Motion to Suppress Read online

  Love’s little dove has flown away, leaving you filled with

  sad dismay.

  Fear not! Great happiness lies ahead.

  You have a tendency to be obstinate.

  Obstinate: grim, logical, and conscientious. The brain of a cyborg, the heart of the Grinch. In short, a standard member of the legal profession. She thought again of the alacrity with which she had succumbed to her friendly plumber. Obviously, something else was inside her, too, something suppressed and raring to receive some attention.

  By three o’clock they had driven another seventy miles and seven thousand feet up to Echo Summit. This high up it was still winter, and the road wound between dirty walls of snow. Just past the ski lifts at the top they followed the last sharp curve into the immense Tahoe basin.

  From their vantage a thousand feet above the Tahoe valley, the whole oval of the lake, seventy-two miles around, twenty-six miles across, more than sixteen hundred feet deep, radiated intense turquoise into a baby-blue sky. The lake was already more than a mile high, but the snowy mountains that ringed it passed the two-mile mark. Between the mountains and the lake, the landmarks were close enough or tall enough to materialize like mirages above the dense forests: on the south shore, the tiny town of Meyers and nearby the landing strips of the Tahoe airport, then the high-rise casinos glamorizing the lakeside town of South Lake Tahoe. On the north shore the small towns of Incline and King’s Beach disappeared in the distance; but Tahoe’s highest mountain, Mount Rose, pointed the way to Reno.

  The Bronco wound down from the granite summit into the town. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees from Sacramento, but Matt Reilly, Nina’s younger brother, was chopping wood in the front yard in his Giants baseball cap and an old T-shirt. He gave Bobby a hug and said, "Troy and Brianna are out back," then put an arm around Nina. "I thought you’d be all bandaged up, on crutches maybe, like a Crusader fresh from the wars," he said.

  Matt had moved to Tahoe five years before, when their mother died, and married Andrea later the same year. They had two children, Troy, Andrea’s eight-year-old son from a previous marriage, and Brianna, who was four. In winter Matt drove a tow truck and in summer he ran a parasailing business at the foot of Ski Run Boulevard. He looked slim and sunburned. Nina had always tried to protect him when they were children. This time she needed his support. "I hope you’ll stick around," he said. He helped her unload her suitcases to the spare bedroom, and let her try her hand splitting kindling when she asked for something to do.

  Andrea came home from her Sunday shift at the Women’s Shelter at five, a tart redhead with the fast moves of a working mother, handed Nina a bag of groceries, and took charge of the household. She looked pleased to see her sister-in-law; her work in the field of domestic violence had involved her in several legal hassles, and she would now have her own in-house counsel for a while.

  By nine the three kids were asleep and Matt had washed the dishes. The adults collapsed by the fire, talking about the day, the chores, the fresh prespring air. Nina told them her story, giving them credit for not laughing when she came to the part about the plumber. Especially Matt.

  "Do you want to keep trying with Jack?" Andrea said. She lay entwined with Matt on the couch, while Nina adjusted herself on the floor by the fire, settling for an oversize pillow.

  "When we got married, he still loved someone else," Nina said. "I needed him so much then, I shotgunned him to the preacher. All he wanted then was to handle a few cases and the rest of the time lay low in his cabin at Big Sur and listen to music and read poetry out loud. So naturally I got my first big job in the brightest lights I could find and moved us out of Carmel to San Francisco. Bobby went to day care and our home life consisted of hi’s and good-bye’s and Sunday afternoons. Now Jack’s caught me squeezing another man’s butt. So mortifying. So banal. I wouldn’t want me back."

  "Well, screw him then," Matt said. "He cheats at Monopoly, anyway. "

  "Oh, yeah, I want to get hostile and trash him, Matt. That’s how my divorce clients get through their first few months. The former love-of-her-life turns into a monster. But I can’t do that. I’m the one who turned into Mr. Hyde and precipitated this whole thing." Yes, that was it, a low and shambling fragment of id had been cavorting around in her mind, making trouble.

  Andrea said, "Now you mention it, you could use a haircut and a shave." Nina threw Matt’s slipper at her. Andrea went on, "Can’t you always find another job in the City?"

  A vision of Ms. Cherry’s life rose unbidden in Nina’s mind. She didn’t know Jack’s Ms. Cherry, but she knew the Ms. Cherrys of San Francisco: the empty home life; the long hours; the demanding partners; the continual rushing around; the relentless, grinding pressures of their caseloads. ... She ought to know. It was her own recent existence she was describing to herself. There had to be another way to practice law.

  "I’d rather be staked to a sandhill and eaten by fire ants," she heard herself say. Matt and Andrea laughed. "But for Bobby’s sake, I better decide something soon. He’s going to miss Jack. Jack’s the only father he’s ever known. And the condo where he’s lived all this time ... it’ll be sold."

  "Stay here and think things over as long as you want," Andrea said. "And try not to worry. Bobby’s adaptable. He’ll survive this."

  "And Tahoe’s excellent in the spring. It’s fab and gear and all those other pimply hyperboles." Matt failed to hide a huge yawn. "Age is a terrible thing. As soon as I hit thirty I couldn’t stay up past eleven anymore."

  Andrea got up too.

  "Think I’ll stare into the fire for a few minutes," Nina said. She didn’t want to go to bed and sleep alone. She fell asleep there, woke up at two, found the fire down to embers, and finally climbed under the yellow covers. She dreamed she was back in high school, on the first day, and she’d forgotten her locker combination, and her books were in there. She was late. The bell was ringing. She had blown high school, and she couldn’t think of a thing she could do about it.

  On Wednesday, while out shopping for chocolate Easter eggs, Nina passed a small office building. A cardboard FOR RENT sign on a post, dangling crookedly from one nail, caught her eye. The building fronted on Highway 50, the main drag in town. There was plenty of parking in back. She returned the same way, and this time she turned into the lot and entered through the double doors on the side. Inside, she walked along a carpeted hall with ten office suites, five on each side.

  The property manager, evidently glad to see her, showed her a small corner suite with a reception area where a secretary and a couple of client chairs might fit. There were two inner doors, one of which led to a long room that would make a nice combined law library and conference room. A big closet with several electric sockets could stow a fax, copy machine, and supplies, even a small refrigerator.

  When she raised the blinds on the side wall in the main office, she could hardly believe her eyes. Lake Tahoe, tufted with whitecaps in the wind, less than a mile away, dominated an unobstructed view of marsh and trees. Other than a dirt road, there was no evidence of human activity in that direction.

  The manager followed her eyes. "Great view of Tallac," he said, pointing to a jagged peak across the southern portion of the lake. "I climbed it last summer. It’s a long day, but worth it." In his sixties, skinny in his beat-up jeans, he wore what Nina had already come to recognize as Tahoe’s trademark, a plaid wool shirt. He pulled the other set of blinds on the wall next to the highway to show the busy street, sidewalk, traffic lights, gas station on the corner across the street, and Mexican restaurant on the other side. "Parallel universes," he said. "You choose when you pull the blinds."

  "How much?" she said.

  "Seven-fifty a month."

  Insanely cheap by City standards. She made an instant decision, took out her checkbook and wrote him a deposit. He told her he’d get a sign made. By the time the installer hung the sign three days later, she had bought two desks, a long table, lamps, office supplies, and several chair
s at the local office supply store. They were delivered the same day, set on an old Oriental rug Andrea loaned her that she’d owned since college. She hung the two Ansel Adams prints she found in boxes of papers from her San Francisco office, and considered them with satisfaction, stark and elegant on her new reception area wall.

  NINA F. REILLY, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW the sign on the building read in large, raised block letters. She called Andrea and Matt and they opened up a bottle of champagne while the man outside struggled to attach the sign to the stucco. Several of her new office neighbors came out, an elderly accountant named Frank and two ladies from the real estate brokerage at the other end of the hall, happy to break up the day and drink Korbel out of a paper cup.

  On Sunday and Monday of the three-day Easter weekend, leaving Bobby and a huge Easter basket with Andrea, Nina drove hastily back to Bernal Heights and packed up the place. She also left recordings on the respective answering devices of Ms. Cherry, Bobby’s school, Francine Chu, and Mel Akers. By Monday at midnight she was back in Tahoe, dead beat, packing a lunch for Bobby. She would enroll him at the John Muir Elementary School, where Troy attended school and Brianna had preschool, the next day. On Tuesday afternoon Matt helped her unload the small trailer with its computer and printer and boxes of books and toys into the garage.

  April sixteenth.

  Fourteen days since she lost her job: ten days since Jiffy Plumb sent its representative over to wreak havoc.

  "Historical change," she said to Matt as they puffed their way into the garage with her box of pots and pans.

  "Historical? Or hysterical?" Matt said. "Really, you move ahead like a tidal wave over all obstacles. I’m in awe."

  "It’s all very logical, everything I’m doing," Nina said.

  "Sure, Nina! Like moving to Tahoe. Very logical!"

  "What do you mean by that? Here, set it on top of the TV."

  They set the box down and straightened up. "In case you haven’t noticed," Matt said, taking off his cap and wiping his brow and exhibiting a prime case of hat hair in the process, "there are ways besides using logic to make decisions."

  "Like what?"

  "Like using experience and intuition."

  "I guess. So what do you think, Matt? Is life a tragedy or a comedy?"

  Matt placed his cap carefully on his head. "You’ve asked the right person that question. And my answer is, let’s go inside and put our feet up and have ourselves a beer."

  3

  HER ANNOUNCEMENT HAD come out in the paper the day before, along with her ad for an experienced legal secretary, but the phones sat unused and the silence bothered Nina more than she’d expected. She thumbed through the Attorneys section of the yellow pages, marveling at the half-page ads. At least twenty lawyers practiced right here in town, for twenty thousand people. Either the people of Lake Tahoe had an unusual number of legal problems, or lawyers loved living here enough to eke out a precarious existence.

  No clients, said the neat magazines in the reception room, and no prospects. Andrea said she would steer clients her way, but there was no predicting when that might be.

  She should get up and go find the local Rotary. They let women in now, reluctantly. She started a list. Join the Lake Tahoe Chamber of Commerce. Call the Municipal Court and see if she could line up some misdemeanor appointments. Play racquetball. Make herself conspicuous.

  She was hanging her purse on her shoulder, about to go over to the courthouse and introduce herself to the clerks, when the outside door opened. Through her open office door Nina watched a short, very wide older woman in a brown raincoat step in. She sat down, out of view, in one of the client chairs.

  Nina pushed her chair back in a loud squawk.

  "Hello," she said, walking into the reception area, her hand extended. The woman looked at it, then gave her own. Her grip was firm, warm.

  "I came right over," she said. "I’m Sandy Whitefeather."

  Nina escorted her into the office and pulled out a Client Interview Sheet. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" she said.

  "Sounds good." Sandy Whitefeather looked around the office with interest while Nina brought them both coffee.

  "Well. How can I help you today?"

  "You can hire me, Mrs. Reilly. I’d like to be your secretary." She drank some coffee, comfortable, looking straight at her.

  "Oh! I see! I thought ..."

  "You thought, ’A client.’ Looks like you could use some."

  Nina put away her form. "I assume you have a résumé?"

  "I didn’t have time to put one together. I figured you were in a hurry."

  "Right. So, Ms. Whitefeather—"

  "Sandy."

  "Tell me about yourself."

  "I’m a Washoe."

  "I’m sorry? What’s a ... ?"

  "Native American. Local tribe."

  "How interesting. But—"

  "You want to know why I would be a good secretary. I’m taking secretarial courses at the community college. I know every kind of word processing program, Windows, whatever. I’ve lived here all my life, and I know the town."

  She was still wearing the raincoat and it wasn’t raining. Nina had an idea of the secretary she wanted in the back of her mind, and Sandy Whitefeather wasn’t it. Her idea was of a sharp girl, fast, somebody the clients would like to chat with when they were waiting.

  "I’ve been working for the big firm, Caplan, Stamp, Powell, and Riesner, over by the Grand Auto down the road. File clerk. They’re never going to make me a legal secretary, so I’m applying to be your secretary."

  "Why won’t they promote you?"

  "I won’t bring the coffee. I’m not cute. I wear clothes I like." She opened the raincoat. She was wearing a full blue skirt and a tan blouse, with tennis shoes. "They hired me for affirmative action," she said, and smiled. "So I’m taking my own affirmative action. What do you pay?"

  "Seven dollars an hour," Nina said.

  "It’s not much."

  "It’s what I pay."

  "Well, I guess I could live with it. Assuming prospects for a raise when you get going."

  "I’m not offering you the job yet," Nina said.

  "I’m not taking it yet," Sandy Whitefeather said. "Are you going to do some pro bono work? Or are you gonna be like the rest of ’em, only take the paying cases?"

  Who was being interviewed here, anyway? "Yes, I’m going to be working with Andrea Reilly at the Tahoe Women’s Shelter. Some pro bono. Some sliding scale."

  "Andrea? Good."

  "She’s my sister-in-law."

  "She does good work. What kind of cases do you want to take?"

  "I do mostly criminal law, civil litigation, family law...."

  "And whatever comes through the door, like the rest of ’em, for a while." She sipped her coffee. "I’ve got some people who need a lawyer."

  Was this woman intentionally insolent, or was she just one of those people who skipped the usual mental edit before opening her mouth? Nina couldn’t tell. Not a follower, this one. Not the assistant type.

  "Give me the name of your supervisor."

  "Jeff Riesner," Sandy Whitefeather said. "What a prick."

  "I’ll let you know, Ms. Whitefeather."

  "Sandy. Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Reilly. I’m glad you’re in town. We need a hotshot woman lawyer. That’s what you are, right?" She was definitely kidding.

  "Two out of three ain’t bad, Sandy," said Nina.

  The woman’s face did not move, but deep within her eyes Nina saw sly intelligence appreciating the joke. "Word of advice, Mrs. Reilly."

  "Nina. Or Ms. Reilly."

  "The lawyers in this town are dog-eat-dog. Don’t expect much. I know ’em all."

  "What do you think about the judge? Judge Milne?" Nina asked, off the track, but too curious to miss an opportunity to hear something useful.

  "Doesn’t matter what I think," she said. "He’s the Big Chief. Do what he says and you’ll be okay."

  "Well, thanks."

 
"We’ll do fine," Sandy Whitefeather said. She gave Nina a wink and walked out.

  During the rest of the week two more women came in to apply for the position. One couldn’t spell, and the other couldn’t use the computer software. Nina put their resumes in an empty drawer.

  On Thursday her first clients came in, a divorce and a fender bender. Each offered a $250 retainer, which she took. Each had been referred by Sandy Whitefeather.

  That night, while Matt was out back with two of the kids looking through his telescope at the Great Nebula in Orion, Nina asked Andrea if she knew Sandy Whitefeather. Andrea, who had assigned Troy the dinner dishes, hovered nervously around the sink, trying not to notice as the plates flew from his hands into the drainer. "Yeah, everybody knows Sandy," she said.

  "She applied for the secretary job."

  Andrea looked surprised. "Is that what she does for a living? She’s active politically. She raises money for the Shelter, I don’t know how. She’s a leader in the Native American community here."

  "A flaming liberal. Just what I need to attract the older, white business types who have the money to hire me. And she has an attitude. Referred to her current employer as a prick," Nina said.

  "Why doesn’t that surprise me?"

  "I’d be nuts to hire her."

  Andrea caught a dish hurtling toward her and toweled it till it sparkled. "You disappoint me, Nina. For a lawyer, you’re hardly standard issue. And Tahoe has plenty of potential clients with money who appreciate a little nonconformity. There are the showgirls, the roadworkers, the ski instructors, the gamblers, the dopers, the battered wives ... lots of legal work if you broaden your thinking a little. And I can tell you Sandy has my deepest respect. Have you talked to her boss yet?"

  "No, but I guess I might give him a call."

  She called Jeffrey Riesner the next day. The secretary said he was in court and would be back about four, then put Nina on hold twice to field other calls before she took the message. Riesner’s office was obviously very busy. Nina got to work on her divorce case.