Courthouse (30 page)

“Most of the time, there are three. The cook, Mademoiselle, and myself,” said Mary. She stood to the side, uncomfortable, watching Marc.

“Mademoiselle, is that the children's nurse?”

“That's right, sir.”

“You say ordinarily there are three in help. Were there more or less the evening that Mister Wainwright was killed?” asked Marc.

“More. Margaret, my sister, she came to help with the dinner party,” said Mary. “There was me, and Margaret, and Mademoiselle. And cook. There were four altogether.”

“Now, think about this,” said Marc. “Were you up, did you hear anything, see anything that night, after the guests left? Did you hear anything when Mister Wainwright arrived?”

“No, sir. Margaret and me, we were asleep. We didn't hear anything,” she replied. “We were so tired from cleaning up, we fell right asleep, and slept through everything. See, Margaret and me, we cleaned everything and put all the dishes in the dishwasher, all the silver away, everything. After all, you're not going to see cook or Mademoiselle doing that kind of work, are you? So, Margaret and me, we had to do everything by ourselves. And, I say, by the time we were finished all of that, we were exhausted. It was a big party Madam had that night.”

“How did you find out about Mister Wainwright being shot then?” asked Marc.

“Mademoiselle woke us up. Margaret slept in my room that night. She was so tired, you know, from the cleaning up and all. We did all the cleaning …”

“I know, we went through that already,” said Marc smiling.

“Well, it may be a smiling matter, but it sure was a lot of work, too, Mister.”

“I'm sure it was, Mary. Now tell me about when you first found out about anything having to do with Mister Wainwright being shot.”

“As I said, Margaret was sleeping in my room. And we didn't hear anything. Mademoiselle came into the room and said there was some trouble up in the front. She said she just woke up and she saw a policeman, a lot of them, up front.”

“How long was Mademoiselle up before she woke you up?” asked Marc. “As far as you know?”

“I don't know. I know she was awake when the police arrived. Margaret and me, we didn't know anything about it until after that.”

“So neither you, nor your sister Margaret, nor Mademoiselle, saw or heard anything until about the time that the police arrived and Mister Wainwright was already dead, is that right?” Marc asked.

“That's right, sir.”

“And Mademoiselle was up before that but you don't know how long?”

“That's right, sir.”

“Fine. Now what about the cook?” Marc asked.

“Now, cook, see, she was finished right after the meal was served, so she was plenty rested, not like Margaret and me.”

“Fine,” said Marc. “Do you know if cook saw or heard anything?”

“She did,” replied Mary. “She don't sleep too good, anyway. She's always getting up in the night, going to the ladies room and all that Woman trouble, one thing and another, you know.”

“Did she get up the night Mister Wainwright was killed?” Marc pressed.

“Yes, sir, she did. She told me afterward that she was up and heard something inside. She went up front to see, and then she was frightened, and she was hiding in the dining room, looking across to where the library and Madam's wing is. And, she heard or saw something. I don't want to say for sure. I can't speak for cook, you know. But I know that she was awake. Maybe she didn't see anything. But I know cook was awake.”

“What's the cook's name?” asked Marc.

“Hattie. Hattie Adams.”

“Is she here now?” asked Marc. “Is she still working here?”

“She is not.”

“She doesn't work here anymore?” asked Marc. “Is that what you're saying?”

“That's right, sir.”

“Did she get fired?” asked Marc.

“No, sir. She doesn't work here anymore, right now. She's on vacation. Be on vacation for another three weeks. She's been with Madam for many years, you see. She gets a long vacation. I been here only four years, so I don't get the kind of vacation Hattie gets.”

“Do you know where I can get in touch with Hattie Adams?” asked Marc. “Do you know where she lives?”

“Yes, sir. She lives on 107th Street,” replied Mary.

“On the east or west side, do you know?”

“No, sir. I try not to butt into other people's business, if you know what I mean. That's the best policy, sir, if I may be so bold.”

“I certainly agree, Mary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if cook is out of the city on vacation?”

“I wouldn't …”

Toni Wainwright came sweeping into the room. She was wearing her flowing green robe, with the deep décolletage. The bottom part of the robe parted for her legs, as she walked.

“Flirting with my guest, Mary?” Toni demanded, not entirely joking.

“No, ma'am. Mister Attorney was asking me some questions about the night poor Mister Wainwright had his accident.” Mary looked sheepishly toward Toni Wainwright. “Excuse me, ma'am. I be leaving unless there's something else for me to do?”

“No.”

Mary nodded and left.

“How about fixing me a drink,” said Mrs. Wainwright.

“I was just about to leave,” said Marc.

“Well, you can fix me a drink before you go, can't you?”

“I guess so.” Marc walked to the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“A very dry, and I mean, very dry, Beefeater martini.”

Marc mixed the drink. By the time he had turned to hand her the drink, Toni Wainwright was lying at full length on the couch. She was naked. Her robe was on the floor.

“What's the matter, Marc? Haven't you ever seen a hard-on before.” She laughed. “That's a punch line from a joke,” she explained.

“I know the joke.” Marc looked at Toni. She was small, muscular, with almost boylike wiryness, except for her breasts, which were long, thin, and flat, wide apart, with large, pale nipples.

“How about my drink?” she asked.

Marc handed her the drink. She reached out, but rather than taking the drink, she pulled Marc by the wrist toward her, pulling him off balance into a sitting position on the couch. Her arms went around him, as her mouth found his, her tongue starting to press its way into his mouth. Marc reached out to put her drink down. As he succeeded in putting the glass on a small table beside the couch, he grabbed Toni Wainwright by the shoulders, pushing her away from himself.

“I thought we just went through this, a little more dressed, perhaps, in the cab. It's not my scene.”

“Aren't you man enough to do anything about this?” she said.

“Don't start that manly ploy with me. I won't be embarrassed into making it with you to prove my masculinity,” Marc said flatly. He rose to his feet. “I'm married, very pleasantly so, and I don't appreciate the wrestling.”

Toni Wainwright stood on the couch, next to Marc. She put her arms around his neck, pressing and moving her naked body against him.

“Come on, ease up, lawyer man,” she said coyly. “Your wife won't know, so what's the difference? I bet you're groovy in the sack.”

“I don't mean to be ungrateful, or anything like that,” said Marc. “But I'm really not interested in other women. There's no point to this.”

“No point?” said Toni Wainwright, angry now. “Here I am practically throwing myself at you, and you're telling me there's no point. What the hell do you think I am, a ham sandwich?”

“No, I'm sure you're not that,” said Marc.

She took her arms from around him, putting her hands on her naked hips. “Go ahead, get the fuck out of here, little lawyer boy. Get out of here.” She reached out to slap him.

Marc dodged and reached out himself, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward off the couch, He twisted his body to the left. Before Toni Wainwright knew what happened, she was spread across Marc's shoulders in a fireman's carry.

“Put me down, you son of a bitch,” she screamed, her feet pumping the air, her free hand hitting him on the head.

Marc turned and walked out of the library. “Which way is the bedroom?” he asked.

“Oh, goody, I'm going to get fucked,” she said, stopping her struggle. “It's in through the door straight ahead,” she said. “Do you have a big cock? Tell me. Do you?”

Marc walked silently into the large bedroom, stopping to look around. He saw a side door and walked toward it. As he thought, it was the bathroom. He entered, and while still holding her on his shoulders with one hand, reached across the tub and turned on the shower.

“Oh no you don't, you rat bastard,” Toni screamed, struggling more violently now.

“Oh yes I do,” Marc replied. The water was splashing full force and cold. He slipped Toni off his shoulders and in one movement had her standing under the shower.

“You fuck, you lousy, no good fuck,” she screamed, water streaming over her head. She kicked at him, missing him with her foot, but splashing him with water. Marc moved quickly toward the bathroom door, shutting it behind him. He could hear her still cursing beyond. He moved quickly out of the bedroom, also shutting that door behind him, walked out to the foyer and opened the entrance door. He rang for the elevator, then shut the entrance door behind him. He took some bills out of his pocket, selecting a ten. He held the ten in one hand, holding the doorknob of the entrance in his other hand. He could hear Toni Wainwright moving inside now, still cursing. She was screaming, looking for him in the library. Marc could hear the elevator starting its trip up.

“Hurry, hurry,” he thought.

“Where are you, you motherless bastard?” Toni was screaming inside. He heard her coming toward the entrance door. The elevator was getting closer. Toni tried to open the front door. Marc held on to the knob. The elevator door opened. The elevator man stood amazed at the sight of the man holding the door shut, and the shouts and curses coming from inside the apartment.

“Here's ten bucks,” said Marc, reaching the ten-dollar bill toward the elevator man. “Now I want to get the hell out of here. She's so bombed she won't even remember this happened, so don't worry about her.”

“Yes, sir. I know the condition, sir,” said the elevator man. He was relaxed now, and ready to help.

“Just stand aside and I'm going to let go of the door. Shut those elevator doors as quick as you can, and let's move it out of here. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Go,” shouted Marc, dashing for the elevator. The doors, which were already moving, slid shut behind him. The elevator man threw the switch.

“Come on back, you rotten faggot, you lousy bastard. You guinea fuck.”

Marc laughed. So did the elevator man, as they were accompanied all the way to the ground floor with a stream of curses that echoed through the entire building.

20

Thursday, August 24, 11:45
A.M.

“How's everything, Marc?” George Tishler asked as he removed the ever present papers and reports from the chair beside his desk. “Here, sit here.”

“Everything's okay,” Marc replied as he sat. “How're you doing?”

George frowned. “Have you been reading the blasts the newspapers are taking at the Mayor now?”

“You mean about all the money the Mayor's supposed to be squandering on outside experts and per diem workers on his staff and all that sort of thing?” asked Marc.

“That's it,” said George. “The bastards. I don't understand what they want, these media people. Here's the most dynamic and progressive mayor this town has had in fifty years and still they blast him constantly.”

“What they want, George, is to sell newspapers or commercial air time,” said Marc. “You don't really think the reporters are poet laureates in quest of artistic perfection, do you?”

George shook his head in exasperation. “I'd like to say, let's talk about something pleasant instead. But I'm curious to hear what's happening with your snooping around the courts.”

“After thinking about it for a while,” Marc began, “I've come to the conclusion that basically there's nothing wrong with the court system, the justice system as you call it.”

“That's good,” said George.

“The real problem,” Marc continued, “as in all human equations, is the implementation of the system by the people charged with responsibility for putting the systems to work.”

“That's bad,” said George. “What and who exactly do you mean? The judges?”

“To a great extent it has to do with the judges. But it's not as simple, or as limited, as that. An entirely strange, warped sense of values infects the attitudes of the personnel in the courts, including the judges.”

“Can you run that down a little more clearly for me, Marc?”

“I'll try. I don't know if this is new or if it's always existed, but I think you could say it's kind of a cavalier attitude toward defendants, a kind of callous attitude, really,” said Marc. “Perhaps, here in New York, with so many cases, and so many defendants, after a while, one case looks just like every other, it al becomes the same, and some of the personnel—including the judges—become insensitive to the fact that they're not dealing with an inventory of machine parts or frying pans, but rather with human lives.”

“Are the judges insensitive?” George asked.

“To this extent, they are,” said Marc. “First of all, all day long the court hears defendants claim their innocence even in the face of overwhelming evidence.”

“That's their constitutional right,” said George, “and also the name of the game.”

“True,” said Marc. “But the judges, most of whom come from a prosecutorial background, or a court connected background, have become callous to a defendant's protestations of innocence, and tend to help the prosecutor in ridding the street of vermin.”