We’re the silver girls—our dream came true.
Rebecca tipped her chin, a little nod. From a distance she could hear the clarinet and sax and drums of a second-line band moving down Royal Street toward the square.
As Clarence took her coat and Rebecca and Peter were seated, Doug remained standing. He lifted his glass and tapped it lightly. For Rebecca, the thin, bell-like tone sounded a new beginning. But as calls of “Speech! Speech!” arose so did the half-formed worry that she’d been holding at bay for almost a week. The question came unbidden—what if that tinkling sounded an ending, and not a beginning.
She shook off the vague fear. Not tonight. Beneath the table Peter rested his hand on her knee, and her husband’s touch was warm and comforting. She turned her head and smiled.
Doug clanged the spoon against the glass again and gave a little speech welcoming Amalise and Rebecca into the partnership of the firm.
From someone at the far end of the table: “Did I hear we’ve now got girls in the firm?”
There was laughter all around.
Raymond stood and raised his glass. “A toast, please, to our lovely new partners!” He took in both Amalise and Rebecca with his eyes as he said with a grin, “On your first day with the firm, Preston and I took you to Bailey’s for lunch to welcome you. Do you remember what I said that day?”
Rebecca glanced at Amalise; they both shook their heads.
He laughed. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you, but guess what, girls. You’ve now reached the bottom of a whole new food chain.”
Groans and laughter erupted. Amalise met Rebecca’s eyes, and Rebecca saw a reflection of her thoughts. The competition is never over; not really. But Amalise didn’t care as much as she, Rebecca knew.
After the toasts were finished, everyone talked and laughed, as always, Rebecca loved the chatter, the noise, the ambient hum of a crowd—the music of her life. Exuberant, triumphant, she turned to Peter, smiling and lifting her face for his kiss, forgetting all about that fear in this moment.
He slipped his arm around her shoulders and leaning close, whispered, “Enjoy this night, Beauty. You’ve earned it.”
As the kitchen doors burst open and a platoon of Antoine’s tuxedoed waiters marched toward the Mangen & Morris table in double lines, each waiter balancing a silver tray at shoulder level, Clarence appeared at Peter’s side. A hand slipped a plate of steaming Gulf oysters before Peter just as Clarence whispered in his ear—“Telephone for you, Mr. Peter.”
He nodded, and with a longing long at the Oysters Rockefeller, folded his napkin and placed it on the table near his plate.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to Rebecca. She looked at him and nodded.
Clarence led Peter to the small office and left him there. Peter took the phone, said hello, and heard the voice of Fred McAndrews, detective first class, homicide division, known as Mac. Mac was the detective he preferred to work with on cases. Mac got right to the point. Peter listened.
“Who signed the warrant?” he asked when Mac had finished. He turned, sitting on the edge of a desk as he spoke, studying the array of photographs covering the walls of the little room. Framed sepia shots of family over the years, and some of diners, celebrities he supposed.
“Judge Florant.” Mac sounded tired, beaten down. That was unusual—Mac was usually unflappable.
“She made the complaint this morning?”
“About nine or ten, I guess.”
“You moved fast.”
“Yeah. Her story was pretty convincing. And it was exigent circumstances. We had to get out there before they moved the body.” Peter heard him blow out his breath. “Still, they’d already put it in the freezer.”
“Any idea how long it was in there?”
“Other than what the complainant told us, no. Not yet anyway.” Seconds passed. “There’s no way to tell. Stephanie says after it thaws, she’ll try to fix a time line. But, you know, all around this is a very strange situation.”
Peter’s voice was harsh. “You got that right.” It was hard to believe, in fact. Good that Stephanie Kand had gone along with them. She was the best forensic pathologist in the Parish coroner’s office in his opinion. No question she’d do a thorough job. If anyone could work out the mystery, Dr. Kand could.
“Sorry to bust in on the party,” Mac said. “I know this is a special night.”
“I’m glad you called. Keep me informed, will you?”
“Sure.”
Peter dropped his chin and closed his eyes. His was a violent world. He’d never gotten used to the cruelties, though, and he hoped he never would. The world was sad. So much pain, and the malevolence—he saw it, lived it every day as a prosecutor. But he’d chosen this path in the DA’s office just for that reason—to clean things up.
Could what he now suspected really be happening? If so, and if he decided to take the case to trial, it would be the biggest challenge he’d ever faced. And one, he was sure would keep him up at night.
He stood there, hand on the cradled telephone receiver, thinking about the complaint that Mac had described. It didn’t make any sense. But the evidence doesn’t lie.
Love, when she’d finally found it with Peter, was everything Rebecca had always dreamed. They were made for each other, both had set goals early on in life and both were passionate in their drive to make these dreams come true. Both were ambitions, albeit for different reasons. She adored her husband, and her love was fully returned.
Peter’s goals were different from hers though. Since she was a child, she’d known that she could accomplish great things, but in her most honest moments with herself, she acknowledged that what propelled her was the idea of success, glittering top-of-the-world achievement, and the rewards that go along with that. She loved living the good life.
Peter, on the other hand, was motivated by his desire to make a difference in the world. He’d graduated with honors from Loyola Law School and had his choice of firms. But instead he’d accepted the Jefferson Parish District Attorney’s offer right away because he loved the idea of being in the trenches, fighting the battles. He’d once said that he believed that right and wrong, good and evil, must be understood and recognized if we’re to overcome. Consecrated was the word he’d used. Good must be consecrated.
Peter’s dream was to spend his life making the world a little safer. She’d loved that about him.
Not that they didn’t have their disagreements. They were both strong-willed. And stubborn. But, oh how she loved him. She admired him. They sometimes teased each other about their choices. She was a bird in a gilded cage downtown, he would say. He was just a gladiator, she’d reply. But with both of them, for different reasons perhaps, work came first. Like her, Peter was completely focused on his career.
And so, with Antoine’s glittering around her, she finished the soup, lifted the napkin from her lap and patted her lips, then folded it and placed it back down on her lap. Peter had not yet returned from that phone call.
Doug leaned toward her and they began talking about the new office that came with the partnership, more room, several large windows instead of one, and new furniture that she could choose. She beamed as he talked, nodding and listening, once in a while adding that she’d like this or that—a larger desk, for example; made of walnut. And she preferred a conversation area in one corner instead of the usual small conference table. She’d been thinking about this for years. The office should look crisp and sharp, efficient, but elegant.
Across the table Jude was telling Preston about a house he’d just renovated for friends in the Foubourg Marigny, the district bordering the down-river side of the French Quarter. The house was one on Kerelec Street where Luke had lived as a foster child.
“Luke’s working with me on that Marigny job,” Jude was saying. “I’m teaching him how to lay tile.”
“That
’s a good area,” Doug replied without missing a beat.
Amalise caught Rebecca’s eye and they exchanged a secret smile. The house on Kerelec house had been involved in a strange transaction five years ago that had cost the firm some time and money, and caused Doug plenty of heartburn.
Peter touched her shoulder as he slid into the empty chair beside her.
“Trouble?” She turned to him, hoping they wouldn’t have to leave.
He shook his head. “Mac’s taking care of it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Conversations continued, the buzz increased, and all thoughts of work were left behind as waiters carrying huge trays of Baked Alaska overhead arrived.
3
Rebecca tipped back the chair as she read. The small type in the Offering Memorandum seemed to swim before her eyes. A vague sense of nausea swept her now. It was nine o’clock in the morning and she told herself that she should have just stayed in bed after last night’s celebrations. It was Saturday and the office was deserted so she jumped when a voice nearby whispered, “Hello.”
“How long have you been here?” Rebecca put the document down and rubbed her eyes.
“Not long.” Amalise dragged over a chair and sat down. “What are you working on?” Leaning back, she eyed the document that Rebecca had been reading.
Rebecca looked down at the papers, and back at Amalise. “This is a new client. Roberts Engineering.”
“You brought that work in?”
“Yes.” She pulled back her hair, twisted it, and let it fall. “I met the CFO at a party a few weeks ago. He’s a friend of a friend of Peter’s. I’ve got Sydney Martin on it, and a couple other associates, and we’re meeting in half an hour to set up a schedule. I’m just trying to grasp the big picture right now.”
A fleeting look of envy crossed Amalise’s face, and then it disappeared. Rebecca studied her friend, who, she reminded herself, was also her competition. Mixed emotions rose. It was a real coup for a young partner to bring an important client to the firm. Amalise was turning this news over in her mind, she knew. But in an instant, Amalise managed a smile.
“Congratulations,” she said. Her tone was sincere. She tapped her fingers on the end of the armrest and let a beat go by, staring through the window. Then she turned her eyes back to Rebecca. “Do you suppose that now we’re partners, we’re on our own? Expected to bring in all of our own work?”
“I don’t know.” Rebecca’s reply was honest. Bringing in a new client wasn’t easy. And even though it was 1982, in the business world, 99 percent of decision-makers were men; this was unexplored territory for Amalise and Rebecca.
Suddenly, nausea sent the room spinning. Holding on, she looked at Amalise. “I suppose we’ll soon find out.”
“Maybe Raymond was right that we’re starting over now.” Amalise smiled. “Maybe I’ll take up golf.”
Rebecca braced her hands against the edge of the desk and pushed back, stretching her arms. She flinched, pressing one hand over her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Amalise’s voice was sharp as she rose. Rebecca bent and felt the cold dampness on her face, her neck.
“Rebecca?” Amalise stood over her, her hand warm on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Can I get you something?”
She managed to hold up one hand, pressing her lips together as she shook her head. The nausea was winning. Please, please, she thought, let Amalise leave right now.
“I’m fine,” she said, struggling to keep her tone casual. “I’m all right. Didn’t sleep well at all last night.” Glancing at the door, she swallowed. Ten steps to the doorway, a short walk down the hall to the restroom. Amalise cautiously backed up, her eyes on Rebecca.
With a rap on the door, Raymond walked in. She straightened as he halted just behind Amalise. “Twenty-four hours as partners and you’re both still here. That’s a good sign. But you’re looking a little wan, Rebecca.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Smiling, she waved him off. Amalise seemed to get the message. Hooking her arm through Raymond’s, she turned him toward the door. As they entered the hallway, she looked back over her shoulder and mouthed to Rebecca, “Call me.”
That nagging suspicion that she’d carried around for the last few weeks deepened now. She would have to make an appointment, she knew. And then, if her suspicion was confirmed? The room seemed to dim, almost as if clouds had covered the sun.
When she could no longer hear Amalise’s and Raymond’s voices, she hurried toward the restroom. First thing Monday morning she’d make the call.
At the same time, on that same morning, Peter was in his office in Gretna, a small incorporated city in Jefferson Parish, just across the river from the edge of the Central Business District in New Orleans where Rebecca worked. The district attorney’s offices were housed on the upper floors of the Parish courthouse building near the foot of Huey P. Long Drive. The first four floors above the lobby of the building housed the courtrooms. The street ended at the levee and the Mississippi River and the ferry landing, and the blocks just before the levee constituted the courthouse area. Peter’s office was on the tenth floor, on the side of the building that faced the river and the city of New Orleans through a wall of green glass.
Peter’s office was five hundred square feet and, like the two other senior assistant district attorneys, the ADAs, he enjoyed a private office with a view. Just outside the row of senior ADAs’ offices was a large open room where the junior ADAs had their desks. The cavernous room was brightly lit and noisy. Molly, the secretary that Peter shared with the other Senior ADAs, had her desk there as well. The district attorney’s office suite was one floor up.
Unlike Rebecca’s office across the river, the furnishings in Peter’s office were utilitarian, and he liked it that way. There was a large oak desk with lots of drawers, and two wooden club-style chairs for visitors. Most of the wall space was taken up by three army-green filing cabinets containing files for his open cases. On any given day, Peter might have over a hundred cases moving forward on his schedule. Simple. Efficient. Everything he needed.
On this Saturday morning, things were quiet and Peter’s door was open. He heard footsteps and looked up. Mac was standing there.
He’d been reading a defense motion in a hearing scheduled for Monday morning. Bullets from guns shot off celebrating last New Year’s Eve along Lake Pontchartrain had rained down on citizens in Metairie, killing one.
With a nod, Mac pinched the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and walked in.
“Figured I’d find you here,” he said, pulling out a chair before Peter’s desk and taking a seat. “You sure know how to waste a Saturday morning.”
Peter tossed the papers down, nodding toward them. “The raining bullets case. It’s coming to trial soon.”
“You’d think people would’ve learned that whatever goes up must come down.”
Peter tipped back his chair. “How are thing coming along on the case you called me about?”
“It’s insane.” Mac stubbed his cigarette into the glass ashtray on the visitor side of Peter’s desk. “Everything’s backwards. And it’s gonna break your heart.”
“The complainant’s a young girl name of Glory Lynn Chasson.” Mac pushed out his lower lip, hesitating before he went on. “Says she’s twenty. I’m pretty sure she’s younger, but we haven’t got to that.”
His eyes wandered to the window. “Like I told you, when she first showed up at the station yesterday morning, she was upset. Hard to understand what she was saying at first, until her father calmed her down some.”
Peter nodded. “What exactly did she allege?”
The detective gave Peter a long look and drew in his breath. “She went to the Alpha Woman’s Clinic out in Metairie for an abortion. The abortion was performed, but the baby lived.” He paused. “Have you ever heard of that?”
“No, never.”
“Well. She says she heard the infant crying and then, doesn’t know what happened to it. This was during the procedure and she was groggy from some valium they’d given her. She’d thought the abortion was all over, but then she claims she heard an infant’s cry. Clear as a bell, she heard a baby cry, she says.” He dipped his chin, looking at Peter from under his brows. “She claims when she heard that cry, everything in her changed. She realized that something had gone wrong and her baby was alive. Says she remembers screaming that she wanted to see the baby; that she wanted to hold it. That she’d changed her mind and not to hurt it.”
“She remembers all of this?”
“Yep. Says they wouldn’t let her see it. She remembers struggling with a nurse. Then another nurse, by the name of Clara Sonsten, came in while she was fighting with the first one. She was trying to get out of bed and the doctor was telling her to keep still, not to move.” He shrugged. “That’s all she remembers. Thinks she might have fainted or something.”
“That’s it?”
Mac nodded. “Doesn’t remember a thing after that, not until she woke up in another room a few hours later. By that time, they told her the baby had died.” He paused. “In her words, they just let it die.”
“She’s claiming homicide. Says the doctor killed her baby after it was born. Paul Rusher and I took her statement; it took a while to make some sense out of what she was saying.”
Peter nodded. “And with the warrant you found the body.”
“Yeah. In the freezer, like I said.”
Peter frowned. “But, she went voluntarily to the clinic for an abortion?”
“Right.”
Peter picked up a pen, rolling it between his fingers. “She consented to the abortion?”
“Yes. But she says this is different, says she didn’t consent to what happened after. Apparently this is called a live birth.”
Accidental Life Page 2
