The Currency Of TimeChapter 2 free porn video

June 4, 2004

The sign over the three-story building two blocks north of the Courthouse and two blocks east of the Cop Shop read "Bailey, Devon, Martin and Wilkes" in very large golden letters. The joke I'd heard men working for Lancaster Oil make was the rumor was that the letters were actual gold.

Bailey and Wilkes etc., was one of the older, more successful and definitely most profitable law firms in Jacksonville.

And they had made a lot of that money representing Lancaster and his oil company for nearly 30 years. Plus, Mort Bailey was a personal friend of Lancaster before his death, also Deirdre's godfather.

So I didn't have any illusions about what I was walking into. I'd received several e-mails and one very personable call from a very sexy sounding female associate inviting me in to discuss the situation involving Deirdre with members of the firm in an "informal and relaxed atmosphere."

I had no doubt they were probably planning on separating me from my cock and balls in an "informal and relaxed manner" and assumed I'd be a sheep walking into the slaughter among a pack of ravenous wolves.

Before I stepped out of my 2003 Jeep Liberty I made a series of quick phone calls, then closed out the last one and stepped out of the Liberty, making sure to hit the lock. This part of Jacksonville was Lawyer Town with more attorneys and practices in a square mile than should be allowed by law. It was a miracle that the stench of brimstone didn't hang over the entire area.

But despite the fact that it was usually crawling with cops and a whole host of hypersensitive legal eagles, this part of Jacksonville was also crawling with crackheads and crack whores and pot and pill and coke dealers and pushers and people willing to part you from your life for a $100 bill. So it was never a good idea to be walking late at night, unless you were one of the former types, and you never left your vehicle unlocked.

I walked in the front door and took a deep breath. It was the smell of money and law books mingled. A redhead in a dark crimson dress cut just low enough to tease males entering the room looked up at me and smiled.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?"

I couldn't help smiling back at her, despite her being one of the Enemy.

"I'm sure you could, but I'm actually here to see Mr. Bailey or someone in his staff. I'm Michael McCarthy."

Her smile flickered only for an instant and then she said, "Oh. Of course, Mr. McCarthy.

They are waiting for you in the third floor conference room."

She gestured to someone to my left and a shadow materialized which turned out to be a monolith about four inches taller than my 6-2. He was dressed well, but the bulge of a large caliber weapon in a shoulder holster on his right, his close cropped hair and that cold stare told me he wasn't an attorney type. I'd seen his type in rough areas around the world. But I hadn't expected to find him here in Jacksonville.

"If you don't mind," he said, gesturing to me to raise my arms.

"And if I do mind?"

"That would be a shame ... sir. My job is security for the building and I'm afraid I can't take you up until I've checked you for weapons."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. You may not have been following the news, but there have been several incidents in the city where an irate client shot or attempted to injure attorneys or their staffs. One attorney was shot in the courthouse. Mr. Bailey and his staff often deal with matters that arouse extreme emotions. So, no one goes up without being checked."

I raised my hands and let him pat me down. He brought out several objects but after inspecting them, handed them back to me. I turned around and let him do the same.

"Follow me, sir."

I followed him to an elevator door whose brass must be polished to gleaming perfection every night. About 10 seconds after he hit the button it opened and I followed him in. The ride took another 10 seconds and then I followed him out to a hallway lined by pastoral landscapes. Just walking down the hallway was enough to induce daydreams of running through fields of wildflowers under a summer sun. I doubt any pissed off client could keep fury going by the end of that long walk.

My guide stopped and gestured to another door. I opened it and stepped inside. And stopped.

It was a long room and in the center was a long oval table with room for twenty-six seats, 12 on a side and seats at both ends. The table was polished wood, polished so brilliantly that I felt like squinting from the reflection of the overhead lights.

The table wasn't what made me come to a complete stop. Fifteen of the seats were occupied. I spotted Bailey sitting at the end of the table, with Billy Wilkes sitting to his right. Deirdre was at his left. She was looking down at the table. And there were 12 more occupied seats. If this was what Bailey and Wilkes considered an "informal and relaxed" meeting, God only knew what they would muster up for a formal meeting.

Bailey motioned to the seat at the opposite end of the table from him.

I pulled it back and sat.

"I think this is how Custer must have felt at that little get-together at the Little Big Horn."

Bailey didn't break a smile.

"I appreciate your efforts to break the tension, Mr. McCarthy. But this is a serious situation and a serious meeting. I was hopeful our getting together outside of an official meeting place would help us talk frankly – and realistically – about how we can resolve this dilemma to everyone's satisfaction."

"Where no one is taking notes and nothing gets into the record. Off the books, so to speak?"

He looked over at Deirdre and it was as if a silent message passed between them. She met his glance and then she raised her gaze to me. She tried to make it a stranger's stare, but I saw something behind it. Or maybe I just thought I did. She lowered her eyes again.

"Exactly, Mr. McCarthy. Being able to speak honestly has helped mediate many a knotty problem."

"Well, I'm here. Let's talk."

"Before we do, Mr. Harper-Stevens (pointing to the 6-6 feet of beef on the hoof who had patted me down) has informed us of several devices you carry. One appeared to be a digital recorder. And the other was a cell phone that could be used as a recorder as well. To ensure that we can speak frankly, I'd appreciate your turning those over to one of our secretaries during this meeting."

"They're not set to record and you can see that. I wasn't aware we'd be discussing anything particularly illegal or inappropriate here today. My 'devices' stay with me. Or I walk out of here. Your choice."

"Your attitude is not what we were hoping for, but, as you said, we won't be discussing anything illegal here today. At any rate, I appreciate your wanting to get right down to it. Let's do that. You're aware that your wife wants out of your marriage?"

I took a deep breath.

"I know that on several occasions she has made it known to me that she isn't happy, but that's a long way from wanting a divorce."

She looked me straight in the eye for a moment then dropped her eyes again.

Bailey reached out to take her hand.

"She told you she wanted a divorce two months ago. And told you again that she wanted a divorce a month ago. And told you a week ago that she wanted a divorce. I'm not sure how much more clear she could have been."

As she glanced up again, I stared back into those eyes that had once loved me. Somewhere inside me I cherished the fantasy that she still did. But I couldn't prove what she denied was true. Her beautiful face still bore the bruises from the automobile accident that had nearly killed her and had killed our marriage.

"Deirdre-"

Her voice was trembling, but iron in its conviction.

"No, Michael. Whether you believe it or not, I didn't fall in love with you. I didn't marry you. I didn't spend a wonderful two years as your wife."

"You know you did. It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, it's a fact."

"No," she said, for a moment her voice breaking. "I know what you say, and I know what other people say. I've seen the pictures of our wedding. But all that doesn't make any difference. I didn't meet you. I didn't fall in love with you. I didn't live with you for two years. For me, none of that ever happened. It isn't real to me."

"Amnesia doesn't cancel out reality. It doesn't make a marriage go away."

"It cancels love," she said. "I don't know you. I never fell in love with you. When you touch me, it's a stranger touching me. How can you expect me to – want you that way – when we've never touched. Never kissed. This is like a nightmare I can't wake up from. All I want is for this – for you – to go away so I can go back to my real life."

"It seems pretty clear cut, Mr. McCarthy, that regardless of whether you were married before, you're not married now," the other senior partner Wilkes said in a voice dripping with mint julips. You can take the boy out of Blue Grass, but you can't take the Blue Grass out of the boy – even after the absence of decades.

"Maybe in law you are, but in reality, there is no marriage."

"I thought lawyers believed in the law."

Bailey shook his head with something that was almost a smile crossing his features. But not quite.

"Lawyers don't believe in the law, Mr. McCarthy. We believe in our clients. The law is merely the tool we use to advance our clients' interests."

"It would seem to me that if you were looking out for your client's best interest, you'd be encouraging her to agree to my request that we go to a marriage counselor while she works with the best psychiatrists and physicians we can find to try to unlock her memories."

"That is your idea of Ms. Lancaster's best interest," Bailey said. "She believes her best interest is to end this non-marriage and resume her previous life."

He steepled his fingers together and stared at me across the long expanse of polished wood.

"As a practical matter, Mr. McCarthy, this meeting is in truth a gesture – of respect for your position. Quite honestly, I can understand your feelings and if I were in your situation and were about to lose a wife who appears to be the woman I wed but is a different person, I would fight just as hard to hold her.

"But the hard cold truth is that you really have no say in the matter. Florida is a no-fault state. If Ms. Lancaster wants a divorce, she will have her divorce. You can fight it, but you will lose.

"I'll still fight it."

"Why?"

"Because I love her. Because she is my wife. Because amnesia is a tricky thing and she could regain her memories AFTER she's married to another man and that would be the pits. Because I don't like losing. Call me anal, but I like to keep the things that are mine. Because no matter what you say about Florida being a no-fault state, it only works that way if you give up and let it. If I fight it, if I keep throwing up roadblocks, I can delay it. And the longer I delay, the more chance I have that her memories will return."

Bailey passed a folder to the silver haired attorney who sat on his left, next to Deirdre. He brought it over to me. It was the report from Dr. Herbert Mayfair, the psychiatrist who had examined Deirdre after the accident and had been treating her since then.

"I don't know if you've had a chance to examine Dr. Mayfair's report..."

"I have."

"Glance at it again, please. Humor an old man. Dr. Mayfair is a respected psychiatrist who has been in practice for 15 years in Jacksonville. Read his conclusions."

I'd already done so, but I opened the folder and glanced through the pages. Toward the end he wrote:

"My investigation, together with medical data from the accident through the current time, leads me to conclude with close to 100 percent certainty that Ms. Lancaster has suffered serious brain trauma that alone would be sufficient to explain her amnesia covering the period of the last three years."

"Following the traffic accident of March 17, she was admitted to St. Vincent's with swelling in her brain from the trauma of smashing into the front windshield of her vehicle. This swelling, bleeding into the brain and the trauma could easily have caused sufficient damage to destroy parts of her memory."

"While there are no signs of continuing brain damage, nor any lasting damage to the brain, the trauma itself could easily have caused amnesia that would remain long after any physical damage disappeared."

"There is also the possibility that any physical damage would have been compounded by psychological factors. Based on Ms. Lancaster's surviving memories, and testimony from people around her, she had no relationship with Mr. McCarthy prior to the last three years and she exhibited resistance to the idea of marrying him but was in effect forced to by her father. If this information is correct, it is very possible that she simply does not want to remember the years of her forced marriage."

"In conclusion, it is my professional opinion that further attempts to restore her lost memories would not only be very unlikely to succeed, but moreover would work against her overall best interests for continued mental health."

"As you can see," Bailey said, "it is unlikely that your wife's memories will ever be recovered, or for that matter, should be. Any professional can tell you that amnesia is still a very hazy area. Are you prepared to gamble your wife's happiness on a hope that Dr. Mayfair says is unlikely in the extreme?"

I could have quibbled about the obvious fake references to Deirdre's unhappiness during our marriage. She could have been acting, but I didn't think she had been. But I wanted to keep this little get together going, I picked up my cell and hit the number one. As everyone at the table stared at me, I told the person on the other end, "It's time. Come on up."

Bailey started, "what is going on, McCarthy," before I interrupted.

"You didn't say I had to come alone to face your legal army. I have someone I want up here."

Bailey stared for a moment, then told his private muscle, "Go down and meet whoever it is."

"You can send him down, but it's going to be a waste of time. Nobody is going to believe he's a gun toting crazy and if your ape lays his hands on him, you're the ones who are going to be facing a big civil lawsuit."

Bailey picked up a landline phone on the table at his right and punched in a number and listened.

After a moment, he grimaced and said, "Send him up. He doesn't need an escort."

Bailey looked over at the muscle and said, "It's alright Stevens. Head downstairs and resume your duties,"

A half minute after Harper-Stevens walked out, a tall, angular man with dark

hair cut in an old fashioned almost-buzz cut walked in. Combined with the hawk nose, the piercing gaze and the ram-rod straight posture, he could have posed for a World War I German Aircraft Ace Poster. The only thing missing was a monocle and a cigarette held loosely in his lips with a cigarette holder.

His eyes seemed to take in and assess everything around him. Even if I hadn't known he was a shrink, I would have known. Some cops are cops in or out of uniform, some doctors don't need a white coat and stethoscope. He was one of those guys. He sat down beside me.

"Dr. Teller."

"Mr. Bailey, gentlemen."

Teller nodded to them

"Can I ask what you're doing here today, Dr. Teller? This is not a hearing, nothing official at all. This is just a conversation between Mr. McCarthy and some of our staff about his marital situation involving Ms. Lancaster."

Teller nodded to me and then looked back at Bailey.

"I'm not really sure why you'd need half your legal staff for a simple conversation, but in any case, Mr. McCarthy decided he wanted to have me on hand if questions arose about Mrs. McCarthy's mental condition. By the way, I'm not quite sure why you refer to her as Ms. Lancaster. As of this moment she is still legally married to Mr. McCarthy."

"It's a matter of a woman's choice, Dr. Teller, as I'm sure you're aware, and in her mind, Ms. Lancaster is all but a single woman again. The steps to that end are merely a formality.

"And," Bailey said, "we welcome your input, but I know you've read the report from Dr. Mayfair as to Ms. Lancaster's condition. You're a respected professional in your field. So is Dr. Mayfair. Regardless of your opinion, we have enough with Mayfair and other related testimony that we believe a judge will rule that Ms. Lancaster cannot be held against her will in a marriage that simply doesn't exist in her mind."

Teller rubbed his chin as if he were pondering some deep puzzle.

"You obviously are aware of my report on my conversation with Mrs. McCarthy. And you are equally aware of my conclusion that there is nothing to indicate that there was any continuing trauma or brain damage that could have contributed to any type of amnesia. Amnesia is such a catch-all phrase that it can be applied to so many types of memory disturbance that it really means nothing at all unless you can be more specific.

"While my investigation of her hospital records and MRI and CAT scans showed some initial brain swelling which would be expected in such a violent accident, there is nothing to indicate the kind of severity that would cause such a loss of memory, much less one limited to a certain period of time. And there is nothing at all to indicate continuing brain swelling or other stressors."

He pulled Mayfair's report from in front of me and opened it, flipping through the pages.

"As to Dr. Mayfair's conclusion that there may be psychological reasons for the amnesia, that is one of those diagnoses that are easy to make, and virtually impossible to rule out. Great for backing up a diagnosis of amnesia when there's no other tangible evidence."

"That's your opinion, Doctor," Wilkes said. "And while you are a respected psychiatrist, I'm sure you're aware that opinions are like assholes. Everyone has them. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion."

Leaning over to me, Teller said softly, "There's a reason the saying – First, let's kill all the lawyers – is so popular. Wilkes loves to shake up opposing witnesses, and he can get away with a lot more today than he normally could."

Looking back at Wilkes, Teller said, "You're right of course. An opinion is an opinion, not a fact. I can only say that after interviewing hundreds of suspects in cases ranging from murder to rape to cannibalism, I have come to a firm conclusion that Mrs. McCarthy is not telling the truth."

He stared at Deirdre until she raised her gaze to meet his. Normally she had the poise and control of being the Princess and heir to a kingdom, but I saw something in her eyes I'd rarely seen before. Fear, or at least uncertainty.

"Normally, I'd leave my comments at that. Any further comments would be in most instances inappropriate. But, since this is apparently a very informal meeting to air out our differences and you have no difficulty in bringing assholes into this discussion, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you, Mrs. McCarthy, that I believe very strongly that you're lying about suffering from amnesia and an inability to remember your husband. You're faking.

"And," he said before Wilkes could reply, "while it may be impossible to come to a 100 percent reliable conclusion as to the truth of her comments, there is a method available that would at least lend a strong indication as to their validity."

"No!'

Bailey reached over and grabbed Deirdre's hand. She had blurted it out so quickly there was no doubt what she was talking about.

"Ms. Lancaster is perfectly in her rights in refusing any type of lie detector test, Dr. Teller. You know that such tests have never been allowed in court because they are not reliable. In this situation involving extreme emotional stress, they would be even less reliable."

"They cannot be probative, of course, but many suspects in criminal cases take them simply to bolster their claims to innocence. If Mrs. McCarthy were to take such a test, it would at least add weight to her claim to be telling the truth. And it would show she was not afraid to take the test."

"Why not just take a lie detector test, Deirdre," I asked her, her gaze drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet. "What have you got to lose? As Bailey said, if you want a divorce you'll probably get one no matter what I do. If I could really believe your story, I might ... be willing to walk away."

"There will be no lie detector tests," Bailey said.

She stared at me with what seemed like real regret in her eyes.

"Why can't you believe me? Let me go so we can both get on with our lives."

"I can't believe you because you've told so many lies."

"Mr. McCarthy! I'll ask you to remember that this meeting was called in part for your benefit, to allow you to work out a reasonable settlement that otherwise could very well cost you many thousands or more in legal fees to resolve. Any more comments along those lines and we'll have to reconsider continuing."

Wilkes had obviously taken to the bad cop part with glee and enthusiasm. I stood up and pushed back my chair as Teller also stood up.

"Gentlemen, it's been real. See you in court. Real court."

Bailey motioned to me to sit.

"Mr. McCarthy, Billy, let's keep our heads. We won't do anyone any good if we let emotions run rampant. Everybody sit down. We may have to discuss some sensitive issues, we probably will, but I think we all realize that everyone is going to save a lot of money and hurt feelings by getting as much done today as possible."

He did a pretty good job of smoothing things out, but I had the advantage. I knew I could climb on the table and piss on his head and they wouldn't let me walk out. They needed me and my agreement more than I needed anything from them.

"Now, Mr. McCarthy, while my associate might have been a little strident, there really is no need to be talking about lying. No matter who might have lied about what, it won't make any difference in a divorce case."

"But you see, that's where you're wrong. My wife has lied about some important things. Things that hurt. And if you want to know why I'm in no mood at all to be cooperative, or reasonable, it's because I'd like to expose those lies."

"Mr. McCarthy. No matter how much pleasure it might give you to bring up dirty laundry from your marriage, it doesn't serve any good purpose –"

"It serves the purpose of keeping me here. You invited me. And the longer I'm here, the more certain I am there's something you want from me. Let's get everything out in the open."

He leaned over and talked briefly to Wilkes in a whisper.

"Alright, Mr. McCarthy, we'll give you room to run. Perhaps if we can get these issues into the light, we may be able to save everyone a lot of grief. Go ahead."

I picked up my cell and hit the number three. Then I sat back and waited, watching Deirdre's face, staring from Bailey to Wilkes to the silver haired attorney to a female lawyer. But never at me. Never at me.

Five minutes later Earl Wilson walked in. He carried a briefcase and was dressed in office casual, a pair of grey dress slacks, polished black shoes, and a white dress shirt without a tie. He walked back to me and sat, swinging the briefcase up onto the table.

"This is Mr. Earl Wilson, Wilson Investigations. I'd give you his qualifications, but I'm pretty sure you've already used him or gone up against him. When I came back into the country and found out about Deirdre's accident, I was curious. She is headstrong and reckless, but I'd never known her to be careless in her driving. I knew her father had her trained as a young teenager by the best defensive drivers in the world.

"Not that he was concerned about her joyriding, but the daughter of anyone worth that kind of money always has to be alert to the possibility of kidnapping or terrorist assaults. During our marriage we did some driving and I could honestly say that she was a better driver than me, and I'm not bad."

As I spoke she lifted her gaze again and stared. She knew I knew.

"So I employed Mr. Wilson to look into the accident and my wife's behavior in general before and after the accident. I'll let him continue."

Wilson had snapped open his briefcase and took out papers and photographs.

"I studied the accident report and associated accident and injury photographs. For some reason the photographs and diagrams were difficult to find. I was even told that they were misplaced or lost. However, I was able to find them and made copies, which I have for your inspection if you'd like.

"The very first thing I noticed was a contradiction between the accident report and the photos of damage to the car and injury to Mrs. McCarthy. The police report stated that Mrs. McCarthy was the driver and alone in her car at the time of the accident. The accident occurred on Interstate 95 entering Jacksonville from St. Augustine. It appeared that Mrs. McCarthy lost control of her vehicle at a relatively high speed and slammed into a power pole on the side of the highway."

He tapped his fingers on the polished wood and looked from Bailey to Wilkes, a slight smile playing on his face. Bailey looked like he was about to snarl and Wilkes like he was about to have a violent intestinal attack. Both of them knew what was coming.

"If you examine the photographs of damage to the car, the major portion of the damage was to the right front, not the driver's side which would be the case if it had run head-on into the power pole. It looks, in fact, that the driver tried to take evasive action to swerve to the left. And the majority of the blood and other evidence of the collision was on the right, passenger side.

"I submitted the data to two different accident experts, and they both agreed that there was no human way that Mrs. McCarthy could have suffered her injuries if she was driving the vehicle. She had to be in the passenger side at the time of the accident."

"I'd say that only proves that you used the services of two low level so-called 'experts'," Bailey said. "I'm not an accident reconstruction expert, but I've handled enough of these cases to imagine several ways in which a driver could be bounced around and suffer those same injuries"

"And, in any case, what difference does this make to anything we're talking about," Wilkes added."

I made a gesture to Wilson and he prepared to continue. As I did I looked at Deirdre and I could see it in her eyes. She looked like an animal whose pursuers were closing in, closing off all avenues of escape.

I didn't say the words in the increasingly quiet conference room, but I felt like she hadto have heard my thoughts.

"You fucking bitch. Why did you have to lie? If you'd just come to me and been honest, we could have done this the easy way."

Wilson leaned forward on the table and folded his hands in a mock prayer.

"Since it seemed virtually certain that there had been two people in Mrs. McCarthy's vehicle, I became curious about how the police report said nothing about a second person. I talked to a lot of people. I found a police communications official who told me the accident had originally been called in as involving two individuals. But within a few hours any mention of a second person seemed to have been forgotten.

"Now, Mrs. McCarthy was taken to Baptist Medical Center and there was no record of another patient being brought in from an automobile accident at about the same time. But, I checked other hospitals, and I found out that a Julian Gutman had been brought into University Medical Center at about the same time. Curiously enough, he sustained injuries including a broken rib and facial lacerations of the type an exploding air bag on the driver's side would have caused.

, Wilson looked from Bailey to Wilkes and he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"Now, normally, any time a patient is brought in from an accident, a police report is written. But, for some reason, I couldn't find any report on Gutman's accident. The only way I could imagine that happening was if someone was willing to spread a lot of money around to see that no reports were filed. To avoid embarrassment to all concerned. And it would take a LOT of money and pull in high places. Because if it were to come to light, the officers in charge would be in deep shit with Sheriff Knight. Unless the orders on how to handle it came from him, and in that case you're looking at a major political scandal."

For once Bailey and Wilkes had nothing to say.

"And as a matter of interest, Julian Gutman..."

"Is the asshole who seduced a 17-year-old, got her pregnant leading to an abortion, and took a million dollars from her daddy to go away and never come back," I chimed in.

"And then as soon as daddy was gone, he crawled back and started working on her again."

I tried to get her to look at me but she refused. It didn't matter.

"Not much mystery about who was driving her car, is there?" I said, to make the point clear. "Or what they were doing? Or really, who spent all that money and used all that influence to make Julian disappear from the story?"