Beauty Vs. The Beast. M.J. Rodgers
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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