exaggerated, the way she injected so much
life into things. Trudie’s passion for living had been responsible for saving Jessica’s life
years ago. It was part of what bound the two women so closely together.
To Jessica’s dismay, she arrived late at the airport. John was already at the baggage
carousel, claiming his suitcases. He greeted her with “Hello, darling” and a kiss on the
cheek.
John Franklin was a good-looking man. Appearing to be older than forty because of
his salt-and-pepper hair, he kept himself in shape by running five miles a day and play-
ing handball three times a week. Brooks Brothers dressed him in three-piece executive
suits, and his natural arrogant bearing made people take notice of him. On the flight
from Rome, Jessica had no doubt he had received special attention from the first-class
stewardesses.
When they stepped out of the terminal, he paused to squint and say, “Smoggy again as
usual, I see.”
BUTTERFLY
51
Jessica had thought it was a lovely day, but she didn’t say anything.
“Why are you late? I told you last night what time my flight was coming in.”
“I was in court. The Mickey Shannon case…” Her voice trailed off.
John Franklin didn’t look at his wife. When the crosswalk light turned green, he strode
across without looking right or left. She hurried along at his side. He had that frown on
his face, a deep etching of his features that he had perfected over years of sitting at the
head of a conference table. Today the look indicated his disapproval of her career. Mickey
Shannon, according to John Franklin, was a snot-nosed, drug-using punk who was
beneath people like the Franklins. And certainly not worthy client material for Jessica.
When they reached the car in the parking structure, he said, “Why did you come in
the Cadillac?”
Jessica didn’t know what to say. She should have thought of it that morning before she
left the house. But she had had the trial on her mind. John hated her car. While to her it
was grand and a symbol of her years of struggle and achievement to make it as a lawyer in
the entertainment industry, John thought it merely gaudy. “You know I prefer to ride in
the BMW,” he said.
“I didn’t have time to go home. I came straight from the courthouse.”
He got in the passenger seat and turned on the air conditioner, even though the day
was wintry-cool.
“How was the trip?” Jessica asked, feeling nervous as she maneuvered the huge car out
of a too-narrow space. When she drove alone or with Trudie, it seemed to Jessica that she
could run the Cadillac through slalom courses. But with her husband’s silent judgment
hanging in the air, Jessica was suddenly incapable of driving. “Was it a success?”
He sighed and undid the buttons of his vest. “I kicked Frederickson out and put a new
man in charge of operations. We’ll see results almost instantly.” He smiled dryly. “The
man I replaced him with I stole from Telecomm.”
Jessica drove for a while in silence, trying for but missing the on-ramp onto the San
Diego Freeway North, and having to go around again, while her husband sat at her side
saying nothing.
Once they were underway and in the flow of traffic, John finally said, “So what hap-
pened with the Shannon case?”
Jessica gripped the steering wheel. She was still feeling the effects of that morning’s
heady excitement. The thrill of victory. “We won.”
“Good. Let’s hope the little bastard pays the fee he owes you. And speaking of which,
did you do what I asked about the gardener?”
Jessica bit her lip. She had forgotten. She had been too busy with the trial to remem-
ber to withhold paying the gardener’s bill until he paid for the repair of the sprinkler he
insisted he had not broken.
“John,” she said tentatively. She had something to tell him. She hated to do it, but it
was better that he was forewarned. “About the Shannon trial.”
“What about it?”
She
life into things. Trudie’s passion for living had been responsible for saving Jessica’s life
years ago. It was part of what bound the two women so closely together.
To Jessica’s dismay, she arrived late at the airport. John was already at the baggage
carousel, claiming his suitcases. He greeted her with “Hello, darling” and a kiss on the
cheek.
John Franklin was a good-looking man. Appearing to be older than forty because of
his salt-and-pepper hair, he kept himself in shape by running five miles a day and play-
ing handball three times a week. Brooks Brothers dressed him in three-piece executive
suits, and his natural arrogant bearing made people take notice of him. On the flight
from Rome, Jessica had no doubt he had received special attention from the first-class
stewardesses.
When they stepped out of the terminal, he paused to squint and say, “Smoggy again as
usual, I see.”
BUTTERFLY
51
Jessica had thought it was a lovely day, but she didn’t say anything.
“Why are you late? I told you last night what time my flight was coming in.”
“I was in court. The Mickey Shannon case…” Her voice trailed off.
John Franklin didn’t look at his wife. When the crosswalk light turned green, he strode
across without looking right or left. She hurried along at his side. He had that frown on
his face, a deep etching of his features that he had perfected over years of sitting at the
head of a conference table. Today the look indicated his disapproval of her career. Mickey
Shannon, according to John Franklin, was a snot-nosed, drug-using punk who was
beneath people like the Franklins. And certainly not worthy client material for Jessica.
When they reached the car in the parking structure, he said, “Why did you come in
the Cadillac?”
Jessica didn’t know what to say. She should have thought of it that morning before she
left the house. But she had had the trial on her mind. John hated her car. While to her it
was grand and a symbol of her years of struggle and achievement to make it as a lawyer in
the entertainment industry, John thought it merely gaudy. “You know I prefer to ride in
the BMW,” he said.
“I didn’t have time to go home. I came straight from the courthouse.”
He got in the passenger seat and turned on the air conditioner, even though the day
was wintry-cool.
“How was the trip?” Jessica asked, feeling nervous as she maneuvered the huge car out
of a too-narrow space. When she drove alone or with Trudie, it seemed to Jessica that she
could run the Cadillac through slalom courses. But with her husband’s silent judgment
hanging in the air, Jessica was suddenly incapable of driving. “Was it a success?”
He sighed and undid the buttons of his vest. “I kicked Frederickson out and put a new
man in charge of operations. We’ll see results almost instantly.” He smiled dryly. “The
man I replaced him with I stole from Telecomm.”
Jessica drove for a while in silence, trying for but missing the on-ramp onto the San
Diego Freeway North, and having to go around again, while her husband sat at her side
saying nothing.
Once they were underway and in the flow of traffic, John finally said, “So what hap-
pened with the Shannon case?”
Jessica gripped the steering wheel. She was still feeling the effects of that morning’s
heady excitement. The thrill of victory. “We won.”
“Good. Let’s hope the little bastard pays the fee he owes you. And speaking of which,
did you do what I asked about the gardener?”
Jessica bit her lip. She had forgotten. She had been too busy with the trial to remem-
ber to withhold paying the gardener’s bill until he paid for the repair of the sprinkler he
insisted he had not broken.
“John,” she said tentatively. She had something to tell him. She hated to do it, but it
was better that he was forewarned. “About the Shannon trial.”
“What about it?”
She
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