"The movie," Casey said, snapping open the papers. "For the goddamn movie. Listen to this: 'false portrayal of his excellent character and impeccable integrity.' Can you vomit?"
"How much?" Paige asked in a normal voice.
"What?"
"Is he suing for?"
Casey barked out a laugh. "Five million."
"Can he do that?"
"He just did."
"But can he win?"
"Of course he can't win."
"Then tear it up, honey," Paige said.
Casey didn't reply. Then she said, "I don't think, anyway."
"You're the lawyer."
"Not a First Amendment lawyer. I told them he didn't say some of the crap they put in there. How can I be liable for that?" she asked.
"You're the lawyer."
"Thanks. You keep saying that."
"Look, I'm at dinner right now," Paige said, "and they just put a big hot steak in front of Luddy and he's giving me the hairy eyeball. Want to meet us after for a drink?"
"No, I'm sorry," Casey said. "I just wanted to vent. You should have seen the creep who served me."
"Served what?"
"The papers," Casey said. "The lawsuit. They have to give it to you in person. So you can't say you didn't get it. I have to respond to the goddamn court."
"You want me to leave, honey? Come over there?"
"No, you have your dinner."
"'Cause I can. I mean it."
"You're sweet. Tell Luddy I said hi."
"I'll do that."
"Paige?"
"What, honey?"
"I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but do you know Senator Chase at all?"
"Little rooster," she said. "Drinks too much when he can. Nothing like his father, who my daddy always said was a prince. Oh, Luddy, you stop that and eat already."
"How about the wife?" Casey asked.
"Mandy? A little too good for the rest of us, I've heard. Don't know her that well."
"Could you introduce me?"
Paige laughed and said, "She used to be an actress, that's what they say, so I can't imagine she wouldn't want to meet you with your own Lifetime original. What does that have to do with you getting sued?"
"Nothing," Casey said. "It's a whole other story. I'll tell you when I see you."
"How about I ask her to our little fund-raising tea tomorrow?" Paige asked. "Sissy James's husband is one of the senator's biggest supporters. I'll have her ask. If she can, I'm sure she'll come for Sissy. The little rooster will make her."
"Perfect," Casey said.
CHAPTER 25
NELLY MOVED QUIETLY THROUGH THE UPPER HALL TO HER mistress's dressing room with an armful of clean clothes before plunging into the darkness of the closet. Tiffany lamps sprang to life, exposing rack after rack of dresses, pantsuits, skirts, tops, and gowns. The scent of cedar-an undercurrent in the dark-seemed to fade. Nelly drank in the sight. Mahogany shoe cubbies filled the back wall. A ladder on brass tracks ran the length of the room. The entire village where Nelly had been born could have been dressed thrice over by the clothes in this closet.
Silently she returned the silk undergarments to their drawers, two skirts to their hangers, a cashmere sweater to its shelf, and a lace teddy to its dainty hook. Mrs. Chase liked her clothes replaced by the end of the day and she liked the work to be done while she dined. Nelly suspected that that way it seemed as though a fairy revived the soiled clothes magically, and not that dirty Mexicans like her had touched the pretty things.
Nelly checked the plastic watch she wore on the inside of her wrist, almost seven-thirty and the end of her fourteen-hour day. Still, she was grateful to be inside the house where the broad tile roof, the thick wood beams, and two AC units the size of small cars kept the place cool and comfortable. Also, she'd last worked in the household of a woman who made Mrs. Chase look like a saint.
On her way through the dressing room she froze and cocked her head, straining for sounds from the bedroom. The tick of an expanding vent sent her scampering for the hall. She'd been skittish since the night of the argument, the night after the ranch hand died. That evening she'd been putting away her mistress's clothes when she heard shouting from the bedroom. Instead of sprinting away, as she did now, she'd frozen inside the closet, only to be frightened more when the lights went out.
The fight between the senator and his wife moved from the bedroom into her dressing room, with him haunting her, deriding her, his words slurring from drink. Nelly heard the things he'd said about Ellie, the hand who had died. She heard her mistress turn on the senator with venom in her voice. The bickering escalated into a torrent of screams and the smack of his palm on her cheek.
That's when her mistress darted into the closet, flipping on the light and exposing Nelly, who covered her face, cowering at the sight of the senator's bulging eyes and the flash of his teeth.
"Get out, you little Mexican sneak!" he'd shouted, stabbing his finger toward the door and raising the bottle in his other hand as if he might strike her with it.
"Leave her," the wife said, "she doesn't even understand."
That's what her mistress had said, and she scurried out, bumping her knee on the doorframe, yanking the door closed behind her so that it slammed, and sprinting out of the house and down the path that led to her own little place in the rows of shacks.
That's what her mistress said, but she and Nelly both knew that wasn't true. Nelly spoke some English, and understood even more than she spoke. She played along, though. She'd never been one to do much talking anyway. But then Bill Ells, the ranch foreman, appeared in the basement laundry room; he knew enough about Nelly from the others not to believe her ignorance of the language. He spoke soothingly to her, though, and even made her smile. She hadn't minded admitting to him, just between the two of them, that the senator had said some bad things about the hand who had died.
Then, of course, she told him she would never speak about it to anyone.
Now she descended the back stairs, past the kitchen with its commotion of banging pots, jabbering cooks and servers, and the smells of grilling meat, fresh bread, and spices. She trudged outside into the hot night and followed the flagstone walkway around the garages and stables toward the dirt path that led to the low rows of shacks. When she rounded the stables she saw a police cruiser that made her pause. The chief's car wasn't a strange sight, but he usually parked it in the guest parking lot beneath the three towering oaks on the other side of the big house.
The darkened stable door burned in an orange glow and she saw his face, big as a pumpkin beneath the towering hat. The chief touched his cigarette to the flame, blew out the match, then walked her way. She stood fixed in her spot, her eyes searching for meaning in his, but the faint glow of the orange ember gave nothing away.
He stopped at the car and rested his hand on the light rack atop the roof.
"You're Nelly," he said.
She inclined her head without a sound.
Gage nodded and opened the back door, flooding the ground with the dome light. Gage pointed to her and then into the backseat. "Por que?" she asked.
"You got to speak American to me," he said, grinning so that the cigarette angled toward the stars.
"What do you want?"
"That's better," he said. "You and me need to talk a little is all."
"Talk?"
Gage angled his head at the backseat. Nelly's stomach heaved and she brought her hand to her mouth, but got in. Stones rattled off the car's undercarriage as Gage spun the car around and sped off down the back drive. They took a left out of the ranch and accelerated down the country road. Nelly's stomach heaved again when they raced up the ramp to the highway going south, away from the town, the police station, and any legitimate purpose she could think of.
"Donde vamos?" she asked, the words barely trickling from her lips.
"I told you, speako Americano," Gage said, grinning at her in the rearview mirror as though holding back a full slate of laughter.