work of art and artist; defacement of a work of art and artist; mutilation of—”
“Enough.” Bree tapped the newspaper articles into a neat pile. “I’ll take a look at the disposition of Martin’s original case when I go and see Goldstein this afternoon. But it doesn’t really matter at this point. We’re turning him down.”
Nobody moved, expect Lavinia. She crushed a bud of lavender between her thumb and forefinger. The sharp, welcome scent heartened Bree, and she swept the table with a smile. “Petru, if you could prepare a short summary of what we know to date, attach the exhibits, and draft a referral letter, I’d appreciate it.”
“A referral to whom?”
“There must be somebody else. I was hoping that you guys might help with that. You were acquainted with my father and mother. They couldn’t possibly have taken on all the clients who approached them for an appeal.”
Nobody said anything. Bree raised her voice, hoping she didn’t sound as defensive as she felt. “Well, did they?”
“Leah didn’t take on any work when she was pregnant for you,” Lavinia said. “That I do recall.”
“There,” Bree said, with relief. “So there must be a process for referral.”
“Leah wouldn’t have been offered any cases while she was pregnant,” Ron said. “As for a process for referrals, there isn’t anyone else. There’s only one advocate at a time. We can’t just walk away from this one, Bree. What about Beazley’s murder?”
“What about Beazley?” Bree said sharply. “Beazley’s murder isn’t our concern, except as it affects Cissy. And if I can get Chambers to drop this case against White, Beazley’s surviving partners aren’t going get anywhere near my family again. We’re not going down that road. Not this time. We’re turning Schofield Martin’s case over to somebody else, and that’s that.”
There was a short pause, heavy with silence.
Ron reached over and patted her hand. “There are many strands of time, and manifold realities. Mr. Martin can afford to wait, I suppose. “
“As for Mr. Martin?” Petru said heavily. “You have told him you are declining?” His eyes were black, and sharp with intelligence.
“Not yet, no. I thought about it overnight. I’ll try and raise him again.” She pulled the pine box out of her tote, where she had placed it before coming into the office. “I could try right now.”
“Your reasons?” Petru said.
“Conflict of interest,” Bree said promptly. “My temporal family is involved with this case.” She didn’t add her most compelling reason; once she’d made the decision to refuse Schofield Martin’s case, the sense of unease, of being somewhere else, some one else, had gone away.
“Any conflict is peripheral, at best,” Ron muttered. “Besides, your aunt Cissy was chairwoman of the Savannah Garden Club thirty years ago and nowhere near Constantinople.”
Bree didn’t ask Ron why he could place Aunt Cissy’s whereabouts thirty years before; he was an angel, and that was that. “So if there are no objections . . .”
“It isn’t our objections you have to worry about.” Ron stuck his spoon in his coffee and stirred it one way, then another, with an annoying clatter.
“I’m sure I can make Goldstein understand.”
“Goldstein’s in charge of records. Goldstein’s got nothing to do with it. Think logically about this, Bree. The CBA’s the entity you have to be concerned with here.”
“The CBA?” Bree pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Wait. Let me guess. The Celestial Bar . . .”
“Association,” Ron finished for her. “Yes. Maybe even the ethics committee.”
“ Not good,” Petru rumbled. “We should perhaps discuss this further before you call Martin up and throw him to the mercies of the enemy.”
Bree flipped open her cell phone and looked at the time. “Can’t at the moment. I’m meeting Cissy and White at the Frazier to discuss negotiating a settlement.”
“Enough.” Bree tapped the newspaper articles into a neat pile. “I’ll take a look at the disposition of Martin’s original case when I go and see Goldstein this afternoon. But it doesn’t really matter at this point. We’re turning him down.”
Nobody moved, expect Lavinia. She crushed a bud of lavender between her thumb and forefinger. The sharp, welcome scent heartened Bree, and she swept the table with a smile. “Petru, if you could prepare a short summary of what we know to date, attach the exhibits, and draft a referral letter, I’d appreciate it.”
“A referral to whom?”
“There must be somebody else. I was hoping that you guys might help with that. You were acquainted with my father and mother. They couldn’t possibly have taken on all the clients who approached them for an appeal.”
Nobody said anything. Bree raised her voice, hoping she didn’t sound as defensive as she felt. “Well, did they?”
“Leah didn’t take on any work when she was pregnant for you,” Lavinia said. “That I do recall.”
“There,” Bree said, with relief. “So there must be a process for referral.”
“Leah wouldn’t have been offered any cases while she was pregnant,” Ron said. “As for a process for referrals, there isn’t anyone else. There’s only one advocate at a time. We can’t just walk away from this one, Bree. What about Beazley’s murder?”
“What about Beazley?” Bree said sharply. “Beazley’s murder isn’t our concern, except as it affects Cissy. And if I can get Chambers to drop this case against White, Beazley’s surviving partners aren’t going get anywhere near my family again. We’re not going down that road. Not this time. We’re turning Schofield Martin’s case over to somebody else, and that’s that.”
There was a short pause, heavy with silence.
Ron reached over and patted her hand. “There are many strands of time, and manifold realities. Mr. Martin can afford to wait, I suppose. “
“As for Mr. Martin?” Petru said heavily. “You have told him you are declining?” His eyes were black, and sharp with intelligence.
“Not yet, no. I thought about it overnight. I’ll try and raise him again.” She pulled the pine box out of her tote, where she had placed it before coming into the office. “I could try right now.”
“Your reasons?” Petru said.
“Conflict of interest,” Bree said promptly. “My temporal family is involved with this case.” She didn’t add her most compelling reason; once she’d made the decision to refuse Schofield Martin’s case, the sense of unease, of being somewhere else, some one else, had gone away.
“Any conflict is peripheral, at best,” Ron muttered. “Besides, your aunt Cissy was chairwoman of the Savannah Garden Club thirty years ago and nowhere near Constantinople.”
Bree didn’t ask Ron why he could place Aunt Cissy’s whereabouts thirty years before; he was an angel, and that was that. “So if there are no objections . . .”
“It isn’t our objections you have to worry about.” Ron stuck his spoon in his coffee and stirred it one way, then another, with an annoying clatter.
“I’m sure I can make Goldstein understand.”
“Goldstein’s in charge of records. Goldstein’s got nothing to do with it. Think logically about this, Bree. The CBA’s the entity you have to be concerned with here.”
“The CBA?” Bree pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Wait. Let me guess. The Celestial Bar . . .”
“Association,” Ron finished for her. “Yes. Maybe even the ethics committee.”
“ Not good,” Petru rumbled. “We should perhaps discuss this further before you call Martin up and throw him to the mercies of the enemy.”
Bree flipped open her cell phone and looked at the time. “Can’t at the moment. I’m meeting Cissy and White at the Frazier to discuss negotiating a settlement.”
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