“I did not cheat on you. I would never cheat on you. You have to believe me. Do you believe me?” he asked, squeezing my hand.
I didn’t answer him. Couldn’t force out a yes, but couldn’t quite say no. A feeling of exhaustion swept over me, telling me to fold. Making me toss even a terrific hand into the muck pile. Hoping he wouldn’t turn them over like Uncle Sal.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Rita. Nothing.” Paul gave my hand a final squeeze, and oddly, I drew some comfort from it.
I needed the comfort. I had sustained a loss. I was in mourning, complete with black suit, black pumps, and black ribbon. It had been a long day. I had won and lost. And dressed right for both occasions.
Mother would have been proud.
4
I looked out the smoked-glass window of the conference room at the glitzy geometry of my hometown’s skyline, glinting darkly in the hazy sunshine. The twin ziggurats of Liberty Place spiked into the sky next to the pyramid atop Mellon Center. The glass tent of the Blue Cross building reflected the squares balanced like bogus diamonds on top of Commerce Square. Philly was starting to look more like Vegas every day, and now there was talk of riverboat gambling on the Delaware River. Even I didn’t think that was such a hot idea, everybody turning out like me.
I had arranged the seating at this deposition as carefully as any card game, giving myself the view of the casinos, with the court reporter at my left. I’d seated Patricia Sullivan and her lawyer on the opposite side, so they could stare at the wall behind me. I did not offer them coffee, nor did I show them a bathroom. You sue my client, you hold your water.
Patricia was reading Plaintiff’s Exhibit 7 on her side of the table. She was an impossibly pretty young woman, with fair, curly hair, delicate cheekbones, and thin, creamy skin. Her perfume smelled like tea roses and her flowery jumper couldn’t hide a chest in full bloom. The jury would think Michelle Pfeiffer, on Gregg shorthand. I wondered if I could pick an all-girl panel.
“Okay,” Patricia said. She handed me the exhibit, which she had brought with her to the deposition. “I’m finished.”
The exhibit was a Boynton greeting card that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY! YOU’RE ONE IN A MILLION! I glanced at it with a sinking sensation. Judge Hamilton had claimed their relationship was strictly business, and that was the only defense he wanted in court. Cards like this wouldn’t help.
“Miss Sullivan,” I asked, “on which birthday did Judge Hamilton give this card to you?”
“My last. November 12. I turned twenty-three.”
She didn’t look a day over sixteen. “How long had you been working for the judge at the time he gave you this card?”
“About two and a half months. I started the job in September.”
“You were his secretary?”
“I was one of his secretaries, there were two. I’m not really a secretary, though. I’m a painter, but I couldn’t make a living with only my painting.”
“She used to paint all the time,” said her lawyer, Stan Julicher. He was tall and brawny, with round brown eyes and a virulent sunburn he got from fishing weekends on his motor-boat. I hadn’t litigated against him before and didn’t want to again. His papers were sloppy and intentionally delivered by messenger at the end of the business day, to give me less time to reply. A trick so dirty even I hadn’t used it. “Her paintings were beautiful, flowers and all,” Julicher continued. “And vases, with fruit and books. In one there’s like a bowl with some fruit in it, and the apples look so real you could reach out and take a bite.”
“Mostly I paint still lifes,” Patricia said, by way of explanation. “Flowers, landscapes.”
“Real pretty paintings,” Julicher said, nodding. “But she doesn’t paint anymore, since what happened with Judge Hamilton. Her career was just taking off. More and more people were discovering her art. She was like a rising star. Who knows where her career could have gone if this hadn’t of happened? The sky was the limit.”
“Thank you,” Patricia said modestly, mistaking the damages lecture for praise.
I decided to take the opportunity to explore her damages, even though I’d usually go through the complaint’s allegations first. “Have you sold many paintings, Miss Sullivan?”
“Over the years, yes.”
“How many per year, would you say?”
“Oh, a lot.”
“How much income did you generate from these sales, per year?”
“We’ll give you the tax returns as soon as they’re ready,” Julicher interrupted.
Right. “What’s to get ready, Stan? They’re past returns.”
“They’ve been in storage, with my office being moved. I’m getting bigger offices on Walnut Street.”
“You were supposed to have brought them today. I originally requested them in my interrogatories, and you said you’d provide them with your answers. Let the record reflect that my first request was made two months ago and plaintiff’s counsel still hasn’t supplied the tax returns.”
“I’ll supply them as soon as they’re ready,” he said with finality.
“And I’ll reopen the dep when they’re supplied, in order to examine the witness about them.”
Julicher frowned and made a note on his legal pad with a gold Cross pen. At the pen’s top was a little Cadillac emblem that wiggled when he wrote.
“Miss Sullivan, just to get some idea of your income from your painting, how many paintings did you sell last year?”
“Three. I sell at sidewalk shows, out on the Main Line and Chestnut Hill.” She sipped water from a Styrofoam cup. She’d be needing that bathroom any time now.
“Did you sell the three paintings at sidewalk shows?”
“No, I sold them privately.”
“To whom?”
She paused. “Judge Hamilton.”
Julicher made another note, and I wondered if this was news to him. It was to me, though the judge had allegedly told me the whole truth and nothing but. “How much did Judge Hamilton pay for the paintings?”
“Five hundred dollars each.”
Yikes. “Were you sleeping with him at the time?”
“Objection!” Julicher shouted. “You’re insulting the witness!”
Insulting the witness was my job. “I’m not insulting the witness, I’m asking a question of fact. This is a lawsuit, Stan. Not a picnic.”
“I want that question stricken from the record!” Julicher said, turning to the court reporter, a freckled redhead who kept her eyes professionally downcast.
“Wait a minute,” Patricia said. She leaned forward, agitated, and a muscle in her slender neck announced itself. “I can answer that. I want to. I was having a sexual relationship with him at the time, but it was coerced. I had to do it, to keep my job.”
“That’s enough, Patricia,” Julicher said. “Listen to me, I’ll tell you when to answer.”
I cleared my throat. “Miss Sullivan, you were about to explain how you got the job.”
“I read about it in the Suburban & Wayne Times, then I called and found out it was for Judge Hamilton. I’d heard of him.”
“How?”
“From his being so … respected, I guess. And his wife, for her garden club. They were in the papers a lot.”
“Is that why you wanted the job?”
“Objection,” Julicher said.
“I’ll rephrase the question. What made you decide to apply for the job, Miss Sullivan?”
“The pay, and I thought Judge Hamilton would be good to work for.”
Julicher snorted derisively and I stopped short of telling him to save it for the jury. “Miss Sullivan,” I said, “let’s get back to the birthday card. You allege in your complaint that this card was the beginning of a course of sexual harassment by Judge Hamilton, is that right?”
“It’s only one piece of physical proof,” Julicher snapped. “Judge Hamilton sent her another greeting card, too.”
Terrific. “Stan, are you the witness or is she?”
I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here and let you confuse my client.”
I turned to Patricia. “As I said at the beginning of this deposition, if you are confused, please feel free to ask me to clarify the question. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
Julicher sighed theatrically.
“Now, Miss Sullivan, assuming this card is from Judge Hamilton, why do you think he signed it ‘Judge Hamilton’ instead of ‘Fiske’?”
“If you know,” Julicher added.
“I didn’t call him ‘Fiske,’” Patricia said. “I always called him ‘Judge.’”
“You never called him by his first name?”
“No.”
Not even in bed? I bit my tongue. “I noticed that the only other greeting card you brought today, the Christmas card, was also signed ‘Judge Hamilton.’”
“‘Love, Judge Hamilton,’” Julicher broke in.
“Stan, are you mistaking this for a conversation? Let her answer.”
“I was.”
“You were not!”
“I was too!”
Litigation can be so adult. “The record will speak for itself, Stan.”
“Fine with me.”
“Good. Let’s try to act like grown-ups, shall we?”
He reddened even under his sunburn. “I will if you will!”
Enough already. It was our first fight and it wouldn’t be our last. Julicher, a newcomer to Philly from New York, was trying to make a name for himself on this case. He’d hustled overtime to get it in the news and had even sent the complaint to the papers.
“Now, Miss Sullivan, assuming that this card is from Judge Hamilton—”
“He gave it to me himself,” Patricia said. “By the coffeepot.”
“The coffeepot? Are you referring to the first incident of harassment in your complaint?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Sullivan, can you tell me what happened by the coffeepot that day? In your own words?”
“Well, we had a birthday party in chambers, all of us. The two law clerks, the other secretary, and me. Judge Hamilton had ordered a cake and we all ate in his office around the conference table. At three o’clock.”
“And what happened by the coffeepot?”
“I was washing out the coffeepot at the sink next to the supply closet. We were alone and he handed me the card. When I was reading it, he touched my breast. Stroked it, kind of.” Three deep lines furrowed Patricia’s flawless brow and she seemed to withdraw into herself. The woman could sell an emotional distress claim, true or not. I thought I heard a jackpot in the distance, the quarters clanging into a metal tray.
“Did you ask him to move his hand?”
“Objection!” Julicher said. “What’s the difference if she did?”
“That’s no basis for an objection. I’m entitled to know exactly what happened. Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”
“No, I didn’t,” Patricia said nervously. “I was too shocked to. I didn’t say anything, and he took his hand away and just walked out, into the office. And afterward, when I was taking dictation, he acted like nothing happened. I took a whole letter from him, two pages, and he didn’t even look at me. I still remember the letter. Every word.” She fell silent, looking upset.
Julicher had enough trial smarts to let the moment sink in. Even the court reporter swallowed hard.
“Did anyone see him touch you?” I asked quickly.
“No. No one else was around. It was like that, in the beginning. He would just touch me, never saying anything, until the time he kissed me, in his office.”
“Were the doors open or closed?”
“Closed.”
“You testified that he kissed you in his office. Did you kiss him back?”
“No,” she said, her glossy mouth tightening. “I tried to tell him no, but he forced me. He leaned me backward over the chair and his hand went up my shirt. I should have stopped him, I know. It sounds silly now, but I felt embarrassed. I felt like I shouldn’t say anything, and that’s what he said later. He said everything would be all right if I didn’t tell.”
“Did you tell him to stop or not? Yes or no?”
“Well, no. And then at lunchtime he would call me in and touch me that way, do that to me.” Her voice cracked and she reached for her water, drinking it thirstily. “Then one day he went all the way.”
It didn’t ring true. “Do you mean he had sex with you?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean. At noon, in his chambers. Sometimes he would have sex with me, sometimes he would want me to … do things, you know, to him. He told me he would take care of me, and I didn’t have to worry about anything if I kept doing it. And didn’t tell anyone.”
A look of concern crossed Julicher’s oversized features, and I knew why. It didn’t sound like the typical pattern of sexual harassment. Still, there was something there, some kernel of truth. I took a flier. “Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton ever send you flowers?”
“What?” Julicher said. “What’s the point of that?”
“It’s a question.”
“I thought we were following the complaint.”
“It’s my deposition. I write the script.”
“It’s easier for the witness if you follow the complaint.”
Because that’s what you prepped her on? I ignored him and looked directly at the witness. “Miss Sullivan, my question was, did Judge Hamilton ever send you flowers?” Some men are card senders, some men are flower senders, and some men are jerks. Fiske was a flower sender.
“Uh … yes.”
Julicher looked at her, surprised. He evidently hadn’t thought of that. Maybe because he was a jerk.
“Did he send you the flowers at home or at work?”
“At home.”
I checked my notes. “In the roughly seven months you worked for Judge Hamilton, how many times would you say he sent you flowers?”
Her forehead creased again. “I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Would you say they came often or rarely?”
“Uh, often, I guess.”
“Don’t guess,” Julicher said in a growl.
And don’t lie. “Miss Sullivan, would you say that Judge Hamilton sent you flowers three times in seven months?”
“Uh, no.”
“More times or fewer times?”
She shifted in her chair. “I don’t remember.”
She did remember, a fool could see it. “Did the judge send you flowers more than three times in seven months? Before you answer, I remind you that you are under oath.”
“Objection!” Julicher said. “There’s no call for that!”
“More,” Patricia answered, agitated. “More than three times. But … I don’t know how much. How many.”
Julicher’s thick lips formed an unhappy line and he scribbled another note on his legal pad.
“Miss Sullivan, which florist did the flowers come from?”
“Cowan’s, I think.”
The best in Wayne. I made a note to get a para-legal on it, to see if it was a standing order. Then I remembered something. Fiske had a thing about spider mums. He thought they symbolized true love and they were the subject of countless courtship stories told by his devoted wife, Kate. “What kind of flowers did the judge send you, Miss Sullivan?”
“Objection as to relevance!” Julicher shouted, tossing his pen onto the table, where it skidded into the stack of exhibits.
“Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”
Patricia looked from me to Julicher. “Do I have to answer? Does this matter, Stan?”
“Of course not,” Julicher said. “Come off it, Rita. The line of questioning is irrelevant.”
“It’s highly relevant, and you can’t object to relevance during a deposition anyway. Let her answer the question or I’ll call Judge McKelvey and get a ruling.”
Julicher scowled, then looked away, simmering. “Go ahead, Patricia. It’s ridicul
ous, but you can answer.”
She smoothed back her hair. “Well, the judge sent spider mums.”
“What color?” Yellow.
“Yellow, I think.”
“How many, each time?” Eighteen.
“Eighteen.”
Eighteen, not twelve, because he wanted the vase to look overfull. “Why not a dozen, do you know?”
Julicher exploded. “What’s the point what color, how many? This is a waste of time! None of this has to do with her allegations!”
“Why not a dozen, Miss Sullivan? I remind you again that you are under oath.”
“I don’t remember!” Patricia said, flustered.
Liar. So Fiske was having an affair. And it was a love affair, not just sex. Had he expected me not to find out? What the hell was going on? “Did Judge Hamilton give you anything else?”
“Yes,” she said, looking worriedly at Julicher.
“What did he give you?”
“He sent me some oils and painting supplies.”
Julicher frowned and the Cadillac emblem did the watusi. Maybe he had bought Patricia’s sexual harassment story from the start, but more likely he wanted deniability too much to quiz her in any depth. Then again, maybe he anticipated Fiske wouldn’t want to defend by proving they had a consensual love affair, and Julicher knew he had a winner either way. I was the one in the lose-lose position. And Fiske.
“Miss Sullivan, how many times did Judge Hamilton send you paints and supplies in the seven-month period?”
“Once or twice. Uh … once.”
But Fiske didn’t paint, he played tennis. “How did he know what to send?”
“I don’t know. I never asked for the supplies. Never.”
“You didn’t send them back, did you?”
“No.”
“Did Judge Hamilton ever give you any money?”
Her eyes flashed defensively. “Absolutely not. He offered to lend me some, but I turned it down.”
“Don’t volunteer, Patricia!” Julicher shouted, loud as a schoolyard bully. “I told you that!”
“Sorry. Sorry,” she said, rattled.
“Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton offer you the money before or after he bought the paintings?”
“Before.”