closed trauma to the chest and head.” More shuffling of papers. “The only two witnesses said he was guiding a royal palm into position when it fell and crushed him. Injuries consistent with witness statements. Ruled an accident.”
“Were there tox screens done?”
“Blood alcohol level was nil,” Trena said. “Why? Did your guy have a history of drug abuse?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, if you’re going after his insurance company, we’ve got a vial of his blood in the freezer. Don’t wait too long. Oh, I can fax you a copy of the police report if you want. Save you a trip to the Riviera P.D.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
I made some notes after I hung up the phone. If José’s accident wasn’t really an accident, I needed to talk to the witnesses.
At that thought, I rolled my eyes and swallowed a groan.
What did I know about interviewing witnesses? Forget interviewing them, I wasn’t even sure how to find them. I was pretty sure I couldn’t pick up the phone and dial 1-800-WITNESS.
But I did have Mary Beth’s e-mail attachment, better known as The Complete Guide to Litigation Management.
Pulling up the long document, I did a quick search and found a bulleted list of questions. They were divided into categories—law enforcement, eyewitnesses, forensic witnesses, character witnesses, alibi witnesses, blah, blah, blah.
After some cutting, pasting, and sorting, I created a more manageable document that I could use, assuming I could track down whoever was with José when he died. I could probably find his wife fairly easily, but I didn’t really relish the idea of popping in on the Widow Vasquez. At least not yet.
Hearing a tap on my open door, I looked up to find one of the interns standing there with a small stack of papers in her hand. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I knew her name. I don’t usually have time to learn their names. Interns only stay at the firm for about three months at a stretch.
I’d dubbed this one—only in my thoughts—Bad Hair
Girl because she had the worst cut I’d ever seen. The color was great, pale brown with natural blond highlights. The kind of highlights I pay a small fortune for every six weeks or so. But the functional bob pretty much negated the gift of perfect color. And she had bangs. Bad ones. They were far too short, making her face look too round. She had a nice shape and a propensity for wearing plain skirts and tailored shirts. She was tall, five-ten, maybe. Something she compensated for by always wearing flat shoes.
Or, I thought, feeling a little guilty at my unflattering mental inventory, maybe she just wore them because her feet hurt. Lord knew the partners treated the interns like servants. They spent a big part of their stints at Dane-Lieberman filing motions and running errands. Bad Hair Girl spent a lot of time ferrying exhibits to and from the printer. I’d seen her often, dragging heavy mounted charts, graphs, and photo blowups up and down Clematis Street.
None of that explained why she was in my doorway, since she was assigned to Vain Dane.
“Hi. Connie, right?”
“Cami,” she corrected. “Short for Camille.”
“Sorry. Cami.”
“No problem. Everybody gets it wrong.” She thrust the pages in my direction, still not crossing the threshold into my office. “This fax just came for you.”
Getting up, I walked around my desk and took the
pages from her. “Thanks. How’d you get stuck with fax delivery duty?”
“I do what I’m told,” she said, her tone tinged with a small amount of frustration. “Fax delivery today, pencil sharpening tomorrow.”
I smiled up at her, surprised by the sharp humor. “Not loving your duties?”
“I’ve got a four-point-oh GPA, an almost photographic memory, and next year I’m going to be the editor of the Law Review. I’d imagined my first internship would be a little more, um, challenging.”
It’s a learning experience, not an appointment to the Supreme Court.
“Were there tox screens done?”
“Blood alcohol level was nil,” Trena said. “Why? Did your guy have a history of drug abuse?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, if you’re going after his insurance company, we’ve got a vial of his blood in the freezer. Don’t wait too long. Oh, I can fax you a copy of the police report if you want. Save you a trip to the Riviera P.D.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
I made some notes after I hung up the phone. If José’s accident wasn’t really an accident, I needed to talk to the witnesses.
At that thought, I rolled my eyes and swallowed a groan.
What did I know about interviewing witnesses? Forget interviewing them, I wasn’t even sure how to find them. I was pretty sure I couldn’t pick up the phone and dial 1-800-WITNESS.
But I did have Mary Beth’s e-mail attachment, better known as The Complete Guide to Litigation Management.
Pulling up the long document, I did a quick search and found a bulleted list of questions. They were divided into categories—law enforcement, eyewitnesses, forensic witnesses, character witnesses, alibi witnesses, blah, blah, blah.
After some cutting, pasting, and sorting, I created a more manageable document that I could use, assuming I could track down whoever was with José when he died. I could probably find his wife fairly easily, but I didn’t really relish the idea of popping in on the Widow Vasquez. At least not yet.
Hearing a tap on my open door, I looked up to find one of the interns standing there with a small stack of papers in her hand. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I knew her name. I don’t usually have time to learn their names. Interns only stay at the firm for about three months at a stretch.
I’d dubbed this one—only in my thoughts—Bad Hair
Girl because she had the worst cut I’d ever seen. The color was great, pale brown with natural blond highlights. The kind of highlights I pay a small fortune for every six weeks or so. But the functional bob pretty much negated the gift of perfect color. And she had bangs. Bad ones. They were far too short, making her face look too round. She had a nice shape and a propensity for wearing plain skirts and tailored shirts. She was tall, five-ten, maybe. Something she compensated for by always wearing flat shoes.
Or, I thought, feeling a little guilty at my unflattering mental inventory, maybe she just wore them because her feet hurt. Lord knew the partners treated the interns like servants. They spent a big part of their stints at Dane-Lieberman filing motions and running errands. Bad Hair Girl spent a lot of time ferrying exhibits to and from the printer. I’d seen her often, dragging heavy mounted charts, graphs, and photo blowups up and down Clematis Street.
None of that explained why she was in my doorway, since she was assigned to Vain Dane.
“Hi. Connie, right?”
“Cami,” she corrected. “Short for Camille.”
“Sorry. Cami.”
“No problem. Everybody gets it wrong.” She thrust the pages in my direction, still not crossing the threshold into my office. “This fax just came for you.”
Getting up, I walked around my desk and took the
pages from her. “Thanks. How’d you get stuck with fax delivery duty?”
“I do what I’m told,” she said, her tone tinged with a small amount of frustration. “Fax delivery today, pencil sharpening tomorrow.”
I smiled up at her, surprised by the sharp humor. “Not loving your duties?”
“I’ve got a four-point-oh GPA, an almost photographic memory, and next year I’m going to be the editor of the Law Review. I’d imagined my first internship would be a little more, um, challenging.”
It’s a learning experience, not an appointment to the Supreme Court.
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