, sure.” He waved a hand. “And every crook in jail is innocent. I know the drill. Why don’t you just hire some expert to say what Planners was doing wrong?”

  “We will. But we also need someone who was there, who can say what the situation was around the time of Mr. Burton’s accident.”

  He scoffed. “Hell, there were plenty of guys around. Why me?”

  She smiled again, that small one that made her eyes go sleepy. “Because you’re the one who was concerned about what was happening.”

  “I wasn’t the only one—”

  “And you’re the one who lost his job saving a puppy from abuse.”

  He looked at the ground and shook his head. “I knew that was gonna come back and bite me in the ass somehow.”