Trial

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Atlanta, Ga

Charles

ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES into my run, I began to calm down, and, more or less resigned to my fate, I headed back to the town house to get ready for what I expected to be the ordeal of the evening. Lance, as always, trotted easily beside me. It had taken months of training before he’d learned to repress his natural urge to surge ahead, pulling me with him.

Back at the town house, I paused in the laundry area long enough to strip, tossed my running gear into a waiting basket, and padded naked upstairs, while Lance headed for the kitchen and his water bowl.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, I took stock of myself—smooth body, thirty-four-inch waist, fairly broad shoulders, nicely proportioned and muscled, without even a hint of love handles around the middle, somewhat larger than average equipment (which when aroused became larger still), trimmed pubic area, shaved testicles, brown hair, handsome face, and a heart that I’d somehow managed to turn to stone. They say that lightning never strikes twice, and the metaphor most likely carries over into the interpersonal arena as well as the realm of physical phenomena. I wondered, as I sometimes tended to do, what I’d done to myself over the course of the past three years.

Ah, well, no time to indulge in self-pity, I thought and began the process of shaving.

Around seven thirty, dressed in what I knew to be my lawyerly best, I drove down Juniper Street, turned left on Ponce de Leon, and followed it east to the Greenwood Club to keep my eight o’clock appointment with Andrew and the mystery client. The Greenwood Club is even older and more prestigious, albeit less well-known outside of Atlanta, than the famous Piedmont Driving Club. It was located in a grand old Georgian home that sat serenely on a little rise overlooking Ponce de Leon, and was one of those places where you had to almost literally inherit a membership (or marry someone who had one) to belong. I believe they did accept a dozen or so new members each year, but not many could afford the reported six-figure initiation fee.

I’d been there a couple of times before as a guest of Andrew and knew the food and service to be among the best in Atlanta. Their wine cellar was arguably the best in the Southeast, although fans of the famous Bern’s Steak House down in Tampa might find cause to disagree with that assertion.

Surrendering the Jag to a liveried attendant, I walked through the door, which was being held open by a doorman who, despite my only having been there a couple of times, greeted me by name. The maître d’, who also greeted me by name, didn’t have to be told why I was there. He simply informed me that Mr. Chandler was waiting for me in one of the private rooms upstairs and would I please follow him. Such are the pleasures and perks of old money.

I’d heard about but had never been inside one of the private rooms of this club. By all accounts, they were for the convenience of members and were even equipped for overnight stays—some said, with considerable envy, assignations. It was also reported that in more than a hundred years, no member of the staff had ever been known to breach the confidentiality of who met with whom in those rooms. Thus I was becoming more and more intrigued as I followed the maître d’ up the stairs and down a short corridor. He stopped at a set of double doors and knocked. After a pause, Andrew opened one of the doors, said, “Thank you, Arthur,” to the maître d’, and ushered me in, closing the door quietly behind us.

I took in my surroundings very quickly and got the impression that I was in the living room of a small suite. Around a fireplace there was a sitting area consisting of a sofa that, flanked by a pair of wingback chairs, faced a small coffee table. Under the coffee table and extending to the fireplace there was a small but exquisite oriental rug. Beyond the sitting area was a dining table set apparently for only two. In another corner was a writing desk featuring a telephone. The entire room reeked of understated elegance.

That was as far as my quick visual survey got, because rising from the wingback chair that had its back to the door, and turning to face Andrew and me was easily the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His, I noted, was a very masculine beauty, and all the more arresting for it. He was about my height, though of somewhat slimmer build—could that be a thirty-two-inch waist?—and I guessed his age to approximate mine within a year or so. His tailored dark-blue Brooks Brothers suit exuded quality and expensive taste. His head was a mass of jet-black curls. He sported a generous smile and a pair of the most intensely blue eyes I’d ever seen—eyes so liquid and inviting that even at a distance one could get lost in them. The face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t have said at that point why. I was, in fact, so mesmerized that I couldn’t have said much about anything, at least not coherently.

One of the things I’ve trained myself to do well over the years—all good trial lawyers have to be able to do so—was to listen peripherally to testimony and subconsciously focus upon the drift of it while consciously thinking about something else. This training kicked in automatically just in time to keep me from appearing to have been stricken deaf and dumb on the spot. I managed to focus on Andrew’s introduction of the prospective client as Philippe (Andrew pronounced it in the French manner) d’Autremont, but not much else.

I saw something in those blue eyes—recognition, perhaps, or was that wishful thinking on my part? As I returned the firm handshake, something unmistakably electric passed between the two of us, and the handshake continued well past the upper limits of normal. His voice, I managed to note, resonated like liquid gold.

Somehow I got through the pleasantries without making a fool of myself, found a seat in the wingback chair opposite him without stumbling over anything, and managed to focus on what Andrew, who’d settled on the sofa, was saying, despite the turmoil I was feeling, for I felt a crack beginning to appear in my oh so carefully constructed emotional defenses.

“—don’t recognize the name?”

I realized that Andrew was addressing me, expecting a reply, so I said, “Not that I recall.”

“Haven’t you been following the news lately?” Andrew said.

“Andrew, you know very well that I’ve been in court every day for the past ten days, and when I’m immersed in a case, I block everything else out, including, and most especially the news.” That was particularly true when the case itself was making the news—I didn’t like to read about it while I was in the middle of it.

“Mr. d’Autremont’s wife was found brutally murdered a little over two weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, to be exact, in their home on West Paces Ferry Road. It’s been all over the media; doesn’t that ring any bells?” Andrew said.

“Now that you mention it, I may have seen a headline in the newspaper. That’s probably why your face is familiar,” I said to Philippe. “The photo in the paper certainly didn’t do you justice. I believe I saw the headlines across the breakfast table at a morning meeting with our top investigator.”

I now remembered that Richard (who was, in fact, our top investigator) had insisted on telling me all of the gory details, of which there were plenty. The victim, Lucinda Meriwether d’Autremont, had been discovered on a Monday morning by her maid, who had just returned to work after a weekend off. Lucinda was found naked, spread-eagled, and cuffed and tied hand and foot to the four posts of her bed. A wooden stake had literally been driven through her heart. As one might expect, the media was having a field day with the gruesome particulars.

“Well, you may need to catch up on your news,” Andrew said. “There’s every possibility that Mr. d’Autremont will be arrested and charged with the murder. We’re here tonight because I want you to consider representing him.”

“Andrew, if that’s what this is all about, why not have him come to the office during the day? Why all the secrecy?”

“Because there are a very special set of circumstances surrounding this whole affair.” He started to elaborate, but before he could begin, there was a discreet knock on the door and a waiter appeared, carrying a round of drinks, which Andrew had evidently ordered brought up as soon as he’d been notified of my arrival. As we settled down with our respective drinks, Andrew began to relate the ‘special circumstances’.

“Two days after the body was discovered, I received a telephone call from an old family friend who wanted to set up a meeting with myself and Mr. d’Autremont, and we met in this very room one evening last week. All that I will say beyond that is that I am convinced of Mr. d’Autremont’s innocence.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. d’Autremont wasn’t in Atlanta that weekend, and I’m absolutely certain of that fact. However, you will have to agree to neither question Mr. d’Autremont concerning his whereabouts nor to attempt to trace his movements on that weekend. That is nonnegotiable.”

“Again, why?”

“I have stipulated to all concerned that you are not to be told and that you will agree to neither make nor cause anyone else to make any attempt to pursue the matter.”

“All concerned?”

“Mr. d’Autremont, my old family friend, and others.”

ANDREW PAUSED AS if he expected some comment from me. Hearing none, he continued, “It’s probably just a matter of time before Mr. d’Autremont is arrested and charged with the murder, so what we want you to do”—and he gave me his sternest look—“is to get him acquitted without using that alibi.”

“And if that turns out not to be possible?” I said.

“That would be, in a word, unthinkable.”

“Andrew, as one of my favorite philosophers once said—‘only an unthinking mind finds anything unthinkable’.”

“I, too, am fond of Philip Wylie, I even had occasion to meet him near the end of his life, but be that as it may, it will have to suffice.”

“And I’m not to know any more concerning Mr. d’Autremont’s whereabouts that weekend?” I tried not to sound sarcastic.

“In my judgment, it’s safer that way. You won’t be tempted to try and take the easy way out.”

“Andrew, you know perfectly well that I’m not in the habit of taking the easy way out of anything. Furthermore, nothing of what you’ve told me entirely explains the cloak and dagger routine this evening.”

“The reason for the cloak and dagger routine, as you put it, is that it occurred to me that if the police don’t know that you are representing Mr. d’Autremont—at least until after he’s arrested—you might have a little more room to maneuver behind the scenes, so to speak. He’s quite sure that he’s been followed by plainclothes detectives for some time now, up to and probably including his visit here this evening. You certainly have enough contacts downtown to find out what’s going on, perhaps even what’s going to happen, and possibly what kind of case they’re building. By now they’ll probably have uncovered the rather unconventional nature of Mr. and Mrs. d’Autremont’s marriage, including the fact that both he and his late wife are, as you might say, family.”

Andrew prided himself on being au courant with the latest buzzwords and had certainly heard me use the slang term ‘family’ on more than one occasion in reference to gays and lesbians. His logic was, as usual, impeccable, and I lacked a suitable response, so I simply sat there nursing my drink. I must add that all the while he had been discussed as though he were not even in the room, the subject of our conversation had sat there toying with his drink, taking it all in. I found myself wondering what was going on behind those blue eyes.

Andrew couldn’t stand it any longer and said, “So, what do you think?”

“I think that Mr. d’Autremont and I have a great deal to talk about before I can decide what, if anything, is to be done.”

“Well, then,” Andrew said as he got up from the sofa, “you may talk about it over dinner. I’ve got to go down to the lounge where Miss Emily is waiting for me to join her for our own dinner. I’ve already ordered for you, and I’ll tell them to begin serving as soon as I get downstairs—I think you’ll enjoy the wine I selected. See me to the door, will you, my boy?”

I got up and followed him out into the corridor, closing the door behind us, and said, “Andrew, what are you playing at here? Are you auditioning for the role of Yenta?”

“Why, Charles, whatever do you mean?” he said with a look of feigned innocence. I swear his eyes had a definite twinkle in them.

“You know precisely what I mean. 1) Any first-year associate, of which we have several, could handle this in the manner you’ve just outlined; 2) You knew that I was looking forward to a long weekend; 3) He’s damnably attractive; 4) Probably available, which brings me to 5) Are you trying to set me up?”

“Not unless you want to be, my boy,” he said, patting me on the arm. “Not unless you want to be.” And with a twinkle in his eye, he turned and strolled down the corridor.

The mental crack began to widen a bit as it suddenly hit me that I wanted very much to be set up with this attractive stranger—which was totally out of character for me. Even before Robert, I’d not been particularly promiscuous. In point of fact, Robert had been one of only a few people with whom I’d experienced s*x on the first date, and during the time we’d been together I’d been Simon pure and Simon simple, never once looking at another man. Well, perhaps I looked—I am, after all, human—but I certainly didn’t touch.

Robert and I had met during my second year at Harvard and his first at MIT. We’d struck up a conversation in the classical music section of the record department at the Harvard Cooperative Society. The Coop, as it was known (pronounced ‘coop’ as in chicken coop), was a series of connected buildings that offered everything from clothing to office supplies to books and records, etcetera. We’d chatted for a while about favorite artists and had continued the conversation across the street at Au Bon Pain, one of a chain of pastry and coffee shops that were and are ubiquitous in the Boston area, and have since expanded to other metropolitan areas. I’d invited him to my apartment, and we spent not only that night together, but every night after that until his death some ten years later.

Since Robert’s death, I’d simply not had the urge, even though opportunities had abounded. Richard in particular had been very much the busybody, bringing home any number of attractive studs who would have been perfectly willing to crawl into my bed. In short, I simply hadn’t been up to it, no pun intended, and had more or less resigned myself to a monastic existence. That is, until now.

At the end of the term during which Robert and I had met, my roommate gracefully agreed to vacate and Robert moved in with me, turning a de facto situation into one that was de jure. As far as his family knew, he was still living in a dormitory at MIT, and he’d maintained that fiction until the end of the school year. Before the summer break, I used family contacts to find jobs in Atlanta for both of us, and he spent the summer with me in Gran’s big old house in Buckhead.

Gran knew about my s****l orientation and had learned to be more comfortable with it than I would have expected, given the era in which she was reared. Early on, she’d made it clear that she would have preferred to see me married and producing great-grandchildren, but she was intelligent—and educated—enough to understand that one doesn’t choose these things. She had made Robert feel as welcome in her home as any of my other friends.

That summer Robert introduced me to his parents as a new friend from Atlanta, thus paving the way for us to room together for the next year without raising any red flags at home. His parents were strict Southern Baptists and not only knew nothing of, but would never have accepted the reality of his s****l orientation.

I went back into the room at the club with a sense of nervousness that I hadn’t felt in years, having just realized that for the first time since Robert’s death I found myself with a strong case of lust—perhaps something even stronger than lust. And for the life of me, I didn’t know what to do about it—for many reasons. If he was to become a client, then I should definitely not become involved. My Seduction 101 routines (never very good, at best) were covered by more than a decade of rust. The list was endless. All of which was pointless speculation and predicated on the faint possibility that there was a mutual interest. My instincts, rusty as they were, told me that I had in fact sensed something in that electric handshake.

Carrying all of this mental baggage along with me, I sat down to get acquainted with my new client to be.