Where Nobody Dies (20 page)

We drew Part 14. Judge Murray Segal. A good man for a plea, but not my favorite trial judge. I like to ask my own questions, run my own defense. Judge Segal was one of those jurists who felt that any period of time in which he wasn't talking was dead air. On the plus side, he wasn't about to begin anything at four
P
.
M
. We'd schmooze a bit, set the agenda for the rest of the week, and go home. I'd have plenty of time to start preparing Terrell for the ordeal.

When the housekeeping chores were done, I went up to the pens to talk to my client. I liked to give a pep talk, to acquaint my defendants with courtroom procedures and protocol. Seldom had I seen anyone in more need of a pep talk than Terrell Hopkins.

“Listen,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. He was jerking his knee as well. I'd never seen him so jumpy. “Listen, I got to ask you somethin'.”

“Is something wrong with your grandmother?” I asked gently. “Is that what's on your mind?”

No answer. My client's eyes were fixed on the iron door in back of me. His body swayed to unheard music while his fingers relentlessly bopped out the beat on the metal table between us.

“Terrell!” I said sharply. “Will you pay attention? This is your fucking life we're talking about here.”

He stopped. He went as still as I could have wished, fixing me with his brown eyes. Then he asked his question. “Can I still get that flea bargain?”

I was stunned. Yet, on swift reflection, I realized I shouldn't have been. Terrell had never really wanted a trial. What he had hoped for was a miracle. Now that he knew for certain one wasn't coming down the pike, he was ready to face reality.

“I'm not sure,” I answered truthfully. “The problem is that the time to plead guilty is before you get moved to trial. You were offered a plea to rob two with a sentence of one and one-half to four years in jail. Now we're in a trial part, and you may not be offered that. You may have to plead to rob one at two-to-six. And even that's if I get Judge Segal in a good mood tomorrow. But”—I gazed directly into Terrell's unnaturally still face—“are you sure that's what you want?”

“I'm sure.”

“Have you told your grandmother?”

“Not yet. I be callin' her tonight, I'll let her know.”

“Next question: Why?”

“'Cause I'm
tired
of comin' to court behind this shit,” he replied. “I want to get it
over
with.”

“Is that what you're going to tell your grandmother?”

I didn't catch the mumbled answer, so I asked him to repeat it. “Ain't none of your business what I tells her.”

“Goddamn it, Terrell!” I banged my hand on the metal table and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. “Don't lie to me, don't lie to your grandmother, and above all, don't lie to yourself! You want the plea, fine, I'll bust my hump to get it for you. But don't tell me you're copping out because you're tired of coming to court. You want the plea because you know you're going to blow trial and the reason you're going to blow it is that you stole the coat.”

My mind flashed from Terrell's sullen face to his grandmother's hopeful one. “You want that poor woman to cry herself to sleep every night thinking of her grandson who's upstate for something he didn't do? When all the time you know you
did
do it and you're afraid to admit it to her. She loves you, Terrell, and she's not going to stop loving you because you made a mistake. Not if you tell her about it honestly and ask her to forgive you.” I switched to a gentler tone of voice. “Look, think it over tonight. Call your grandmother. I know it'll be hard to tell her the truth, but I know one thing, Terrell. Once you've done that, really faced it, hard as it is, and gone through with it, you won't be a kid anymore. You'll be a man, because it takes a man to stand up and say he made a mistake.”

Stepping out of the courthouse, I entered a fairyland. Snow blanketed everything, and though the cars on Court Street honked their annoyance, and people who'd forgotten their boots hopped gingerly over the snow mounds piling up at the curb, I strode into the blizzard with a smile on my face. I'd been waiting for this.

I walked over to Clinton Street, to where rows of stately brownstones stood, the snow on the window ledges and door frames creating what seemed like endless blocks of gingerbread houses. Most of the buildings had elaborately curlicued cast-iron fences, which collected snow rapidly. What a picture, I thought exultantly. What a fabulous series of black-and-white shots I could take! Each fence had a distinct design and the row itself, repeating a single theme of orderly brownstone beauty, would make a stunning wide-angle shot. I stood and framed shots, people slipping on the ice and lugging groceries passing me by, snowflakes on my eyelashes, until I finally realized something. It was too damned dark to take photographs.

I was in the middle of cooking—well, defrosting—dinner when the phone rang. It was Marcy Sheldon. She got right to the point.

“That envelope you asked me about?” I nodded into the phone, but Marcy wasn't waiting for an answer. “I'm at Harry's house in Midwood. He has something Linda gave him to keep. Could I bring it by later on my way home?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anytime tonight.” I was numb; while I'd deduced the existence of a second envelope, a part of me had never expected to see it.

I hung up the phone and went to take my frozen entrée out of the oven. For about the hundredth time, I found myself wishing Dorinda would listen to Ezra and start selling take-out. On the other hand, I decided, looking at my boeuf bourguignon, Dorinda was already turning me into an involuntary vegetarian. The only time I saw meat anymore was when I spooned it out of little tin trays.

The hot meal, the evening news on TV, my comfortable chair, didn't relax me as they usually did. Maybe it was the thought that Terrell Hopkins might choose trial after all that kept me tense. Or maybe it was the realization that Marcy Sheldon, no-nonsense businesswoman, wasn't just going to hand over the precious envelope and go away. She was going to demand to know what was in it. And I wasn't looking forward to telling her.

16

The doorbell rang. I buzzed in my visitor, then put a kettle on to boil. Tea was already in the pot, and two mugs stood on the table, flanked by milk, sugar, honey and a plate of lemon slices. As a hostess I'm no Dorinda, but I could rise to an occasion, such as entertaining one of my few paying clients.

I needed an extra cup. I should have known, I realized, recalling that Marcy had said she saw her father only because he wanted contact with Dawn. But still I was unprepared for the tall, awkward figure in my doorway. I froze for a moment, wondering how she felt at being in the house where her mother had died. Then I wondered how Marcy and I could discuss blackmail with Dawn present. I was so disconcerted I forgot my manners, and Dawn stood immobile, unwilling even to loosen her scarf or take off her knit hat without permission.

Recovering quickly, I said, “Here, let me take your coat. It's a new one, isn't it?”

“Aunt Marcy bought it for me,” Dawn replied. “She's parking the car. She said to tell you she'd be right up.”

“Nice colors,” I commented. The peach scarf-and-hat set definitely warmed Dawn's skin tone, and the fawn-colored down coat made her look far more grown-up than the baby-pink jacket her mother had foisted on her. I began to feel a little better about Marcy's chances of obtaining custody. Surely the court had to give points for such subtleties as helping an adolescent girl make the most of her looks.

“I'm making tea,” I said. “Do you drink it, or should I fix you some cocoa? Or would you like a soda?”

“Cocoa, please,” Dawn replied. I motioned her to the table, then went to the cupboard for the chocolate mix and an extra mug.

I was about to ask Dawn how things were going at school, when I remembered my Great-Aunt Hester. She'd asked questions like that when I was a kid, and I'd hated it. Instead, I asked bluntly, “Have you seen your father?”

Dawn nodded, her eyes wary. “Aunt Marcy didn't want me to go,” she explained, “but I had to.” She paused and looked away, her face half-hidden by her honey-colored hair. “You have to wait outside,” she whispered, “in a long line.”

I nodded. I'd passed the mournful procession often on my way into the Brooklyn House of Detention. Lawyers go in by a special entrance and are whisked in and out; families aren't.

“Then they search you. I had to leave my purse in a locker. In case I was trying to help him break out,” she added scornfully. “Like if I had a gun or something.”

“They do the same to me,” I commented. “It doesn't mean anything.” Then I had a thought. “Would you, if you could? Break your father out?”

“Yes!” came the impassioned reply. Leaning forward across the table, here eyes intent, Dawn said, “I
know
he's innocent. I
know
Daddy didn't kill Mom. So why should he have to be in jail for something he didn't do?” She fixed me with what I felt to be an accusatory gaze. “Isn't there any new evidence?” she asked. “Every time that cop talks to me, I know he thinks Daddy's guilty.”

“There could be,” I began, against my better judgment, “some new developments. I can't talk much about it, but—”

“Did you talk to Congressman Lucenti?” Dawn interrupted. Her face was flushed with eagerness; I got the uneasy feeling she was expecting a lot more than I was prepared to deliver.

“I can't,” I explained. “He's in Washington. I'll have to wait till he gets back.”

Dawn's face fell. “But he …” she began, then stopped as if afraid to say too much. “He might know something about who killed Mom,” she finished lamely.

The raucous buzz of the doorbell startled me so that I jumped. Only then did I notice I'd boiled away nearly all of the water. I refilled the tea kettle and ran for the buzzer. While I waited for Marcy to walk up the flights of stairs, I said to Dawn, “I'm working on something that might help. But,” I cautioned, “don't expect miracles.”

One look at Dawn's face, radiant with hope, told me that my Great-Aunt Hester had been a whiz with kids compared to me. I'd have done a lot better to stick to seventh-grade math as a topic for discussion. A miracle was the least of Dawn's expectations, and I was the self-proclaimed miracle worker.

Marcy sailed in, her fur-trimmed coat already open. I took it from her and hung it up as she joined Dawn at the table. “… took me forever to find a parking space,” she was saying. “Everybody in this neighborhood must own a car.”

“Everybody but me,” I agreed cheerfully, pouring the tea. I put out a plate of cookies as well. They were the last of my Christmas cookies, brought back from Ohio in a tin. It's a New York Christmas ritual, as stylized as a potlatch. From Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn, the children of the Midwest send presents bought at the Museum of Modern Art. From Omaha and Iowa and Ohio come back nutty ginger cookies, frosted animals with silver balls for eyes, pfeffernusse and all the other tastes and colors of childhood. I glanced at Dawn as I set out the plate, hoping to give her a tiny taste of the warm family life I'd known as a child.

Conversation was light, deliberately kept that way, I decided, by Marcy Sheldon. I was beginning to realize that just as my defense orientation was instinctive, her public-relations talent stemmed from a deep need to put the best face on things, to manage, edit, and, ultimately, control perceptions of reality. She'd done it with Detective Button, subtly turning Linda's murder from sordid to tragic. I wondered how she'd handle Linda's blackmail, and Dawn's reaction to the truth about her mother.

I didn't have to worry. After we'd finished our tea and cookies, Marcy said to her niece, “Dawn, honey, Cass and I have to talk business for a while.” Will you stay up here and watch TV while we go downstairs?

Dawn nodded, her big eyes solemn. She probably assumed our business was her custody. I didn't disabuse her. I turned on the television, handed her the TV listings, and showed her how to change channels. Marcy picked up her hot-pink briefcase and we walked down the stairs to my office.

It was cold. I'd turned off the radiators. But it wasn't nearly as cold as Marcy Sheldon's voice, cutting across the gloom like skate blades on ice.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “What is in this envelope? And don't give me another song and dance about insurance!”

“What makes you think it's not insurance?” I shot back. “You didn't open it, or you'd know what's in it. So what makes you think it's not a piece of the rock?” What I really wanted to know was whether or not Marcy had any reason to suspect her sister's activities before she got the envelope from her father.

The answer was swift and laden with bitterness. “Harry,” she said. I'd switched on a light or two by now, and I saw the curl of her lip, the unmistakable contempt.

I sat behind my desk, motioning her to take the client's chair. She remained standing, then turned suddenly and asked, “What's your father like?”

“Picture Dan Dailey without the dancing,” I replied.

She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Harry's more like Frank Burns on ‘M*A*S*H.' Old ferret-face. Some wonderful image to look up to, right? He's not capable of doing anything straight. Even the place he lives is illegal—what they call an illegal three.”

I nodded my understanding. Owners of houses approved as two-family often rented out the basement for a few extra bucks. I'd seen the cases arising out of the arrangement in Civil Court arbitrations. The whole situation was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“So when I asked Harry if Linda ever left any papers with him, I got the envelope but I also got a lot of hints and innuendos.” She paused and looked at me directly. “I don't think he knew very much. Linda was too secretive for that, even with him. But whatever was going on wasn't straight. That much I could tell from Harry's attitude.”