And Justice for Some

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  Sarah moved the books to the floor, where they wobbled for a moment before resting against another slightly less precarious stack. Like most attorneys on the floor, Sarah had not yet worked out a storage system for her cramped office, so she inhabited a veritable forest of paper. Isobel wasn’t exactly a neat freak, but she wished Sarah would take a Saturday and install more shelving or at least scan some of the documents into her computer. Whenever Isobel suggested it, Sarah would laugh in her firm, resonant alto and say, “If I clean up, I’ll never find anything again.”

  Thirty-nine, single, and unhappy about it, Sarah was the first to admit that her intense dedication to her work was to blame. She had an attractive face, with hazel eyes set in apple cheeks and a perfect little nose, but Isobel had noticed that she only bothered with her appearance on days she had to appear in court. Today, Sarah was outfitted in a boxy charcoal suit with a red silk blouse, and she was wearing what she referred to as her ugly glasses. They were round and outdated but gave her better vision than the new, chic progressives she couldn’t get used to.

  Having settled her pile on the floor, Sarah sat up and pushed the New York Times across her desk to Isobel. “You made the front page of the Metro section.”

  Isobel blinked. “I did?”

  “Well, your murder mystery troupe did. Isn’t this the gig you did over the weekend?”

  Isobel took the paper and scanned the article.

  Judge Harrison was allegedly shot at the precise moment when two actors, part of a murder mystery troupe hired to provide entertainment, were enacting a fictional murder. Initial reports that Delphi Kramer, the actor firing the gun, had accidentally shot the judge were dispelled when police confirmed that her prop gun had not gone off. Director Peter Catanzaro said, “I am as stunned and saddened as everyone else that a real murder took place during our show. Our sympathies go out to Judge Harrison’s family and friends.”

  Isobel set the paper down. “Looks like Delphi’s getting her fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Notoriety is more like it. You have no idea how lucky she is that they were able to clear her so quickly.” Sarah pushed her glasses onto her head, sweeping her frizzy, black hair off her forehead. “Pull up a chair and tell me what happened. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Isobel gave her a curious look and moved a pile of documents from the visitor’s chair. When Isobel had finished relating the events from Saturday night, Sarah hopped over the stacks of files with remarkable agility and opened the top drawer of her lone filing cabinet.

  “I represented Candy Harrison in the divorce,” she said over her shoulder.

  Isobel’s breath caught sharply. “You did?”

  “Yup. Here we go.” Sarah removed a file and returned to her desk, where she riffled the pages with expert fingers. “I wouldn’t have described their split as amicable. Frankly, I’m surprised she was there.”

  “She was sitting next to a lawyer named Gordon. Didn’t get his last name.”

  “Gordon Lang.” Sarah made a face. “Harrison’s lawyer. He’s corporate, which gave me a nice advantage in the settlement. He hadn’t quite done his homework.” She paused and looked up. “I always wondered why Harrison didn’t hire a divorce lawyer, but whatever. It was better for Candy. Ah, here we go.” Sarah pulled out a stapled document and handed it to Isobel. “Candy did very well. She got half of Harrison’s assets, plus the house on Block Island, and a $500,000 annuity for five years.”

  “Which looks like it just ran out,” Isobel observed, skimming the page. “Why did they split?”

  “He was having an affair, which is pretty much par for the course for a man in that kind of power position. I see it all the time. Candy was willing to look the other way and entertain herself elsewhere for a while.”

  “What changed?”

  “Some wannabe paparazzo snapped Harrison kissing another woman on the grand staircase at the Metropolitan Opera House. It showed up in several places: the society column of the Times, New York Magazine, Gotham… It was very embarrassing for Candy, and that was the last straw.”

  Isobel fanned herself with the document. “Is that really why she pulled the plug?”

  “I pressed her, but she insisted that was the reason.” Sarah gave a little shrug. “You never know what’s going to make someone draw the line. I’ve seen marriages implode over a toothbrush in the wrong holder.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Nobody anyone recognized, and he refused to name her. Probably some high-end escort. It apparently was not the woman he was having an affair with. Essentially, he was cheating on his wife and his mistress.”

  “Nice.”

  “In Harrison’s defense, Candy hates opera and never went with him. Don’t know about the other woman. A little hard to blame him for rustling up an appreciative date.”

  Isobel flipped to the next page of the agreement and whistled. “He was worth sixteen million dollars? That’s a lot of money for a judge.”

  Sarah nodded. “He must have invested wisely. All fair game in the settlement.”

  Isobel sat back and regarded her boss. “Could Candy have killed him?”

  Sarah clicked open a pen, scribbled with it, then tossed it in the garbage and took another. “From what you’ve told me, I don’t see how she could have shot him from across the table. Besides, she did very well in the divorce. Why kill him five years later?”

  “Her annuity was ending.”

  “But that was expected. Not much of a motive by itself. And it’s unlikely he left her anything in his will.”

  Isobel chewed her lip. “I still can’t get past her moving me out of the way.”

  “She was stuck at a table in enemy territory. You were a life raft.” Sarah took the settlement letter from Isobel and returned Candy’s file to the cabinet. “Willard Harrison was a hard, implacable man. I’m sure there were all kinds of extravagant speeches about his skills as a jurist, his Solomonic wisdom, his success in ridding the streets of the criminal element—”

  “We never got to the speeches. They were supposed to be after the shoot-out.” Sarah gave her a look, and Isobel quickly added, “The shoot-out in the play. The finale. The speeches were supposed to be during dessert.”

  Sarah pulled her glasses off her head and waved them in front of her face. “My point is, anything you heard would have been bullshit. He was a coldhearted, power-hungry son of a bitch, and even if everyone there respected him, I’ll bet you Candy’s divorce settlement that not a single person in that room had any genuine affection for him. Even with their history, Candy was probably one of the few candidates for seating at the judge’s table. Sad, really, if you think about it.”

  “Did she love him when she married him?”

  Sarah sucked thoughtfully on the earpiece of her glasses. “She certainly didn’t need him socially or financially. She’s a Wall Street hotshot with quite a reputation of her own. I guess it must have been love. Or something masquerading as love.” Sarah frowned, as if at this point she too would settle for a stand-in.

  “It looked like there was a pretty big age difference.”

  “She’s forty-eight, and he was a good twenty years older.”

  Isobel tipped her chair back. “So what do you think was in it for her?”

  Sarah shook her head vigorously. “I learned early on that there is absolutely no rhyme or reason for why two people wind up together. Believe me, in the annals of unlikely couples, Candy and Willard Harrison are a footnote.” Sarah returned her glasses to her face, opened a folder, and extracted a lengthy legal document. “Listen, fascinating as all this is, I’ve got to get cracking. I need you to call United Messenger for a pickup, and then I have some correspondence for you to type. We’re getting close to a settlement in the Whitman case. She finally wore him down on sole custody. Thank God, since he’s a complete psycho.”

  Isobel took the correspondence from Sarah. “I might be able to help them,” she mused aloud.

  “The Wh
itmans?”

  “No, the police.”

  “I thought you already talked to them.”

  “Yes, but…” A little warning bell went off in Isobel’s head. “No, you’re right. I told them everything I know.”

  Returning to her desk, Isobel was glad that she’d once again stifled the impulse to blurt out her thoughts. Her newly acquired information about Candy Harrison might well be worth something to the police, but they would have to find their way to the details of the divorce on their own. Sarah had made her sign a general confidentiality agreement on her first day. She couldn’t share what she’d just learned with anyone.

  SIX

  Peter feigned forgetfulness when Isobel called to inquire about their paychecks, but he didn’t fool her for a minute. She knew he’d been hoping his actors were too traumatized to remember they weren’t masquerading as obnoxious dinner guests just for fun. Of course, Isobel thought as she waited for the light at Madison and 42nd on her lunch hour, if he really thought his actors wouldn’t track down their paychecks like bloodhounds on the scent, he didn’t know much about the breed.

  Peter was waiting for her on the opposite corner, wearing aviator sunglasses and the same tan trench coat he’d worn for the show. She crossed to him.

  “Are you a detective in real life?” she asked by way of greeting.

  “Nah. Limited wardrobe.” He reached into his pocket and removed a small stack of envelopes bound with a rubber band. He flipped through them, withdrew two, and handed them to her. “Here’s yours and Delphi’s.”

  “Thanks.” Isobel took the envelopes and tapped them against her palm. “I don’t mind taking the checks for the others. That way you don’t have to spend your week making street-corner assignations.” He hesitated, and she plunged ahead. “We all run into each other practically every day at auditions,” she lied.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s no problem.”

  He lifted his sunglasses and squinted down his nose at her, then shrugged and handed over the remaining envelopes.

  “Thanks.” Isobel tucked them into her bag. “By the way, why didn’t you tell the police about Andrew running off?”

  Peter shifted his gaze over her head toward the downtown skyline. “Because I didn’t see him run off. You did. Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “I figured I’d handed off the information to you. You were the one who hired him. You should have at least mentioned to the police that there was another actor in the group.” Isobel took a step closer. “Why are you protecting him?”

  Peter snorted impatiently. “I’m not protecting him. I forgot about him.”

  “What do you know about Andrew? How did you happen to hire him?”

  “What is this? An interrogation? He auditioned. Just like you. I don’t know him from a hole in the wall.” A businessman in a designer suit knocked into Peter as he hurried past. “Excuse you!” Peter shouted after him.

  “What do you do when you’re not directing murder mysteries?” Isobel asked. “I can’t imagine this pays the bills.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a temp. I’m working for a lawyer right now, just over there.” She gestured vaguely behind her.

  “What a coinkydink. I’m a lawyer, too.”

  “You?”

  He raised an eyebrow in displeasure. “Don’t look so surprised.”

  “I’m sorry, I just thought you’d say…I don’t know what I thought you’d say. What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Criminal. Less surprised?”

  “Yes and no,” she said. “Did you know Judge Harrison?”

  A car horn argument blared nearby. Peter waited for the cacophony to die down before he answered. “Never heard of him. Any other questions, officer?”

  “Not at the moment,” she said. “But I know where to find you if I do. Thanks for the checks.”

  Peter pulled the belt on his coat tighter and knotted it. “Yeah. Don’t go forging them for yourself.”

  Isobel smiled sweetly. “Well, that was my plan, but now that I know you’re a criminal attorney, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Something smells amazing,” Isobel said as she pushed open the door to her apartment. A tall, wiry boy with unruly brown hair turned from the stove, where he was stirring sauce. His glasses were fogged with steam.

  “Mom’s puttanesca, only I make it better.” He put a finger to his lips and stage-whispered, “But you can’t ever tell her. It might kill her!”

  Isobel turned to Delphi in mock indignation. “Who let him in?”

  Delphi held up her hands in surrender. “He showed up an hour ago with a bag of groceries. What’s a culinary-challenged girl to do?”

  Isobel laughed and gave her brother a hug. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on dining hall food already?”

  “The food at Columbia is surprisingly good, as it happens.” Percival Spice waved his wooden spoon at the pot. “But every once in a while, I have a hankering to know what exactly I’m eating.”

  Isobel scanned the drips of sauce, bits of chopped vegetables, and scattered utensils on the counter. “You’re welcome to turn our kitchen into ‘Top Chef’ anytime, as long as we get to divide the spoils.”

  Percival raised a glass of red wine in affirmation. “Deal.”

  “You know, you could get arrested for serving a minor,” Isobel cautioned Delphi, half-serious.

  “According to genius boy here, you can drink in your own home with a parent once you’re sixteen,” Delphi said.

  Isobel took Percival’s glass and held it away from him. “You may be sixteen, but you’re not in your own home, and you’re not with a parent.”

  “Sixteen,” Delphi marveled. “You must be the youngest freshman Columbia has ever seen.”

  “Vishal Singh is a sophomore, and he just turned fifteen last week,” Percival said.

  “Jeez, how many grades did he skip?” Delphi asked.

  “Well, I skipped two, so he must have skipped three. Come on, Iz. Are you seriously not going to let me have a glass of wine?”

  “I don’t know…” She attempted a stern expression. “Do we think there’s a sisterial exception to the rule?”

  “Sororal. You really should have taken Latin.”

  Isobel smiled and handed the glass back to him. “Here. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  Percival took a grateful sip and returned to his sauce. “Speaking of people who drink—or don’t—I ran into James Cooke. He was on his way to an AA meeting near campus.”

  Isobel was unprepared for the jolt her stomach gave at the name. James and Percival had met only once, on a memorable evening when they, along with Isobel and Delphi, had followed Isobel’s instincts and a murderer into a trendy downtown club. Although that had been a year ago, she wasn’t surprised that Percival had recognized James. At six feet and 250 pounds, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and handsome features in a rich, ebony complexion, James did stand out in a crowd.

  “What did he have to say?” Isobel asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

  “Not much. Sounds like he’s enjoying school.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Who’s Hugh?” Percival asked.

  “It’s a big book that lists all kinds of famous people,” Isobel answered, kicking off her shoes with more force than was strictly necessary.

  “Very funny. He asked if you were still dating Hugh. I said I had no idea, because you’ve never mentioned anyone by that name.”

  “You haven’t told Percival about Hugh?” Delphi asked, surprised. “I thought you two told each other everything.”

  “It’s nothing serious.” Isobel was starting to feel distinctly ganged up on. “That’s all he wanted to know about me? Whether I was going out with Hugh?”

  Percival turned the burner off and drained the pasta in a colander. “I told James I hoped to see him again soon, and he said it wasn’t likely, because he wasn’t working with you anymore. And beside
s, you were dating ‘some twit named Hugh’ I think was how he put it.” Percival returned the pasta to the saucepan and stirred in the sauce. “So how come you didn’t tell me about him?”

  Isobel took three bowls from the cabinet and set them out on the counter. “I thought I did,” she mumbled.

  “You’re so full of it.” Percival leaned across her and parceled out the pasta. “So who is he?”

  “He’s a composer and pianist, and he’s British.”

  “Oh, that guy,” Percival said, light dawning. “The one who wrote the revue you sang in.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “He’s very sweet, very attentive. Nerdy-cute, which you know I like. We really get along.” Isobel glanced sideways at Delphi before she continued. “But I don’t feel like I can completely be myself with him. Maybe it’s because we met at an audition, but I have this sense that I’m always trying out for him. And it’s nothing he’s saying or doing—this is totally coming from me. I don’t feel like that with…with other people.”

  Percival and Delphi exchanged a knowing look, and Isobel felt compelled to break up their collusion. “Anyway, Hugh’s been out of town for the last two months, so…”

  “So I shouldn’t be hurt that you didn’t mention him?” Percival asked.

  Delphi gave an exaggerated groan and elbowed Isobel out of the way to get to the fridge. She set a plastic container of shredded Parmesan cheese on the counter. “You can make up for it by telling him what happened Saturday night.”

  Percival darted a look at Isobel. “What happened Saturday night?”

  “Let’s eat, and I’ll fill you in.”

  As they munched on Percival’s spaghetti puttanesca, Isobel regaled him with the story of Judge Harrison’s murder and Delphi’s close call.

  Percival let out a long whistle and shook his head at Delphi. “You were one trigger finger away from a temporary stint in a six-by-eight cell.”