“I don’t want another lawyer.” Better the devil you knew. “Can’t you represent me?”
“I’d be more comfortable if you got someone who handles these things.”
These things. His tone was neutral, but I still felt as if I’d stepped in dog shit and carried it into the office and soiled the rug. “It’s probably nothing. Even the police said it will probably come to nothing. I just want to cover my six, ya know.”
Payton stared at me for a moment and then reached for a pad, again revealing the cuff links that I now saw were monogrammed. “Have you talked this over with Sophia?”
Had I? Oh yes. Knowing she would find out anyway—small towns keep few secrets—I had phoned her that morning, and we’d argued about it for what felt like hours. I was reluctant to follow Gordon’s recommendation, and she was set on my seeing a lawyer. Looking back I think that the argument had become heated because all the unspoken hurts and resentments of the past weeks, things that would have been unthinkable Before, had served as invisible fuel and had left both of us quite shaken. “Yes. In fact, she suggested I call you.”
“She did?” He looked pleased. “How is she?”
I had no idea how to answer that question, and my silence seemed answer enough.
“Okay,” Payton said. “Give me some more details. You say this happened Wednesday?”
“Yes. Yesterday. About dark.”
“Okay. Take your time. Go through it step by step.”
So I began relating how I’d come home and found the reporter in my drive.
“Name?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. Can’t remember. She’s with one of the Boston papers. The Herald, I think.”
He jotted down a note. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find out. You say you were coming home and she was waiting for you?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“I’d gone out on an errand. Stopped by the Crow’s Nest.” I doubted he had stepped foot in the Nest since his last semester at Harvard. Moved up in the world. Country-club bars for him.
“So you’d been drinking?”
“A couple of beers. Two. That’s all.” I didn’t mention my visit to Father Gervase, the glass of sherry.
Payton scrawled another note. “And if necessary the bartender will attest to that? Two beers?”
“Sure.”
“His name?”
“Her. Her name. Begins with a J, I think. Jennie. Jessie. Something like that. Tall woman with tattoos.”
He added it on the pad. “Go on.”
I detailed it all, how the reporter had showed up, the questions she’d asked, how I’d told her to get off my property and she’d persisted and then how I’d shoved her—just a little push really—and she’d fallen. When I reached that part—pushing her—a queer expression flashed crossed his face.
“Were there any witnesses?”
“No.”
“What about Sophia?”
“She wasn’t home.”
“I have to emphasize, Will, I’d be more comfortable if you got someone who handles this kind of thing.”
“But you can do it? Right? I’m asking you.”
Payton reviewed the few notes he’d made, then stretched back in his chair, again stroked his beard with his thumb. “As I said, this isn’t my bailiwick, and I’m a little lost here.”
I stared at him, unwilling to plead.
“Look, here’s what I can do. I have a colleague who spends a good deal of time in the courthouse. Let me see if I can get hold of her. She knows the clerk, and at the least she can see if a criminal complaint has been filed.”
Criminal complaint.
“Would you like anything while I’m making the call? I can get one of the girls to bring you coffee.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bottled water?”
“No. Nothing. Thanks.”
He went through another door to an inner office, probably a conference room. The courthouse lawyer must have taken his call immediately, for I heard him start to speak. “Hey, Gillian, Payton here. Glad I reached you.” Unable to stomach more, I went in search of a restroom. When I returned, he was back at his desk.
“Do you want the good news or the bad?”
“The good, I guess.”
“My colleague checked with the clerk. As of noon today, nothing has been filed.”
“So what’s the bad?”
“You’re not out of the woods yet. The reporter has up to three years to apply for a criminal complaint.”
Three years? For a little shove? Insanity.
He uncapped his pen and wrote something on a notepad. “Here’s the name and address of my colleague. She said if you can get over there tomorrow afternoon at two, she can see you.”
I glanced at the paper. Gillian Donaldson. A WASP name. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should just wait and see how it plays out.”
“You came to me for advice, Will. Here it is: you don’t want to be behind the curve on this. Go see Gillian.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The address was at the far end of Seaside Drive, a summer cottage converted to a private law office.
A discreet black-and-gold quarter board on the front said Gillian Donaldson, Attorney at Law. There was no doorbell. I opened the door and entered a vacant reception room. Empty water bottles filled a trash basket that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in days, and the surface of the vacant receptionist’s desk bore rings left by beverage cups. An ancient air conditioner, its grille coated with grime, was wedged in the window. So. No thick carpet or Mont Blanc pens here. Donaldson appeared from an inner office. She was older than I had expected, perhaps fifties, with dull brown hair that fell to the collar of a cotton print shirt. The vision of a lightweight blonde faded away.
“Gillian Donaldson,” she said. “Gillian.” She extended her right hand, on which she wore a black orthotic wrap. “Carpal tunnel,” she explained.
“Will Light,” I said. Her grip was stronger than I’d expected.
She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “Pardon the mess. I’m between receptionists.”
What was the story with that? Had the previous receptionist been fired or quit? No matter. I had no intention of returning. Somehow this whole thing had gotten out of my control, blown out of proportion. I suspected Payton might have made more of a drama than the situation required. Donaldson led me into her office, which was no neater than the outer room. She motioned for me to sit in the wooden chair that flanked the desk and then took her chair. “Payton gave me a quick overview of the situation when he called, but it would help if you told me in your own words.”
I was tired of the whole thing and wasn’t sure I could summon the energy to go over it again. My stomach rumbled. I’d skipped breakfast.
“I understand you’re concerned that a reporter . . .” She trailed off and lowered her gaze to check a note on the desk. “A woman named Melinda Hurley might file a complaint against you.”
“Right. Listen, I don’t want to waste your time here.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“The thing is, I think maybe Payton overreacted.”