A time for reckoning, p.2
A Time for Reckoning, page 2
I shake my head and unfold all six foot five of myself out of my chair. “I’ll come out to meet him.”
Zaluski gets to his feet when he sees me and steps over to shake hands. He’s several inches shorter than me, a good-looking, solidly built man with startling blue eyes, a neatly trimmed mustache, and Slavic features under a thick mane of black hair. We shake hands tentatively. I wave him into my office.
“Have a seat, Mr. Zaluski.”
He sits, then stares at me expectantly while I settle in behind my desk. He seems unsure of himself. Now that we’re face-to-face, I do, as well.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“I apologize for my part in the business concerning your parents.”
Props to him for doing so.
“I eventually realized that you were duped when you toadied up to Mayor Brown and his cronies,” I say. “I bear no animosity toward you.”
“Thank you. When you wished me luck the last time we spoke, I understood that you are a fair man. I appreciated the sentiment.”
I nod. “So, with that out of the way, tell me why you’re here.”
“I’ve come to discuss a situation involving my niece. She’s gotten herself into an unfortunate situation in Wyoming.”
Wyoming? “We don’t work in Wyoming.”
“Can you?”
“As in, are we able to practice in Wyoming, or are we willing to take on a case there?”
He sets his hands on the desk and intertwines his fingers. “Both. I’ve followed a few of the cases you and your partner have worked on. Impressive.”
“Thank you. Why don’t you start by telling me more? We’ll cross the other bridges afterward.”
“My niece is in an unfortunate marriage. We’re concerned for her well-being.”
“We?” I ask.
“My wife and I.”
“Is your niece being abused?”
“Emotionally, yes. We’re concerned it may escalate.”
“You can’t persuade her to leave?”
Zaluski sighs and shakes his head. “She often seems a little frightened when I speak with her, but she’s determined to stick it out. I hope I don’t regret letting her do so.”
“Letting her? How old is she?”
“Twenty-three. She’s headstrong, and I don’t have the influence I wish I did. Mind you, she won’t listen to her mother, either. Perhaps it’s a case of misguided love for her new husband.”
“Or she may be unwilling to admit to a mistake,” I suggest.
He nods.
“I may have failed to acknowledge the error of my ways once or twice at that age,” I add wryly.
“Haven’t we all been there?”
I smile and nod.
He continues, “Grazyna came to the attention of her new husband through her performances online. Her mother, my sister, Zofia, is devastated and ashamed that she allowed it to happen.”
“So, this started out as an internet relationship, and now they’re married and living in Wyoming?”
“Correct.”
“Why doesn’t your sister fly out there to see for herself? Maybe things aren’t so bad, after all.”
“Zofia lives in Poland,” he says. “My grandparents fled Krakow before World War Two and settled in Chicago. Zofia earned a medical degree at the University of Chicago, then returned to Krakow after Poland became free in the early 1990s. She’s been there ever since."
“Grazyna is a Polish national?” I ask.
“Yes. She was born and raised in Krakow, went to Poland’s best university there. Smart girl. Very energetic. She enrolled at the University of Wyoming and applied for a student visa to extend her stay. She and this man married a couple of months later.”
“How long ago?”
“Several months.”
I don’t understand what he wants from us. “She’s in the country legally, Mr. Zaluski. She can leave her husband and live elsewhere while she goes to school, or she can simply return to Poland.”
“I’d like her to go home, as would her mother. She doesn’t want to.”
“She’s twenty-three—an adult who is free to live her life however she sees fit. Where do we fit in?”
“She’s naive, Mr. Valenti. Very innocent, and far too trusting. We worry for her safety. Perhaps you can help.”
“Tell me about her husband.”
“Mark Lewis,” he begins. “His family seems to be quite wealthy and prominent in Wyoming. We still haven’t met him, so I don’t know much. Even when he was in Chicago with her for a weekend early on, he didn’t visit us.”
“Why not?”
“They’d just met at the time. Grazyna said that he didn’t want to intrude on her family visit.”
“If they weren’t overly serious at the time, that sounds reasonable enough.”
He leans in and holds my gaze. “This relationship has never sat well with us. We’re afraid for Grazyna.”
“Fair enough, but she’s an adult.”
“She’s in danger, Mr. Valenti.”
Zaluski’s fear is palpable. Perhaps his niece really is in peril; she certainly wouldn’t be the first wife to meet a bad end at the hands of her husband. I’m intrigued by the situation, perhaps because Zaluski has tickled my protective instincts. Brooks and Valenti exists to represent everyday people caught up in legal challenges against powerful entities. Grazyna seems to fit the bill, but we don’t generally handle divorces, and we’re a long way from Wyoming.
“What exactly do you hope we can do?” I ask.
“Talk to her. Maybe give her some legal advice.”
“What’s the end game, Mr. Zaluski? Divorce?”
“That seems to be in her best interest.”
“Would you mind if I bring my partner into the conversation?” I ask. “This isn’t the type of case we normally get involved in—especially in Wyoming. Might as well find out if there’s any chance of us taking this on before we go further.”
“That’s fine with me.”
I excuse myself, cross the hall to Penelope’s office, and give her a brief overview.
She cocks an eyebrow. “Divorce? Wyoming?”
“I know. Just talk to him, see how you feel about the story.”
She gives me a skeptical look, but pushes her seat back and stands. “Whatever you want, partner.”
Zaluski tells his story again. Penelope asks a couple of insightful questions about legal status and such that I hadn’t thought of. No surprise there—she’s the brains of our operation. I think of myself as the performer—the guy who gets up in court to speak the lines she gives me, plus a few of my own. It works for us. I’ve come to understand that I’m a little better at this trial-lawyering business than I once thought.
After another ten minutes of discussion, Penelope seems disappointed that Zaluski doesn’t know more about the Wyoming family his niece married into.
“We’re going to have to think about this, Mr. Zaluski,” she says. “For starters, we seldom handle divorce cases. We’ll also have to investigate what’s involved with us taking a case in Wyoming and, of course, if there’s a case to work. That’s up to Grazyna.”
Zaluski leans toward her. “We’re scared, Miss Brooks.”
Penelope’s eyes soften. Predictably. Her heart’s as big as Kansas itself. “I can see that, Mr. Zaluski. I suggest you speak with your niece and find out if she’s interested in pursuing a divorce. We’ll investigate what we need to do in order to set up shop in Wyoming. Let’s touch base in a few days.”
He doesn’t look satisfied, but doesn’t argue.
Penelope stands to signal that the meeting is over. She pauses with her hand on the doorknob and meets Zaluski’s eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Hire a private investigator to find out more about the Lewis family, particularly Grazyna’s husband. Perhaps the investigator can give us a sense of what’s going on out there.”
“We’ll think about it, Miss Brooks.”
“Think hard, Mr. Zaluski,” she says. “We need more information before we can make a decision. A P.I. may uncover things you don’t know, perhaps even things Grazyna is unaware of. At the end of the day, what happens is up to her. The more information she has to base that decision on, the better.”
Fifteen minutes after Zaluski leaves, Penelope calls me into her office and pulls a guest chair around to her side of the desk. “Sit down, partner. I looked up Grazyna online. Interesting gal.”
I settle in and look at the smiling face of an attractive young woman. There’s a family resemblance to Peter Zaluski—high Slavic cheekbones, very thick, long black hair, and the same arresting blue eyes. Penelope scrolls through a few pictures. Grazyna is lithe and well endowed, dresses expensively in tight designer jeans, form-fitting sweaters, sundresses, short shorts, and crop tops.
Penelope smiles and plays some video. “I found her YouTube and TikTok channels. Interesting and pretty fun stuff.”
That’s one way of putting it. Grazyna dances her way through bouncy pop music coupled with what seems to be classical compositions. Not that I’m a classical-music expert; I’m pretty much a rock and roll guy, with rhythm and blues and a few other things thrown into the mix. What Grazyna is up to has some appeal—especially with her gyrating to the beat with an enormous smile. She’s appealing, vivacious, playful, and undeniably sexy.
“Recognize any of this?” Penelope asks as a new clip appears with Grazyna playing a grand piano.
“The music?”
“Yeah. It’s fascinating. She’s melding Chopin to danceable Europop. Kinda cool. Her online name translates roughly to the Dancing Minstrel of Krakow.” Penelope switches tabs to a brief blurb about Grazyna. “She’s no dummy. Graduated with a degree in philology.”
“Filo what?”
“Philology, partner. The study of old and dead languages. Her specialty is Old Polish. Given that, making minstrel part of her performing name seems apropos. Among other things, Chopin was influenced by old Polish folk music and paid homage to it in some of his work. So, there’s a sharp intellect at work in what she’s doing—it’s not at all the frivolous stuff Mr. Zaluski seems to think it is.”
How does Penelope know so much about so many things? She’s a wonder.
I nod at the screen as we watch. “This must be what caught the eye of her future husband. I can see why he’d be attracted.”
“Yeah,” Penelope agrees.
“So, what do you think? Are we interested in the case, and, if so, how do we go about working in Wyoming?”
“I think your UBE gets you in the door to practice,” she says.
“Really?”
“Really.”
The Uniform Bar Exam permits lawyers passing it to register to practice law in a number of states. I had to write it to practice law in Illinois when we moved here from Atlanta a couple of years ago.
“Now that you mention it,” I say, “I seem to recall something about it allowing me to register for the bar in a number of states for something like five years.”
“We’ll look into it if there’s the potential for a case.”
“You’re inclined to take it on?”
Penelope leans back in her seat and stares up at the ceiling, her go-to pose when puzzling things out. “I’m sympathetic to Grazyna’s potential plight. I may be interested after we get a better picture of the situation.”
“Okay.”
She sits back, crosses her legs, and smiles. “How was your weekend?”
“Pretty good. Mostly just hung out with Brittany and Trish. Trish is joining us for dinner tonight.”
“Sounds like fun,” Penelope says with a smile, which promptly turns into a frown. “Becky and I should have you and Trish over for dinner—we keep meaning to do it, but we’re the worst social-calendar managers in existence.”
“So, there is something you don’t do well!”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Not that I’m complaining, but you have an overinflated opinion of me. I often wonder why.”
“Because you’re a wonderful human being.”
She beams her thousand-watt smile at me. “You’re too kind, Mr. Valenti!”
I smile back. “That’s why you forgive all the trouble I get us into.”
“That you used to get us into, partner. Those days are over, right?”
“Right.”
3
After her friend, Jocelyn, drops her off a few minutes before six thirty that evening, Brittany finds me in the kitchen, leans a hip against the doorjamb, and brushes her shoulder-length hair off her face. She’s abandoned last year’s spiky blonde hairdo to return to the auburn she was born with. It couldn’t happen soon enough for me, but I’d kept that opinion to myself after having been dressed down by my friend Pat O’Toole for saying “dumb shit” to my daughter instead of just letting her be a teenager. Pat was, of course, correct. So, now I try not to say dumb stuff. Now and then, I succeed.
“What’s for supper?” Brittany asks.
“Yakitori chicken skewers with fried rice.”
“What the heck is that?”
“A Japanese dish. If it turns out well, I’ll add it to my inventory of delicious, quick-hit meals.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the doorframe just as the doorbell rings. “I’m going to get changed, Pops.”
I shoot her the evil eye. She called me Pops a couple of months ago and was delighted to discover that I hated it. She’s taken to giving me a steady diet of it ever since.
“That ought to be Trish,” I say with a pointed look toward the front door.
“Do you want me to get the door before I go?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, seeing as how I’m busy and you’re five feet away from it.”
“No need to get snippy, old-timer,” she retorts with a grin as she turns to go.
And I’m the one who gets accused of saying dumb things that alienate family members?
“Hey,” Trish says as she steps into the kitchen a moment later. As always, my heart ticks up a notch at the sight of her. She’s a petite lawyer in her mid-thirties with wheat-colored hair cut to her shoulders, and is dressed in one of her conservative work suits. We met when we both worked at the same law firm for a few months after Brittany and I returned to Cedar Heights from Atlanta in the wake of my marriage’s collapse. We reconnected again last year and have been dating ever since.
Trish plants a quick smooch on my cheek, then kneels as our aging black Labrador lumbers over to her with his head down and tail wagging.
“Deano, baby!” Trish gushes as she cradles his salt-and-pepper face in her hands and plants a kiss on the top of his nose. “How’s my boy?”
There was a time when my girlfriend gushed over me more than the dog. “All I got was a quick peck on the cheek!” I complain, realizing my mistake as soon as Trish looks up at me. The skin around her hazel eyes is drawn tightly, and I can see the pain of the past few months etched on her face. My once free-spirited girlfriend has been largely missing since the night she was ferociously assaulted and raped for hours in her lakefront condo. She has no memory of what happened, which may be a blessing in disguise—even if it means she still can’t identify her assailant. Then again, perhaps finally knowing who it was might help her deal with it and set her a little further along the road to emotional recovery. The attack did considerable physical damage, compounded by her rapist washing her out with bleach to compromise any trace evidence he might have left behind. The physical side of our relationship has since suffered, but we’re doing our best to hold things together. She blames herself for not being able to move on, and has apologized a thousand times for something that isn’t her fault. Dumbass me has just reminded her of what used to be. In her tangled emotional state, she seems to be taking my comment as confirmation that she’s been letting me down.
“Hey, I know that old Deano is cuter than me,” I say with the most disarming smile I can muster.
My lame effort to make her feel better doesn’t seem to help. Deano, of course, has no idea what we’re talking about. He just rolls onto his back and presents his ample tummy to Trish for a rub. She gives me a strained smile and stoops to her canine-assigned task.
Brittany, who has returned sometime during the exchange, gives me a sad look, then tries to lighten the mood. “We beat the pants off those Winnetka girls this afternoon, Trish,” she says with forced joviality.
Trish looks up and smiles. “You’re on a roll, huh?”
“Five straight wins.”
My daughter attends Hyde Park College Preparatory High School and—following in her father’s footsteps—is a killer volleyball talent. Well, as good as someone five foot six can be in a sport that favors the tall. She’s been hoping for a growth spurt that would increase her chances of landing a college volleyball scholarship, but now that she’s in grade eleven, it seems unlikely. Looks as if I’ll remain the only varsity collegiate volleyball champion in the family.
Brittany gives Trish a detailed recap of the match while I finish getting dinner ready, then pours wine for everyone with a wink at my girlfriend. Trish got the underage wine tradition started during one of her early dinners with Brittany, assuring me that it wasn’t going to hurt anything. “Wouldn’t you prefer that she have her first experiences with alcohol under your supervision rather than in the basement of a friend’s house or in some park late at night?” Trish had asked me. She has a point, so I don’t put up a fuss about my girlfriend grooming my daughter to become a teenage wino. I do, however, express mock outrage whenever Brittany imbibes, which is pretty much every time the three of us eat together.
“How was your day?” I ask Trish once we’re all seated.
“I did corporate lawyer stuff for nine hours,” she replies. “How interesting could it be?”
I reach for something to keep the conversation going after we eat in silence for a few minutes. “You’ll never guess who came to see me today.”
Brittany rolls her eyes. “You’re right, Pops. We won’t.”
