“Laura, I—” he began in a softer tone, only to be rudely cut off.
“Legal, Max. Is there anything we need to discuss relating to the Stallway case?”
“No.”
“Good-bye, then.” It was the second time in as many days that she’d hung up on him, and the satisfaction was as shallow now as before. The big difference was that whereas yesterday had found her at home and able to shed the tears that his call brought on, today she was at the office and had to curb any such show of emotion. Closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair, she took several deep and unsteady breaths, growing more and more distressed as she replayed this latest confrontation.
Surprisingly, the bulk of the distress, in the form of guilt, was directed at herself. For the first time, she’d been driven to say things she hadn’t meant. Carrying a child of Max’s would never have been an unwanted pregnancy, marriage or no. Nor could she ever have done anything to harm such a child. Of that, she was more sure than anything else of late. No, she certainly was not pregnant, yet she would have rejoiced at the thought of carrying within her Max’s seed, of nourishing it to full development, of giving birth and then raising a child whose flesh and blood was part her, part a man who meant so very much to her. In his child she might have had an outlet for the all-abiding love that welled so. As it was, now she felt empty, alone, and bereft of something beautiful.
eight
LAURA PASSED THE WEEK BEFORE THE TRIAL IN a detached haze. Aside from the actual legal preparations, which she attacked with such a vengeance that those assisting her begged for mercy, her life was a rote matter of getting out of the house in the morning and coming home to a makeshift supper and bed at night. Even her Wednesday evening tennis game fell victim to a pair of rubber legs which refused to carry her through a set.
The Saturday routine, albeit unenthusiastically approached, remained the same. There was, however, one bittersweet incident when she picked up her landlady’s grocery list and the woman turned to her in curiosity. “Your fella was very worried about you when he called here last weekend.” The wizened face livened with expectancy.
“My fellow? Last weekend?”
The old woman put a gnarled finger to her craggy chin. “Now what did he say his name was…Crane? You know,” she scolded in frustration, “the tall, dark-haired one who carried my bundles that time?”
“Max Kraig? He called here?”
“Yes, missy,” Mrs. Daniels answered proudly. “Said he was worried ’bout you, that you’d driven a long way and he wondered whether you’d gotten home in one piece. Said he’d tried your number and there was no answer. That maybe you were sleeping.” That would have been when she’d been so out of it, sleeping or not, Laura calculated quickly. “Asked me to look out to see if your car was back, he did,” the woman continued, again with the pride of feeling needed. “He felt much better when I told him that the car was in the garage,” she concluded with a satisfied smile.
It was little solace that he’d been worried; that was the least he could have been. “Thank you, Mrs. Daniels. I’m sorry he bothered you about it.”
“No bother t’all, missy. Glad to help. You tell him to call any time.” Laura certainly would not, although she gave the woman an appreciative smile for the offer.
In its own way, this incident had been enlightening. For the first time, Laura was able to conjure up Max’s image, to hear his name and recall his voice without crumbling. Indeed, as the week progressed, she went through a kind of transformation. As a self-defense mechanism, she became increasingly apathetic to things which had, in the past, aroused her. Originally, the flu bore the brunt of the responsibility for this change, leaving her weakened as it had; as the days passed, however, it became clearly a psychological, rather than a physical, reaction to the emotional trauma through which she’d suffered. Her own personal existence had lost all significance, all importance, all meaning for her. Only law remained.
Law became her outlet—for anger, revenge, bitterness, determination. Into it she poured every ounce of energy. And bolstered by the knowledge that this would be a milestone in her career, she derived much satisfaction from the irony of the situation: It had been her very fear that her feelings for Max would impede her legal performance that had led to the confrontation which was, in large part, responsible for the present zeal which could well make her more effective than ever.
An added complication, a new development in the matter of the anonymous phone calls, occurred on Tuesday night, coincidentally after Frank had agreed to let it ride a bit longer, particularly since the State Police had been unable to come up with any suspect. Laura had come to expect the calls practically every evening. This night was no different. When the phone rang, she neither flinched nor wavered, but lifted the receiver with the emotional lethargy she felt.
“Hello?”
“Your turn’s comin’, lady.” It was a man’s voice, low and nondescript. In no way did she recognize it.
“What?” Perhaps she hadn’t heard correctly.
“Better start gettin’ things in order. It’s your turn soon.” Click. That was it. Short—too short to trace, even had a mechanism been in operation. Mysterious—neither details nor a possible clue to the caller’s identity. Threatening—something else was surely going to follow.
Remaining perfectly calm, Laura phoned the D.A., who received the news of this development from heavy breathing to verbal threats with a good deal more alarm than she could have mustered. Within an hour arrangements had been made to have a tap put on her line. It was obvious that changing the number would only temporarily sidetrack the persistent caller; at least, this way, with him calling regularly, there would be some hope of either tracing the call or recognizing the voice from the recordings that would be made.
Additionally, Frank notified the local police of the situation, ordering that a patrol car keep a close watch on Laura’s apartment. Finally, he set the groundwork for a step-up of the detective work which would hopefully reveal the identity of this menace before he revealed himself to Laura. Having been duly informed of these arrangements by her boss in a final call that night, a very cool and unperturbed Laura fell into a deep sleep.
Insulated as she was by her self-induced stupor, she was well rested and thoroughly prepared when she entered the courtroom on Monday morning. Her mind, with its amazing power of selective concentration, had blotted out any apprehension at seeing Max in the flesh once again. He was the defense attorney, she was the prosecutor; it was as simple as that. The repetition of this litany during the last week had successfully imprinted it upon her mind…until the actual moment of eye contact threw her a minor setback.
Her attention was on the list of potential jurors when the deep voice intruded, as it had done once before in this very same courtroom.
“Laura?”
It was a deep, velvet melody, as rich as ever. Subconsciously, she had known it would be coming. Slowly and deliberately, she raised her head toward the source of the greeting. In the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents, he looked more lean and tired than when she’d last seen him. His forehead, unbroken by hair, which was obediently parted and neatly combed, carried more worry lines than she’d recalled. He appeared paler. His suit, as always, was dark, distinguished, and immaculate. And, as always, his presence exuded a sense of command, compelling and formidable.
But as before, it was his brown-eyed gaze that held her, glimmering with a warmth she’d imagined gone forever. It was a warmth that threatened to melt the wall of immunity she’d constructed—until she reminded herself that his excitement, like her own, was a product of the drama about to unfold before the judge rather than any personal reaction. The wall remained intact.
“How are you, Max?” she returned coolly.
His dark eyebrows gave the shrug as he cocked his head slightly to the side, then turned his attention to the crowd of people whom the court officers had begun to allow into the courtroom. “Here they come. Are you ready?”
Relieved to be released from his gaze, Laura glanced back over her shoulder at the rapidly filling benches, feeling herself in better humor than she’d been in days, now that she sensed she’d overcome the first, and potentially most hazardous, hurdle of these proceedings. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she quipped lightly.
His words were short but sincere. “Good luck.” Then he turned and made his way to the defense table, leaving Laura to stare at his back in grudging admiration. He was handsome, her every sense shrieked, before she stifled all reaction and returned to her jury list.
Legally, she held up well. The selection of the jury was completed to her satisfaction by the end of that first day, the opening statements were delivered the following morning. Her father sat in attendance for the latter, bursting with a barely suppressed pride, complementing her afterward on one of the most effective presentations he’d ever heard. Her own praise, however, was unspoken and saved totally for Max, whose words would have had her screaming, had she been a juror, for release of the defendant in a minute, so powerfully chosen and delivered had they been. Even as she feared for the chances of a conviction against such an eloquent opponent, she couldn’t help but admire his brilliance.
Actually, this was a pattern that repeated itself many times during the ten days of the trial’s duration. Laura conducted herself expertly, presenting a clear-cut and concise, though forceful case for conviction. Max, on the other hand, let the burden of proof rest on her, remaining quietly but effectively on the defensive, using the powers of understatement and subtlety to cast reasonable doubt on her arguments.
As the days passed, Laura put forward her case, Max cross-examined her witnesses; she recalled one or two, and finally rested. Then it was Max’s turn to rebut the case she had skillfully built. There were character witnesses testifying to the good name and deeds of Jonathan Stallway, and scientific witnesses, casting doubt on the cause and nature of the scuffle that had allegedly led to the girl’s death. When finally the defense rested, Laura knew that her final argument would be crucial to her ultimate success.
It was at the midway point in the trial, as Max began to present his case, that Laura realized herself to be more vulnerable to his presence, personally, than she’d hoped. For increasingly during the non-court hours, her thoughts centered on him—how talented a lawyer he was, how positively handsome he looked, how warm and giving he had the potential to be, how exquisite a lover he’d proven himself. Yes, as much as she hated to admit it, she found the physical frustration as trying as the emotional. To see him each day and not touch, hold, love…it was a torment which steadily increased. Sleep came harder despite her exhaustion after a full day’s proceedings, and by the end of the first week, makeup had become a necessity for concealing the dark hollows beneath her eyes and brightening her pale, drawn look.
To her dismay, Max thrived under the same pressure which so devastated Laura. He seemed more and more rested as each day passed, his own coloring had improved, and he appeared to relax as the trial progressed. He was in his element when he presented his case to the jury, when Laura had no choice but to watch his tall, good-looking form as it strode confidently from the defense table to the witness stand, the judge’s bench, or the jury box, or to hear his sonorous tone as its timbre varied appropriately and effectively before each audience. He could be humble before the judge, confidence-inspiring before the jury, as gentle and coaxing before his own witnesses as he was pointed and commanding before those of the prosecution.
The anger and bitterness that had driven her earlier, had faded into oblivion by the time the final arguments were given. Rather, dedication to the law had taken over to spark her own final statement with a persuasive power that held its own magnificently, coming as it had on the heels of Max’s eloquence.
That final argument was her moment of glory. Not only was it instrumental in congealing the facts of the case in the jurors’ minds such that, after eight hours of deliberation, they returned a verdict of guilty to a charge of manslaughter, but it was also the most confident moment she would have for a while.
To Laura, there was victory neither in the verdict nor in the conclusion of this trial, which had so profoundly affected her life. The verdict had actually been satisfactory for both the prosecution and the defense; the defendant had been found guilty and would spend time in prison, though his sentence, by virtue of the lesser charge, was not to be as harsh as it might otherwise have been.
Clearly, she was torn. With modesty and grace she accepted the kudos of her colleagues. Inside, however, she ached at the knowledge that the trial’s end would subject her, cold turkey, to the withdrawal of Max’s presence in Northampton. As much as the sight of him each day had pained her increasingly, there had been that heart-stopping anticipation each morning, the same stomach-jumping and knee-weakening that his appearance always had on her—a lovely feeling she couldn’t deny. Now it would be no more. Deep inside, she died just a little bit.
Her small office was a dismal place late that afternoon. The celebration had ended, the celebrants had left, the newspapers had been fed their ration of detail, the phone had finally quieted. All that remained was for her to go home to a much deserved rest…and her own prison of loneliness and despair.
In a last-ditch effort to postpone the inevitable, she headed upstairs to her favorite spot of peace and solitude, the library. Now she had no work to do; she hadn’t even brought her briefcase with her. Rather, she sat down and replayed the soul-reaching happenings of the past three months. No longer was she protected by the numbness that had cushioned her earlier; she was on her own now and very vulnerable.
The stark emptiness of her future loomed as a terrifying reality. How deeply she had loved, how deeply she loved still, as much as she tried to fight it. How could she cope with the knowledge that Max would vanish from her life for good?
She loved and needed Max, yet he neither loved nor needed her. That particular reality had been made painfully clear to her that fateful Sunday afternoon in Boston. Wanting was something else. Each wanted the other physically; it was a chemical reaction that would always exist. Yet that alone Laura could not abide. It had to be all or nothing where her battered heart was concerned.
Restless, she stood and walked to the window, sliding down onto its broad sill. The second-floor vantage point gave her a clear view of the main street, bathed now in the gleaming film of a gently falling April shower. Perhaps she should go to Chicago, to be with her father for a while. Perhaps a week or two away from these all-too-raw memories would be enough.…
“Laura?”
With a start, she twisted her head toward the door. It was a moment of déjà vu; she had been startled in this room once before. Max had remembered, too, her objections on that other day. This time he stood in the doorway, a full room’s length from her.
The velvet peal of his voice, coming as it had fresh upon those thoughts of pain and heartbreak, brought a well of tears to her crystal blue eyes. Turning her head back to the window, she struggled to contain them.
“I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”
A shrug was the only response she was able to make. In turn, his blurred form approached, his long limbs relaxing against the edge of the table nearest her, the sound of his voice suddenly too close for comfort.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” he began softly. “You were fantastic in there. Your case was solid and well presented. Your final argument was one of the most persuasive I’ve heard. The conviction was well-deserved.”
A resurgence of the old bitterness held her tears in check enough to finally allow her to speak. “Don’t patronize me, Max. You know as well as I do that against any other defense attorney, it would have been a second-degree, if not a first-degree, conviction. You are the one who deserves the congratulations.” With misted eyes glued to the street below, she was surprised by her own hostility. Determinedly, she avoided his gaze, in part out of fear of what it could do to her, in
part out of fear of his seeing her own weakness.
“Then we share the victory.” The sound of his voice had neared, the vibrations from his body placed him no more than an arm’s length from her. He spoke in the low croon that sent a shiver from head to toe of her sensitive body. “Don’t you see, baby, we did it!”
Rage flowed through Laura with breakneck speed. Oblivious to the lingering tears that lined her lids, she turned to glare at eyes whose softness instantly froze. For the first time, she sensed her own power, and she set out determined to use it. “I am not your baby,” she seethed through gritted teeth, “and we did nothing more than any other two lawyers would have done. In addition, there’s something totally immoral to talk of victory, when an innocent young girl has been murdered, a pathetic young man has been sent to a prison where he will no doubt come to wish he had been the victim.”
Startled by her anger, Max took a step back, jamming his fists into his pockets. “You misunderstand me, Laura,” he went on to explain slowly. “We made it through the trial in top form, you and I. We were both able and effective…despite our…personal relationship.”
Laura cringed visibly at his reminder. “There is no personal relationship, Max. You saw to that.” Again, the extent of her bitterness came to the fore.
“Laura, about that day—”
“Don’t say anything! Please! I don’t want to hear.” Tensing her jaw determinedly, she turned her head away from him back to the window. The lights of early evening had begun to appear, spattering long and brightly colored streaks across the wet pavement below. On these Laura centered her concentration, unaware that the image had been made all the more impressionistic by her own tear-filled gaze.
Sensuous Burgundy Page 15
