Free Skinny-dipping by Claire Matturro Page A

modest row of opium poppies blooming red and beautiful in the bright southern sun. But he was taken by religion and became a Pentecostal, and though his u-pick business continued to grow, he had started speaking in tongues, and he proselyted, so I gave up going around until he calmed down, only he never did. By the time I was used to his speaking in tongues, I was in law school and too busy memorizing the penumbras of the Constitution to smoke dope. I never did touch the poppies.
    Poisoned marijuana. Damn. I thanked Sam for the information and, feeling queasy, was about to hang up.
    â€œDid you know Dr. Trusdale had two other malpractice judgments against him? One in Texas and another in Florida.”
    â€œNo.” I felt sweat break out on my face. How had Henry and I missed this? I had done the standard search through LEXIS and Westlaw for judgments against Dr. Trusdale, plus looked through the guard-dog consumer sites that list lawsuits against doctors, and had found nothing. Our firm’s private investigator had done a background search on the good doctor but hadn’t listed any prior suits. And, of course, Henry was supposed to prowl the extensive resources and databases available to insurance companies and find out about other suits before he even assigned the case to me. And, naturally, I’d asked Dr. Trusdale about this too. Damn doctor had lied straight-faced to me. A con made that much easier by a system that helps doctors hide malpractice judgments by a simple change of location and carefully worded language in the settlements. I said another quick prayer of thanks to the cosmic forces that the bum-knee guy’s attorney apparently hadn’t known about these prior hits either.
    Then I wondered, if I hadn’t been able to find this out, how in the world Sam had.
    â€œHow’d you find out about the other lawsuits?”
    â€œHis wife told us.”
    Oh, research the old-fashioned way.
    â€œGot any details?”
    â€œNot yet. The wife didn’t know, but she’s trying to find his papers. That’s coming.”
    â€œLet me know when you do, please?”
    We said our pleases and thank-yous and hung up. I was still shaking off the sense of the narrow escape when Fred O’Leary, partner number two and husband of Olivia, aka the bird lady, knocked on my door and opened it at the same time.
    â€œCome in,” I offered, though technically it was too late to issue the invitation.
    â€œPuppies,” Fred said, and lit a cigarette right under the No Smoking sign on my wall.
    â€œOoh,” I murmured, not, I realized, unlike a girl, something I try to minimize around Smith, O’Leary, and Stanley, P.A. “Puppies. When? How many?”
    â€œThree. Last night. Olivia says to come over after work and see them. One female. Olivia says she’s got your name on her.”
    â€œOooh, puppies,” I repeated, drawing Bonita into the office with my cooing. Little bundles of black and brown Rottweiler, tiny tots of blind dependency, with their sweet, soft skin and mewing little mouths. “I’ll stop on the way home and see them.”
    â€œYou too, Bonita. Bring your children for a peek,” Fred said, and left, trailing smoke down the hallway of our “smoke-free” building. He’s the only partner who ever socializes with the support staff. In fact, he was the only partner to socialize with me when I was a mere associate, and at the end of my first terrifying day he had taken me home with him, where Olivia mothered and fed me fresh vegetables sauteed in secondhand cigarette smoke.
    After Fred left, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes and had visions of puppies running over me, their little tongues licking and tickling, and that sweet puppy smell they have. “Ahh, puppies.”
    â€œThat’s how you’re supposed to feel about babies,” Bonita said.
    So, okay, spank me, my maternal instincts had been diverted from