Silver Serenade

by Gerry O'Hara

After showering she dressed in a pair of tailored beige pants and a white silk blouse. She walked into the kitchen to give Tosha her morning treat. The cat had responded to the antibiotics and her appetite was in full swing again. She padded to her bowl, sat down, and waited expectantly. Christie pulled the tab off a can and scooped a portion of chicken and liver into the dish. Tosha was at it instantly.

  Christie took time for another cup of tea. Even though her cat was on the mend, she wasn’t ready to leave her alone for long periods of time.

  When she arrived at the office, she was surprised to see a vase of red roses on her desk.

  Sharon peered inside the door. “I could hardly wait for you to arrive, Christie. Who are the flowers from?”

  “We’ll know in a minute.” Christie lifted the tiny envelope from its perch and slipped the card out. “How sweet.”

  “Yes? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s from Dani Shepherd. She says, ‘Thank you for giving me a new family.’”

  “That is sweet. You deserve it; you were a godsend to those people. I don’t think anyone else would have been able to reunite them.”

  “Thank you, Sharon.” Christie was slightly embarrassed by the effusive compliment, but appreciated the secretary’s goodwill.

  The day certainly was off to a good start, she reflected. Her cat was well, Cash had invited her to lunch, and her desk was adorned with beautiful roses. It couldn’t get much better than that, she thought.

  Ten minutes before noon, Cash called to let her know he was on his way. It was a short drive from his office to hers, and when he pulled up in front of the building, she was waiting. He double-parked while Christie hurried off the curb and into his SUV.

  “Hi.” He leaned over to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  At the Cliff House, a parking attendant took charge of the SUV. In the restaurant’s narrow foyer, a life-size wood sculpture of a California bear commanded attention. Christie resisted the urge to touch it. They went through and paused on the balcony that overlooked the Sutro Room below. The stairway curved down to the restaurant. She was awed by the windows that rose two stories high, opening up a view of the Pacific all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. They walked down the curved staircase and were seated at a table next to one of the windows. Below, the surf crashed on a rocky beach, and gulls napped on the sand or winged their way over the water in search of an easy meal.

  “This is the first time I’ve been here,” Christie said. “The architecture and the view are astonishing.”

  “And the food. You’ll soon add that to your list of astonishing. All kidding aside, the Cliff House is an amazing place. It has quite a history: the original Cliff House was destroyed in a fire. It was rebuilt and over the years it’s gone through many reincarnations.”

  “The view is extraordinary.”

  A waiter stopped at their table to take their order. He suggested the clam chowder and the special of the day, baked salmon with a mustard-dill sauce. Christie and Cash agreed that the special sounded good. A busboy filled their cups with coffee while they waited for their meal.

  “My sister suggested you bunk with her family next weekend,” Cash said. “Patty figures that way Mom can’t ambush you with questions. She means well, but she can be a little overwhelming. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little space between the two of you. If you agree, that is.”

  “I’ll take your sister’s advice.” Christie was relieved; she had been concerned about staying with his mother. Since she wasn’t quite sure where her relationship with Cash was headed, she didn’t want to have to dodge personal questions.

  “They are planning a girls’ afternoon out, with shopping and lunch and, according to Patty, more shopping.”

  “That sounds like fun. I haven’t gone on a shopping spree in a long time. I guess I never lost the frugal tactics of college days.”

  “Don’t get started now,” he said. “I don’t want them spoiling you.”

  Christie smiled. She liked the inference in his remark. “It’s not in my nature to splurge. Too much, that is.”

  “It’s all right to splurge once in a while, but I can just see my mother and sister turning you into a shopaholic.”

  “I think I’m going to enjoy girls’ afternoon out, especially if it makes you uncomfortable.” She laughed. “Don’t look so serious.”

  “Not another word about shopping. Mother doesn’t cook much anymore, so over her protests, I’m taking everyone out to dinner. My sister said she’d get a babysitter.”

  “The children aren’t going with us? That seems unfair.”

  “They go to bed early. Besides, they’ll enjoy watching videos and throwing popcorn at each other while we’re gone. You’ll get to spend time with them. Don’t forget you’re going to live with them for two days. You may be begging for peace and quiet before the weekend is over.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. They’re good kids. I guarantee they’ll win your heart. And I know you will win theirs.” He leaned forward. “Just like you’ve won mine,” he said softly.

  Christie was thrown off stride momentarily, and hesitated before replying. “You know what? I like you a little more each day.”

  “Is like the strongest word you can think of?” He took her hand.

  Much as she wanted to, she could not say the word he hinted at. Not here in a room full of people. Although the view was spectacular, the ambience awesome, it wasn’t private. When she told him that she loved him, it would be just the two of them, at just the right moment.

  “Christie? Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

  “You know how I feel about you.”

  He smiled, evidently satisfied with her answer. Or was he?

  They finished lunch and took the elevator to the upper floor. Christie took one last look at the breathtaking scene below. Maybe it would have been a proper place to admit her feelings to Cash after all. Perhaps she’d missed her chance to hear him reply that he loved her, too.

  The days wore on. Cash worked long hours to fit Bobby Moreno’s case into his already-busy schedule. Christie hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. When they spoke on the phone, he would mention the progress or setbacks on Bobby’s case, and she shared her day’s accomplishments or frustrations. He always remembered to ask about Tosha. Not because he was fond of the cat, she knew, but because Tosha meant so much to her.

  Monday evening, Christie and Kathleen had an early dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. When Kathleen asked about her relationship with Cash, Christie spilled out her feelings for him. Kathleen encouraged her to be open with Cash. Maybe she was right, Christie thought.

  Tuesday started as an ordinary day. Christie gave Tosha her usual morning treat, picked up the Chronicle from her doorstep, and opened it to the local section on the way to the kitchen. She poured a cup of tea and sat down with a cranberry muffin she had picked up at Noah’s the day before. By habit, she scanned the local section first, then checked her horoscope for a lighthearted moment before concentrating on the often-depressing front page.

  A brief article at the bottom of the second page that most readers would have skipped caught her attention. It was an update on Cash’s arson case. Bobby Moreno had refused to take a lie-detector test and a second suspect had been apprehended. The new suspect’s previous convictions read like a crime novel.

  Cash might think that Bobby Moreno was unjustly accused, due to the skeletons in his closet, but it would be difficult convincing a jury that this new suspect was squeaky clean. Christie finished breakfast and dressed. Tosha jumped onto the bed and sat, watching her. She picked the cat up and gave her a kiss. “I’m so happy you are all better, sweet Tosha.” She put the cat down and headed out the door. It would be the first time in a week that she planned on working a full day. An attorney she had often consulted with had referred a new client to her, and they had an appointment at ten.

  The client owned an upscale spa in Napa and one of her employees had swindled he
r out of a large sum of money. She wanted Christie to verify that the signatures on certain sales orders were fraudulent. The meeting lasted until close to noon. Afterward, Christie drove to Cash’s office. They were going to have lunch together, but she knew that his idea of a workday lunch date might consist of a prepackaged sandwich from a fast-food shop. With a perfunctory hello to the receptionist, Christie walked into Cash’s office. He looked up from some notes.

  “I’m going to have to cancel lunch,” he said. “I’ve got a new client, a young kid from Bobby’s old neighborhood.” He came around the desk and gave her a quick kiss.

  “I read an article in the Chronicle about the case this morning. He sounds like a monster in training.”

  “He does have a spotty record, but don’t believe everything you read in the paper. I had the kid outline his activities on the day of the arson.” He nodded toward a notebook. “He gave me the names of people who can verify his whereabouts. I’m deposing one of the witnesses in half an hour. If the DA can’t place him at the scene, he doesn’t have a case.”

  Christie picked up the notebook and examined the irregular scrawl that filled the page. She sat down, unable to take her eyes from the writing.

  “This kid isn’t in the same league with Bobby,” she warned. “He’s very disturbed, capable of outrageous, possibly violent behavior.”

  “What are you talking about? You don’t know anything about him except what was fed to the press.”

  “I see it right here.” She tapped the notebook.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His handwriting. It’s a dead giveaway. Don’t trust him, Cash. He’s trouble.”

  “Give me a break, Christie.”

  “I’m serious. Look at this handwriting! Here”—she pointed—“this indicates a vengeful streak. And this suggests that he’s walking a thin line between rational and irrational behavior. What’s more, the amount of pressure exerted on the pen and the heavy set of the letters indicates that your client is probably being deceitful. I’ll bet you’ll have a difficult time confirming his alibi.”

  “Be real, Christie. Not too long ago you told me that your knowledge of character analysis through handwriting is limited, maybe nil. Now you’re trying to pass yourself off as an expert?”

  His remark stung. She wasn’t an expert, but she knew the fundamentals. Moreno’s pal was trouble with a capital T, and it infuriated her that Cash refused to listen to her warning. “I told you that there are certain elements that I can recognize. I’m not making this up.” She waved the notebook at him, but he turned away.

  “I don’t want to hear it. This kid has enough problems without anyone inventing more. You’re letting the newspaper article influence you. Stick to determining the authenticity of documents and leave psychoanalysis to psychiatrists.”

  Anger and frustration heated her face. He was putting her down and discarding her advice. Was he turning a deaf ear because he was intent on winning the case no matter what? Was that what he called justice? Her hands balled into fists. She struggled to remain calm, knowing that it would work against her if she blew up.

  “Why won’t you let Bobby Moreno take a lie-detector test?” she asked, unable to let the subject go. “If he’s clean, let him prove it.”

  “I never allow my clients to take a police polygraph exam. There’s nothing to be gained by having a client in an alien environment, confronted by aggressive cops. Hooked up to a polygraph machine under those circumstances, even the bishop of San Francisco might flunk. Bobby would fail on the spot.”

  “Are you saying he’s guilty?”

  “No. I said he wouldn’t pass a polygraph test. Notice I didn’t call it a lie-detector test.”

  “You’re playing with words.”

  “Christie, sit down and stop arguing while I can still control my temper. How much do you know about polygraphs?”

  “They measure skin responses caused by truthfulness or deceit.”

  “Partially correct. They measure changes in skin response, heart rate, and blood pressure due to nervousness or emotional turmoil. They don’t necessarily measure truthfulness. Someone like Bobby is always nervous in the face of authority. His fear of blame in this case would be so disruptive, he probably wouldn’t be able to give his name without prompting the needle to record a negative response.

  “The police want him to take the test for one reason: they are convinced he’ll fail. It’s inadmissible in court, but can be used against him in other, more subtle ways. If he passed it would be glossed over and it might even be suggested that he’s a pathological liar, immune to the mechanizations of the exam. He has nothing to gain by taking it. That’s why I’ve advised him to refuse.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you really?”

  Christie looked out the window, avoiding Cash’s eyes. She didn’t understand his tactics. She did not know if he was following a win-at-all-costs procedure, or if he was rightfully protecting a man he believed was innocent. She turned to face him, and ignored his question. “Heed what I said about the other suspect. That kid’s a time bomb waiting to go off!”

  “He’s my client, Christie. I have to do all that is in my power to prove him innocent.”

  “To set him free to do harm again? That’s…that’s immoral!”

  “Do I have to remind you that this case hasn’t gone to trial? And if it does, twelve people will decide on guilt or innocence. Where’s the immorality in that? At least they won’t be making their decision on the basis of sloppy penmanship.” His voice was thick with anger.

  “That’s a cruel cut.” Christie studied her hands, clasping and unclasping them before she spoke again. “I’m out of my league, Cash. I’ve never been up against crime firsthand. I’m just a document examiner who is confronted with the objects of misdeeds, not the perpetrators.”

  “Then maybe you need to learn more about the real world before you walk into court again.”

  His tone was nasty. His words had gotten to her. She pressed her hands against her sides to quell the shaking. She prayed her lips wouldn’t quiver and give away her emotions.

  “Pardon me, counselor, I didn’t expect my advice to start a war. And never mind about apologizing for breaking our lunch date. I consider it most opportune that you can’t keep it.”

  Christie turned and stomped out of the office, slamming the door in her wake. She was furious at the way he had spoken to her; he’d been mindless of her feelings. She resented his disdain for her attempt to evaluate the new suspect’s psychological background. Admittedly, she had told him that she rarely went on record on character judgment, but she had also indicated there were exceptions.

  He was assisting a dangerous criminal’s attempt to gain freedom. If a judge agreed to bail reduction, the kid could be on the street in twenty-four hours. Whether or not he was guilty of arson, he was on the edge, and no good would come of his release.

  She understood that not all of Cash’s clients were innocent. He had to provide each client with the best defense possible; that was his job, and he was good at it. One of the best. He undoubtedly considered himself an advocate for justice in this case, as in his other pro bono cases. But freeing a possible criminal into the midst of society to wreak havoc again was far from her definition of justice.

  She had thought they shared the same values, but now she wasn’t sure. This created a quixotic predicament. Her immediate reaction was to back away, at least from working together. But her heart did not want to unravel their personal entanglement. His unpardonable error had been to run roughshod over her opinion. Where was the caring, loving man to whom she was ready to hand her heart? Was he an apparition? An impostor?

  Downstairs in the lobby, Christie went into the coffee shop and slipped into a booth. She needed a few minutes to overcome her anger. It would not be prudent to get into her car and attack the traffic-ridden streets of San Francisco in her current mood. A waitress asked if she wanted to see a menu. Christie shook her head and ordere
d coffee. She watched, almost without seeing, as the woman poured the dark brew into a cup. She reached for the cup and stared at her trembling hand, a visual reminder of Cash’s ability to toss her neatly ordered life into a maelstrom.

  Although Cash had suggested she keep the rental car indefinitely, in case he needed her on another case, she decided she would return the Mustang tomorrow.

  Later, in her apartment, Christie changed into an old fleece-lined sweat suit and padded into the kitchen. She slid a mini pizza from the oven, poured a glass of wine, and carried her dinner into the living room. She sat on the couch and smoothed an afghan across her legs. Tosha took the gesture as an invitation to leap onto Christie’s lap. She lifted the cat up and looked into its face. “How can I give him up? I love him, warts and all. Why is my life being turned upside down?”

  Tosha’s tail swung like a pendulum. “You don’t have the answer either, do you?” Christie murmured. She nuzzled the cat, then returned her to her lap. Tosha, undoubtedly miffed at the intrusion, gave a yowl and jumped to the floor. Tail held high, the cat stalked out of the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tomorrow it would be back to the old clunker, Christie mused. Oh, well, it had gotten her where she was going for the past ten years, what did it matter if the paint was flaking from the salt air and she’d never fixed the dent on the right fender where she’d tapped a guardrail last November? And of course her car didn’t have cruise control or a stereo system with a five-disc CD player. And the air-conditioning rattled, that was, when it worked well enough to send spurts of cold air into her face. Who needed air-conditioning in San Francisco, anyway? The fog and sea breeze were good enough. Unless it was an unseasonably warm summer day. Admittedly, there were quite a few of those.

  She turned the keys over in her hand, the leather fob warm against her palm. Yes, the Mustang had been nice. She recalled driving Highway 1, the coastal route, with the top down, the breeze in her hair, the flashing scenery, the carefree feeling.

  This is silly, she reproached herself. A car was a car, and nothing more. Her old buggy was as good as that brand-new Mustang. And so was public transit. She’d spring her car from the cheap long-term parking lot, and life would return to normal. Now, if she would only believe the internal pep talk, she thought as she drove to Cash’s office.