Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  He heard the girls’ laughter as he closed the apartment door and headed for the elevator. Buoyed by how well it was all going, he felt a new energy and looked forward to getting to the office.

  Just as he pushed the call button for the elevator, he heard a door open and close down the hallway. He turned to see a woman come out of the Scholefields’ apartment. He figured it was Helen Scholefield. She was carrying a painting wrapped in brown paper. Like someone in a trance, she moved slowly, with deliberate steps. As she emerged from the shadows and into the light, Kevin made out her physical characteristics.

  She was a tall woman, nearly Paul’s height, with straw-blond hair and a light complexion. She had her hair pinned on the sides and brushed down just to the center of her shoulder blades. Although she looked a little stiff, her posture was stately. She wore a thin white cotton blouse with a frilly collar and frilly sleeves. The blouse was so thin, he could easily make out the fullness of her bosom. Her breasts were high and firm, and even though she was wearing a long, flower-patterned peasant skirt, he could see she had long legs and slim hips. Her brown leather sandals were fastened with straps that snaked around her ankles.

  The elevator door opened, but Kevin was mesmerized by her approach and didn’t even notice the doors close again. Helen turned to him, her smile beginning around her soft aqua eyes and then moving quickly down to her light orange lips. There were tiny apricot freckles over the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Her skin was so thin at her temples that he could make out the webbing of tiny veins.

  Kevin nodded. “Hi. Are you Mrs. Scholefield?”

  “Yes, and you’re the new lawyer,” she replied, stating it so firmly it was as if she were labeling him for life.

  “Kevin, Kevin Taylor.” He extended his hand, and she took it in her free one. Her fingers were long but graceful-looking. Her palm felt warm, even a bit hot, the palm of someone running a fever. There was a slight flush in her cheeks.

  “I was just on my way to your apartment with a welcoming gift.” She lifted the painting to indicate that it was the gift. Because it was wrapped, he couldn’t see what sort of painting it was. “I did it especially for you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Miriam told me you were an artist. Miriam’s my wife,” he said. “When we came to see the apartment, she visited with Norma and Jean, and I guess they gossiped about everything and everyone. Not that men don’t do that. It’s just . . .” He stopped, feeling as though he were babbling. She held her smile, but her eyes grew smaller and moved from side to side as she scanned his face. “They’re all in there,” he added, pointing toward his doorway, “in the apartment. . . spinning the furniture round and round.” He laughed.

  “I bet.” She looked into his eyes so intently, he felt self-conscious and nodded nervously.

  “I got to . . . got to go over to the office for a little while.”

  “Of course.”

  He pressed the call button again. “I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other,” he said when the doors opened again.

  She didn’t reply. She just shifted her feet so she could turn and look into the elevator at him as the doors closed. He thought she wore an expression of pity. He felt like a coal miner going down into the bowels of the earth to contract black lung.

  What a contrast she was to the other two, he thought. So subdued. It was probably as Paul had suggested—she was shy, withdrawn. And yet he couldn’t remember anyone looking at him so closely. Maybe it was part of being an artist. Sure, artists are always studying people’s faces, searching for new ideas, new subjects, he concluded. So what? He actually thought she was rather attractive. There was a softness in her face, a peaceful quality that made her seem angelic. And even though he had seen her for only a short time, he was intrigued by the mystery of her long legs and firm bosom. He liked women who were subtly sexy. Women like the ones who worked at John Milton’s offices were alluring, but they were so obvious, there wasn’t anything special about them. They were erotic but not deep, he thought. Yeah, that’s it. Helen Scholefield was deep.

  He shook her out of his thoughts and hurried on through the lobby to the waiting limo.

  Everyone, from the doorman to the secretaries, greeted him so warmly and looked at him with such admiration in their eyes, he couldn’t help feeling very important. He wasn’t in his office five minutes before John Milton buzzed him and asked him to come to his office.

  “Kevin, everything going all right?”

  “Perfect. And Miriam wanted me to be sure to thank you for those lovely roses. Very thoughtful.”

  “Oh, I’m glad she liked them. You have to remember to do things like that, Kevin,” he advised in a fatherly tone. “Women like to be pampered. You’ve got to remember to tell her how important she is to you. Adam neglected Eve in Paradise and paid dearly for it later.”

  Kevin didn’t know whether to laugh or nod. John Milton wasn’t smiling. “I’ll remember.”

  “I’m sure you treat your wife well anyway, Kevin. Have a seat. Well,” John Milton said, sitting back, “it happened just as I told you it would. This morning Stanley Rothberg was arrested and booked, charged with the murder of his wife. It will be in the papers and on the news all day and night.”

  Kevin nodded, holding his breath. It was all going to happen. Just like that, he was going to be launched into what most lawyers would consider the most exciting case of their careers. Many worked years to get something like this, and most never did, he thought.

  “I know things are kind of hectic for you right now, with the moving and all, but do you think you could be ready by tomorrow morning for our meeting with Rothberg?”

  “Sure,” Kevin said. He’d work all day and all night if he had to.

  “As I told you, you’ll have to study up on all the aspects of the case, show him you’re knowledgeable and show him you’re going to be aggressive on his behalf.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good.” John Milton smiled, his eyes brightening. “That’s the attitude I expected you’d have. Well, don’t let me keep you. And don’t hesitate to call me at any time if you have any questions. By the way,” he added, reaching into his top drawer and taking out a business card, “this is my home phone number. It’s unlisted, of course.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Kevin took it and stood up. “What time will Rothberg be here?”

  “Our meeting will be at ten A.M. in the conference room.”

  “Okay.” Kevin swallowed. His heart was pounding with excitement. “I better get busy. Thank you for your confidence in me,” he added and left the office.

  Wendy had the files he had asked for on his desk. First, he read up on diabetes, familiarizing himself with the symptoms and the treatments.

  A second file was devoted to Maxine’s nurse, a fifty-two-year-old black woman named Beverly Morgan. Beverly had served as Maxine’s mother’s nurse during her final years after she had suffered a stroke. Her nursing experience was impeccable, but her personal life was filled with tragedy. She had two sons, but her husband had deserted her when the boys were young. One of them had a considerable criminal record by the time he was in his early twenties and had served time twice. He eventually died from a heroin overdose when he was twenty-four. The other had married and had two children and, like his father, had deserted his family and was now working on the West Coast.

  Apparently, Beverly Morgan’s hard life had caught up with her, and although she wasn’t a confirmed alcoholic, she was heavily enough into drinking to attract attention. How else had Mr. Milton’s investigators discovered the incidents in the hotel bar and the fact that she kept a bottle in her room? Kevin reasoned. No wonder Mr. Milton had told him to look over this information. She could have easily made a mistake with Maxine Rothberg’s insulin. In any case it provided a good red herring, something to confuse the jury and twist up the prosecution’s case. If the prosecution intended to use Beverly Morgan as a witness against Stanley Rothberg, he
knew how to discredit her testimony now.

  The most damaging thing was Stanley Rothberg’s affair. Apparently, from what Kevin read, it had begun just about the time Maxine became ill. He would have to decide on a strategy for that. His initial feeling was to have Stanley own up to it quickly and develop the argument that he couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife, especially after she had become so ill; and yet, he was a man, with a man’s needs. Kevin would generate an argument somewhere along those lines, he thought. Juries appreciate honesty, even when someone’s confessing to an immoral act. He envisioned Rothberg breaking up on the stand, regretting the tragedy of his life. Stanley Rothberg loved, he enjoyed, but oh how he suffered through it all.

  The violins were playing. Kevin shook his head. Look, he told his conscience, it could be true; it could very well be the way it was. He had yet to meet Rothberg and decide about the man, but thinking it through from his own point of view, as a man, he could see it as a feasible argument.

  He opened the third file to read about Maxine Rothberg’s personal medical history and quickly saw how her physician, Dr. Cutler, could be an effective witness for the defense. He would have to testify that he had instructed Maxine Rothberg in how to give herself the insulin shot and how much to give. And apparently he also had some negative things to say about Beverly Morgan, strongly suggesting that she should be replaced. Of course, Kevin had yet to see what sort of case the prosecution had, but all this preliminary information buoyed his confidence.

  He looked up when he heard a knock on his door. Paul Scholefield poked his head in. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, great, great. Come on in.”

  “Don’t want to interrupt. I know you’ve had a big case thrown into your lap.”

  “Big isn’t the word for it. The Rothberg case!”

  Paul smiled and sat down, but Kevin thought he didn’t seem all that surprised.

  “You know, the case that’s been in the papers almost every day for the past week or so,” he emphasized.

  Paul nodded. “That’s Mr. Milton’s way. When he has confidence in someone . . .”

  Kevin looked at the open doorway and then leaned across his desk to speak softly to Paul. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful or falsely modest, Paul, I don’t understand why he has such confidence in me. He barely knows me and the kind of work I’ve done up to this point . . .”

  “All I can tell you is he hasn’t been wrong about a person yet, whether it was one of us, a client, or a witness. Anyway, I stopped by to tell you if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “Oh, but you have your own cases . . .”

  “That’s all right. We all make time for each other. Each of us might be out on a separate assignment, but we all pull together. Mr. Milton compares each of us to the tentacles of an octopus. In a way he’s right—by feeding the firm, we feed ourselves. So . . . everything all right back at the apartment?”

  “Great. Oh, I met your wife on the way out.”

  “Oh?”

  “Very attractive woman.”

  “Yes, she is. We met in Washington Square. I think I fell in love with her before I turned my head to look her way.”

  “She has such a peaceful aura about her.”

  “Yes, she does,” Paul said, smiling. “I remember how hyper I used to be when we first got married. Everything was a tragedy, you know. You’re carrying the world on your shoulders, but the moment I got home, it was as if I left the world outside my door.”

  Kevin stared at him a moment. It was good to see that another man loved a woman as completely as he loved Miriam.

  “She was bringing us a painting, something she had done especially for us.”

  “Really? I wonder what it could be. I didn’t see anything new.” He looked troubled by the information. He hesitated a moment and then looked down.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so. We got some bad news yesterday.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Anything we can help with?”

  “No, nobody can help. We’ve tried to have children and failed. Helen’s doctor has now confirmed that she’s . . . incapable of becoming pregnant.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Just one of those things. As Mr. Milton said this morning when I told him, you just have to go on from there. Play whatever hand you’re dealt.”

  “I guess that’s good advice.” Kevin wondered for a moment how he would react to discovering either he or Miriam was sterile. Having his own child had always been so important to him. Like any prospective young parent, he often daydreamed about taking his son to baseball games or buying his daughter dolls. He would start their college funds the day they were born. They had already decided they wanted a boy and a girl and would go as far as trying four times to have them. With the money he was going to make, he could afford four children if he had to.

  “Yes, well, we’ve discussed adopting.”

  Kevin nodded. “Whatever happened to the Jaffees’ child?”

  “Richard’s brother took him, and guess what—his brother is an attorney, too. He told Mr. Milton he would do everything he could to make it possible for Richard’s son to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  “Mr. Milton knew him?”

  “He took charge after Richard’s . . . Richard’s suicide. That’s the kind of guy he is. Well,” he said, rising, “I’ll let you get back to work. Good luck. Oh”—he turned from the doorway—“scuttlebutt around here is Mr. Milton will be having a party in honor of you in his penthouse very soon. And believe me, when Mr. Milton throws a party, it’s a party.”

  Miriam sat back on the couch, exhausted. Excluding lunch, she hadn’t stopped from the moment they got up this morning. Norma and Jean were a wonderful help, but she thought they got a little silly at the end, arguing over who would invite her and Kevin over for dinner first. Finally, she told them to toss a coin, and Norma won. Kevin and she would go there tomorrow night and then to Jean’s the night after.

  But the most trying moments of the afternoon came when Helen Scholefield stopped by. It was weird the way she suddenly materialized like a ghost. No one heard the doorbell or heard her come in. Norma, Jean, and she had just stopped for a moment after pushing the couch from one side of the living room to the other and then back again, laughing at their indecisiveness. Miriam sensed someone else was in the room and turned toward the doorway. She thought Kevin might have come back because he had forgotten something.

  But there she was, clutching the wrapped painting against her body and staring at them with a soft smile on her face. She made Miriam think of an older woman caught smiling enviously at young children at play.

  “Oh,” Miriam exclaimed. She looked quickly to the other girls.

  “Helen,” Norma said. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

  “How are you?” Jean asked quickly.

  “I’m all right,” she replied and turned her attention to Miriam. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Helen, this is Miriam Taylor,” Norma said quickly. “Miriam, Helen Scholefield.”

  Miriam nodded again.

  “I brought you something, a welcoming gift,” Helen said, stepping forward and handing her the wrapped painting. “I hope you like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure Helen painted it herself,” Jean said.

  Miriam looked up quickly from the package.

  “Yes, yes I did, but don’t be afraid to say you don’t care for it. My work is . . . special, different. Not everyone appreciates it, I know,” she said, looking pointedly at Norma and Jean.

  If that were the case, Miriam wondered, staring at Helen, why bring someone one of your paintings as a welcoming gift? Why not find out first if they appreciate the kind of art you do?

  “Kevin and I have absolutely no artwork to hang. I’m afraid we’re both a little ignorant when it comes to that sort of thing.”

  “You won’t be for long,” Norma warned.

 
; “Maybe Helen will come with us to the Museum of Modern Art this week,” Jean said.

  All eyes were on Helen. She widened her smile. “Maybe,” she said with a tentative tone.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Miriam asked, not yet having unwrapped the painting.

  “Oh no, please. You’re very busy.”

  “We should take a break,” Jean said. “We’re getting a little stupid, moving pieces of furniture one way and then another.”

  “I can’t stay anyway,” Helen said. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Miriam replied.

  “I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  “Perhaps you’ll stop by later, when you return,” Miriam suggested.

  “Yes,” Helen said, but there was no promise or hope in it. She looked around. “Your apartment is going to be lovely, as lovely as . . .” She looked from Norma to Jean. “As ours are.”

  “I’m excited about living here—the views, the proximity to so many museums and good restaurants . . .”

  “Yes. We’re close to everything, good things as well as bad.”

  “We don’t want to think about anything bad,” Jean said quickly, in a reproachful voice.

  “No . . . no, I don’t suppose you do. Why should you? Why should anyone?” she asked rhetorically. She suddenly looked as if she were all alone, thinking aloud. Miriam turned to Norma, who shook her head. Jean raised her eyes toward the ceiling and then looked away.

  “Is Charon going to take you to your appointment?” Norma asked her, obviously anxious to see her move along.

  “Charon takes us everywhere,” Helen replied. “That’s his purpose.”

  Miriam’s eyes widened. What a strange way to put it, she thought.

  “Well, maybe he’s waiting for you downstairs,” Jean suggested.

  Miriam noticed Helen’s expression change from a soft, esoteric look to a sharply knowing one as she focused on the two women. Then she smiled warmly again and turned to Miriam. “I’m sorry my first visit is so short, but I wanted to be sure to stop by to say hello and welcome you before going to my appointment.”