“And so I don’t reject any possibilities, no matter how far-fetched they might seem. That willingness to consider what most would call supernatural events is disturbing to others. Although I didn’t die and come back like your aunt claims she did, I think, however, I have a third eye, just like she might.”
Michele began to hum the theme from Jaws again.
“What I sense from that is that you’re frightened,” he said.
She stopped humming.
He sat up quickly, as if he had heard something only he could hear. “I have to get going,” he said.
“Why? You could stay over.”
“Another time.”
“I don’t like the sound of a promise, never have. It’s usually a way to avoid something unpleasant, something better ignored.”
“It’s not a promise. It’s a fact. I want to know you more, laugh with you, share regrets, hopes, explore every sound and every sight we can together.”
“Be careful. Any other woman would consider that a commitment.”
“You don’t scare me,” he said, and she smiled, reaching up to touch him, almost as if she thought he was unreal for a moment. He took her hand and kissed it. For a moment, neither of them said anything. He glanced at the clock and let go of her hand.
“Are you coming to the trial tomorrow?”
“Now I am,” he said, reaching for his clothes. She pulled the thin blanket over herself and watched him dress. He smiled at her when he was finished.
“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself. I had something to do with this, too,” she said.
He laughed and leaned over to kiss her. “Is your aunt going to be waiting for me out there?” he asked in a whisper.
“You’re the one with the third eye. You tell me.”
He smiled, messed her hair, and walked out. She listened but didn’t hear him say anything to Aunt Eve. She rose and reached for her silky robe. After putting it on, she went to the window to watch him get into his car. He looked up and waved just as she peered through the curtains. Maybe he does have a third eye, she thought.
Moments later, Matthew drove away. She gazed down at the street. A sudden chill came up her legs and embraced her around her waist.
Just around the corner on the street below, its front peering around like a cat, was a black limousine.
21
Dave Duggan was right on target with his prediction.
John Milton offered no real challenge to the prosecution’s case. In an almost paint-by-numbers strategy, he paraded three character witnesses for Lester Heckett, none of whom offered Michele the slightest reason to cross-examine. He didn’t bring up any witnesses to counter the evidence she had presented, not even to confirm that Heckett had no experience or knowledge of guns. The character witnesses were sickly sweet with their testimony. Two of them were secretaries at the company, and another was a broker, who looked as if he thought he was testifying in the O. J. Simpson case or something. He never stopped smiling for the courtroom artist. In the end, it was almost as if Milton were presenting Heckett for a job and had brought along substantial references. Of course, Michele hoped beyond hope that the jury would see that as either arrogant or a sign that Milton believed it was futile to put up a real defense. But deep inside, she knew that was too much wishful thinking.
She made what she could of her trial summary, hanging hard on motive and the possession of the murder weapon. She was careful about Cisley Strumfield’s testimony, implying that the entire gruesome event was mentally disturbing and that her behavior on the stand was understandable. But she stressed that what Mrs. Strumfield had witnessed outside her apartment house on the day her husband was murdered was irrefutable. She was too familiar with Heckett to mistake someone else for him, and any implication to suggest she was responsible for her husband’s death bordered on the ridiculous.
“It’s reaching for straws,” Michele declared. “Mrs. Strumfield had a comfortable relationship with her husband and had no financial reason to see him harmed. What she has now she had before.”
She hammered on Heckett’s lack of an alibi and his lack of remorse, but toward the end, she felt herself stopping in mid-sentence, her words hanging in the air for a few moments and then dropping and smashing at her feet.
Milton, she had to admit, was brilliant. He took the perfect tone with his summary, no longer behaving impishly or sarcastically, instead implying that the prosecution had no choice but to follow through on a very weak case. He practically had the jury feeling sorry for Michele, and almost as a side issue, he urged them to consider Heckett’s guilt or innocence and find him innocent. In the end, Michele actually believed that the jury took a day and a half to deliberate simply out of respect for her. All of them had left the courtroom with reasonable doubt tied in a bow around their necks.
Nevertheless, when it came, the not-guilty verdict felt like a punch in her stomach. Aunt Eve didn’t attend the final days. Each morning, she wore the look of sympathy a parent might give her child when she had lost a contest or hadn’t gotten the choice part she wanted in the school play. “There’s always next time,” although unspoken, still rang through the loft.
Matthew, on the other hand, was more angry than sympathetic. She knew the anger was aimed at himself and was so sharp that she almost felt sorrier for him than she did for herself. He looked like a little boy sulking and threatening to do himself harm.
“I let you down,” he told her after the verdict was announced and the judge had gaveled the case closed. “I know I keep saying it, but it’s true. I should have moved faster. All I had to do was connect the dots and bring it in, but I got distracted. I’m taking on too much.”
“Let’s not start assigning blame,” she said, probably more sharply than she had wished. She didn’t have a chance to soften it, because she was immediately inundated with media and began working with Dave Duggan to put the best face they could on a dramatic defeat. More than one reporter was suggesting that she might not be ready for the big time.
Matthew stood by, wincing at the innuendos and questions. Finally, he mouthed, “I’ll see you later,” and left the courtroom quickly, his head down.
Michele observed that Milton did not spend much time with his client. Of course, Heckett was bursting with glee and gratitude, but she saw that Milton was dismissive. It was almost as if he was eager not to have anything more to do with his client. At one point, he appeared to literally turn his back on Heckett while the man was in mid-sentence laying oodles of thank-yous on his attorney. She could see that Milton was more interested in her and suddenly headed directly for her. The reporters stepped back, parting like the waters of the Red Sea for Moses, and grew still for a moment so they could hear his comments to her.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Ms. Armstrong,” he began. He raised his voice louder when he added, “You kept me on my toes. I couldn’t relax a moment. If you had been handed better evidence to work with, you would have steamrolled me.”
Now that it was over and she was face-to-face with him again, she realized how handsome he was and felt the dazzling light of his eyes on her. His impish little grin was suddenly darker, sexier, more mature. She became conscious of how foolish she looked admiring him, her face softening into an appreciative smile. Instantly, she stiffened her posture and changed expression. “Are you telling us that your client was guilty and got away with it, Mr. Milton?”
He laughed, nodding at the reporters. “See? Don’t underestimate this one, ladies and gentlemen. She has taken a place on the New York legal stage, and she will make headlines soon, I’m sure.”
Cameras clicked.
He leaned toward her. “May I take you to dinner tonight?” he asked. “We don’t have to discuss the case, I promise. I think we can share many common experiences. We both deserve a relaxing evening.”
The question was so out of the realm of expectation that she found herself tongue-tied for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she finally said. “It
might take me a little while to regain my appetite.”
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Michele. You’re stunning. Please. I would be so grateful. After all, there was nothing personal here. We were both performing the parts we were cast to perform. It might very well turn out differently the next time.”
Dave Duggan heard some of this and stood back in awe. Michele looked at the stupid expression on his face, at the reporters still impressed with Milton, and then at Milton again.
Oddly, he looked vulnerable all of a sudden, even desperate for approval, like some errant young boy who wanted to be forgiven, in this case for winning. His eyes were full of pleading. She felt herself weaken.
“I’m returning to my office,” she replied, instead of giving a definitive yes or no. “Call me in an hour.”
“Absolutely,” Milton said, and stepped away.
“You’d go to dinner with him?” Duggan asked instantly.
“Don’t you remember the advice from The Godfather?” she asked, gathering her materials and turning toward the doorway.
“Huh? No. What?”
“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer,” she said, and started out, the reporters still trailing behind her like determined car exhaust.
She was nearly out of the building when Duggan caught up with her again. “Well, at least we got some good news today,” he said. “I was just told.”
“What?”
“Alexander James, one of the senior partners in the firm Milton has joined, fell flat on his face today in court.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just what I said. He collapsed in court just before beginning his cross-examination of one of our witnesses. They took him away in an ambulance. One for the good guys.”
Michele watched Milton getting into his limousine and shook her head. “Don’t be so quick to count a new victory,” she said. “You don’t know who will replace him,” she added and continued to her waiting vehicle.
Inside her car, she watched Milton’s limousine disappear around the corner. Aunt Eve thought there was something dark and foreboding about him. Matthew suspected him of being underhanded. Both thought there was more at stake than the murder trial suggested.
Maybe I’m the only one who can discover what that is, if it is anything at all, she thought. Was she attracted by the challenge or by Milton’s extraordinary good looks? Was it the woman in her or the defender of the public good? More important, perhaps, was she arrogant or just plain stupid after all?
There really was only one way to find out.
She was happy not to find an atmosphere of doom and gloom at the district attorney’s offices. Sofia Walters did her best to hide her disappointment for her. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time,” she said, her smile as buoyant as ever.
Michele collapsed into her desk chair and paused to catch her breath. Despite her effort to remain positive, the ride over did feel like the ride to a cemetery. She sucked in her breath, closed her eyes, and clenched her fists. It had seemed so easy at first. She would gracefully slip into success. She felt like a home-run hitter whose big hit was stolen at the last moment by a dynamic outfielder.
Oddly, what she wanted to avoid the most was not professional criticism but the phone call she expected from her mother as soon as the news reached her protected little world outside the city. Maybe her father would hear about it first. She knew he was trying to keep up with the day-to-day reports on the trial. She could just hear him telling her mother, “Don’t make her feel bad.” Her brother was sure to call, at their father’s request with the words dictated to make her feel better. No matter what they said, she knew they all would now have doubts that she could compete in what her father called the big show.
District Attorney Mike Barrett stepped into the office so quietly she didn’t realize he had entered until he stood before her. She blinked and sat up. “Oh. I didn’t hear you come in, Mr. Barrett.”
“By now, you think you’d be calling me Mike, Michele.” He took the seat in front of her desk. “This is my fault more than yours. I should have gone along with the plea deal Warner Murphy was suggesting. I should also have known we’d be in trouble once we knew there was a professional killer involved and we didn’t tie it up neatly. This Lieutenant Blake had brought us three solid prosecutions before you arrived. Every case was so well put together, and I assumed this one would be similar. Everyone was a little overconfident.”
“Except John Milton,” Michele said.
“Yes. Interesting man. Some things in his past are vague enough to make him a mystery. I don’t want you feeling sorry for yourself. I brought you on because I saw something exceptional in you, and I still believe it’s there. I like the way you handled a difficult situation. You’ll fare far better next time. Eleanor and I are looking over the assignments. I want you busy right away. It’s better not to have too much time for regrets. My brother’s a screenwriter in Hollywood. Did you know that?”
“Yes. Garden of the Dead, Life Sentence, The Dark—”
“You do your homework. Those are his last three, but he’s had plenty of disappointments along the way, and I always remember what his agent told him when they had a disappointment.”
“Which was?”
“One word: next. That was it,” he said, standing. “We’ll have the next one on your desk by tomorrow morning. Whatever you do, don’t spend the evening alone, Michele. Do something interesting,” he advised as he left.
Right on cue, Sofia buzzed her. “I have a Mr. Milton on the line,” she said, obviously trying to contain her own surprise.
Michele hesitated. Then she thought about Mike Barrett’s advice and picked up the receiver.
“Michele Armstrong,” she said. “Aren’t you the prompt one?”
“I was a teacher for a while, and I found that if I wasn’t on time, my students wouldn’t be so concerned about lateness. Forget about that do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do stuff. They do what you do. Always,” he said.
“You were a teacher? I didn’t see that in your résumé.”
“I’ve been many things that I haven’t bothered to acknowledge. I hope to dazzle you with my biography,” he said. “I have reservations for us at a very special restaurant, one you might not have heard of yet, but you will. Angel’s Lair.”
“No, I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s a little bit of gourmet heaven.”
“How is your senior partner?”
“A victim of overindulgences, I’m afraid.”
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned?”
“Oh, I’m concerned, but a long time ago, I learned how to walk and whistle,” he said.
She nearly laughed. She looked at her watch. “I’ll need about two hours to clean up my wounds.”
He laughed. “Wounds? You take everything too personally, but in my book, you are a winner, Michele. Pick you up at seven thirty, then?”
She thought a moment. “Yes,” she said.
“Great. See you then.”
“Wait. You know where I live?”
He laughed again. “I guess I walked into that one. You are a good trial attorney. Yes, I know. I make it my business to know as much as I can about my opponent. I hope you’re not offended.”
“No, but I want to see a lot of quid pro quo at this Angel’s Lair,” she said.
“You will. Promise,” he said. “I’ll be an open book.”
After she hung up, she sat there amazed at herself and how fast it was all moving. Why was she doing this? It was as if she had lost control of herself. Was she on a mission? Was that how she might explain it to Aunt Eve and to Matthew? She didn’t want either to be offended. Perhaps for now, it would be better not to reveal her intentions.
Her mother called less than fifteen minutes later. Despite the warnings she was sure her father had given, her mother’s voice was full of pity. She just had to add, “You could always come home, dear. Never forget that.”
“You should have
read more Thomas Wolfe, Mom,” she told her.
“Thomas Wolfe? Why?”
“He wrote You Can’t Go Home Again.”
“That’s ridiculous. I came home, didn’t I?”
“Yes, yes, you did, Mom. Exactly. Thanks. I’ll call you later in the week. I’m getting another case tomorrow. We win, we lose. It’s the nature of the American legal system. If it was always a sure thing, there would be no need for trials.”
“It’s all too complicated for me. My sister must be driving you nuts about this.”
“She’s fine.” In no way would Michele ever complain about Aunt Eve or especially mention her fixation on the spiritual world. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, even though she had no intention to do so. “Love to Dad and Bailey. ’Bye. I love you,” she added, with her usual nonchalance, which she knew irked her mother.
They had once had an argument about it. “Love,” Michele had argued, “is a diamond word. You banter it about too easily, and like an overabundance of diamonds, it loses its value.”
“Nonsense,” her mother had insisted. “Love can never lose its value if it’s sincere. You’re too pedantic, Michele. Like a lawyer, you parse every word to death. You were always like that, even when you were only four.”
Actually, her mother had made her think. Her comment was surprisingly accurate. Michele wondered if she wasn’t taking their relationship for granted and not giving her mother more credit for some wisdom.
So many exchanges between us and the ones we love are regrettable, she thought. The more we love someone, the more apt we are to wound them in little painful ways. Love really means the power to forgive. That’s what we spend most of our time doing, forgiving each other and, mostly, ourselves.
She rose and quickly bounced out of the maudlin mood. This spurt of energy was definitely unexpected, but instead of leaving the courtroom despising her opponent, she had left fascinated with him. Who was he, really? Did he follow her and Matthew? Like her, he had come out of the hinterlands to take a place on the Great White Way of the American criminal justice system. The tide of time had washed them both ashore almost simultaneously. He was on the more lucrative side of things, so he had perhaps been better equipped.
Judgement Day Page 21
