Page 48 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“I’m considering it.”
“What are the possibilities?”
“Interfering with a criminal investigation.”
“Melanie Frasier is my client, and since you seem to think she’s a murderer, Mr. Milch has been investigating. That’s not interfering. That’s mounting a defense.”
“She hasn’t been charged yet.”
“And hopefully you’ll have enough sense not to charge her at all. Have you been asking Mr. Milch questions about Ms. Frasier?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll need to stop that. Attorney client privilege extends to investigators.”
I could see that Lehmann was clenching his jaw over and over. Finally, he turned to me and said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Once we were in the parking lot, Bernie led me to a Volkswagen Jetta. It was a couple of years old, dark blue with a camel interior. There was six inches of snow still on the roof, which meant he didn’t have a garage to put the car into. There was a dent in the front fender, and when I opened the door the interior was filled with junk mail, bags from fast-food places (indicating he did some traveling, as there were no franchises in Wyandot County) and empty plastic water bottles. I thought he might apologize for the state of the car, but as soon as the doors were shut, he asked, “What did he ask about Melanie?”
“Uh, well, he asked if she might have a motive other than the lawsuit.”
“And you said…”
“I said, I didn’t think so.”
“What else?”
“Mostly I said she didn’t kill Bobbie LaCross. Because I don’t think she did.”
I noted that Bernie didn’t rush to agree with me. “Did he ask about anyone else? Anyone he might consider a suspect?”
“He saw me at trivia. He asked about the people I was sitting with. Patty Gauthier and Brian Belcher.”
“Patty’s my aunt. My mother’s sister.”
“So, she probably isn’t the killer.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said with a shrug. “She could be, who knows. Who else did he ask about?”
“Bobbie’s son, Hal Buckwald.”
“Interesting.”
“Can I ask a question? You represented Bobbie LaCross. Isn’t this a conflict of interest?”
“My father represented Bobbie. He and I don’t communicate.”
“Ah… a Chinese wall,” I said, knowingly. I’d picked up the term fromL.A. LaworThe PracticeorAlly McBeal. I couldn’t remember which. It referred to a situation where members of the same firm represented opposing parties.
Bernie looked confused, and said, “I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s where you don’t communicate with your father about cases that might have a conflict?—”
“You misunderstood. I don’t communicate with my father. Full stop.”
“But it’s Schaub & Schaub?”
