Where Nobody Dies (19 page)

Bellfield nodded his approval, whether of my advice or of my discretion, I wasn't sure. “But sometimes,” he said insinuatingly, “it's hard to say what the truth is. It could be one thing one day and another thing tomorrow. It all depends.”

“On what?” My teeth had stopped chattering, but terse answers had become a habit.

“On which side of the bread the butter's on,” he replied. “On whether or not certain people stay out of other people's business.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his aftershave. “I would advise certain people to do just that. You see where poking your nose into things got you today. It could happen again, lady, and maybe if it did, I wouldn't be around to help you out of it. Got me?”

I got him, all right. Stepping out of the car, I pulled on my coat with hands that shook and walked away without a word. The Homicides surrounded me, fingers flying, eager to learn what they'd missed. I wanted distance between me and Bellfield, so I kept walking until we were around the corner. Then Frankie stepped in front of me. “Talk,” he ordered, in his eerie voice, “tell us. We have a right to know.”

I sighed. It was true. They did have a right to know. But could I tell them that I could get Tito off the hook if only I'd agree to suppress evidence about Ira Bellfield? Their answer would have to be that Tito should be saved at all costs, regardless of what that meant to Bellfield's past and future victims. And as Tito's lawyer, wasn't that supposed to be my perspective too? Was I in a conflict of interest between living Tito Fernandez and dead Linda Ritchie? If I was, then one of them would have to go.

It didn't bother me in the least, I realized, that Bellfield would use perjured testimony to release Tito. Since the case against him had been a frame from the beginning, I couldn't let myself get hung up on the means of opening the trap.

“It could be,” I began carefully, “that some new evidence that could help Tito might turn up. We can't count on it,” I went on, raising my voice instinctively as the boys began a laughing, back-slapping celebration. Realizing that loudness wasn't the answer, I grabbed Frankie's sleeve. “Tell them not to get their hopes up,” I said. “It might not turn out that way.” But it was too late; good news was so rare that they had to enjoy it. Even as Frankie solemnly promised, his grin split his face wide open. He and Tito exchanged open-palm slaps and the boys headed down the street. I realized for the first time that they walked with the same rhythmic beat, the same air of walking to internal rock music, that characterized Hearing ghetto kids.

Watching them, I realized I couldn't just reject Bellfield's proposition. For all I knew, he'd punish Tito if I did, coming up with even more phony evidence against him. I owed it to Tito to figure another way out. I thought long and hard as I watched them head for the subway. Tito versus Linda—and Dawn.

In the station, I saw further evidence that the Unknown Homicides had made themselves part of the neighborhood. Under the vivid spray-painted hate slogans
Death to the Jews
and
Death to the Arabs
, someone had scrawled,
Death to the Hearing
.

15

“Taste,” Dorinda urged, holding out a small dish of something tomatoey. I slurped up a spoonful and rolled it around my tongue. Not ratatouille, and not the vegetable stew she'd stopped serving because it was too bland. Whatever this stuff was, blandness was not one of its problems. The taste was familiar, but …

“Goulash!” I exclaimed. “Hungarian goulash without meat! Dorinda, you're a genius. This stuff has some serious paprika in it.”

Dorinda beamed. “Yeah. I picked it up the other day at the spice market on Reade Street.”

“This is perfect,” I went on. “Noodles or rice?”

“A choice. Whole-wheat noodles or brown rice.”

I groaned. “Dorinda, do yourself a favor. Brown rice if you must, but make it egg noodles. The broad kind, with plenty of butter. Forget cholesterol for once.”

Dorinda wrinkled her forehead in thought. “With poppy seeds?”

“Okay, with poppy seeds. What's on the side?”

“A red cabbage and apple salad and black bread.”

“Sounds great. Save some for me. I'm afraid I'll miss lunch tomorrow. I'm starting trial.”

“Which case?” I was pleased to note that even though the noon rush was on, since hiring a third waitress, Dorinda had a minute to talk.

“Terrell Hopkins. The kid with the grandmother.”

“Good luck. Are you ordering now or waiting for someone?”

“Waiting,” I replied, then added, “here she comes now.”

The door opened and Mickey Dechter came in, looking around for me. I waved her over. Her face was red from the windy walk down Court Street. Although the Morning Glory was a long way to travel from Brooklyn Family Court for lunch in January, she'd agreed to meet me here, knowing how dangerous it would be for us to be seen together too close to the court. We were supposed to be on opposite sides.

“Nice place,” she said, settling her coat behind her and looking around. “Real homey. I like that.” The slight Southern accent I'd noticed before came through loud and clear.

“Where are you from?” I asked. It was question my flat Midwestern A's had let me in for a good deal.

“You wouldn't recognize the name,” she replied. “It's just a one-horse town just outside of Knoxville.” She pronounced it “Knoxvl,” and lifted her voice in a near-question at the end of the phrase.

“What brought you to New York?” I asked, then softened the inquisitory style by remarking, “I'm from Ohio myself. A one-horse town near Cleveland. I came to the city to go to law school.”

“I came with my ex-husband. We met at UT—the University of Tennessee?” Her trick of lifting her voice at the end of statements had me nodding when no answer was required.

“He was in the business college and I was in the school of social work. We met in an industrial psych class. Next thing I knew, we were pinned, and back then in Tennessee, pinned was prett' near engaged.”

“So you decided to go all the way?”

The grin she gave me showed she was no pure-minded Southern princess. “Honey, we'd already
done
that in the back of Hal's 'sixty-three Valiant.”

I laughed. The new waitress came over to take our order. As a regular, I knew what I wanted. “I'll take the pasta e fagioli,” I said, “with house dressing on the salad.”

“Well, I'll be! I haven't seen this item on a menu since I left the Smokies. I didn't know you Yankees even knew about bean soup and cornbread. I'll have that, and to hell with my diet!”

“Good choice. Dorinda puts bits of corn in the cornbread and serves it hot. Don't expect ham in the soup, though. She's a total vegetarian. Anything that tastes like meat is probably a smoked soybean bit.” I was aware that I was talking about everything except what we'd come here for, but I was unwilling to push my companion. She could be risking her job by talking to me about Arnette Pearson. Still, I decided, someone had to begin, or we'd spend the whole lunch on small talk.

“That's some difficult case you got me into,” I remarked.

“I know.” Mickey's voice was rueful and her big brown eyes were concerned. “I got to thinking later about whether I'd done the right thing, asking you to get involved and all. But,” she said, looking straight at me, “I reckon I did. That woman needs help and so do those kids, and, like it or not, this is their last chance of getting it.”

I nodded my agreement. “Once the court decides she's an unfit mother, she'll have no more visitation rights—or any rights. But—forgive me for asking, and it doesn't really affect my ability to represent her—but is that really so bad for the kids? Wouldn't it be better for them to have permanent adoptive homes, like the agency wants, instead of spending years shuttled from one foster home to another, waiting for Arnette to get herself together enough to take them back? Because you and I both know that's a long way away, if ever.”

“That all depends,” Mickey answered, in a voice several shades colder, “on which kids you're talking about. The twins, Kwame and Kwaku? Two cute little boys, identical twins, came to foster care as toddlers, spent the last six years with the same couple, who are all set to adopt? Hell, yes, they'll be fine without their real mother. They hardly know her as it is. But,” she went on, the warm brown eyes somehow accusing, “it's a different story for the three older ones. One, they know their mama better. They'll miss her if they don't see her every so often. Two, they're not going to be adopted, I don't care what the agency lawyer says. Jomo's in trouble in school, Tanika's run away from four different foster homes, and Kamisha's got a lot of hostility against her mother that she needs to work out. They've all three been bounced around different homes, usually split up, and terminating Arnette's parental rights won't make a damned bit of difference except to cut them off from the only person in the world who cares about them. Your client's a whole lot less than the perfect mother, but she's all the mother those three kids have got.”

The waitress came back, bringing hot, fragrant foods. I concentrated on eating while I thought about what Mickey had said. Only after we'd finished and coffee had been ordered, did I move the conversation back to business.

“So what do we do,” I asked, “to keep the court from ruling in favor of the agency? Judge Shute seemed pretty tight with the agency lawyer, and you know how she feels about me. So I'm not going to win this one on personality. As to the law—”

“As to the law, there are some cases saying the agency has to show what efforts they made to keep the natural family together. I can guarantee that when you see those agency records, there'll be nothing in there to show they did a damned thing to help Arnette Pearson to reclaim her kids.”

I was impressed. I wasn't sure what I'd expected from Mickey Dechter, but my prior dealings with social workers hadn't led me to believe they knew much law. Vague theories and hand-wringing had been my usual experience.

“I'll do the legal research,” I promised. “And I'll get the records the agency lawyer promised me. Will you help me decipher them and figure out places where they could have done more for Arnette but didn't?”

“Sure,” she agreed, sipping her coffee.

“May I ask you a question?” I asked it anyway. “Why? Your department is officially on the side of the agency here, pushing for the termination. Why are you helping me help Arnette?”

“Because I've been there,” she answered simply. “I was a foster child back in Maryville.” She pronounced it “Maryvl.”

I was probably staring, but she went on as though unaware of my shocked reaction. “There were three of us, my older sister Loretta, me, and my baby sister Holly Ann. Our mother wasn't bad, just crazy, and Daddy drank too much. So we lived with all kinds of foster mamas. They weren't all bad, some of them were downright kindly, but I never felt I belonged. One place I stayed, the lady used to feed her own kids first and then us foster kids.” She snorted with a laugh that held no humor. “Not only did they get portions twice as large as we did, but when we were done eating, she'd lock up all the food so's we couldn't take more'n our share. But the worst part”—she gave me a direct look with her intense brown eyes—“was how they only talked to Loretta about Mama. And Loretta hated my mama, hated her so bad and so deep that she told Miss Hotchkiss she never wanted to see Mama again. And that's all that old witch needed to hear.” Mickey's eyes filmed, but her voice remained steady. “Never mind that I loved Mama and that Holly Ann and I needed her. All they cared about was that Loretta refused to visit Mama, so none of us could.”

“And you feel the Pearson kids are going the same way?” I asked. “Because it's good for the twins, the other three will lose their mother?”

“And each other,” she added vehemently. “Once the twins are adopted, that mother isn't going to be any too pleased to see the older ones coming around, especially with the trouble they get into. There were three years there when the only time I saw Holly Ann was at a special camp for foster kids. We got to stay two weeks and ever' night, even though it was against the rules, Holly Ann would creep over to my bed and tuck herself under the covers. I'd have to wake her up at the crack of dawn and tell her to scoot on over to her own bed before the other kids woke up, or they'd tell on us and we'd be moved to different cabins.”

My thought was, how could it be against the rules for two sisters to sleep together? Then I recalled Arnette's account of the agency visits, with the children torn between two mothers. When agency policy was placed above human kindness, it seemed any cruelty was possible.

There was a lot I wanted to say to Mickey Dechter, but before I could open my mouth, she was putting on her coat. “Just look at that snow!” she exclaimed. “I really have to run.” I suspected the snow had less to do with her sudden departure than the realization that she had spoken too freely to a stranger.

I walked up to court slowly, letting the big flakes melt on my face, savoring the tingle. I couldn't rid my mind of the image of two small blond girls huddled in one camp bed, afraid someone would see—and part them.

“The prosecution is ready for trial, Your Honor.”

“Defense ready,” I answered. No matter how ready I was, my heart quickened a little as I said those words. The roller-coaster ride from jury selection to verdict was about to begin, and I tensed up just as I had when I was a kid, waiting for the Blue Streak at Cedar Point to grind up the hill for the big descent.

“Both sides ready,” the judge called to his clerk. “Send for a trial part.”

I gave Terrell Hopkins a reassuring smile and walked back to the first row. I was surprised to see him looking distinctly worried. Maybe it was because his grandmother had left court early for a doctor's appointment. I hoped nothing serious was wrong with her. Aside from my admiration for the old lady, I didn't want Terrell's mind distracted from the trial.