“Enough,” the judge said. She leaned back and strummed her fingers on the big desk. She stared at Win for a second, then back at the defense table. “The missing money troubles me,” she said.
“Your Honor, I assure you that my client knows nothing about any money.”
“I’d be surprised if your position were different, Ms. Crimstein. But the facts presented by the district attorney are sufficiently troublesome. Bail denied.”
Crimstein’s eyes widened. “Your Honor, this is an outrage—”
“No need to shout, Counselor. I hear you just fine.”
“I strenuously object—”
“Save it for the cameras, Ms. Crimstein.” The judge hit the gavel. “Next case?”
Suppressed mumbles broke forth. Big Cyndi started wailing like a widow in a war newsreel. Hester Crimstein put her mouth to Esperanza’s ear and whispered something. Esperanza nodded, but it didn’t look like she was listening. The guards led Esperanza toward a door. Myron tried to catch her eyes again, but she didn’t—or maybe wouldn’t—face him.
Hester Crimstein turned and shot Myron a glare so nasty it almost made him duck. She approached him and fought to keep her face neutral. “Room seven,” she said to Myron, not looking at him, barely moving her lips. “Down the hallway and to the left. Five minutes. Don’t say anything to anyone.”
Myron did not bother with a nod.
Crimstein hurried out, already starting with the no comments before she hit the door. Win sighed, took a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket, began to scribble something down.
“What are you doing?” Myron asked.
“You’ll see.” It did not take long. Two plainclothes cops accompanied by the stench of cheap cologne made their approach. Homicide division, no doubt. Before they could even introduce themselves, Win said, “Are we under arrest?”
The cops looked confused. Then one said, “No.”
Win smiled and handed him the piece of paper.
“What the hell is this?”
“Our attorney’s phone number,” Win said. He rose and ushered Myron toward the door. “Have a special day.”
They arrived in the defendant’s conference room before the anointed five minutes. The room was empty.
“Clu withdrew cash?” Myron said.
“Yes,” Win said.
“You knew about it?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
“The district attorney said two hundred thousand dollars. I have no reason to quibble with that estimate.”
“And you just let him?”
“Pardon?”
“You just let Clu withdraw two hundred grand?”
“It’s his money.”
“But that much cash?”
“It was none of my business,” Win said.
“You know Clu, Win. It could have been for drugs or gambling or—”
“Probably was,” Win agreed. “But I am his financial adviser. I instruct him on investment strategies. Period. I am not his conscience or his mommy or his baby-sitter—or even his agent.”
Ouch. But no time for that now. Once again Myron suppressed the guilt and mulled over the possibilities. “Clu okayed us receiving his financial statements, right?”
Win nodded. MB SportsReps insisted that all clients use Win’s services and meet with him in person at least quarterly to go over their accounts. This was for their sake more than Myron’s. Too many athletes get taken advantage of because of ignorance. But most of Myron’s clients had copies of their statements sent to Myron so that he too could help keep track of the ins and outs, set up some automatic bill paying, that kind of thing.
“So a withdrawal that big would have come up on our screen,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
“Esperanza would have known about it.”
“Yes again.”
Myron frowned. “So that gives the DA another motive for the murder. She knew about the cash.”
“Indeed.”
Myron looked at Win. “So what did Clu do with the money?”
Win shrugged.
“Maybe Bonnie knows?”
“Doubtful,” Win said. “They’ve separated.”
“Big deal. They’re always fighting, but she always takes him back.”
“Perhaps. But this time she made the separation legal.”
That surprised Myron. Bonnie had never gone that far before. Their turmoil cycle had always been consistent: Clu does something stupid, a big fight ensues, Bonnie throws him out for a couple of nights, maybe a week, Clu begs forgiveness, Bonnie takes him back, Clu behaves for a little while, Clu does something stupid, the cycle starts anew. “She got a lawyer and filed papers?”
“According to Clu.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes, Myron. That’s what ‘According to Clu’ means.”
“When did he tell you all this?”
“Last week. When he took out the cash. He said that she had already begun divorce proceedings.”
“How did he feel about it?”
“Badly. He craved yet another reconciliation.”
“Did he say anything else when he withdrew the cash?”
“Nothing.”
“And you have no idea—”
“None.”
The conference room door flew open. Hester Crimstein came in, red-faced and fuming. “You dumb bastards. I told you to stay away.”
“Don’t put this on us,” Myron said. “This is your screwup.”
“What?”
“Getting her bail should have been a slam dunk.”
“If you weren’t in the courtroom, it would have been. You played right into the DA’s hands. He wants to show the judge that the defendant has the resources to run away, and boom, he points to a famous ex-jock and one of the country’s richest playboys sitting right in the front row.”
She started stomping about as though the industrial gray carpet contained small brushfires. “This judge is a liberal schmuck,” she said. “That’s why I started with all that hardworking Hispanic crap. She hates rich people, probably because she is one. Having the Preppy Handbook here”—she gestured with her head at Win—“sit in the front row was like waving a Confederate flag at a black judge.”
“You should drop the case,” Myron said.
Her head jerked toward him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Your fame is playing against you. The judge may not like rich people, but she doesn’t much like celebrities either. You’re the wrong attorney for this case.”