Tranquility Denied

by A. C. Frieden

  “Matt Brooks. You don’t have to do a thing yet. I’m making arrangements today and the forensics team will be in touch with you.”

  “I think you’ll need court approval to—”

  “I’ll do what’s necessary,” said Jonathan as he walked out. Whatever approval there was, he knew it was a mere formality.

  That afternoon, he called AGI Forensics, a private forensics group best known for using DNA technology to clear up paternity disputes. He’d heard they were the best and had also used state-of-the-art polymerase chain reaction techniques to assist New Orleans crime scene investigators in high-profile cases. They promised him they’d make all the arrangements and have an answer in ten days or less. That was still a long time to wait, but he accepted.

  Jonathan also called Matt’s former dentist. Luckily, the dental records were still available, albeit in storage somewhere near Baton Rouge. They promised to furnish Jonathan with x-rays in the coming week.

  * * *

  Telephones always seem to ring louder, and more often, when you’re already full of bad news. Jonathan didn’t know who it was, but he answered his cell phone on the fifth ring. It was Brett, Linda’s co-anchor.

  “I’m glad she’s alive,” Brett said. “It’s a tragedy, but we’ll manage as best we can without her.”

  Jonathan was stunned. He knew Brett well, and as the husband of his star co-anchor, he’d expected to hear a little more hope for Linda’s full recovery.

  “We’ll make a formal announcement this evening that someone will fill in for me and I’ll take the lead for the time being. And hey, hopefully things will turn out fine and she’ll be back in no time.”

  Brett’s words didn’t sound like a man concerned about a valuable colleague he’d worked with, side by side, in front of New Orleans’ largest television audience. And it would have been nice to hear at least an ounce of concern for Jonathan exit his lips, rather than an impersonal voice uttering words as if they came from a press release.

  Jonathan held his tongue. He instead gave the man time to redeem his callous attitude. Time to praise Linda; to pave the way to Jonathan’s ear with how much her smile, charisma and humor were missed at the anchor desk. But no, not a word. Not one uttering of the immense selflessness that radiated from her soul. Jonathan now understood what Linda meant when she said that Brett was a shallow, calculating man. Although he was somewhat shocked by the revelation, Jonathan realized that he should have expected this from a psychiatrist’s son who had grown up with a silver spoon so far in his mouth it came out his ass. He owned one of the largest homes along the levee in Algiers, a mixed-race, mixed-class neighborhood on the other side of the river. From a game room on the second floor, Jonathan once heard him utter in a sour-drunk state that “he could see the teeth of every damn nigger working nightshift” at the chemical plant across the water in Arabi. To him, the noble white race—rich whites, in particular—deserved the spoils of this great city, and they needed to take it back, neighborhood by neighborhood. One could only imagine his popularity if his racial views were ever aired publicly.

  “You know, I was a little rough on her going off-script that one night—about that court case of yours—but I’ve already put that behind me. Just between us, Jonathan, your work has no business in our station. But, hey, that’s in the past.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked a surprised Jonathan.

  “You mean, you don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “She went off-script and told viewers about that Victory-whatever case you’re handling and that viewers should call in if they had any information.”

  The revelation hit Jonathan like a bat to the head. “Oh my god.” He was horrified. It all made sense now. That broadcast was probably the catalyst to the attack on our home.

  “The other reason I’m calling,” Brett said, “is to tell you that a man was asking for Linda. Some black dude. He came by the station when she wasn’t here. Apparently responding to her request for information on your case. He left a short note for her and said it was urgent.”

  “What’s it say?” Jonathan asked.

  “I don’t know; it’s at the office. I won’t be there until later this evening.”

  Jonathan asked him to call back as soon as he had the note.

  * * *

  Loyola Law School was on Pine Street, the same street as Jonathan’s home, about a quarter mile south, toward the river. The neighborhood was a tree-lined sanctuary where in summer the birds chant, law students graze between classes and life seems ideal. Novembers are not much different, though the air is a bit cooler and students somewhat more stressed as finals approach.

  Jonathan had become a faithful alumnus of this renowned Jesuit institution that had given him his law degree, cementing an everlasting bond with the profession he loved.

  Ten years had gone by quickly, even more so because he hadn’t really seen the place in so long, only occasionally using the library for research or attending an alumni function. But the school was unchanged. It took only a short mental leap to remember scurrying down the hallway with classmates toward the dreaded first year classes, like torts, civil procedure and obligations.

  Jonathan took the elevator to the fourth floor, all the while feeling a pleasant nostalgia creeping into him. The roster of professors had familiar names, though he expected them to look older.

  Professor Defleur’s office was where it had always been, with the familiar odor of cigar smoke seeping out from under the door. As the most-traveled professor at the school, his door was decorated with his latest tacky international souvenir, this time a coaster from a bar in Budapest. He’d been to Moscow and St. Petersburg as a visiting faculty member as far back as the mid-1980s, and again a few times since the Soviet Union collapsed. If there was a man who could give him a useful contact in the Russian capital, it was Defleur. A Post-it note next to the coaster indicated he was in the courtroom downstairs, so Jonathan headed there.

  The school’s mock courtroom was on the ground floor, in the center of the building. A circular room, complete with a jury box, judge’s bench, classroom seats and desktops and a glass-divided audio-visual control room at the back from which the lawyerly theatrics could be filmed. The room was a stage that Jonathan had enjoyed back in the day, learning the tactics that helped him become the litigator he was today.

  Before knocking, Jonathan brought his eye to the peephole and immediately caught sight of his old professor. There were no students in sight.

  “Professor?” Jonathan said, peeking in timidly.

  “Come in,” a raspy voice came back from Defleur, his body whipping around. When Jonathan had been a humble L1, the lowest level in a law school’s food chain, next to the janitor and groundskeeper, Professor Miles Defleur was the most witty, feisty, and often plain cruel tenured professor on campus. He was as old as Louisiana’s Code Napoleon. His face was rawhide. Ten more years had turned him into a dinosaur.

  Defleur raised his chin, his eyes locking onto Jonathan with an arresting power. “And who are you?” he asked before seeming to remember. “Oh, Jonathan, of course. Back for a refund, are you?”

  His gritty humor was still there, a trait that had survived decades of attempted character assassinations from terrified students.

  “No,” said Jonathan with a smile. “I just want to tap into your brain.” He walked to the center of the room and gazed at the familiar surroundings.

  “You’ve got five minutes,” said Defleur as he took out his trademark lecture notes: a single sheet of paper, folded in half long way, its sloppily perforated edge indicating that it had been torn hastily from its pad. The man didn’t need notes. A former judge, he embodied the holy grail of myriad courtrooms. A bit like Gary, Jonathan thought, but with more vinegar. “My classes start on time, as you recall,” the old academic added.

  “I need a lawyer in Moscow,” Jonathan said, realizing he didn’t really have time to explain why and knowing damn well Defleur would as
k.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, a smart lawyer.”

  “And I need a new fishing rod,” Defleur uttered, chuckling, as he unfolded his note and pressed it flat on the defense table. “What on earth for?”

  “You said I have five minutes,” Jonathan murmured, “so it’s not enough time to explain to your satisfaction.”

  “Uhuh,” said Defleur, scratching his cheeks, bristly with whitish hair and deep wrinkles. “I can think of a few...a law professor who’s an unparalleled genius during his five hours of daily sobriety, but useless otherwise; a wealthy oil and gas lawyer with an addiction to corporate kickbacks and call girls; a criminal defense lawyer who lives his life like Casanova; and a young judge turned Mafia hunter—ensuring for himself the lifespan of a goldfish.”

  Jonathan laughed and clarified, “I’m looking for a smart and dependable lawyer. Now that I’ve had the naive scholarly optimism sucked out of me by the practice of law, I feel like you’ve just described most of my New Orleans colleagues. Since law school, we’ve all transformed into the same corruptible, cynical, skeptical subspecies, Professor. Don’t you think?”

  Defleur’s eyes were wide open. “I hope you never tell that to a jury.” He then erupted in laughter. “You have one minute and thirty seconds.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the Casanova, if those are the only ones to choose from.”

  “They are,” the professor murmured. “I have vetted them from a larger group, if you can believe that. The fella’s name is Alexandre Ivanovich Abramov. I met him last year while in Moscow. He taught a class to my visiting students. And he’s well connected, if that is useful to you, although I hear he is pretty busy these days. I’ll e-mail you his contact information later today.”

  Jonathan thanked the professor, gave him his card and left satisfied that he had a name in the Russian capital, but apprehensive that Alexandre might not be as reliable a lawyer as he’d need.

  10

  A twenty-five minute drive north across town to Terrace Lake may not seem like much, but for Jonathan it was an arduous occasion that required him to take on a tough skin, something he could not so easily do when it came to his brother. But today, he gathered the courage to face the past—to venture for the first time in years to the hallowed grounds of the Milneburg Lighthouse, a place which he and his brother shared with no one else, not even their Dobermans.

  It was no ordinary lighthouse. Built in 1855, it became the landmark of a now non-existent amusement park on Lake Pontchartrain. And as daring, mischievous kids, Jonathan and Matt had made it their secret turf to explore adolescence and build a bond stronger than most siblings ever experience. Of all the memories Jonathan had of Matt, none were more cherished than those from the lighthouse. And none were so vivid, etched into memory with frightening clarity.

  Jonathan parked his car in a cul-de-sac off Elysian Fields Avenue. As he got out, he saw the bright facade of the lighthouse, illuminated by the nearly-full moon. He picked up a six-pack of Abita Amber from the back seat and walked a couple hundred yards across the wet grass, property of the University of New Orleans, and the place where the brick tower lay orphaned for decades several thousand feet from shore. But that’s why it was so special—an abandoned lighthouse nowhere near the water, in the middle of a barren field.

  As children, Matt and Jonathan rode their bikes along the edge of City Park, all the way to the lakefront to their hideaway. It was there that Matt had first smoked a cigarette, with Jonathan providing both the incentive and the pack of Marlboro Reds. This oasis was also where Jonathan fabricated his first homemade rocket, having assembled it over a period of five months. They had chosen a clear Saturday afternoon to launch it. Concerned that his own engineering skills were still in development, Jonathan convinced Matt to light the fuse. The resulting explosion lifted nothing into the air except Matt. With slight burns to his right hand and a blackened face, Matt had learned the first rule about brotherhood: never to follow instructions. The blast had dug a two-inch hole in the cement floor of the lighthouse and quickly drew the attention of a patrol car. They’d escaped, but just barely.

  A month later, they succeeded in launching the second rocket, a seven-foot long monstrosity, painted black and white to resemble the Apollo spacecraft. It blasted so high they could hardly see it. They never knew where it landed, but they watched the news that night—something their parents surely found bizarre—and prayed it had not landed on someone’s head.

  One summer, Jonathan and Matt had traveled back and forth to the lighthouse to bring half a dozen old couch cushions, crib mattresses and oversized pillows, piling them at the base of the structure. The objective was nothing short of foolhardy: to jump from the top and land without breaking bones—quite a challenge from twenty-five feet up. All had gone well for a few hours, and then, unfortunately, Jonathan broke his ankle, and by the end of the week, Matt his wrist.

  Milneburg Lighthouse had become the citadel of Satan’s rascals and a way to become accustomed to orthopedists, and neither had ever told their parents the truth about where and how they’d been injured. They had taken a vow of silence that remained unbroken long after they’d stopped frequenting their prized hideout.

  Seventeen years had made a difference. There was a whole lot more grass, weeds and shrubs than Jonathan had remembered. He climbed over the short fence and headed to the concrete base of the tower. He grabbed a metal handle and pulled himself up to the door that stood some five feet above the weeds.

  He pushed on the door and felt it give a bit. A second, harder push made it open with a protracted screeching sound. Jonathan gazed into the familiar belly of the beast, the damp, acrid air filling his lungs but without bothering him.

  The inner chamber was exactly as in the past, only its confines now felt smaller. He climbed the narrow, spiral metal stairs to the top and emerged into the open air almost short of breath. The old lantern, dating back to the 1880s, was still in its proper place, attached to its clunky rotating mechanism. Jonathan smiled, soaking in the warm feeling of familiarity.

  The breeze pushed on his face with gentle strength. He gripped the cold metal handrail and stared at the distant shore. He smiled as the voice of Lucky Lucy, as he later called her, suddenly trampled over his fond recollections. Not a voice carrying words, but rather moans. Loud moans of pleasure like nothing he’d ever heard before. This Tower of Babel had also played a vital role in propelling Jonathan to manhood. Lucy’s arms stretched across the floor of the circular balcony where he now stood. Her breasts, the largest his virgin eyes had ever seen or dreamed of. Those fleshy, perfectly round masses took up his entire field of vision. Her methodical, nearly musical chants broke the silence of the memorable night before his fourteenth birthday. He’d learned two tricks in one evening: how to talk a woman into sex and not call her the day after.

  Jonathan had heard much later that Lucy had also helped Matt rid his virginity two years later. Though he had to pry it out of Matt, the confession detailed the same woman, the same breasts, the same pleasantly traumatic reaction to that hypermoaning sexual predator ten years his senior. And to be kind to Matt, Jonathan never told him he’d already taken her for a spin.

  “I miss our crazy days, Matt,” Jonathan said loudly, staring out at the dark sky, exhaling a mild alcohol breath from his sips of beer. “We were so free.”

  He stared at the bright moon. Everything valuable in his life had now been taken away or put in jeopardy. This was a miserable acknowledgement.

  Before heading back to the hospital, Jonathan went to his office and sent a fax to Alexandre in Moscow. He was brief and to the point. He wanted information about General Yakovlev, and he wanted it as quickly as possible. Jonathan didn’t know if he could go to Russia, though he wanted to. But to do so would mean leaving Linda behind, something he quickly dismissed. He would not leave her. Not until she was out of danger.

  11

  Litigation firms, like automobile assembly plants and steel mills, ne
ver close. And certainly not Jonathan’s. With twenty-nine high-powered lawyers—two-thirds of them partners—you’d be sure to find at least one in the office at any moment of the night.

  Jonathan knew the nocturnal routine well, though these days the firm’s young associates tended to know it better. From the time the paralegals and secretaries leave, these legal machines press on, reading documents with the speed of a supercomputer, free from the nuisances of senseless meetings, ringing phones, and petty questions from clients. Even at ten or eleven, their efficiency only mildly downgraded, they churn out their paperwork and impel their analytical skills with amazing ease. It’s only by one or two in the morning that the engine starts to taper off. At that point, they either head home or hunker down at their desks for the night until the staff returns, the latter choice often leading to the gradual onset of a vegetative state that can bring an attorney to the brink of malpractice.

  It was not yet ten and Jonathan knew he didn’t have it in him to stay all night. The stress had beaten him down. Besides, he needed to be with Linda. He glanced out his window and saw the bright lights along Canal Street. His eyes felt glassy. For over three hours he had stared at the monitor on his credenza, analyzing videotaped depositions of Captains Glengeyer and Tucker, as well as other witnesses.

  The phone rang. It was Brett, Linda’s co-anchor. He had picked up the letter she’d received. Jonathan asked that he read it over the phone, which he did.

  “Shiit,” Brett uttered, “why can’t these people learn to write?”

  Jonathan knew exactly what this bigot meant.

  “It says ‘Dear Ms. Brooks, I’m writing about your report the other night on that court case. I was in the Baltic, and I saw something real strange going on. It may be useful, I don’t know. You are a nice lady and I enjoy you on the news. Let me know if I can help. God bless, Sammy Dupree.’”