Running from the Law Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.”
    So after she’d refused the money, Fiske bought her paintings. I put two and two together, unfortunately without the aid of my client. “Did he ever commission a painting from you?”
    She didn’t answer but reached for her water with a shaky hand. The court reporter remained poised over the stenography machine, its unlabeled black keys a mystery to everyone but her. The room got very quiet, and Julicher looked up from his notes when the silence caught up to him.
    “The judge commissioned one painting from me,” Patricia said finally. “A portrait.”
    “Of who? Whom?”
    “Of you and the man you live with.”
    What? My throat caught. “The painting was of me?”
    “It was from a photograph taken in Bermuda, I think the judge said. You were standing under a moongate.”
    Paul and me. Our first trip together. It was after we had dinner, the first night. A man from Iowa had taken the photo.
    “You wore a white dress, like silk,” Patricia said.
    Paul had loved that dress. I bet him he couldn’t unzip it with his teeth. Then he did.
    “I think the portrait was supposed to be an anniversary surprise.”
    I remembered Paul slipping out of his jacket, then unbuttoning his dress shirt. Why are you taking your own clothes off? I had asked him. Because I can do it faster , he’d said, laughing.
    There was laughter in the conference room. “Earth to Rita,” Julicher said with a smirk, and I fumbled for my stride.
    “Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”
    Julicher leaned forward. “Now what’s the relevance of that ?”
    None, but I wanted to know. “Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”
    Julicher laid a hammy hand on his client’s arm. “Objection! You’re asking her to speculate. It’s absolutely irrelevant to this lawsuit!”
    “Did you keep the painting, Miss Sullivan?” I asked, louder. If her own lawyer could bully her, so could I.
    “I … don’t