“Really?” Anne rose, grabbing a clean legal pad from the center of the table. “Like a working vacation?”
“Absolutely.” Bennie smiled. “In fact, you know that place you rented down the shore, to get ready for Chipster? I rented it for you. It’s yours this whole week, and we’re bringing Matt down for the weekend. It’s all set up. A romantic weekend, just the five of us.”
“Really?” Anne squealed, and Bennie laughed.
“Really. By the way, have you ever dealt with anybody who was guilty before?”
“Gil, sort of. I hated that.”
“Well, here’s the key. Clients come to us the way they are, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way. So when you meet a new one, don’t judge, just listen. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“You can ask questions, and you can certainly doubt, but you may not judge. Lawyers don’t get to judge, only judges get to judge. Get it? It rhymes. Now get thee to a conference room!”
“Thank you so much, Bennie.” Anne went around the table to give her another hug, then went back toward the door and opened it. “I’ll stop by your office after I’m finished.”
“You do that,” Bennie was saying, as the door closed. Anne hurried though the reception area to conference room D and opened the door. There, looking very small, at the end of the table, sat her mother.
Her fake black hair had been pulled back and she wore a simple blue dress with only a discreet brush of neutral lipstick. She squirmed slightly in her chair, resting a manicured hand on the table’s surface, and her eyelids fluttered as if she were ashamed.
You should be ashamed, Anne thought. She was too surprised to say anything.
“I came here this morning, to see you,” her mother said. Her voice was halting, and her British accent had disappeared. “But your boss, Bennie, she asked me to wait in here. She said if she spoke to you first, maybe you would see me. She’s very kind.”
“You don’t know her.” Anne wanted to wring Bennie’s neck, until she remembered her words. Don’t judge, just listen.
“I was hoping maybe I could speak with you, before I went back to L.A. I don’t expect anything of you. I was just hoping we could speak to each other, one last time. And you should know, I’ve been clean and sober for five months and ten days now. I even have a job at the center. A real job, that pays.”
Clients come to us, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way.
“If you want me to, I will leave now,” she continued. “I have a ticket on the next flight. It’s at three this afternoon.”
You couldn’t have handled this case before, but you can now.
“I just didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye. And, hello.”
Anne felt something come free deep within her chest. Something she had been withholding, but wasn’t ready to acknowledge. She remembered Mrs. Brown, alone with her crosswords, and Mrs. DiNunzio, surrounded by her family and food. Anne knew there was a connection, but was too shaken to puzzle it out right now. She found herself sinking into a chair and automatically setting the legal pad down on the conference table in front of her, as she would in a meeting with any new client.
“So we can talk awhile?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Anne answered. She eased back in the chair, ready to listen. After all, she was trying to start over starting over. Maybe this was a good place to start. Over. “Please, begin at the beginning,” she said.
And so, they began.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are no rules about writing acknowledgments, and my personal survey says that every author does them differently. Because I think of acknowledgments as a special thank-you, in the past I have thanked my readers here. But I’ve come to think that it’s my readers who should get the ultimate thank-you—the dedication. And now they have. Courting Trouble is dedicated to my readers, for giving me their support and loyalty, for coming to book signings when there are so many other demands on their time, and for sending me notes and e-mail offering thoughts, encouragement, and even, occasionally, criticism. Books connect us, and my reader is always in my mind when I write each sentence, each word. My readers know that, and return it a thousandfold. So my deepest thanks go to you, dear reader. For your dedication, I offer mine. On page one, and every page thereafter.
Thanks to the wonderful gang at HarperCollins—to the great Jane Friedman, expert in both style and substance, and to Michael Morrison, Cathy Hemming, and now, Susan Weinberg. A huge and very emotional hug to my beloved editor Carolyn Marino, and another hug to galpals Tara Brown and Virginia Stanley. Thanks, too, to Jennifer Civiletto, for all her help.
Heartfelt thanks go, as always, to the lovely Molly Friedrich and amazing Paul Cirone of the Aaron Priest Agency, for their enormous help and guidance in improving this and every manuscript. And love to Laura Leonard, who keeps me laughing every day and works so hard on my behalf.
Thanks to the many experts who helped with Courting Trouble; their advice was critical, and anything I did with it was my mistake. Thank you to my dear friend Jerome Hoffman, Esq., of Dechert, for his legal expertise and creative imagination, and to Allen J. Gross, Esq., for all of the above. Thanks to Art Mee, my genius detective-by-the-sea, and to Glenn Gilman, Esq., of the Public Defenders Office of Philadelphia.
Thank you to the kind people who have generously contributed to some very important charities, in return for having their names used as characters in this novel. I could never have made them villains, for they are too kind: Lore Yao (The Free Library of Philadelphia), Marge Derrick (Thorncroft Therapeutic Riding), Cheryl Snyder (Pony Club), Crawford, Wilson, & Ryan (Chester County Bar Association), Rodger Talbott & Sharon Arkin (scholarship program at California State University, Fullerton), and Bob Dodds, for the Miami Valley, Ohio, Literacy Council, via book maven Sharon Kelley Roth of Books & Co.
For research concerning erotomania and forms of obsessive love, I am indebted to therapist Fayne Landes, and these fine books: I Know You Really Love Me: A Psychiatrist’s Account of Stalking and Obsessive Love, by Doreen R. Orion (1998) and The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence, by Gavin DeBecker.
Thanks and love to my husband and family, and to Franca Palumbo, Rachel Kull, Sandy Steingard, Judith Hill, Carolyn Romano, Paula Menghetti, and Nan Demchur, et al. You prove how important girlfriends are. And thanks to my brother, who lent his good humor and his gayness to a scene herein, and to my mother, who can get rid of the evil eye over the telephone. You think I make this stuff up?
A final thank-you to Lucille Ball, to Lucy fans everywhere, and to my own personal Lucy fan, who reminds me that role models come in many shapes, sizes, and haircolors. Even, and perhaps especially, red.
A LITTLE MORE ABOUT LISA
Lisa Scottoline
Lisa has written nine legal thrillers, including Courting Trouble. Lisa has been recognized by universities and organizations alike and is the recipient of both the “paving the way” award from Women in Business, and the “Distinguished Author Award” from the University of Scranton. All of Lisa’s books draw on her experience as a trial lawyer as well as her judicial clerkships in the state and federal justice systems.
School
Lisa graduated magna cum laude (in three years, no less) from the University of Pennsylvania. Her B.A. degree was in English, with a concentration in the contemporary American novel, and she was taught writing by professors such as National Book Award Winner Philip Roth. Lisa attended the University of Pennsylvania Law School, graduating cum laude in 1981, and clerked for a state appellate judge in Pennsylvania.
The Law
After the clerkship, she was a litigator at the prestigious law firm of Dechert, Price & Rhoads in (where else?) Philadelphia. With the birth of a baby coinciding with the end of her marriage (the proverbial good news and bad news), Lisa decided to give up the law to raise her new daughter.
Thereafter
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Broke anyway and with a living financed by five VISA cards, Lisa decided it was do-or-die-trying-time to become a novelist. She wrote while her infant slept, basing her first novel on her experiences as a lawyer in a large Philly law firm. It took three years to write that book (the baby didn’t sleep much) and by the time it was finished, the baby was in school and her debt-ridden mother had taken a part-time job clerking for a federal appellate judge.
A week later, that novel, Everywhere That Mary Went, was bought by editor Carolyn Marino at HarperCollins, and Lisa had a new career on her hands. Everywhere That Mary Went was nominated for the Edgar Award, the premier award in suspense fiction by the Mystery Writers of America, and—lest you think this is a Cinderella story—lost the award. Lisa’s second novel, Final Appeal, was nominated for an Edgar the very next year and won. So there are happy endings even in nonfiction. Wahoo!
Lisa’s subsequent novels, Running From the Law, Legal Tender, and Rough Justice received starred reviews in Kirkus and Publishers Weekly. Rough Justice was People magazine’s “Page-Turner of the Week” and Legal Tender was chosen as Cosmopolitan magazine’s premier book club selection.
In addition to receiving starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Kirkus, Mistaken Identity was Lisa’s first New York Times bestseller. In its paperback edition the book went all the way to #5 on The List. Another starred review from Publishers Weekly created early buzz for Moment of Truth and it became an instant national bestseller. As it turned out, both Mistaken and Moment were on the paperback and hardcover New York Times bestseller lists simultaneously.
Named one of “The Ten Best Mysteries of the Year” by the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, The Vendetta Defense appeared on all the major national and local bestseller lists. At the same time, the paperback edition of Moment of Truth became an instant New York Times bestseller.
Courting Trouble went on sale May 21, 2002.
A native Philadelphian, Lisa is happily remarried and lives with her family in the Philadelphia area. Her books have been translated into over twenty languages.
ONE NIGHT ON MY BOOK TOUR
There are a lot of weird things that happen on a book tour, and squeezing into pantyhose is only one of them. The oddest — and scariest thing — that happened to me by far (excluding that room service enchilada in Dayton) was this:
I arrived at a small but charming Inn in Lexington, Kentucky at 10:00 p.m., trudging into the lobby. The place seemed deserted and unhappily quiet. No clerk was in sight. In fact, nobody was around at all. I waited at the empty desk like the good girl that I am until a nice young woman appeared from nowhere and took a place behind the counter. We introduced ourselves and determined that I wanted to check in. And I’d had only that US Airways trail mix for dinner, so I asked if there was any room service available:
“No,” she said. “No room service after dark.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“We can’t get any help to stay when it’s dark. Not for turn-downs, nor room service neither.”
“And that would be because . . .”
“The hotel is haunted. Didn’t you know?”
I swear my mouth dropped open. I could feel it. I looked like Big Mouth Billy Bass. “Say what?” I said, as in Say what?
“I’m not kidding,” she told me, and she wasn’t. “In fact, I saw the ghost myself, and I gave notice on the spot. This is my last week. Now, will that be American Express or VISA?”
This is all true. The desk clerk showed me a book to prove it, which listed the Inn as one of the nation’s foremost haunted houses. The Inn’s ghostly guests include a little girl dressed in Victorian clothing who plays jacks on the second floor near the elevator. When spoken to, she laughs and runs away, vanishing. She is seen frequently and is known as “Anna.” Guests mention her often and she plays hide and seek with the hotel’s employees. John, another ghost, isn’t so playful. He sneaks (can a ghost prowl otherwise?) into guest rooms and turns on televisions and radios full blast in the middle of the night.
Guests on the third floor of the hotel periodically complain about loud parties in the rooms above them. A call to the front desk isn’t effective, though. Hotel staff explain that there are only three stories to the building. And perhaps most unsettling is the tale of a man who appears in the laundry.
Why all this ghostly excitement at the Inn? For many years the building that now houses the Inn served as a hospital and during that time the laundry room was a morgue.
By the way, despite this golden opportunity to have an authentically suspenseful night, I was outta there, after promising the clerk a free book for saving my life. I went across town to the Sheraton, where I hoped no ghosts would follow. I watched The Matrix on Spectravision, which didn’t help. I ordered Domino’s in, which did. The suspense writer part is just fiction, friends. I’m the biggest chicken you know.
— Lisa Scottoline
THE NOVELS
Lisa doesn’t really feel like she owns her novels. She says they are more like children than possessions, with lives and achievements of their own. Writing a book and sending it into the world is almost like sending a child off to college (without the tuition bill, of course). You do the best job you can and then you have to let the book (child) stand on its own.
After writing nine novels, Lisa has come to the conclusion that a book isn’t really fully written until someone reads it. Without a reader, a book is simply words on a page. So grab hold of your imagination, read the first chapter of one of Lisa’s books and help bring it to life.
So Far . . .
Lisa has written nine novels:
Everywhere That Mary Went (1993)
Final Appeal (1994)
Running From the Law (1996)
Legal Tender (1996)
Rough Justice (1997)
Mistaken Identity (1999)
Moment of Truth (2000)
The Vendetta Defense (2001)
Courting Trouble (2002)
Everywhere That Mary Went
Whom can you trust when everyone you know is a lawyer?
Mary DiNunzio has been slaving away for the past eight years trying to make partner in her cutthroat Philadelphia law firm. She’s too busy to worry about the crank phone calls that she’s been getting—until they fall into a sinister pattern.
The phone rings as soon as she gets to work, then as soon as she gets home. Mary can’t shake the sensation that someone is watching her, following her every move.
The shadowboxing turns deadly when her worst fears are realized, and she has to fight for something a lot more important than her partnership: her life.
Nora Roberts: “A page turner that whips through legal labyrinths and emotional mazes.”
Philadelphia Daily News: “A gripping novel embracing a wide range of characters and human emotions. Humor is one of the novel’s strongest elements . . .. A pleasant surprise as the heroine is confronted with a situation of primal terror.”
Chapter One
“All rise! All persons having business before this Honorable Judge of the United States District Court are admonished to draw near and be heard!” trumpets the courtroom deputy.
Instantly, sports pages vanish into briefcases and legal briefs are tossed atop the stock quotes. Three rows of pricey lawyers leap to their wingtips and come to attention before a vacant mahogany dais. Never before has a piece of furniture commanded such respect.
“The District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania is now in session! God save the United States and this honorable court!” The deputy casts an eye in the direction of the dais and pauses significantly. “The Honorable William A. Bitterman, presiding.”
Judge Bitterman sweeps onto the dais on cue and stands behind his desk like a stout regent surveying his serfdom. His eyes, mere slits sunk deep into too-solid flesh, scan the courtroom from on high. I can read his mind: Everything is in order. The counsel tables gleam. The marble floor sparkles. The air-conditioning freezes the blood of lesse
r life forms. And speaking of same, the lawyers wait and wait.
“You won’t mind the delay, counsel,” the judge says indifferently, sinking into a soft leather throne. “After all, waiting is billable too.”
An uncertain chuckle circulates among the crowd in the back of the courtroom. None of us defense lawyers likes to admit it, but we will bill the time—we have to bill it to someone and it might as well be you. The plaintiff’s bar doesn’t sweat it. A contingency fee has more cushion than an air bag.
“Well, well, well,” the judge mutters, without explanation, as he skims the motion papers on his desk. Judge Bitterman might have been handsome in a former life, but his enormous weight has pushed his features to the upper third of his face, leaving beneath a chin as bulbous as a bullfrog’s. Rumor has it he gained the weight when his wife left him years ago, but there’s no excuse for his temperament, which is congenitally lousy. Because of it my best friend, Judy Carrier, calls him Bitter Man.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” I say, taking my seat at counsel table. I try to sound perky and bright, and not at all how I feel, which is nervous and fearful. I’m wearing my navy-blue Man Suit; it’s perfect for that special occasion when a girl wants to look like a man, like in court or at the auto mechanic’s. The reason I’m nervous is that this oral argument is only my second—the partners in my law firm hog the arguments for themselves. They expect associates to learn how to argue by watching them do it. Which is like saying you can learn to ride a bike by watching other people ride them.