And Justice for Some

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “For once.”

  “For once. So…friends?”

  He’d had a brief flashback to the one time he had kissed her, and he felt his thighs shimmer with sudden heat. He took a sip of water and let the cold bring him back to the present. There was no use dwelling on what might have been.

  “Yeah, friends.”

  “James?”

  He looked up to see Professor Lin approaching him. He quickly banished all thoughts of Isobel and tried to arrange his features into their most professional and detached expression.

  “Dean Hart isn’t with you?” he asked.

  “He’s in a meeting. You said you had something?” He handed her a manila envelope, and her face relaxed with warmth and relief. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.”

  “It took some serious cooperation on Catanzaro’s part to give you this list, but now that the DA’s office has proof of the money trail, they need whatever you’ve got.”

  “We’ll cooperate.” She placed a hand on his arm. “James, this is so important. If we can figure out how the scam worked, we can start investigating similar situations that have aroused our suspicions.”

  “There are others?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. But you’ve really given us a leg up. Dean Hart will be very pleased and impressed. I’m sure he’ll line up something good for you.”

  James shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, about that. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Professor Lin frowned. “What?”

  “I don’t want special treatment.”

  “It’s not special treatment,” she said. “It’s simply a return favor. You’re entering a competitive field. You can do it the easy way or the hard way.”

  “With all due respect, I’d rather do it the right way.” He picked up his backpack from where he’d set it at his feet and left her staring after him.

  “This is Isobel Spice,” the casting director announced. He turned to Isobel and introduced the man and woman behind the table. “Felicity Hamilton, artistic director of Livingston Stage Company, and Ezra Bernard, director of the Sousa Project.”

  Isobel flashed them her brightest smile, but her step faltered as she strode across the room to the piano. Pimply, smarmy Kevin Rabinowitz sat at the keyboard, practically salivating at the sight of her. But his expression changed to one of irritation a moment later, when Hugh came up behind her.

  “Hello, Kevin. I’m playing for Isobel.”

  With a barely disguised sneer, Kevin stood up. “I could use a break. Non-Equity auditions aren’t exactly overflowing with talent.” He shot this last remark in Isobel’s direction.

  “Ignore him,” Hugh whispered as Kevin flounced out of the room. “I’ve got you.”

  Isobel smiled gratefully and walked to the center of the floor. “I’d like to sing ‘Love is a Plaintive Song’ from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience.”

  “A perfect choice,” Ezra commented. “Sousa was a great admirer of Sullivan.”

  Heartened by this validation, Isobel launched into her song with renewed confidence. She tried to focus on connecting to the words and letting her voice soar on pure emotion and intent. Just having Hugh there made all the difference. She felt his support in every phrase, and for the first time since she’d moved to New York, she lost sight of the fact that she was being evaluated and simply performed. When she finished, she found she barely remembered what she’d done.

  “That was lovely,” Ezra said. “Can you come back tomorrow afternoon at three for a callback?”

  “Yes, of course,” Isobel answered, careful not to succumb to the volcano of excitement erupting inside her.

  “Great. We’ll see you then.”

  “Just a moment.” Felicity inclined her head toward Hugh. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Hugh Fremont.”

  “Do you have a card? We just lost our musical director, and I was quite impressed with your playing. Very sensitive to the singer. I can’t say the same for the other guy.”

  The casting director bristled. “Kevin? He’s one of the best. I brought him in today so you’d consider him for the job.”

  Felicity responded with a noncommittal “hmmm.”

  Hugh gave Isobel’s arm a tiny pinch as he passed by her to hand Felicity his card.

  “Composer/pianist/conductor,” Felicity read. “If you’re interested in the job and free tomorrow, come sit in on callbacks and we can talk more.”

  “I’m definitely interested,” Hugh said.

  “Then we’ll see you both tomorrow.” Felicity dismissed them with a nod.

  Isobel could barely contain her excitement as she and Hugh returned to the piano to collect her music.

  “Just wait,” he warned quietly.

  But as soon as they were in the hall, she threw her arms around him. “Oh, my God! I love you!”

  His face lit up. “I love you, too.”

  Isobel realized he had misconstrued her show of enthusiastic appreciation as an actual romantic declaration, but she brushed aside her qualms as they kissed.

  An overexaggerated cough prompted them to pull apart.

  “Went well, did it?” Kevin asked.

  “You might say that,” Hugh replied lightly.

  Kevin pursed his lips in disapproval and reentered the studio, letting the door give an attitude-fueled slam behind him.

  “How come you didn’t tell him what happened?” asked Isobel.

  “Oh, he’ll figure it out when he sees me sitting behind the table at callbacks tomorrow. Revenge is sweeter by stealth.”

  Isobel slid her arm through Hugh’s. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

  He pulled her close. “Neither can I.”

  # # #

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s a good thing Shakespeare didn’t actually kill all the lawyers, because I needed a few for help with this book. Thanks to my team of counselors, each of whom enriched my understanding of a different facet of our legal system: Kathryn Bedke, Jill Weintraub, Melissa Battino, David B. Wolf, Jennifer Ritter, Andrew Neuman, and especially Felicia Berenson, my resident on-call ADA. Kate Konigisor and Kathy Lessner Yellen cheerfully recounted their experiences doing murder mysteries, while Michael Lewis not quite as cheerfully related his on grand jury. Ralph Maher gave me a primer on firearms, and Kathleen Humiston made sound acoustical observations during a gala dinner in large space. I’m also grateful to Julian Rosenblum for insights musical and computational, Phoebe Rosenblum for creative character naming, Owen Blicksilver for demystifying the finer points of real estate investment, and Amy Griffin for sharing what is quite possibly the funniest audition story I have ever heard. For shepherding my work across the finish line, I am indebted to my enthusiastic agent Kari Stuart at ICM, meticulous editor Kira Rubenthaler of Bookfly Design, and visionary designer Linda Pierro of Flint Mine Press. A heartfelt embrace to my trusted beta readers: Helen Lessner, Helen Faye Rosenblum, Elaine Greenblatt, and, as ever, my taller half, Joshua Rosenblum.

  Read a sample from the next Isobel Spice mystery, Offed Stage Left

  “BE KIND TO YOUR WEB-FOOTED FRIENDS, for a duck could be somebody’s mooo-ther,” Sunil Kapany sang under his breath to the tune of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  “Shhh!” Isobel Spice elbowed him. “There’s a rehearsal going on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You have to admit, it’s better than the lame words we’re being forced to sing,” Sunil grumbled. He sank further into his cushioned seat in Livingston Stage Company’s darkened theater, drawing up his knees against the scratched donor nameplate on the seatback in front of him. “Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to write lyrics to Sousa marches?”

  “I don’t see how you can have a musical about the March King without using his music,” Isobel said. She shifted the bustle of her pale-blue and white muslin gown, her act one costume for
Sousacal: The Life and Times of John Philip Sousa.

  “Easy,” Sunil replied. “You hire a composer with a sense of the period to write the book songs, and use Sousa’s marches for the gazintas and gazoutas.”

  Isobel frowned. “The what?”

  “The underscoring that goes into one scene and goes out of another. Gazintas and gazoutas.” He looked askance at her. “Have you never done a musical before?”

  “Plenty.” She bristled. “And I’ve never heard anyone use those words. You are totally making that up.”

  “I am not,” Sunil said, affronted. “Hey, Kelly!”

  Several rows in front of them, Kelly Jonas, the stage manager, held court behind a large wooden plank balanced across the seats, which served as a makeshift control center for tech rehearsals. She looked up from her prompt book, a three-inch binder stuffed with script pages and scenic renderings, fastidiously divided by brightly colored tabs. Pushing aside a long strand of graying hair, Kelly squinted at Sunil through her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are gazintas and gazoutas?” Sunil asked.

  “The play-ons and play-offs before or after a scene,” she answered distractedly. A movement onstage caught her attention. “Are we ready to move on?”

  Sunil turned triumphantly to Isobel. “See?”

  Isobel sighed. “This is going to be a long day.”

  “They don’t call it a ten-out-of-twelve for nothing.”

  “Is there anything more tedious than spending ten hours waiting around while they set lighting and sound cues?” Isobel whined.

  “Um, yes. Doing the actual show.”

  As much as Isobel hated to admit it, Sunil was right. From day one, it had been clear that Sousacal was a dog. There had been a buzz of anticipatory excitement in the air when the company assembled for the first read-through in the third-floor rehearsal studio of the sleek, state-of-the-art performing arts complex in downtown Albany. In addition to hosting the century-old Livingston Stage Company, relocated from its charmingly dilapidated (some said haunted) prior home in an old vaudeville house, the building had a black box theater and a café that served light meals before and after performances. Everything about her surroundings made Isobel feel like a working theater professional.

  Everything, that is, except the material. Sunil had politely informed her after the read-through that his shin was black and blue from her kicking it under the table. But having taken out her frustration on his tibia, she resolved to relish her first regional theater job rather than let the disappointing quality of the show get her down. Since moving to New York a year and a half ago, when she’d met Sunil at her very first audition, Isobel had learned that most acting work was to be found in summer stock or regional theaters. Isobel had resigned herself to the conundrum of living in New York in order to get work out of town, which was the best way for a young performer who was not yet a member of Actors’ Equity Association to build her resume. Despite Sunil’s increasingly steady stream of snarky comments, she had thrown herself enthusiastically into her small role as John Philip Sousa’s first love, Emma Swallow, while assiduously preparing the larger role she was understudying: Jennie Sousa, the composer’s wife.

  Isobel sighed again and flipped open her script to a scene between Jennie and Sousa, running her finger down the neon pink highlights. “I may as well use my downtime to memorize lines.”

  Sunil jerked a thumb at the stage. “You really think Arden is going to miss a performance?”

  Isobel followed his gaze. Arden Claire was stalking the proscenium like a tiger that hadn’t had its morning coffee. A statuesque, auburn-haired beauty, Arden had once represented New York in the Miss America pageant and was hailed as a minor celebrity, even though she hadn’t made it past the swimsuit competition. So far, her portrayal of Jennie Sousa was not living up to expectations. Throughout the three-week rehearsal period, Ezra Bernard, the director, had pushed Arden to suppress her natural hauteur and find Jennie’s quiet strength and self-deprecating humor. Their struggles swallowed up rehearsal hours, and the more Ezra tried to mold Arden’s characterization, the more fiercely she clung to the glamour that had guaranteed her past successes, which didn’t exactly endear her to the rest of the company.

  Chris Marshall, the charismatic, square-jawed actor playing Sousa, found her completely intolerable. All Arden’s scenes were with him, which meant her epic ego flashes impacted him more than anyone else. Initially, Chris had struck Isobel as the sort of galvanizing personality who stepped up to lead the company, but after three weeks of Arden, he had withdrawn into sullen, stormy silence. Lately he had stopped addressing his leading lady directly and had taken to routing all his communication through Ezra, a gently bearish man who was growing increasingly frazzled as opening night approached. Isobel was surprised now to see Chris saunter onstage and whisper something in Arden’s ear, prompting her to glower at him and retreat to the wings.

  “Even divas get sick,” Isobel remarked. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Sunil gave Isobel an appraising look. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d warn that girl to watch her back.”

  Isobel flicked her eyes toward him. “Are you being purposely obnoxious today?”

  “I assure you, it’s completely accidental.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Trust me, you’re better off playing Emma.”

  “Jennie is the lead. She’s Sousa’s wife. Emma is a passing fancy. I’m only in act one,” Isobel griped.

  Sunil raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight: you think the show is a piece of crap, but you’re complaining your part isn’t big enough?”

  Isobel crossed her arms defiantly. “What if I am?”

  He laughed. “You are so predictable! Look, Jennie is your typical ingénue. Emma has, if you’ll pardon the expression, spice.” Isobel glared at him, but he went on. “Plus, you get to come back at the end as the hotel maid who finds him dead.”

  “I have two lines and a scream,” she said. “About what you have in act two as the Indian chief who makes Sousa an honorary chieftain.”

  “I don’t scream—I chant.” Sunil twirled the walking stick that rested horizontally across his knee. “Isn’t it time someone told Felicity she hired the wrong kind of Indian? I’m pretty sure the Pawnee Nation doesn’t have a Delhi tribe.”

  Isobel resisted the urge to look several rows behind her, where Felicity Hamilton, artistic director of Livingston Stage, was sitting. Felicity was in her late fifties, short and stocky with impeccably coiffed black hair, a deceptively warm smile, and a calculating gaze. She had never married, but despite an apparent absence of maternal warmth, she treated her nephew and godchild Jethro like a son. It was Jethro Hamilton, a self-described Sousa fanatic, who had written the book and lyrics to Sousacal. The musical was Jethro’s baby, and, in his way, Jethro was Felicity’s.

  “She thinks she’s getting points for non-traditional casting,” Isobel said. “Don’t kill the dream.”

  “Where she’s really getting them is casting a brown person to play Philadelphia gentleman and man of the church Benjamin Swallow, your…gulp…stepfather.”

  Isobel knew that Sunil, an Indian Jew, was perennially frustrated by the inability of directors to see past his ethnicity and hire him for the beautiful tenor he had inherited from his cantor father.

  She patted his hand. “It’s utility casting. They had to give us small parts because we’re covering the leads.” She eyed him curiously. “You are looking over Sousa’s stuff, right?”

  Sunil pulled his hand away. “I’ve glanced at it.”

  “Glanced…?” Isobel’s jaw fell open. “It’s huge! Sousa carries the show.”

  “Eh, it’s pretty much sunk in by osmosis. Besides, you know actors. They’ll drag themselves onstage coughing and hacking rather than turn their creation over to a scheming understudy. You know, I’m not even the—”

  “What if something serious happened to Chris? And what if th
ere were a Broadway producer in the audience and you had to go on?”

  Sunil snorted. “As if Broadway cares a hoot about what happens in the boonies.”

  “Last I checked, Albany was the state capital.”

  “Like I said, the boonies. Theatrically and politically,” Sunil cracked.

  “Plenty of Tony winners are launched in regional theaters like Livingston,” she reminded him.

  Sunil unbent his long legs and stretched them out under the seat in front of him. “Let’s review all the reasons that’s never going to happen with Sousacal. Number one: the show sucks. Number two: the show sucks. And number three: it’s not very good.”

  Isobel turned a page with a dainty finger. “Then you won’t be interested in what I heard from Thomas in the costume shop.”

  “Probably not.” Sunil yawned ostentatiously and tipped his straw boater over his face.

  “Arden, back onstage, please.” Kelly’s voice echoed over the God mic. “We’ll finish the duet and move on to the wedding without stopping. Ensemble, please be ready for your entrance.”

  Isobel set her script on the seat next to her and nudged Sunil. “Come on. Time to make the donuts.”

  He righted his hat with a groan and led her down the aisle. They skirted the orchestra pit via a set of narrow utility stairs and took their places offstage left.

  “So, what did you hear in the costume shop?” Sunil asked casually.

  “I thought you weren’t interested,” Isobel teased.

  “I’m not. I’m bored.”

  Isobel’s eyes darted around the wings. Three chorus women, locals whom Isobel didn’t know well, were fussing with their costumes, which they were all wearing for the first time. One of the ensemble men was trying to draw out the shy little boy who played young Sousa, while two others were engaged in a quiet but intense conversation. Satisfied that nobody was listening, Isobel returned her attention to Sunil.

  “Someone from the Donnelly Group is coming opening night.”