Suspicion of Betrayal Read Online Free
legitimate use of your time as a lawyer? I see on page sixteen an entry for one hour. Did you expend two hundred and fifty dollars' worth of your time helping Ms. Sweet find someone to help her clean the house, when Ms. Sweet herself is not currently employed?"
The bill for services renderedâall thirty-some pages of itâlay on the railing of the witness box. Gail slowly turned to the page in question, although she could have spoken from memory. "Mr. Acker, if you will examine the entry more closely. I spent an hour reviewing my client's financial situation to determine whether she would be able to continue to afford helpâand she cannot. As you know, the Sweets had employed a housekeeper during the marriage to assist with the children. Ms. Sweet had a job, but she lost it. She's looking for another. As the mortgage is seriously in arrears, she has no choice."
So one accusation that the wife was lazy had been countered by another that the husband was vindictive and cheap. This sparring between Gail and her opposite, Marvin Acker, had been going on for fifteen minutes. Claiming fees for her services, Gail had taken the stand to testify.
There was a squeaking of springs from Judge Ramirez's chair. His Honor was getting restless. Gail did not think this would go on much longer. She listened to the muffled sound of a car horn on Flagler Street twelve stories below while Acker adjusted his glasses, licked his thumb, and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted.
"You have reported . . . one-point-three hours for telephone calls to Jamie Sweet's brother in Pasca-goula, Mississippi, re trip to Miami. Were you acting as a travel agent, Ms. Connor?"
"No, Mr. Acker." Gail spoke directly into the microphone. "We discussed whether he should attend the hearing on a restraining order. On other occasions he had seen Wendell strike herâ"
"Objection," Acker said tiredly. "Not relevant. I move that the response be stricken from the record."
The judge tapped a bongo rhythm on his desk. "You ask, you're stuck with the answer. Proceed, counselor."
Unruffled, Acker proceeded. Gail could tell his heart wasn't in it, which usually meant one of two things. Either he wasn't getting paid, or his client was a pain in the ass. Gail bet on the latter. Marv Acker had a reputation for charging high hourly rates and getting most of it up front. That meant Wendell Sweet was lying when he said he had no money.
Gail looked past him at Wendell, who was staring out the window, pretending not to give a damn. What she knew of him she had learned from Jamie. Thirty-eight, born in Brownsville, Texas, mother half Mexican. His father had been an oil rigger, and Wendell got into the business that way. With a degree from Texas A&M, he started doing geologic surveys. He had a string of good luck off the north coast of Venezuela, and people said he could find oil by the way the ocean rose and fell. He went into consulting, putting Americans into deals with the big Venezuelan oil companies. Five years ago the Sweets moved to Miami, the center of commerce between the United States and Latin America.
His wife, Gail's client, sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, as she had earlier on the stand. Jamie Sweet was thirty-two, a freckle-faced natural redhead with wide hips and a heavy bosom. Sequins outlined the collar of a pink silk suit too fancy for court. She dressed like a woman who had come from nothing and sure as hell didn't want to go back.
Jamie Sue Johnson, the oldest of seven children, had dropped out of school at sixteen and hitched a ride to Atlanta with a long-haul trucker. She got pregnant and a month later found an envelope on the dresser with $500 cash and the address of a women's clinic. She moved to Nashville, to Memphis, to Dallas, living with a series of losers, then ended up dancing in New Orleans. She pronounced it N'Awlins. Got stoned and had a pink rose tattooed on her thigh. Wendell admired it. Wendell. He was one
The bill for services renderedâall thirty-some pages of itâlay on the railing of the witness box. Gail slowly turned to the page in question, although she could have spoken from memory. "Mr. Acker, if you will examine the entry more closely. I spent an hour reviewing my client's financial situation to determine whether she would be able to continue to afford helpâand she cannot. As you know, the Sweets had employed a housekeeper during the marriage to assist with the children. Ms. Sweet had a job, but she lost it. She's looking for another. As the mortgage is seriously in arrears, she has no choice."
So one accusation that the wife was lazy had been countered by another that the husband was vindictive and cheap. This sparring between Gail and her opposite, Marvin Acker, had been going on for fifteen minutes. Claiming fees for her services, Gail had taken the stand to testify.
There was a squeaking of springs from Judge Ramirez's chair. His Honor was getting restless. Gail did not think this would go on much longer. She listened to the muffled sound of a car horn on Flagler Street twelve stories below while Acker adjusted his glasses, licked his thumb, and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted.
"You have reported . . . one-point-three hours for telephone calls to Jamie Sweet's brother in Pasca-goula, Mississippi, re trip to Miami. Were you acting as a travel agent, Ms. Connor?"
"No, Mr. Acker." Gail spoke directly into the microphone. "We discussed whether he should attend the hearing on a restraining order. On other occasions he had seen Wendell strike herâ"
"Objection," Acker said tiredly. "Not relevant. I move that the response be stricken from the record."
The judge tapped a bongo rhythm on his desk. "You ask, you're stuck with the answer. Proceed, counselor."
Unruffled, Acker proceeded. Gail could tell his heart wasn't in it, which usually meant one of two things. Either he wasn't getting paid, or his client was a pain in the ass. Gail bet on the latter. Marv Acker had a reputation for charging high hourly rates and getting most of it up front. That meant Wendell Sweet was lying when he said he had no money.
Gail looked past him at Wendell, who was staring out the window, pretending not to give a damn. What she knew of him she had learned from Jamie. Thirty-eight, born in Brownsville, Texas, mother half Mexican. His father had been an oil rigger, and Wendell got into the business that way. With a degree from Texas A&M, he started doing geologic surveys. He had a string of good luck off the north coast of Venezuela, and people said he could find oil by the way the ocean rose and fell. He went into consulting, putting Americans into deals with the big Venezuelan oil companies. Five years ago the Sweets moved to Miami, the center of commerce between the United States and Latin America.
His wife, Gail's client, sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, as she had earlier on the stand. Jamie Sweet was thirty-two, a freckle-faced natural redhead with wide hips and a heavy bosom. Sequins outlined the collar of a pink silk suit too fancy for court. She dressed like a woman who had come from nothing and sure as hell didn't want to go back.
Jamie Sue Johnson, the oldest of seven children, had dropped out of school at sixteen and hitched a ride to Atlanta with a long-haul trucker. She got pregnant and a month later found an envelope on the dresser with $500 cash and the address of a women's clinic. She moved to Nashville, to Memphis, to Dallas, living with a series of losers, then ended up dancing in New Orleans. She pronounced it N'Awlins. Got stoned and had a pink rose tattooed on her thigh. Wendell admired it. Wendell. He was one
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