One Must Wait

by Penny Mickelbury

  Al relaxed his face into an almost-grin, crossed to the couch, and collapsed on to it, long legs splayed out in front of him. "I can document five instances of flat-out bribery of government officials. State and federal. And the payments are part of their official records, C.A. These people pay bribes and record the transactions, for Chrissakes! Are they that damn stupid or am I the one missing something?"

  "Well, you know, I've heard that Louisiana is different. Kinda in the same way that New York and New Jersey are different." She paused, aware of the potential absurdity of what she'd just said, but finding no need to clarify. It made perfect sense, she was thinking, until she realized that he hadn't heard, that he was far away in his own thoughts.

  "Then people started vanishing. Every time I go back to Louisiana, somebody I contacted the previous trip is gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Nobody knows where or why or even when, except that it was after contact with me, the most recent occurrence being in January. And if you thought I had a hard time talking to Tennessee and Kentucky hill people, you oughta see me trying to talk to Louisiana swamp people! And these are my own people! Black people. But I might as well be beamed down from the Starship Enterprise."

  "What do you mean by 'disappear' and 'vanish'? What people? And what kind of people? Oil riggers or housewives?" She was both interested and concerned. Interested because unexplained behavior is the kind of thing that interested her, and concerned because she heard something almost like fear in Al's voice, and he was not the kind of man who frightened. Easily or otherwise.

  "You know what? I don't want to talk about this any more."

  "The hell you don't!" Carole Ann strode over to him, hands on hips, and angled her torso in his direction. "You think you can give me half an explanation for quitting your job and have that be OK?"

  "Do I have to give you any explanation?" he asked with his easy grin.

  "Damn straight, Buster!" she snapped at him, hands still firmly planted on narrow hips. "I want the whole deep and skinny. Who vanished? Who got bribed? And what's frightening you?"

  They held each other in a locked gaze for a long, tense moment. He bristled at her insight and the accusation it brought, and she tensed in anticipation of his reaction to her accusation. Then, as if taking a director's cue, they both released breath and tension. Carole Ann stepped back, out of her attack posture and Al unhitched his shoulders and relaxed his brow.

  "I don't know who or what Parish Petroleum is. I can't unravel the pieces. And they—whoever they are—don’t want me to find out, and I've been trying for more than seven months. As far as I can tell, C.A., there is no such entity as Parish Petroleum except on paper: On checks, on contracts, on stationery, on twenty year old legal documents. I meet with men who say they work for Parish Petroleum. I spent all day today with three of them, and if I'm honest, I have to say they're what frightened me. These guys are evil, C.A. And then there are the lies. According to Larry Devereaux, our firm was hired to help bring Parish Petroleum into compliance with EPA regulations. But that's a lie! I know it's a lie just as sure as I know those three guys I was with today are evil. And if my clients are evil and my boss is a liar, where does that leave me? I'm tired of worrying about what to do, Babe, so I decided I won't do it any more. I just can't." These last words sprung from him as supplication: Could she understand, condone, forgive, accept?

  She knelt down before him and rested her chin on his knees and looked into his eyes. Then a slow grin spread over her face, pulling her full lips up and causing her eyes to sparkle and dance. "Your mother's gonna have a fit and fall in it when you tell her we're both unemployed!" Carole Ann began to giggle at the spectacle of her hoity-toity mother-in-law receiving the news that her high-powered lawyer of a son quit his job. "What are we gonna tell her we do for a living now? I hear that catfish farming is pretty lucrative. Or we could open a bed and breakfast down in the islands some place. Oh! I know! A dude ranch! In Arizona, or maybe New Mexico." She was laughing out loud now, enjoying the specter of her mother-in-law's discomfort as well as Al's own. Certainly he hadn't gotten as far in his mental processes as telling his mother of his decision. "Well, you can console her with the fact that we've got lots of money." She sat up straight. "We do have lots of money, don't we?" That was one thing she left completely and totally to his discretion. Discussions of money bored her, as did the people whose job it was to discuss money.

  "Depends on what you mean by, 'lots.' By Hollywood standards, no. But if we're careful, we don't ever have to work again. Not for someone else."

  "Oh, I like the sound of that! Catfish, here we come!"

  He leaned forward and grabbed her, pulling her off the floor and into his embrace. She sat half in his lap, half on the sofa, still laughing. He playfully bit the back of her neck.

  "So when did you decide?"

  "This afternoon," she replied, then hesitated. "Or maybe yesterday or the day before." She paused, wanting to be precise. She took a deep breath, calming herself, clarifying her thoughts, and told him about Hazel Copeland from beginning to end. And when she was finished he held her tightly and kissed the top of her head.

  "What time are you meeting Tommy in the morning?"

  "Roll call," she groaned. "Six-fifteen."

  "And then what?"

  "Back to the office, to quit." She said the words, felt the feeling, searching for signs that she was making a mistake. There were none. "I've never quit a job before. How do you do it?"

  "I don't know," Al said, surprise raising his voice half an octave. "I hadn't thought that far. Write a letter?" They held the question between them, and they laughed. They weren't just quitting jobs; they both were partners in multi-million dollar corporations, with legal and fiduciary responsibilities. They could not just write letters of resignation, clean out their desks, and tell everybody good-bye. Besides, and Carole Ann was jolted by the thought, they had employees: She had Cleo and Al had Ernestine, women who worked for them, not for the law firms. They'd have to find jobs for them. Now C.A. was feeling what quitting would mean and so, she saw, was Al.

  "Do you have depositions scheduled for tomorrow?"

  "No," he said. "Not until Monday."

  "OK. Let's meet for lunch and work out a strategy," she said. "We can review our contracts..." She started to laugh. "Here we are, hot shot lawyers, and we forgot we have contracts that tell us what we can and can't do. I don't even know where mine is!"

  Al laughed with her. "With mine. In the safe deposit box. Way in the bottom of the safe deposit box," he said through the tears that his laughter had brought.

  "I've never read the thing," Carole Ann managed to stutter through peals of laughter. "I just signed it. Suppose we can't quit?" They collapsed in laughter, hugging each other, holding each other, holding on to each other, supporting each other.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Carole Ann initially was mystified by the crowd that milled about on the lawn in front of the police precinct. The happy crowd. People standing around as if in attendance at a social function, half of them drinking coffee from their kitchen mugs, and talking and laughing in a quiet, friendly manner. Some were dressed casually, in shirt sleeves and jeans, while others clearly were dressed for the work day, in suits and summer silk dresses. A gentle familiarity prevailed. Nothing out of the ordinary, their behavior proclaimed. Except that it was six o'clock in the morning and there were four television vans parked on the sidewalk.

  Why the hell did they always think they were above and beyond the law, Carole Ann fumed to herself? If any ordinary citizen had the temerity to park on the sidewalk, in front of the police station no less...and then they, the crowd, were pointing at them, at Carole Ann and Tommy. Laughing and pointing and surging en masse toward them.

  "What in the world—” Tommy began before the grin broke out and spread over his face as he heard them calling his name. They were here for him. These were residents of his neighborhood. They were here to welcome him back to work, back to his job of protecting and se
rving them. Back to offering them some small comfort from the harshness of the reality of their surroundings; for they lived in one of the worst neighborhoods in D.C. Nobody would dispute that, including the people surging toward him. They were Black. They were the working poor. They were captive to the tiny houses and housing projects that they called home. He knew many of them, especially the older ones; but many of the younger ones, too, those still alive or not in jail.

  "A hero's welcome," Carole Ann said, the lightness of her tone not quite covering the emotion welling up inside her. "You were right to return to work, Tommy. I'm glad you didn't listen to me."

  "Just as long as you know it's the only time I didn't listen to you." He fixed her with his serious face and she laughed at him, grateful for the spontaneous outpouring of support, and understanding fully how important such a display would be for the top brass in the department. Now police officials could claim Tommy's return was a mandate from the public and could, therefore, embrace him and distance themselves from him at the same time. Legally, the department had no choice but to permit his return: He was guilty of no crime, had done nothing to violate his oath of office. But department brass claimed to be concerned about any lingering effects the months of bad publicity could have on Tommy's effectiveness. The friendly gathering would suggest that Tommy's image was untarnished.

  "Miss Gibson...C.A.?" Tommy tugged at her arm like an impatient five year old.

  "What is it, Tommy?"

  "The damn reporters again. Will you..."

  She shook her head with a rueful grin. "Not today, Pal. This is your show. You can talk to 'em or not, doesn't matter to me. But my lips are sealed." They walked in step toward the squat, ugly precinct house, tan with chocolate trim, a government building if ever there was one. Tommy smiled and waved, shook the hands offered to him, addressed several people by name, accepted the hugs of several women who most probably were friends of his mother and grandmother. Then there was a rustling in the crowd, and the mood shifted. Carole Ann tensed, then relaxed. Doctor Death and three of his companions approached them from across the street. Tommy stood and waited for them. She waited with him.

  The four of them dressed as one, in clothes that were huge and hideous—dark, baggy, butt-hugging denim trousers and matching hooded jackets and white sneakers with soles that appeared to be three inches thick and vibrating colors of purple and turquoise. Carole Ann knew the attire was expensive, and had frequently wondered at the mentality of the garment manufacturers that produced clothes for hoodlums and for the poor youth who emulated them. The hoodlums sold drugs to be able to afford the clothes; the kids who emulated them robbed people like ones surrounding her to be able to afford them.

  Doctor Death walked as if he were the Grim Reaper, with a deliberate slowness that intended the obvious insult. He swaggered. He grinned, showing gold, to complement that in his ears and around is neck. Thick-rimmed, black-lensed glasses hid his eyes from the pre-dawn. His pockets hid his hands and whatever they might hold. And Carole Ann did not doubt for a second that Doctor Death and his posse were armed.

  She watched Tommy watch them, watched the crowd watch Tommy and the thugs. It was a fascinating dynamic. The crowd knew that Doctor Death had stepped up to the plate for Tommy, and that his presence and testimony had carried weight in the courtroom. They also knew that he was, in truth and actuality, certain death to their neighborhood. They wondered, Carole Ann knew, how much gratitude Tommy thought he owed. The answer was immediate.

  "Fish," Doctor Death intoned. "What up, Man?" He offered his hand and Tommy took it, firmly, briefly.

  "I didn't know you got up this early, Charles. You turnin' over a new leaf?" Tommy's use of the gangster's given name startled him, then annoyed him.

  "I ain't turnin' nothin' but dollars," he growled.

  "And that won't be for much longer," Tommy said quietly but forcefully, and the two young men stood toe to toe, eye to eye for a long, breathless moment. Nobody, it seemed, breathed in the few seconds that they held each other by the eyes.

  Carole Ann was fascinated by their sameness: They were approximately the same height, weight and build. Both were handsome young men, though Tommy's good looks were enhanced by the light in his eyes and the goodness of his spirit, while Doctor Death oozed meanness and hostility. But both were strong-willed, strong-spirited and determined, and Carole Ann, as she watched them, saw who and what they were, understood, as they understood, that they could never again share the same turf, that one of them would destroy the other and do so soon. And in that moment, Carole Ann knew that her decision to change her life was the correct one. She knew that she could never again defend a drug dealer or a rapist or a murderer, the defendant's right to counsel notwithstanding. She looked at the beleaguered citizens of this neighborhood, standing outside in the pre-dawn warmth, their fear of and hatred for Doctor Death and all like him as palpable as the spring morning air, and knew that there needed to be somebody standing up for their rights. She looked at them and saw a crowd of Hazel Copelands and vowed never again to put them at risk. Tommy and Doctor Death broke their visual hold on each other and went their separate ways, the drug dealer sauntering back toward the housing project that was his refuge and his victim, the cop striding into the building from which he'd been banned a year ago, to reclaim his gun and his badge and the identity that separated him irrevocably from Doctor Death. She watched one, then the other. Tommy stopped, turned, waited for her to catch up to him, the puzzled look on his face testimony to the fact that he did not understand that her holding back to watch him was a gesture of pride, of gratitude, of love. A woman in the crowd spoke her thoughts for her.

  "You go on in there, Son, and keep your head up high. We're with you all the way!" A spattering of spontaneous applause and a gentle murmuring of assent followed them into the building.

  Carole Ann thought of Al, who at this moment probably was running his four miles around the track at George Washington University, unless he felt he had time to run down to the Ellipse. She would relish telling him of these moments this morning, of how the rightness of her decision—of their decisions—filled her with a joy she'd not felt in a very long time. As she thought of him, thought of who and how he was, she envisioned him running faster this morning, with a lightness brought on by more than Spring. He would be at the bank promptly at nine and get their contracts from the safe deposit box. They would meet for lunch at one, read the documents, and finalize a plan of action. Her most difficult task between now and then would be not quitting before she knew whether or not she could.

  "Didn't you hear a word I said?" Bob Pritchard roared at her, eyes and neck veins bulging.

  "I heard all of your words, Bob. I just didn't hear any that explained how or why you found my words to the media yesterday so upsetting. Perhaps we could take it from the top."

  "Don't you dare patronize me." This was a new Bob: Icy cold and menacing. He clinched and unclenched his fists and looked at her as if having difficulty controlling the desire to strike.

  "I wouldn't dream of it, Bob," she said, maintaining her airy tone. What she was controlling was the desire to tell him to go fuck himself. But she leaned back in her chair and fixed him with a completely mild and unthreatening gaze. Then she leaned forward. "But you really will have to help me out here. Are you saying that you've changed your opinion of the press or of my personal preference for dealing with them?"

  He opened and closed his mouth but no sound came out for several seconds, and when it did, it was through tightly clenched jaws. "We carefully devised a strategy for your media relationships."

  "No, Bob, we did not devise anything." She cut him off with a razor-sharpness that so startled him he backed up a step. "I decided to stop talking to reporters. That was my policy. It was not a strategy or a game plan or any other sports-related thing. I decided to break that silence yesterday. It was a mistake—”

  "You're damn right it was!" It was his turn to cut her off, but she held her ground, and
, simultaneously, held his gaze so steadily that she perceived his growing discomfort.

  "Well. I'm glad we agree. So I will return to my policy of across-the-board 'no comment' to the media," she said with a calm she did not feel, and stood up to signal that she wished him to leave.

  "We have reached no point of agreement, Miss Gibson. You will address the media at one-thirty this afternoon in the partners' law library to explain your comments made yesterday."

  "I have a one o'clock appointment, so it won't be possible for me to be here at one-thirty. But even if I didn't, I wouldn't. I have said all I have to say to the media. And you, Mr. Pritchard, do not schedule time for me. Not now, not ever." Carole Ann wanted to remember if she'd ever been as angry as she was that moment; the effort to remember is what prevented her loss of control.

  "I will do whatever I think is in the best interests of this law firm. And right now, what is best for this firm is that there be some explanation of your comments. Jesus Fucking Christ, Carole Ann, you accused the people of slander!" What had begun as a barely audible, clinched-jawed, pronouncement ended as a roaring tirade. Carole Ann closed her eyes and wanted to cover her ears.

  "They did slander him, Bob," Carole Ann replied wearily, opening her eyes and focusing them on her boss. "They called him a drug dealer; they called him a dirty cop; they called him Doctor Death's best friend—not that the two had been best friends in kindergarten and elementary school. The boy's grandfather had a heart attack as a result of the things the press said about Tommy Griffin, whose name, by the way, is Thomas Lee Griffin the Third."

  "Do you not realize that the firm absolutely must make a response to your comments?" It was his turn for weariness.

  "Then as the chief of the litigation section, Bob, please feel free to make a response. After all, I work for you," Carole Ann replied so dryly that he quickly looked for the sarcasm that must have been intended.