Rough Justice (36 page)

“Not even for a minute or two?”

“No radio.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my car and I don’t like radio. I don’t like music.”

“I didn’t want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news.”

“No radio.” The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. “I don’t like news. I never listen to news. If news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad.”

“Don’t you want to hear the weather report? It’s a snowstorm.”

“I look out the window, that’s my weather report.” The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. “If it’s raining I get my umbrella. If it’s snowing I get my Totes. What’s so hard?”

“But there’s a blizzard in Philly,” Marta said, about to explode. “You need a traffic report. Don’t you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?”

“I know how to get to my own daughter’s.”

“What if you can’t get through because of the snow?”

“I’ll get through. If my daughter needs me, I’ll get through.” The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. “Don’t do that!” the woman snapped. “It’s freezing out.”

“Sorry.” Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they’d never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn’t know they were in motion.

“Keep that window shut! I’m older than you, not as strong.” She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. “I’ll catch my death.”

“It’s so smoky in here.”

“Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It’s discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers’ side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don’t have a sign saying
NO DRUG ADDICTS
, do they?”

Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the trial:

“This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere.”

Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn’t give up hope.

“In a related story,” continued the reporter, “no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere’s former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery.”

Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.

“Told you, it’s always bad news,” said the old woman. “Murder. Killing. That’s all they put on. That’s all that matters to them.” The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.

“No, stop. I need to hear this.”

“All right, fine.” The woman quickly withdrew her hand. “Don’t get excited.”

Marta turned up the volume. The reporter said, “The police have no suspects in connection with the shooting of attorney Mary DiNunzio. We’ll keep you posted as events unfold both in and out of the courtroom. Back to you, Jane, for the latest on the blizzard that has buried the Delaware Valley.”

Marta tried to get a grip. Mary, shot? What had happened? Had Bogosian done it? How? Marta didn’t know what to do. She felt shaken, torn. She was drawn to see Mary, but she’d be recognized and taken in if she went to the hospital. The press would be everywhere. Everything would be lost. No, not the hospital. Not to Alix Locke, either. Suddenly Marta knew where she had to go.

R
alph Merry ducked into a stall in the men’s room, unbuckled his pants, and dropped trou. His white boxers stretched between his knees, and the packet they’d sent to Ralph’s wife was taped inside the waistband. He’d carried the damn thing every day like they told him to. He’d felt like a secret agent taping the packet to his skivvies in the morning, but now he was glad he had. He would never have guessed Christopher would pull a Benedict Arnold. The man turned out to be just plain weak.

The packet was tiny and plastic, no bigger than a thumbnail, and it contained white powder. Ralph didn’t know what the powder was, but they told him it wouldn’t kill anybody, just give him a stomachache for a day or two, long enough to get him off the jury. They told Ralph to use it if he got in a jam. Ralph figured this was a jam all right.

The urinals flushed as he peeled the packet off the waistband, leaving white threads stuck to the tape. Ralph threw the tape in the toilet and tucked the packet under his sleeve, like he practiced with his wife during the conjugal visit when she brought it. It was so easy to smuggle it in; of course it wasn’t picked up by the metal detector. Ralph had realized what a cakewalk it would be to smuggle drugs into the country. The United States had to do a better job protecting its borders; it was a question of integrity, national integrity. Ralph double-checked the packet under his shirt cuff and pulled up his pants.

“Ralph, you fall in?” asked the sheriff, who was standing by the door.

“Nah, I’m good to go.” Ralph flushed the toilet for show and opened the stall door.

M
arta sat in Judy’s apartment, sickened as the shaken associate told her the details of Mary’s shooting. So Marta hadn’t been able to keep the associates safe; they were both in it up to their eyeballs. And judging from the time Mary had been shot, it couldn’t have been Bogosian that did it; he was in Long Beach Island around that time. Steere must have sent someone else. Someone who must be out there, waiting. Marta had set in motion something she couldn’t control, jeopardizing them all. It had gone too far. She was spent after the long, exhausting night. It had to stop.

“Wait until you see Darning’s notebook,” Judy was saying, from the stool at the kitchen counter. A small TV sat on the counter on low volume; the news covered the snowstorm continuously. A blue bag of Chips Ahoy sat open-mouthed next to the TV.

“No, I don’t want to see it. I don’t care about the notebook. I care about you and Mary.”

Judy blinked at the unexpected sentiment. Erect? “The notebook could lead to why Steere killed Darning.”

“Not our concern,” Marta said. Her manner grew calm suddenly. She felt centered, more in control than when she was a control freak, ironically. “We’ll take the notebook and file to the police. Tell them we want protection, too.”

“Did you say ‘file’?” Judy straightened up on the stool. “What file?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Marta hadn’t told Judy anything about the buried treasure or Bogosian. It was safer if she didn’t know. “This has gotten way out of hand. Trust me.”

“Now you sound like Bennie.”

“Rosato? She knows about the notebook?”

“She’s concerned about my ethics. I’m out of a job.”

Marta winced. She’d gotten one kid shot, and one ruined. “We’ll take the notebook and the file to the police. Leave the whole thing to them.”

“Is that the file you mean? That envelope there?” Judy eased off the stool and pointed to the manila envelope peeking from Marta’s purse.

“People are dead. Mary’s been shot. No file is worth that.”

“Mary’s the reason I want to see that file. She wanted justice, and so do I. Don’t you? Isn’t that why you went after Steere in the first place?”

Marta felt a twinge. “Not in the beginning, don’t kid yourself. It was jealousy, not justice. My motives were impure.”

“So you did the right thing for the wrong reason. It doesn’t make any difference now. Steere killed Darning. We have a notebook that could prove it. Now could I see that file?”

“It’s too late.” Marta stood up, grabbed her purse, and zipped up her heavy coat. “Let’s go. You’re in danger as long as you have that notebook. We both are.”

“We worked all night for this evidence. It’s better than anything the cops have done. What’s in the envelope? What kind of file?”

“Nothing. I don’t even understand it. Maybe the cops will. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”

Judy folded her arms and stood her ground. “Wait. I’ll make a deal with you. Let me see that file. You look at the notebook. If we learn nothing in five minutes, we go straight to the cops. I promise.”

“No.”

“We’ve come this far. What have we got to lose? Five minutes?”

“I don’t care. Get your coat. We’re outta here.” Marta headed for the door, but Judy stepped in front and blocked her path to the door. The two lawyers stood toe to toe.

Marta laughed abruptly. “You gonna hit me? Go ahead. I’m like a be-bop clown. I pop right up.”

Judy paused, unwilling to resort to striking Marta, though she’d fantasized about it during the trial.

“Excellent choice.” Marta sidestepped the associate and headed to the door. “Get your coat, kiddo.”

“I don’t think so,” Judy called after her. “I won’t go with you unless you give me the five minutes. If you go to the cops now, you go alone. Without me or the notebook.”

Marta stopped in her tracks and turned around, incredulous. “Where did you learn shit like that?”

“From the master, of course,” Judy answered, with a gap-toothed grin.

T
he sequestration hotel had plied the jurors with a breakfast tray of bagels, Danish, and coffee, set on a credenza in the conference room. Ralph Merry hovered over the leftover food and coffee. He’d eaten the same cherry Danish every day for two months and he couldn’t wait to check out of this place. First thing he’d do was travel and stay in better hotels than this one. Maybe take a cruise, too, with the wife. But right now he had a mission to complete.

Ralph shook a Styrofoam cup from the upside-down stack next to a bronze plastic jug of coffee. He kept his back to the jurors, who were sitting around the table listening to Christopher yammer like a bleeding heart. Ralph couldn’t tell how many of them were buying it. He had to assume a worst-case scenario. There was no margin for error. Zero tolerance. He couldn’t cross a man like Elliot Steere.

“Who wants more coffee?” Ralph boomed. “Anybody else for fresh coffee while I’m buying? How about you, Mrs. Wahlbaum? Mrs. Williams?” Ralph kept his voice cheery, like he was barbecuing with his wife and grandkids. Who wants hot dogs? Who wants hamburgers? Same thing.

“I’d love some coffee, Ralph,” Mrs. Wahlbaum said.

Ralph grinned. “No problemo, young lady. How would you like it?”

“Extra cream and sugar.”

“Roger dodger, my dear.” Ralph poured Mrs. Wahlbaum a tall cup of coffee. Steam curled from the top. “Christopher? Want another cup of hot brew?”

Christopher looked at his Styrofoam cup. It was empty and he’d had enough coffee for the morning. “I guess not. Thanks anyway.”

A miss. “Come on, Christopher. If you’re gonna convince me to convict that rat bastard, you’re gonna need some hair on your chest.”

Megan laughed. “No way, Ralph. Christopher’s trying to get rid of unwanted hair. Right, Christopher?”

“There you go,” Christopher said with a smile. He liked the way Megan was looking at him. She was a pretty girl except for the blue-painted fingernails, but he supposed they were considered sophisticated in Philly.

“Christopher,” Ralph said gruffly. He glanced from Christopher to Megan and didn’t like what he saw. No time for tomfoolery like this. “Have some coffee. I’ll pour one for you and Megan, too.”

“Okay, I’m addicted to coffee,” Megan said. “I get the latte at Starbucks. Do you like Starbucks coffee, Christopher?”

“I never tried it,” he answered. He had to get out more. “But I’ll take a cup, too, Ralph.”

KABOOM! A direct hit on the second shot. Cheered, Ralph picked up the plastic pitcher and began to pour. “How do you take it, soldier?”

“Cream and sugar.”

Ralph filled Christopher’s cup with hot coffee and slipped the packet of powder from under his cuff. He palmed the packet, grabbed two packs of sugar, and tore the end off all three together. Then he poured the sugar and the powder into the hot coffee, stirred with a plastic stick, and tucked the leftover plastic back under his cuff. His heart thudded as watched the powder dissolve, but he was no coward. His resolve didn’t waver.

“Don’t forget mine, extra sugar and cream,” called Mrs. Wahlbaum.

“Got you covered, young lady,” Ralph said. He set Christopher’s coffee aside so he wouldn’t get it confused with the others, and poured the other coffees.

“How about me, Ralph?” Wanthida asked. “I take mine black.”

“Hold your horses, darlin’. Christopher asked first and he’s the foreman. He’s the one doin’ all the work.” Ralph picked up Christopher’s coffee, walked over to the table, and handed it to him. “See if I put enough sugar in, Chris.”

Christopher took a quick sip. “It tastes great. Thanks, Ralph. Appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” Ralph said, and had to remind himself that Christopher wouldn’t die. He’d just get a tummy ache and spend some time in sick bay. He’d be out in two days, after the verdict was in and Steere had walked. Ralph would hold up his end of the bargain. The payoff would be deposited in a special account. Ralph couldn’t wait to call his literary agent. They damn well better put his picture on the cover. “Let me get those other coffees,” he said, and hustled away.