The Legacy (16 page)

He walked over and bent to kiss her. She drew away. “Don't! I'm talking about a damn serious matter. I'm not a little girl.”

Carson pulled back and crossed the room, and then turned, provoked. “No, you're not. All right, look, Bobby, you hate the man's guts. With reason, I'll grant. That was years ago. It's over and done with. McCarthyism's over. The blacklist is over. It was your Harry Truman, the darling of the liberals, who presided over the blacklisting and the terror. We ended it. We run a decent, honest newspaper, but we're not a Democrat paper and we're not a liberal paper. You know that! You've always known that! And as far as the Democrats and the liberals are concerned, where the hell were they when you were sent to prison?”

“You're shouting.”

“I'm sorry.” He dropped onto the bed, facing her. “Come on, Bobby, we've scrapped over a lot of things, but politics isn't one of them. We've both tried to make this marriage work, and God knows, it hasn't been easy. Maybe no marriage is easy. But I try.”

“That's just it.”

He shook his head.

“You try,” Barbara said. “I try. Good God, Carson, what's wrong with us?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing. But your paper will support Norman Drake.”

“That's the paper.”

“And my husband's the publisher.”

“Oh, no,” Carson said, standing and striding across the room again. “That won't wash. You are not married to the paper. It's an entity with its own responsibilities.”

“And Norman Drake is one of them.”

“If he's the candidate, yes.”

“All right,” Barbara said, taking a deep breath. “Leaving me out of it. I don't prate about patriotism. I agree that too often it's the last resort of a scoundrel. Nevertheless, this is our place. We were born here and we speak our native language, and we brought something to the place. If I desired to be wretchedly sentimental, I might say that San Francisco is my mother. I don't know how you feel about Beverly Hills —” She began to laugh at the whole ridiculous image.

“Now you're being offensive,” Carson said.

“Nobody's mother. I take it back.”

Carson was grinning. “Northern Californians are as insufferable as New Yorkers. Just say your piece, girl. Kill the adjectives.”

“Thank you. I was just wondering whether you feel anything about this country. Do you love it? Do you hate it?”

“I'm not that dense, Bobby.”

“I didn't think so. What has America done to have Norman Drake inflicted upon it?”

“We have our sins.”

“Don't do it, Carson.”

“All I said is that we're discussing it. Can we go to bed now?”

The telephone call, a few days later, was from a man who introduced himself as George Merkounian. He wanted to know whether he was speaking to Mrs. Devron, and Barbara assured him that he was.

“This is very private,” he said. “Are there extensions on this line?”

“Either tell me what you want, Mr. Merkounian, or I shall hang up.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I simply want our discussions to be confidential. I am Mr. Westcott's lawyer.”

Barbara had put the incident to rest, and for a long moment she was unable to relate to the name Westcott. Sam had been going to school properly, doing his homework, day after day of quiet remorse. Under other circumstances, such behavior would have worried Barbara; now she had accepted it as a reaction on the boy's part from guilt and fear; and now, as she put the name Westcott into perspective, Mr. Merkounian went on, “I think we should meet and talk, Mrs. Devron. My office is not far from your home, just north of Wilshire on Canon. My client, Mr. Westcott, has some just grievances, but there is no reason for us to engage in public exposure. I always prefer to settle these matters out of court.”

“I gave a thousand dollars to Mr. Westcott,” Barbara reminded him. “He appeared to agree that it was adequate to cover the damages to his car and whatever his medical bills were.”

“He also tells me that he assured you he would take legal action. So hadn't we better talk before this goes further?”

“Very well,” Barbara agreed, and then he gave her the address and they made an appointment for the following afternoon.

She walked to the office on Canon Drive, reflecting, as she had so many times, that almost no one walked for more than a block or two in Beverly Hills. She tried desperately to overcome the feeling of depression that was overtaking her again, to regain the mood she remembered when walking on the Embarcadero in San Francisco, but here there was no wind-blown bay, no smell of the salt air, no stands selling fresh-caught crab and sourdough bread, only the funereal, empty sidewalks, devoid of humankind other than herself, the close-cropped lawns, the palm trees, and the enormous stucco-covered mansions. In the business section, south of Santa Monica Boulevard, there was a stir of life, the men and women plastically homogenized, the women blonde, tip-tilted on high heels, the men suntanned, their shirts open to the third button. She felt awkward, oversized, out of place. In the office building on Canon Drive, she felt a sudden headlong rush of fear. Why hadn't she told Carson about the incident? Was there still a possibility that Sam could be punished for what he had done? Could he be taken away from her and sent to one of those dreadful youth correctional institutions that she had read about? What defense did she have against Westcott and his lawyer?

The law firm, on the third floor of the building, was labeled Merkounian and Abbott. Merkounian was tall, slender, affable, and good-looking, his dark eyes admiring, his manner ingratiating. “I always wanted to meet you, Mrs. Devron. A pity it should be from an adversary position.” He tapped a finger on a copy of the
Hollywood Reporter
that lay on his desk. “I read here that your picture will open in a few weeks. I have often wondered how it feels to have a book turned into a motion picture film. It must be very exciting.”

“I didn't come here to talk about that,” Barbara said.

“Please sit down, and please don't think of me as your enemy.”

“I can't very well think of you as my friend — to call me and threaten me on the phone. My son did something that was thoughtless and hurtful ——”

“I did not threaten you,” he interrupted. “Please sit down.”

Barbara dropped into a chair. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together over her purse and waited.

“My client, Mr. Westcott,” Merkounian said, “suffered severe pain and anguish. The law provides recourse for such things. You know that. It's true that if this were an incident in which some Chicano kid were involved, that would be the end of it. But in this case, we have the son of a very wealthy and socially prominent couple.”

“My son,” Barbara said. “Mr. Devron has not adopted him yet.”

“I know that. Now look, Mrs. Devron, I'm not going to beat around the bush. We could go to court and sue you for a million dollars. Your negligence leading to your son's action. I'm not saying we could win for a million dollars, but there could be a very substantial award. Mr. Westcott doesn't want to go to court. Neither do I.” He paused and watched her thoughtfully. “Your husband doesn't know about this, does he?”

Barbara hesitated. Then, “No, he doesn't.”

“We are willing to keep it that way, and for a reasonable sum, enough to pay for my client's physical and mental anguish, we will be glad to end this matter.”

“How much is your reasonable sum?” Barbara asked coldly.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Your client was not badly hurt,” Barbara said slowly, controlling herself. “Only the windshield of his car was damaged, and he had a cut on his cheek. I grant that it was a frightening incident, but I have had rocks hit my car as a natural occurrence.”

“This was not a natural occurrence. It was an act of malice.”

“I don't have fifty thousand dollars.”

Merkounian smiled. “Come, come, Mrs. Devron. You are married to one of the wealthiest men in Southern California. You are a Lavette. Shall I read you some history of the Lavette family? You have sold your book to films — no, I won't argue this. We are willing to settle all claims and release you and your son from all responsibility and charges of negligence for fifty thousand dollars. We will grant you two weeks to comply. Otherwise, we will serve you.”

*

Boyd Kimmelman had come into Sam Goldberg's law firm in 1945, after his discharge from the army's Judge Advocate section. Goldberg had died some years before, and Harvey Baxter had taken over the practice. The history of the firm, which bore the name Goldberg, Benchly, Baxter and Kimmelman, encapsulated the history of Northern California. Goldberg's father had come to California in ‘52 to dig for gold. He never struck gold and ended up with a fruit stand in Sacramento — yet managed to put his son through law school. Adam Benchly's father, a British sailor, had jumped ship in San Francisco in 1850, found work in a saloon which eventually he owned, and had produced three sons. Adam Benchly and Sam Goldberg had become partners and opened their law practice together in 1891, after Benchly had run for mayor and had been defeated by three hundred and twenty-two votes, most of which had come from citizens safely dead. In time, Barbara's father, Dan Lavette, had become their most valued and wealthiest client. Benchly and Goldberg were both dead these many years, but Harvey Baxter and the younger member of the firm, Boyd Kimmelman, continued as Barbara's lawyers, supervising the legal affairs of the Lavette Foundation, which Barbara had set up when she came into her inheritance. They had defended her during her trial for contempt of Congress, and they handled the matter of Dan's will and Jean's affairs after Dan's death. It was to Boyd Kimmelman that Barbara turned now, putting off Carson's questions with the excuse that she felt obligated to spend a day or two with her mother.

Barbara had a curious relationship with Boyd. He was a small, feisty man, about Barbara's height, solidly built, with a thatch of sandy hair that he wore in a close-cut brush. His bright blue eyes were perpetually eager and excited, and they were set in a round, innocent face that belied his aggressiveness. He was a good, imaginative attorney and was utterly devoted to Barbara. In the firm, he was the needed counterbalance to the staid, conservative Harvey Baxter, who was some ten years his senior. Kimmelman was forty-four, a year younger than Barbara.

Now, facing her in his office, he listened to her story, asked a few questions, and then said, “Just give me a minute or so to think about it, Barbara.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Barbara walked to the window, which overlooked Market Street, and watched the hurrying throngs of people, the cars, the color, and the excitement. Always, when she returned, there was that same sense of comfort, of security. For all of her wandering and experience, it was only here that she felt a valid sense of being. The months in Beverly Hills were dreamlike, and already the pressing despair that had brought her here had begun to lighten. Kimmelman's voice brought her out of her reverie.

“He can sue you,” Kimmelman said. Now he was watching her thoughtfully. “You haven't told your husband about this?”

“No.”

“None of it? Not the incident?”

“No, none of it.”

“I won't ask you why.”

Barbara turned from the window, walked over to Kimmelman, bent and kissed his cheek. “You're a dear man, Boyd.”

“So much for Boyd. Did you hear me, Barbara? I said I think he could sue you — for negligence. He can't sue Sam, and I don't imagine he could initiate any criminal proceedings against Sam, and if he brings suit against you — well, who can say? I've never heard of a case exactly like this, but I'm sure I could dig one up. Good chance you'd beat him if you didn't get a jury that wants to soak the rich.”

“I'm not rich, Boyd.”

“You know that and I do. Who else? Your husband's rich. Please sit down, Barbara. You came in here a totally depressed victim, and now you're standing there and smiling at me.”

“I don't know why. I just feel that a great weight had lifted, and I don't know why.”

“Will you sit down, please.”

Barbara sat facing him. “You're going to tell me to pay up, aren't you? You're still traumatized from our last session in court. That was ten years ago, Boyd, but I'm sure you've sworn an oath to yourself never to let me set foot in a courtroom again.”

“More or less.”

“I don't have fifty thousand dollars,” Barbara complained.

“You're not seriously thinking of inviting a lawsuit, because if you are, it's going to cost just as much and you could lose. Not to mention your husband.”

“But it's blackmail,” Barbara protested.

“Of course it's blackmail, legalized. I'd say a great big chunk of non-criminal law is legalized blackmail, and it goes on every day. Now how much cash can you get up?”

“I have something over twenty thousand in savings, which is what remains from my flirtation with the film business. I own the house on Green Street outright, so I guess I could mortgage it—”

Boyd shook his head hopelessly. “All your life you've tried to think poor. This is crazy, Barbara. Will you come down to earth for one moment. You will not mortgage the damn house! Your mother is one of the richest widows in town. She'll give it to you! I'll give it to you!”

“Boyd, you're shouting at me.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I guess I am. Please forgive me.”

“You're a dear. I'll forgive you anything.”

“Thank you. Now will you promise to ask your mother for the money? Ask her for the whole thing as a loan. She'll be happy to help, believe me. I'll put together some papers, and we'll go down to Los Angeles tomorrow and end this stupid business. And if it were my son, I'd put him over my knee and let him know what for.”