Due Justice

Chapter 29

Tampa, Florida

Sunday 1:35 p.m.

January 24, 1999

Robin adopted two voices now, hers for questions and Morgan’s for answers, like an audio book. “And the men, I asked him. What are they doing?  He said, ‘They wear oxford cloth button down collar shirts from ages eight to eighty, from his mother’s selections until his undertaker chooses.’ Then he’d waive his hand to flip through the next bit. He said, ‘With brief respites in the teen years for obnoxious tee-shirts and middle age for red bikinis.’”

She chuckled at the image these last two apparently conjured up.

I was half listening and shivering, and otherwise thinking that Carly had delivered a variation of this same speech not too long ago. She must have heard the rant from Morgan, too.

“Morgan made more than one fortune exploiting this supposed wealthy-woman’s neurosis,” I said.

Robin teased, “And slept with them all before, during and after.  That’s what made him interesting to interview. Sex and attraction is an endlessly fascinating topic. Haven’t you read the best seller list lately?”

We ordered more coffee, and she salivated when our waiter presented the desert tray featuring six different bowls of ice cream. Even the smell made me colder.

I lit up a Partaga. I think better when I’m smoking and there’s a fire stick in my hand.

Robin ordered a double scoop hot fudge sundae. Maybe burning off those extra calories raised her body temperature or something.

“The point is that what Morgan said got me to thinking about the issues, and that’s how I sold the piece to the Sunday Times. Whatever causes the behavior he described, breast implants might be the poster child for the condition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it,” she said between spoonfuls of the frozen sundae. “A more chauvinistic product has never been marketed. Yet millions were sold, and most implants were beloved--no, more like worshiped--by women. Even after the potential side effects were publicized and access restricted, women manipulate FDA rules to get implants.” She’d finished the sundae and pushed aside the dish. “Why is mammary fat worth all that pain? Maybe even death?”

“You’ll be nominated for a Pulitzer, Robin. The article is well done. Maybe we can talk more on the phone when I get home?”

“Oh, sure. You’ve got a three o’clock plane, right?”

I nodded. “What’s on the video tapes?”

“The Morgan video is running on “Dateline” Thursday night. I brought you a copy. You can take it with you.” She handed me a blue plastic box.

“What’s in the shopping bag?”

“I’ve got about twenty hours of raw footage. I talked to him on every conceivable subject over a period of weeks,” she placed the bag closer to my seat. It contained more than a dozen similar blue boxes. “I thought you might want to see all the tapes. Get Frank Bennett to play them for you.”

“Why?”

“Commercial tapes. They can’t be viewed on your home equipment.”

Robin paused as if to confirm something to herself before she pulled one last box out of her briefcase. She pulled a five dollar bill from her pocket.

“You’re still a lawyer, aren’t you, Willa?”

What was she getting at? I paused. Slowly, responded, “Yes.”