Beauty Vs. The Beast

Her eyes shone as she looked off into a mental distance. “I know that high. Sometimes when I’m addressing a jury, and I know the logic of my argument is indisputable, and I can see the understanding dawning on their faces, it’s like—it’s like my birthday and Christmas and the Fourth of July all rolled into one.”

“Looking for that high in your work is what makes you good at it.”

Her returning smile was small but possessed genuine warmth. Then she began to look uncomfortable at the prolonged eye contact and tugged at her right earlobe. Damn, it was an adorable earlobe and she looked adorable tugging at it.

“Is your first name really Kay, or does the K.O. stand for something else?”

“It stands for something else.”

“What?”

“Sorry, but I limit the number of people who know that secret to my three closest friends—all of whom have given me their solemn vow of silence in a blood pact.”

He grinned. “It’s that bad, huh?”

She chuckled. “Worse.”

“You were named after a mad aunt?”

Her chuckle deepened. “Good guess. Actually, I was named by a mad aunt.”

“I have to hear this story.”

“No. Really. I’d rather not go into it.”

“But you must. I insist.”

“Are all you psychologists so inquisitive?”

“Are all you lawyers so tight-lipped? Come on. You don’t have to tell me what the K.O. stands for. Just give me the rest of the story.”

Kay smiled in good natured defeat. “Okay. Edited version. My mother’s small like me. Her doctor warned her that there were bound to be complications in any pregnancy. She’s a medical researcher herself and knew to take the warning seriously. She planned me carefully, even scheduling her delivery for when my dad would be back from his engineering job in Saudi Arabia. Unfortunately, I decided to be born at seven months and threw off all her careful planning. Caught unawares and out of the range of immediate medical attention, she...lapsed into a coma.”

Her voice had dropped and gotten even softer than usual with that last detail. As if of its own accord, his hand covered hers. “But she did eventually get medical attention and you both came out of it all right?”

“Yes, but because of the delay, she was unconscious for several days. With my father out of the country, that left my aunt, Loony Luddie, the only one available to put a name on my birth certificate.”

“Loony Luddie?”

“Not that Aunt Luddie’s really loony, you understand. She’s actually a sweetie. It’s just that she has a very simple and rather lighthearted view of life.”

“So your name ended up reflecting that simple, lighthearted view?”

“You could say that.”

“Of course!” Damian exclaimed, catching on. “K.O. aren’t initials for a girl’s name. Your loony Aunt Luddie named you K.O. because you knocked out your mother when you were born!”

That small frown reappeared between her eyebrows. “Damn it, Dr. Damian Steele, you are entirely too clever.”

Damian chuckled at her peeved response to his accurate guess. “So, now that I know, will you rely on my discretion, or shall we cut wrists and join our blood in a solemn pact of secrecy?”

She smiled as their eyes met for the warmth of a moment. Then she withdrew her hand uneasily from beneath his and dropped her eyes again to the papers on the table, tugging at her right earlobe once more.

Damian could feel the residual warmth of her hand and her smile. She got more alluring by the minute, inside and out. Too bad things were the way they were. On the other hand, maybe it was just as well. Kay didn’t strike him as the casual kind, and he wasn’t interested in a commitment.

He resolutely rested his gaze on the burly bailiff, who was now pacing in front of the closed door to the judge’s chambers, as the second hand on Damian’s watch wound down to the half hour.

“Could this Croghan be attempting some legal tactic by being late?”

Kay kept her eyes on her papers this time. “Can’t think of what he could hope to gain. There are neither jury nor spectators present to impress. And if he ends up making his entrance after the judge, I very much doubt the kind of impression he’s likely to leave on His Honor will be a beneficial one. Ingle should emerge any second now.”

Right on cue, the big bailiff straightened as the door to the judge’s chambers opened. The bailiff’s voice rose in a squeaky tenor, quite in contrast with his bulk. “All rise and come to order. The court of Judge Frederick I. Ingle III is now in session.”

Damian got to his feet beside Kay as His Honor exited his private chambers. Ingle wore the traditional black robe of his exalted position. But that’s all that he wore that was traditional.

On the judge’s feet were white tennis shoes with fluorescent orange laces. A gold loop dangled from his left earlobe, while a diamond stud flashed from his right nostril. A stiff, white mohawk bifurcated his otherwise shiny skull.

None of the courtroom personnel paid any notice to His Honor’s unusual appearance. They had, obviously, already been initiated. Ingle perched upon his chair with a black-winged sweep. He wore a defiant smirk as he sent Kay and Damian an amused, piercing stare, as though daring them to say something about his getup.

Damian had to stifle a smile. He heard Kay clearing her throat beside him and guessed she was having to do the same thing.

Kay had filled him in on the judge’s reaction to the critical reviews his novel had received. Damian understood that Ingle was probably attempting to put some color into his life with this unusual garb.

The judge’s eyes swung to the plaintiff’s table, which stood empty. “Where is the—”

“Right here, Your Honor,” an industrial-size voice yelled from the back of the courtroom.

Damian swung around to see the rear doors bang open as a large, barrel-chested man with a bubble of black hair and a neat-as-a-pin, full black beard crashed into the courtroom.

Crashed was definitely the word. The doors whacked against the walls, vibrating from the force of being shoved so violently apart. The newcomer strutted down the aisle like the ringmaster of a circus.

He looked every bit the part, too. He wore a red cape over an improbable double-breasted, three-piece white suit, from which dangled an enormous gold pocket watch and chain. Golden rings glistened from every finger.

His dress and manner were so startling that it took a moment for Damian to notice the woman the lawyer had in tow. She was plump, looked fifty-something, with a wide face, short neck, thin, straggly gray-brown hair and a somewhat bewildered look in her large, faded brown eyes. Damian immediately recognized Mrs. Fedora Nye from her interview on the evening news a few days ago.

“Your Honor,” the bearded man began as he proceeded to the front of the courtroom. “I am Rodney Croghan, representing Mrs. Fedora Nye, the plaintiff in this very serious matter before you this morning. Please excuse our slightly tardy entrance, but we were meeting with the press.”

“The press?” Judge Ingle repeated, his voice rising in obvious interest. His Honor had apparently missed the TV news coverage.

Croghan had reached the plaintiff’s table. He withdrew Mrs. Nye’s limp hand from the crook of his arm and beamed at the bench with a full set of flashing teeth.

“Yes, Your Honor. The press is very interested in this case.”

He paused to untie the string at the top of his cape and then to whisk off the garment with a dramatic sweep that set his gold pocket watch to swinging and clanging against his belt buckle.

Between this attorney and this judge, Damian knew he would be hard-pressed to decide which one displayed the most obsessive need to be different, to be noticed.

“The press is interested in this case?” Ingle asked.

“I was just meeting with a local station about the possibility of filming the trial and broadcasting it live,” Croghan’s all-too-loud voice announced.

Damian watched as the judge’s bushy eyebrows rose in even more interest. “Broadcasting it live, you say? Well, well. One of my cases on television.”

“Your Honor,” Kay interjected in a soft yet emphatic tone. “May I suggest that any discussion of press coverage is still premature? After all, there is still a pretrial motion I’ve filed on behalf of my client in this matter that must be addressed.”

Ingle turned to her, wearing the expression of a daydreaming schoolboy whose attention was being forcibly brought back to his class work.

“Yes,” he admitted somewhat grudgingly. “Defense has filed a motion to dismiss. Ms. Kellogg, I have not had time to review the lawyers’ briefs on this case. Please succinctly state your position for the record.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mrs. Nye is suing Dr. Steele for the wrongful death of her husband. In point of fact, however, her husband is not dead.”

Croghan pounded his fist on the table before him. “The plaintiff contends that Mrs. Nye’s husband is dead, Your Honor!”

Kay jumped, obviously startled. Damian certainly understood. He was more than a bit startled himself.

Ingle, however, simply raised his hand, looking more pleased than perturbed by the unprofessional pounding. Damian wondered if the judge was making mental notes to use Croghan as a character in his next book.

“You’ll have a chance to speak, Mr. Croghan. Go on, Ms. Kellogg.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Kay said. “Before you is a copy of a name change approved by a Seattle court. As you can see, the man previously known as LeRoy Nye, the man to whom the plaintiff was married, legally changed his name to Lee Nye three years and five months ago. Lee Nye is very much alive. If necessary, the defense will be happy to produce him to prove that fact. As I said before, there is no basis for a wrongful-death suit, since there has been no death.”

“Your Honor—”

Ingle held up his hand. “A moment, Mr. Croghan. Give me a chance to review this motion.”

Ingle quickly scanned the documents that Kay had pointed out. A frown cut into his forehead. “Ms. Kellogg appears to be correct about this name change. Mr. Croghan, I fail to see—”

“Your Honor, the defense attorney is trying to mislead this court. She knows perfectly well that we’re dealing with a dual-personality individual. The truth is that even though the body that Roy Nye once possessed is still walking on this earth, Roy’s personality—what distinguished Roy Nye as a man like you or me—is dead. He was killed by Dr. Damian Steele.”

Ingle leaned over his bench, his interest clearly piqued. “Mr. Croghan, am I to understand that Mrs. Nye is suing this psychologist because he did away with her husband’s half of a dual-personality patient?”

“Exactly, Your Honor. You’ve stated the matter perfectly.”

Ingle leaned back, his smirk returning. “Hmm. Nothing mundane about this cause of action,” he mumbled as though to himself. “Is this true, Ms. Kellogg?”

“Your Honor, Lee Nye—not Roy Nye—was the patient who came to Dr. Steele for treatment. The Roy manifestation was only a dysfunctional personality fragment that—”

Croghan banged on the table, interrupting once again. “Your Honor, I protest! That man’s attorney just called my client’s husband a dysfunctional fragment!”

“Your Honor,” Kay began again, “Mr. Croghan’s outbursts are disruptive to—”

Croghan’s fist hit the table yet again. “Disruptive nothing! We have a right to be furious! This so-called psychologist thought of Roy Nye as only a dysfunctional fragment. We have it on record now!”

“Your Honor,” Kay said in a voice that sounded as if it was rapidly losing patience. “I appeal to you. It is very difficult to state the defendant’s position while the plaintiff’s attorney continues to interrupt with these pounding theatrics. I respectfully ask the court to admonish Mr. Croghan—”

“Yes, yes,” the judge interrupted. “A little less noise, Mr. Croghan,” he said without any real enthusiasm for the censure.

“Now, Ms. Kellogg,” the judge continued, “do I understand the defense’s position correctly? Is it your contention that Roy Nye was only a dysfunctional personality fragment and, therefore, Dr. Steele had a right to eliminate him?”

“Your Honor, I am not a psychologist, so it would be inappropriate for me to make any such contention, just as it would be inappropriate for this court to attempt to do so. The real issue—the legal issue—facing us this morning is whether or not a man has died. I have presented documentation to show that he has not.”

“Roy Nye is dead, Your Honor!” Croghan bellowed again. “Dr. Damian Steele psychologically murdered him!”

Ingle nodded appreciatively, his dark eyes as shiny as fresh fountain ink waiting for the dip of a feathery writing quill. “A psychological murder, eh? I like the sound of that. What do you say, Ms. Kellogg? Did your client psychologically murder Roy Nye?”

“Your Honor, despite the natural human titillation and intellectual draw of such a question, it is clearly not one that can be answered by lawyers. A debate over whether a man can be psychologically murdered, as the plaintiff claims, does not fall within the purview of the legal system.”

Again Croghan shouted. “Your Honor, I protest! Defense counsel is trying to cloud the issue.”

“No, Mr. Croghan, you are the one filling the air with the foggy fumes of rhetoric in order to try to block out the clarity of reason,” Kay said quietly, but firmly. “This is not a legal matter and you know it.”

“It is a legal matter! If a medical doctor’s malpractice results in death to his patient, the avenue of financial redress for the family is the court. This is no different. Dr. Damian Steele is a psychologist who deliberately performed psychosurgery to cut Roy Nye out of his own life. Mrs. Nye’s only course of redress for the loss of her husband is this court. Her case deserves to be heard!”

Ingle ran the palm of his hand over his mohawk appreciatively. “Hmm. I like your analogy to a medical doctor.”

“Except that logically and legally it doesn’t hold up,” Kay quickly interjected. “No medical definition has ever recognized death as occurring with the removal of a dysfunctional personality part—”

“The defense attorney is wrong, Your Honor! Brain-dead is legally dead!”

Kay turned to Croghan. “You know perfectly well that Lee Nye is not brain-dead. He is a functioning—”

“But he is not Roy! It is not a man’s body that defines him, but his thoughts, his emotions!” Croghan’s arms made great circles around him, building momentum before pointing accusingly at Damian. “Roy Nye’s essence is gone—murdered by that man!”

“Your Honor, there are absolutely no legal grounds—”

Ingle’s hands came up. “Yes, yes, Ms. Kellogg. You are right about there being no legal precedent for Mrs. Nye’s unusual cause of action. But it’s a damn interesting cause of action, you must agree. Hell, I can’t wait to see what the cri—uh...I mean, the jury will make of this one.”

Ingle picked up his gavel and held it high. “Motion to dismiss due to lack of cause denied.” He rapped the gavel once, its vibration bouncing ominously off the walls of the mostly empty courtroom.

Damian felt the legal blow of the judge’s decision. But Kay seemed amazingly calm and collected in its wake. Without hesitation, she walked up to the judge’s podium, papers in hand.

“Your Honor, this is a motion to dismiss Mrs. Fedora Nye’s suit based on the fact that the plaintiff’s petition for redress was filed a month after the three-year statute of limitations.”

Croghan was instantly shouting again. “I protest, Your Honor! Washington’s wrongful-death statute does not contain an express statute of limitations.”

Kay’s soft voice retained its elegant calm. “Your Honor, Mr. Croghan is in error. The statute of limitations is provided in the Washington Revised Code, which sets forth time limitations for commencing various forms of legal actions. A three-year statute of limitations is applicable to a personal-injury suit. Lee Nye legally eliminated the Roy part of his name three years and five months ago, yet it wasn’t until four months ago—a full month after the three-year filing deadline—that Mrs. Nye commenced her personal-injury suit against Dr. Steele for the wrongful death of her husband.”

Ingle’s forehead frowned under the clear logic of Kay’s thrust. He glanced at Croghan hopefully. Croghan couldn’t have missed the fact that the judge was rooting for him. And he was ready with his rebuttal.

“Your Honor, Mrs. Nye did not discover that her husband—I mean, Lee Nye—had changed his name from LeRoy until at least six months after the fact. That puts the filing of her suit well within three years of learning of the legal name change.”

Damian caught Fedora Nye looking up quizzically at Croghan. She obviously was surprised to learn that she didn’t know of the name change until six months after the fact.

Kay shook her head much like a tired but patient parent. “Your Honor, I gave the official name-change date as the last possible time that Lee was still in any way identified by the Roy name. In truth, the plaintiff’s husband officially divorced her in court four years ago, giving as his reason the fact that the Roy personality no longer existed and he wished to legally sever all ties to the man’s life. As Mrs. Nye officially learned this in their divorce proceedings four years ago, how can her attorney claim she didn’t know that her husband was gone until nearly a full year later?”

“Because my client’s religion does not recognize divorce,” Croghan rebutted in his louder-than-life voice. “In the eyes of God, Fedora was still married to Roy and hoped for his return to her and their children. It wasn’t until she learned of the legal name change—months after it took effect—that she realized Roy was gone forever from her life, a victim of that man.”

Croghan was back to dramatics, pointing his finger in Damian’s direction. Ingle once again picked up his gavel.

“Applying the discovery rule to this case, I find that the statute of limitations for filing the wrongful-death action did not commence until Roy Nye’s statutory beneficiary, Mrs. Fedora Nye, discovered all the elements for her cause of action, to wit, that her husband’s name had been changed. Motion to dismiss based on a tardy filing denied.”

A second rap and it was official. They were going to trial.

Damian was surprised to realize that he was as disappointed for Kay as he was for himself. He had no doubt that her arguments had been legally sound, and the only reason they were going to trial was that this judge was determined to gather material for his next novel. Still, as Damian glanced at his attorney, he was equally surprised to see that no defeat marred her face.

“Your Honor,” Kay said. “I respectfully request a two-week continuance. As I have only received Dr. Steele’s case this last Monday, I am hardly prepared to—”

“Save your breath, Ms. Kellogg,” Ingle interrupted. “I’m not going to let your client’s dissatisfaction with prior legal representation delay this trial. I’ve had defendants play that game with me before. They change counsel every week and each new attorney demands a continuance. No. We will begin jury selection in this matter Monday morning.”

Once again, Kay spoke up. “Your Honor, the defense formally requests that all cameras and live media coverage be barred from the courtroom for the duration of this trial.”

“I protest, Your Honor,” Croghan immediately countered. “Trials are meant to be free and open to all the citizens—”

This time it was Kay who pounded her hand on her table, much to the surprise of Croghan, the judge and Damian—who joined the other men in openly staring at her.

In that resulting shocked silence, her soft voice carried very well. “Your Honor, I will not allow the plaintiff’s lawyer to turn this courtroom into a three-ring circus for live-action news. Dr. Steele’s spotless reputation and professional standing will be protected. Because if they are not, I promise that when we win this case—and we will win it—we will be filing a lawsuit against Rodney Croghan, his client and any and all other parties who would dare sanction such slander.”

Kay had made it clear that she meant Judge Frederick I. Ingle III as one of those other parties. Damian was amazed at the real threat that gentle voice could portray. And, he was even more amazed when he watched her smile sweetly at the judge after making her threat. The lady behind those bright blueberry eyes was just full of unexpected dimensions. He had yet to find one that disappointed him.

Judge Ingle didn’t seem all that disappointed, either. He looked at Kay as if with new appreciation for her fighting spirit. Then he raised his gavel, once again.

“No filming inside the courtroom,” he said simply. He followed his proclamation with a short rap.

“But, Your Honor—”

“Come now, Mr. Croghan,” Ingle interrupted. “With the kind of sensationalism this case will engender, you won’t be able to keep the news hounds at bay. Now, you two, listen up, because we play by the Marquis of Ingle’s rules in this court. I want a good fight, a clean fight. You’ll get no interference from the bench for surprise punches, but keep them in the legal zones. Nine o’clock Monday morning we’ll begin to impanel the jury. By ten o’clock Tuesday morning, I expect each of you to be ready to come out from your corners swinging your introductory remarks. May the best lawyer win. Court’s adjourned.”

* * *

“DAMN INGLE and his sudden need for literary acclaim,” Kay lamented. “His allowing the case to be heard was always a possibility, but his accepting Croghan’s feeble argument to extend the statute of limitations for filing was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. He’s just looking for colorful grist for the milling of his next novel. This case should never be going to trial.”

Kay threw the words over her shoulder as she charged down the King County Courthouse stairwell, doing her best to physically work off her anger. They had seven more flights to go and she knew she was going to need every one.

She heard Damian’s reply from behind her as he kept pace with her downward plunge. “At least you got the media barred.”

“From filming in the courtroom only. They still can have reporters flooding the spectator area. And you can bet Croghan is going to make sure they do. This is just the kind of unusual case they love to sensationalize. In addition to everything else, we’re going to have to be prepared for the press.”

“Are you really not ready to start Monday?”

“It’s certainly not when I would have chosen to begin. But we’ll manage. What will be critical is lining up defense witnesses in time.”

“How can I help?”

“You could start by contacting those two psychologists you told me about earlier this week, the ones you consulted with on Lee’s case. See if both will be available to appear in court next week.”

“What day?”

“Soonest would be Thursday. As you heard, Monday will be taken up with jury selection. Tuesday and Wednesday will most likely be the days when Croghan will be presenting the plaintiff’s case. He gave me a long list of potential witnesses, one hundred in all.”

“A hundred witnesses? You must be kidding.”

“No, but he is. It’s a ploy to try to overwhelm us, to use up all our energy tracking down these people to find out what they could possibly have to say. He probably won’t be calling more than a handful. Still, we have a full weekend ahead preparing even for that handful.”

“How can we know which ones will be included in that group?”

“We can’t know for certain. That’s why he made the list so long. Try to see if the two psychologists can keep Thursday and Friday open.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Croghan has a psychologist on his witness list, a Dr. Upton Van Pratt. I doubt he’s a red herring. Recognize the name?”

“Upton Van Pratt is a past president of the American Psychological Association.”

“Damn. That alone will give him clout in the jury’s eyes. What else do you know about him?”