Death at the Wheel (6 page)

"As if I wanted to."

"With you it's not desire," she reminded me, "it's your belief—your wrongheaded but admirable belief—that it's your job to fix the things that go wrong in other people's lives. So you won't say no. Especially to your mother. You're just a girl who can't say no."

"Woman."

"Girl," she said. "Women learn how to say no. Now repeat after me, I will not get involved."

I raised my right hand, solemnly swore that I wouldn't get involved in anything that would interfere with my work, and wrenched my attention back to the proposal. In a brisk fifteen minutes we'd whipped it into shape and dropped it on Magda's desk. Magda was Suzanne's gloomy Hungarian secretary. She eyed the proposal skeptically. "This is for the last time, right?"

"Right," we both chorused.

"Yes," she said darkly, pulling the draft up on her screen, "and I was born yesterday."

As if on cue, an infant's wail came from Suzanne's office. "Not even Junior was born yesterday."

Magda, who, however much she may complain, dotes on Suzanne and regards Paul Eric, Jr., as her surrogate grandson, smiled. "He's a very good baby."

"Yes," Suzanne said. "Now if I could only find some very good day care for him."

Suzanne went to tend her very good baby and I went to call my mother.

"You took your time," she said.

"I had to get something in the mail."

"It couldn't have been that important." I didn't pursue it. I'd have better luck arguing with the Registry of Motor Vehicles than with my mother.

"What's going on? Julie's been arrested?"

"Look in the paper. It's a screaming headline. I wonder that you missed it."

"I haven't read the paper." She persists in acting like I sit around all day, drinking coffee, reading the paper, and schmoozing with my girlfriends, even though she's always telling me she thinks I work too hard. "She was devastated by his death," I said. "How could they possibly think she did it? Tamper with a racing car? She's the type of woman who looks like she has trouble figuring out which end of the screwdriver to use." I felt a twinge of guilt at indulging in such a gross form of sexual stereotyping.

"We both know the police don't always use their common sense," she said.

"What about the children? What's happened to them?"

"Her brother came to get them."

I thought about poor, helpless Julie in the clutches of the police. Of last night's snatches of befuddled conversation. Even though she had nothing to hide, I hoped she had a lawyer who was protecting her. Even I'm intimidated by the cops sometimes, and I'm as tough as nails. "It's terrible. Does she have a good lawyer."

"You don't, for even a second, imagine that she did it?" my mother snapped. "And don't fool yourself that the police will figure it out. They always take the easiest course." She knew it would irritate me but she can't help herself. It bothers her to know that her daughter is in love with a policeman. "I've sent your father over to see what he can do for now, but of course what she'll need is a criminal lawyer, which he'll take care of. And someone to do some—"

Oh no, I thought, here it comes. I had to get off the phone before she made the inevitable suggestion. "I'm sorry. I've got a frantic client on the other line. I've got to take the call," I said quickly, "I'll talk to you tonight," and disconnected before she could respond. I looked around for Bobby, one of our professional employees, but he'd taken an early lunch. I borrowed the paper from his desk and there it was, in stark black and white: "Grantham Wife charged in Connecticut Race-Car Death." It was creepy to think that while Julie was pouring her heart out to me last night, a stealthy net of cops was closing in on her.

I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind and go back to work, but images of Julie's frightened and bewildered face intruded between my eyes and the pages. I had finally thrust her out of my mind once and for all and was working efficiently when Sarah interrupted me. "There's a Julie Bass on the phone and she says she can't call back. You want to take it?"

I grabbed the phone. "Julie. Good God! What happened? Are you all right?"

"I don't know. It was so sudden. I got home... they came... early this morning... we were all asleep... they woke the girls... I tried not to go with them, tried to explain that I couldn't leave the girls... they dragged me out, screaming... my babies were crying, clinging to me... we were all so scared." She gasped for breath. "This big cop pulled them away and held them. They were screaming and struggling. Oh God! Thea, you should have seen their faces. I won't forget if I live to be a hundred. How could they possibly think? This has been the worst day of my life!" Another gasp. Her face floated before me, those huge brown eyes wide with terror, an image of Camilla and tiny Emma, confused and half asleep, being forcibly restrained by a stranger.

She rushed on, perhaps afraid that at any moment they'd be cutting her off. "Your father was here. So kind. He made them put me in a c-c-cell by myself but he couldn't get me out. I'll go crazy if I have to stay in here long. Cold. Ugly. It smells. Can you come and see me, Thea? Please? I'm so scared! I need a friend so much right now." This time her speech was like a machine gun. Short rapid bursts interrupted by abrupt silences. "I don't know... I think... I'm afraid that I'm losing my mind. This is so awful. I can't understand any of this... will you come?"

"Yes. Of course. I'll be there as soon as I can." I grabbed my purse and left.

Despite Sarah's amazed stare as I rushed by her desk, it was an unusually early departure only by my own standards. Most of the rest of the world goes home at a civilized hour. I fed myself into the enormous clot of traffic that oozes reluctantly around Route 128 between four and seven every day, popped in some road music, and tried not to feel guilty about what I was doing. Surely my oath to Suzanne didn't mean ignoring urgent human need.

By the time I got there, I was worn out from struggling against the aggressive incompetence of Massachusetts drivers, people who believe yield is for the other guy, red means go, and are willing to risk their own lives and the lives of others to cut a second or two off their commute. Although there were no-smoking signs posted, the place smelled like cigarettes, disinfectant, and fear. An expressionless, balding cop told me that Julie already had a visitor and I would have to wait.

Naturally, I had brought work. After I'd cooled my heels for a long time—long enough to recognize that I was starving, having been so distracted by work and Julie's dilemma that I'd forgotten to eat lunch—I got up to ask how much longer I might have to wait. I was halfway across the room when an attractive, dark-haired man who looked like he'd just lost his best friend rushed into the room, crashed into me, stared blankly through me, and left without apology, absently brushing at his shoulder.

I muttered a few ladylike expletives at his departing back. "You can see her now," the balding cop said, and ushered me into Julie's presence. Since our phone call, she seemed to have pulled herself together, if the fragile, trembling control she exhibited could be called together. She started to tell me what had happened, stopped, and suddenly put her hand up to her mouth like she'd just realized she'd forgotten something urgent.

"I need you to do something for me," she said, looking around nervously. "Something very important."

"Of course," I said. Short of engineering a jailbreak, I was willing to do anything I could to set her mind at rest.

"Go to my house. The key is under the pot of pansies on the porch. Upstairs in the bedroom closet is a briefcase of old letters. I don't want the police to find them." She looked up from her clenched hands. "Not because they're incriminating. I know you believe I'm innocent. But they're terribly embarrassing."

"What—" I began. This sounded like a very bad idea.

Her voice dropped to a lower register. "Cal and I were doing some marriage counseling. One of the things the therapist had us doing was writing letters to each other. Very frank, intimate letters. We were very open about our anger and dissatisfactions with each other as well as our intimate needs and desires... you can see why I don't want anyone reading them. Terribly embarrassing and they could so easily be misconstrued, misused." Her voice dropped even lower. "I'd hate to have Cal's memory tainted with those disclosures... to have everyone in town know the private details... the intimate..."She choked off her words and grabbed my arm. "Say you'll get them."

"No touching," the guard called.

Cowering, she let go but whispered a frantic "Please?"

I'd sworn I wouldn't get involved and here I was being asked to do something that
had
to be illegal. And if I got caught, it not only wouldn't help Julie, it would probably ruin my career. Maybe not that much of a career, by type A standards, but it suited me. Suzanne's words echoed in my ears as I tried to avoid Julie's pleading brown eyes. Couldn't I be sorry for her and sympathetic without getting involved?

"I can't," I said, staring at the light switch over her shoulder. "It's too risky."

"Oh God, Thea, please!" Tears welled up and poured down her face. She reached for my hand, shot a nervous look at the guard, and pulled it back. "You don't understand, do you? If they get their hands on those letters, every intimate detail of my... our... private lives will be the source of sniggering jests all over town."

She wiped her eyes and met mine with a challenging stare. "You have a boyfriend, don't you? A cop, right? Your mother's mentioned him...." She hesitated. "I'm not sure she..." Julie stopped. "What I'm trying to say is, how would you feel if all the Maine state troopers knew the intimate details of your relationship? How would it feel to know they were staring at you... at parts of your body, and thinking, 'yeah, she's a hot piece. I know just the way she likes it and I'm just the guy to give it to her.'" She swallowed.

"Well? You know that's how it would be. Could you stand it? Because I know I couldn't. If it weren't for Emma and Camilla, I'd—" She ran a nervous hand through her hair, swallowed, and raised her eyes to meet mine, her voice dropping to a whisper. "There's no one else I can ask. If you don't help me..."

In the face of her desperation, I couldn't say no. She was right. I wouldn't want cops rooting around in my personal life, either. "All right. All right. I'll get them if I can. Do you need anything? Should I pick up anything while I'm there?" She shook her head. Said nothing, but her gratitude shone in her eyes.

"Was that your lawyer who was just here?"

She didn't seem to have heard me. She sat in her chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if that way she could hold herself together. I couldn't begin to imagine how frightening this must be—being dragged out of your house and away from your children by the police, accused of killing your own husband.

"The girls... they've never been away from me. Never, not even for a day." She sighed. "My babies. I wonder how they're doing. Emma's so sensitive, so fearful and shy. With someone who doesn't understand her... Dunk's a good uncle but he doesn't have much patience and Emma takes patience. I tried to call him but I didn't get any answer. And it's so hard to make phone calls. There's no privacy here. I feel like a prisoner."

Her eyes swept the room with disdain. She lifted her chin proudly and tried being brave. "I know. I know. I
am
a prisoner. I'm in jail, for God's sake. How could I not know? But I'm innocent... and aren't we supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?" Her voice had risen from a low, confiding whisper until she was practically shouting. "They all treat me like I'm scum. The way people look at me! You can't imagine... how will I stand... it might be days before I can get out of here. Days! I've been sick, and they watch me... as though being scared and sick was a sign of guilt!"

Her fragile control deserted her. She rocked in her chair, growing more and more agitated, her fingers flying around like pale birds, tugging at her hair and clothes. Suddenly she pushed herself back, ran around the table, and literally threw herself into my arms, clinging like I was her last hope. "You've got to help me. Get me out of here! Oh, God! Please! Thea, get me out of here!" Her grip was tighter than Scarlett O'Hara's corset.

"No physical contact with the prisoners is allowed," the guard boomed from the door. Julie cast a glance over her shoulder and clung tighter. "Help me, Thea! Don't let them touch me." Her cries were pathetic and heart-rending, like the keening of a wounded animal.

The officer grabbed Julie's shoulder and tried to pull her away. "You'll have to let go or your visitor must leave."

I considered a dramatic rescue. Something from an old Western—too much TV as a child, I suppose—but as I had neither gun nor horse, I settled for size and decisiveness. "Please don't do that. Don't pull on her like that," I said firmly. "She's distraught. I think she needs a doctor." I regretted the word distraught as soon as it left my lips.

The officer rolled her eyes. I could imagine what she was thinking. That it was good for a spoiled country club wife who'd toasted her husband to have a taste of reality. But I don't go in for shock therapy myself and I didn't believe Julie had committed any crime. She backed off a few feet and said, "Okay, if you can get her to sit down..."

"She should see a doctor," I repeated.

"The doctor was just here."

"What did he say?"

The guard shrugged. "That she's dehydrated and exhausted. That he'd be back with something to calm her nerves and settle her stomach. He was very solicitous." Her smile was malicious.

Julie's hands fell away. "I'll be okay, Thea," she whispered. "Get the letters. Please!"

I said good-bye, unhappy about the state I was leaving her in yet knowing there was nothing I could do about it, and drove to her house. As I was parking, I saw someone hurrying away down the sidewalk. It was the same man I'd seen at the jail. Curious about him, I jotted down his license number as he drove away. I already knew two things about him—that he was a doctor and that he had good taste in cars.