After class, he waited for the small knot of admiring girls surrounding Professor Lin to disperse before he approached her.
“Professor? I wondered if I could ask you about a particular correctional facility.”
“Which one?” she asked, stuffing papers into her bag.
“Empire State Youth Camp.”
She paused, a notebook in her hand. “What about it?”
“I wondered if it would be possible to get a list of inmates. Actually, defendants who were sent there by a particular judge.”
“Which judge?”
“Willard Harrison.”
Without a word, she strode across the room and closed the door. She pulled two chairs over to her desk and gestured for him to join her.
“He’s dead. You know that, right?”
James nodded. “A friend of mine was there that night. She was one of the actors in the murder mystery show.”
“Why do you want the names of people he sent to Empire?”
“My friend thinks maybe one of them killed the judge for revenge.”
Professor Lin thrummed her long, plum-colored fingernails on the desk. “It’s certainly possible. He sent enough kids there over the years.”
“Boosting his profits,” James said.
She looked up sharply. “What?”
“He was one of the investors in the camp.” He paused when he saw the look on her face. “I’m guessing this is news to you.”
“How on earth did you find that out?”
“My friend’s brother did some kind of database cross-check and got a list of the camp’s investors.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “How? Where?”
James glanced at his knees. “He’s kind of a computer whiz—”
“A hacker?”
“No,” James said quickly. “Just really smart. He’s not—he didn’t break the law. I don’t think.”
She brushed off his concern. “As long as we know that proof exists, we can do what’s necessary to obtain it so it’s admissible as evidence. Please keep this confidential. You can tell your friend, but this is not something I want you discussing with anybody else.”
James nodded, his pulse quickening.
Professor Lin took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I’m part of a task force that has been investigating irregularities in juvenile courts throughout the tristate area. We’re independently funded, and we’ve taken care not to present anything to the authorities until we have concrete evidence of any wrongdoing. We don’t want to be stonewalled, and you’d be amazed how quickly ranks close in the judicial system.”
“And you were investigating Harrison?” James asked.
“Everyone knew it was bad news to land in his court. He rarely dismissed anyone with just a warning. And his hearings would last two, three minutes tops. It was not justice.”
James marked the bitterness in her voice. “So that’s what led you to suspect…what, exactly?”
“We aren’t sure, but there have been too many complaints over the years about his peremptory rulings, and we know he sent plenty of kids to Empire State.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “But if what you’re telling me is true, that he had a financial interest, it constitutes a miscarriage of justice on a different scale entirely. I’m just sorry he’s dead and we can’t prosecute him. How much do you know about the camp?”
“Just that it exists.”
Professor Lin’s face clouded. “It’s the opposite of rehabilitative. It’s demoralizing and abusive, and the worst part is how many kids are sent there for ridiculously minor offenses. Some of them can’t even be described with a straight face as offenses. Like the seventh grader who wrote on her desk at school with a Sharpie.” She slapped her hands against her thighs in disgust. “I mean, really. Who didn’t do that?”
James felt a surge of anger well up from his gut. He had spent his childhood watching his peers get carted off for all kinds of crimes, major and minor, and have to navigate the legal system without an advocate to explain, defend, or exonerate. It was one of the reasons he wanted to be a lawyer. His plan, before he was derailed by a bottle of tequila, had been to hang out a shingle in his Harlem neighborhood offering affordable legal assistance to those who couldn’t afford it otherwise. Though from what Professor Lin was saying, a good lawyer wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference if you’d landed in front of Harrison.
She interrupted his thoughts. “Can you give me proof of his financial involvement?”
“Can you get me a list of offenders he sent to the camp?” James countered.
Professor Lin sighed. “Unfortunately, no. But I beg you, please. At least tell me the names of the other investors. If we know who we’re looking for, we can get our own computer geniuses on the case.” He said nothing, and she continued, her words coming out in a rush. “Think of the kids being sent there. We have to find a way to close that place down.”
He held her gaze. “Get me a list.”
She clenched her fists in frustration. “I told you, I don’t have access to it.”
He picked up on the word she had emphasized unconsciously.
“Who does?”
She folded her arms across her chest like a shield. With a flash of insight, he grasped the reason for her hesitation.
“Look,” he said gently, “if one of those kids killed him, that person needs help. I’m not saying it wasn’t understandable, but murder is murder, right? One of the other Empire State investors is already dead.”
Professor Lin stiffened. “Who?”
James shook his head, and they stared at each other for a moment. Finally, her composure broke, and she looked suddenly fragile, ten years younger. She opened her notebook and pulled a pen from her jacket pocket.
She exhaled slowly. “Tell me who else is dead, who the other investors are, and I’ll point you to someone with a list.”
“The real estate developer, Angelina Rivington, is dead. Her body was found in the Hudson.”
Professor Lin’s eyes widened. “Recently?”
“The day before the judge was shot.”
She hesitated a moment, her expression unreadable, and then scribbled the name. “Who else?”
“Mason Crawford, Rivington’s second-in-command.” Professor Lin gripped her pen more tightly. “And Gordon Lang, Harrison’s lawyer.”
“James, thank you.” She held up the notebook. “We can work with this.”
“Glad I could help,” he said, and he was. “Now, who has those names?”
She spoke quickly and assuredly. “There’s a lawyer who represented a lot of those kids, and he’s made it his mission to help them all when they get out. I know he’s got a list.”
James smiled broadly. “As you say, we can work with that. Who’s the lawyer?”
“Peter Catanzaro. A Google search should turn up his particulars.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Be nice.” Delphi wagged an admonishing finger at Isobel. “Remember, Carlo’s doing this as a favor.”
Isobel winced. “I hate to think how you’re repaying it.”
“It just means no flirting with the waiters for a few days.” Delphi pulled a sad face.
Isobel smoothed her black skirt. “Do I look okay?”
Delphi squinted in the dim light of Vino Rosso. “Yeah, but what are you, religious or something?” She reached over and undid the top button on Isobel’s blouse.
“Hey! That was my effort at self-preservation.”
“Carlo’s not going to hit on you. He can barely tolerate you.”
“So my chances of getting this job are about as good as getting back my last one?”
“Just don’t get up his ass. You’ll be fine.”
Isobel ran her fingers over the keys of the computer at the podium, the only familiar-looking piece of equipment in the place. Delphi smacked her hand away.
“For God’s sake, don’t touch anything! The last thing we need is for you to accidentally cancel all of
tonight’s reservations. I’ll go tell him you’re here.”
Delphi crossed the restaurant’s main room, empty in the lull between lunch and dinner service. Isobel sat on the hostess’s stool, crossing her ankles daintily while she waited. As desperate as she was for work, this had all the makings of a disaster. Maybe she should hold off. Anna at Temp Zone had promised to throw something her way as soon as she could. Isobel had put a lot of sweat equity into temp work. Did it really make sense to switch gears at this point? Restaurant work was tiring, and although Isobel knew the social side of hostessing would come easily, she was afraid she’d get flustered and overwhelmed when the dining room got busy. The truth was, she had come to like working in an office. For one thing, every office she’d worked in offered the use of high-end equipment she didn’t have at home. She sighed longingly at the memory of a color laser printer at one financial firm. And when things were quiet, she essentially got paid for scouting audition notices, stapling pictures and resumes, and memorizing monologues.
At Vino Rosso, she’d actually have to work, and she wouldn’t make as much money. Even with a cut of the waitstaff’s tips, she’d average less than what she made hourly temping. The only plus was that if she kept working the dinner shift, she’d have her days free to audition. Carlo had been surprisingly accommodating when Delphi needed to trade shifts during her run as Constance in King John last winter. But Isobel suspected Carlo’s rules were as slippery as he was.
She looked up to see them crossing the room toward her. Carlo’s brow was furrowed as if he were steeling himself for an argument, and the nervous, proprietary look on Delphi’s face drove home Isobel’s biggest fear about this new arrangement. What if she let Delphi down?
“Allora, signorina,” Carlo said in his silky voice.
“Buon giorno, signore,” she responded.
“A linguistic peace offering? In the interest of mutual friendship, I accept.” He gave a little bow. “So, tell me, what restaurant experience do you have?”
Isobel glanced briefly at Delphi, who gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.
“I worked in a restaurant for one summer, waiting tables,” Isobel answered. All it would take to get out of this was a mention of the lobsters. She stifled the urge to confess, which taunted her like a cartoon devil over her shoulder.
“And why did you not return there?”
“I got an acting job the next summer.”
“And you have not worked in a restaurant in the city?”
“No, but I’ve been doing a lot of office work, so I’m really organized. And good with a computer. And people! I love people. Love talking to them, being social, meeting and greeting, you know.”
Carlo brushed imaginary crumbs off the impeccably pressed sleeves of his black dinner jacket. “And you have no office work right now?”
“I had a long-term assignment come to an end. So I’m at loose ones. Ends, I mean.”
Delphi put a hand over her eyes, but Carlo just smiled. “Allora, you will start tonight at dinner. Delphi will guide you. At the end of the evening, we make an assessment. Okay?”
Isobel nodded. Carlo gave a final little harrumph and returned to the bar.
“You don’t have to look so relieved,” she said to Delphi. “What did you think I was going to do?”
“Exactly what you did,” Delphi said. “Chatter. Fortunately, Carlo is used to tuning people out, mostly annoying customers. Come on, let’s get started.”
“Hang on a sec.” Isobel’s hand went to her pocket. “I want to see if James… Damn! I left my phone at home.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’d have to put it in your locker anyway. Absolutely no phones on the job.”
“But I’ve called you at work!”
“I told you. Flirting with Carlo has perks,” Delphi said with a wink.
Isobel was already struggling with the idea of working in a restaurant that had always been a haven after a long day, and now she was missing her link to the outside world. She knew the only way to shake this feeling of being unmoore
d was to immerse herself in her new situation, so she forced herself to tune in to Delphi’s instructions about the reservation system.
“The interface isn’t very attractive,” Isobel remarked. “Percival could design you a new one. He does great things with proprietary web design. In high school he designed a social media web app that was so popular it crashed during the first hour.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t need the reservation system to crash.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“When the hordes start arriving during the dinner rush, you’re not going to give a shit about the colors on the screen,” said Delphi. “And you’re not going to remember anything if you don’t pay attention.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
Isobel listened as Delphi explained which tables were more desirable, which to leave open for large parties, and why Carlo insisted that the full party be present before seating.
“Ugh, I hate that. Don’t you?” Isobel asked. “When you know the last person in your party is only two subway stops away, and the last table gets handed off the second before he or she arrives? Drives me nuts!”
“Drives most people nuts,” Delphi agreed. “But half the time the expected person never shows up, and you’ve seated a party of two at a four-top that you now can’t fill. That’s lost revenue.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“When I’m a customer, I’m on yours. When I’m living off tips, I’m on Carlo’s. You’ll see,” Delphi added knowingly.
It took another half hour for Delphi to finish showing Isobel the ropes and to introduce her to the other staff. At five o’clock, they unlocked the front door.
“You’re on,” she said, giving Isobel a little push toward the podium.
“Where are you going to be?” Isobel asked anxiously.
“At the bar, keeping an eye on you.”
“Nice work if you can get it!”
“The bar part, yeah. The watching you part, not so much,” Delphi retorted.
Isobel slapped a smile on her face and braced herself for an onslaught that didn’t come. Forty-five minutes later, a few small parties trickled in, and Isobel seated them cheerfully before returning to the podium, where she waited for the next round of diners.
“Piece of cake,” she called out to Delphi, who shook her head darkly.
Isobel was lost in a daydream that involved a rewrite of the Tony Award acceptance speech she had drafted when she was eleven, when she suddenly found herself staring down a sea of hungry faces, mouths open in a ceaseless babble of demands.
“Do you have a reservation? Come this way. I’ll be back in a moment.” Isobel led a party of four to a table, thrusting the menus into their hands so forcefully that she knocked over an empty water glass. Before she could collect it, Carlo was at her elbow, snapping his fingers for a waiter and welcoming diners with a charming smile. The woman whose water glass had gone flying relaxed, and for once, Isobel was grateful for Carlo’s suavity. He raised an eyebrow in silent command, and she raced back to the podium.
“Good evening, do you have a—” Her breath caught at the sight of the tall, patrician man, as familiar to her from her musings as if she’d seen him every day since the night at The Hostelry. She steadied herself by imitating Carlo’s smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Lang, for two.”
“Of course.” She glanced at the screen, and there it was: Gordon Lang, party of two. She felt her face grow warm as she turned back to him, but if he recognized her, he gave no indication.
“Is your entire party here?” she asked.
“My companion is on her way.”
Isobel swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seat you until your party is complete.”
Lang’s angular face seemed to draw farther into itself. “She’ll be here any minute. And I have a reservation.”
Isobel glanced over at the bar to see if Delp
hi had registered Lang’s entrance, but she was engaged in animated conversation with the bartender and had her back to Isobel.
“I, um…so sorry…but that’s our policy, and I can’t—”
Lang’s eyes flashed impatiently. “Of course you can. I’ve told you, my companion will be joining me momentarily.”
“Will you let the guy sit down, for Chrissake?” The stout, balding man behind Lang smacked the podium. “I got tickets to The Book of Mormon that cost me three hundred a pop. If I miss that curtain, honey, you’re gonna pay for ‘em!”
Horrified, Isobel turned her attention to him. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yeah. Marino, for three.”
“And is all your party here?”
“They’re coming, they’re coming. The traffic is a nightmare.”
Isobel cleared her throat and said in loud, authoritative tones, “Is there anybody with a reservation whose party is complete?”
To her intense relief, there were several shouts of “Me!” With any luck, seating them all would buy her time until Gordon Lang’s date and Mr. Marino’s friends arrived.
As she led the first party to their table, she could hear Marino shouting after her, but she was more unnerved by Lang’s stormy silence. Despite the crowd forming in the doorway, she moved slowly through the restaurant, carefully unfolding the menus before handing them to her guests. When she could postpone her return no longer, she made her way back to the podium, where Gordon Lang stood, still alone, quivering with displeasure.
“If you don’t seat me now, I will leave. But not before reporting your rudeness to the manager.”
As tempted as Isobel was to point out that she was only following said manager’s orders, she couldn’t afford to annoy Lang any further. Never mind that, she couldn’t afford to let him walk out the door.
And Justice for Some Page 15
