Undue Influence Read Free

woman, except in the upper regions. I am told she works with weights to maintain this, a regimen that gives new meaning to the maxim “build it and they will come.” She has the complexion of a ripe peach, clear, with the softness of film shot through silk gauze. She is the kind of woman for whom “blonde” jokes were invented. At twenty-six, she is young enough to be Jack’s daughter. The two have been married now for five months, and Jack is starting to show a little wear. He keeps yawning in court, something that makes me think he and Melanie are doing things other than discussing courtroom strategy in the evenings. With the practiced skill of a fly caster, Melanie flings her head to the side and whips the blond tresses that have slid over one eye, back out, past her shoulder. Hemple is looking through some documents, a quick conference with Laurel, a cupped hand to one ear, client to lawyer. At the counsel table with his own attorney, Jack smiles encouragement to his young bride, like she’s doing a standup job. Hemple is back to the witness in the box.
    “Now earlier you testified that Mrs. Vega had a drinking problem?”
    “I’m Mrs. Vega,” says Melanie.
    Hemple looks at her. “The first Mrs. Vega,” she says. Laurel’s lawyer refuses to concede the point. “Is this correct? Did Mrs. Vega Laurel Vega have a drinking problem?”
    There are mean little slits for eyes from Melanie.
    “Like a fish,” she says.
    “I think your words were, She always had her head in a bottle.’ Is that what you said?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “And what exactly does that mean?”
    “An expression,” says Melanie. “I see.” Hemple paces a little in front of the witness box for effect. “So you didn’t really mean that she actually put her head inside a bottle.”
    A pained expression from Melanie, like give me a break. “I meant she was always drunk,” she says. “Always drunk?” Hemple jumps on it.
    A face from Melanie. If the lawyer likes this answer so much, maybe she should change it. Hemple doesn’t give her the chance. The first canon of the courtroom.
    Never talk in absolutes. “So if she was always drunk,’ that means that in all the times that you saw Laurel Vega you never saw her sober?”
    “That’s not what I said.”
    “Well, you just said she was always drunk.”
    “Most of the time.”
    “Ah. So she wasn’t drunk all the time, just most of the time?” says Hemple. “Yes.”
    “So we’ve gone from someone who always has her head in a bottle,’ to someone who is always drunk, to someone who is drunk just most of the time.” Hemple waltzes a few steps over in front of the bench. “Sounds like a picture of the recovering alcoholic,” she says. No reply from Melanie. Hastings appears to be dozing up on the bench.
    Good point, but no score. Hemple moves on to a Capital Christmas party last year, at which Jack disappeared with Melanie, leaving Laurel with the office help. “Might someone who saw you drinking at the party say that you had your head in a bottle?” says Hemple. “I wasn’t falling-down slobbering drunk,” says Melanie.
    “And Mrs. Vega was?”
    “Yes.”
    Hemple shakes her head as if to say are we going to have to do this again? “Fine and how many times did you see Mrs. Vega actually fall down at this party?” Exasperation from Melanie, a look like “picky, picky.”
    “Okay, so I didn’t see her fall down.”
    “I see. Just a little more license?” says Hemple. “Call it what you want. The lady was a lush. On her ass,” she says.
    “Another of your sayings?” asks Hemple. Wary of having to define the anatomy or describe the posture, Melanie does not respond. “Were you sleeping with Mr. Vega at the time of the Christmas party?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Why? Because it was not memorable or because by then you’d done it so many times with the Petitioner that you can’t keep them straight?”
    “Objection, your