Free Sheer Gall by Michael A. Kahn Page B

control freak who would insist on being present during my conversation with his client. I looked at McBride and then back at Jonathan.
    â€œSure,” I said with a smile. “Let’s go to the living room, Mr. McBride. We can talk there.”
    ***
    â€œNot at all?” I asked him.
    He vigorously shook his head. “Never, Miss Gold. Not with Sally. Not with my first two wives, and you certainly don’t have to rely on my word for it. I’ll be happy to give you their names and telephone numbers. Talk to them directly. Confirm it for yourself.” He stood up and walked over to the fireplace. Turning to me with a serious expression, he said, “I absolutely, categorically deny the charge. I have never in my life struck a woman in anger.”
    â€œYou say ‘never in anger,’” I responded, pressing on. “But you did engage in bondage fantasies with Sally, correct?”
    â€œGood Lord,” he mumbled, his face reddening. “Yes, but surely nothing like that. Moreover, it was only once, early in the marriage. She asked me to, uh, to tie her up. I did, and we, ahem, had relations. But that was it. Only that one time.”
    â€œMaybe with her, but she wasn’t the only one, correct?”
    He leaned back against the mantel and stared at the ceiling. I waited. After a moment, he took a deep breath, sighed, and looked at me. “I’ve been with other women, Rachel—do you mind if I call you Rachel? Many women. Before my marriage to Sally, after the marriage ended, and, well, during the marriage, too. Unhappily, our marital relationship soured quickly. All sexual relations had terminated by the end of the first six months of marriage.”
    He paused, studying the carpet at his feet. “As for other female companions,” he continued, still looking down, “occasionally one would express a desire to engage in, shall we say, an unconventional procedure. I will admit that I acquiesced in some such requests, but I can assure you that I am not a”—he paused, searching for the correct word—“a devotee of bondage.”
    It was, I had to admit, a credible performance. But then again, I reminded myself, lawyers are paid to sound credible. That’s what we do for a living. We manipulate judges, lawyers, people in general, clients—especially clients. The best lawyers are masters of manipulation, with skills more akin to those of sorcerers. Surely Neville McBride—managing partner of Tully, Crane & Leonard and a man who had parlayed his mastery of the intricacies of the Internal Revenue Code and his extraordinary contacts within the upper echelon of St. Louis into a flourishing limited partnerships practice—had to be included on any list of the best.
    All of which made this discussion even more awkward, given the subject matter and the disparity in our ages. It was like interrogating Walter Cronkite on his favorite masturbation technique.
    Speaking of which, I had to concede, as I studied Neville McBride standing by the fireplace, that the image of him hunched naked over the exposed backside of a bound and gagged Sally Wade, his eyes straining, breath rasping, sweat dripping from his face as, in Benny’s coarse metaphor, he furiously choked his chicken—well, it was an image so implausible that it seemed preposterous. But then again, given some of the scenarios in my nastier divorce cases, what seemed preposterous often proved genuine.
    Leaning back on the couch, I decided to try another approach. “When did you last see Sally?”
    He squinted, trying to remember. “About two months ago, in a meeting arranged by our respective divorce attorneys.”
    â€œHow did it go?”
    He seemed to contemplate the question. “She was cool but civil. The meeting lasted an hour and then I left.”
    I nodded. “And it’s your position that you didn’t see her after that?”
    â€œIt’s not simply