by Sol Stein
Sturbridge took a sip from his bedside water beaker through the bent glass straw.
“Businessmen are said to look at the world with a cold eye,” he said, touching a tissue to his lips. “I know your heart bursts with demands for justice. Ask yourself, where do the poor remain poor despite the most radical changes in government, here or there? Your mother says you’re aiming to become a specialist in Soviet affairs. Will you be able to look at the causes of poverty there as well as the alleged causes of poverty here? If you do, you will gain some remarkable political insights.”
Ed had always wanted to learn to argue with his father successfully but instead felt his face flushing with anger. “I’m on the side of peace,” he blurted out. “What side are you on?”
Perhaps because he was sick, Sturbridge didn’t snap back at Ed. He said quietly, “The greatest cause of war is naiveté. Even a superficial view of history has to acknowledge that the appeasers gave Hitler his chance. Churchill saw that, and yet the moment we ostensibly won the war, Churchill got thrown out and the appeasers came flooding back into power. Doesn’t it strike you as ironic that when the Churchills were no longer in charge that we began getting into the game of escalating arsenals on both sides of the Atlantic? All appeasement gets you is a bigger fight when you’re less prepared for it.”
Ed’s mother came into the room. Ed didn’t know whether it was because she heard his slightly raised voice or thought it unusual for him to be in there for more than a minute. “What are you two up to?” she said.
Malcolm Sturbridge said, “We have decided that we are both on the side of peace.”
Ed thought his father was trying to disarm him. He was trying to win him over. And so he said, “Why did you fire Mr. McAllister? He wasn’t a thief.”
Jenny Sturbridge watched her husband’s dehydrated lips. Would he look away? His gaze lifted to meet Ed’s. He said, “Because he stole you from me.”
*
You couldn’t erase the memory bank even after all these years.
Ed stared at the ceiling.
If only Sam McAllister were alive somewhere.
If only Fuller were still alive.
Thoughts like that came from lying in bed too long. It was time to get up. His gaze wandered over the bookcase closest to the bed. He reached over and pulled out Fuller’s book. Oh how they’d joked about it in grad school, the seminal work on the revolutionary ovum. Ed never joked about it after Fuller inscribed his copy:
Dear Ed, as a scholar be loyal to your senses, to your memory, and to objectively verifiable fact. As a passionate human being, be loyal to friends and to the innocents who depend on your knowledge. With affection, Martin Fuller.
Ed hoisted himself to his feet. His reluctant body felt ten times its normal size, moving against the tremendous force of gravity. He sat back on the bed. How much had he smoked? Had he popped any pills? People died sleeping in the snow. Up from the bed he struggled once more, made it to the bathroom, raised the toilet seat with his toe and let his stream splatter into the water of the bowl, poisoning it with yellow.
In the mirror his face told him he had not shaved for two mornings. The stubble seemed like decay. To shave is to start clean. He stung preshave on his cheeks, got his Phillips rechargeable, pushed the “on” button. Nothing happened. Had he allowed the battery to go dead? He got the AC adaptor and plugged it into the outlet at the mirror. Nothing. What a time for it to fail!
He was looking in the cabinet for the throwaway razor he’d kept when he heard the knock on the door. As he went to the door he looked around. God the room was a mess.
“Who is it?” he shouted through the door, but he knew.
When he opened the door, Cooper said, “This time I have a search warrant.” He waved the piece of paper in front of Ed.
“Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction?”
“This is a New York City search warrant. And that’s a New York City cop behind me.”
“Why are you picking on me?” He looked at Cooper’s protruding belly. He had no respect for people who couldn’t control their appetites.
“That was your button I found in the garage, wasn’t it?” Cooper said. “You had a button missing from your jacket, didn’t you?”
“You’re going to arrest me because of a button? You know you’ll be held responsible for false arrest.”
“Listen, big brain,” Cooper said, pointing a finger at Ed’s face, “you used the downstairs bathroom during the night, didn’t you?”
Ed said nothing.
Cooper said, “There’s a bathroom up there on the second floor. Why’d you use the downstairs bathroom?”
“Out of courtesy. That’s something you wouldn’t know about. The upstairs bathroom is between Troob’s and Melling’s rooms.”
“There’s a door from the hallway.”
“That door was locked,” Ed said.
“Not when I checked it.”
“I’m talking about the middle of the night. Melissa or Scott must have opened it in the morning.”
“We found traces of an inflammable fluid on the floor near your bed.”
“I spilled it filling my lighter. You’re wasting your time.”
“Mister, I don’t waste time. Where’s your lighter?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere around.”
“Look for it.”
“I’ll look for it when you get out of my hair.”
“Don’t get fresh with me, kid. I don’t like your attitude.”
“When you start behaving like a public servant, I’ll change my attitude,” Ed said.
Cooper, his face reddening, tried to control his voice. “You smoke?”
“Sure.”
“Where are your cigarettes?”
“Somewhere around.”
“Where somewhere? Show me. I don’t see a lighter, I don’t see cigarettes. What was that hip flask doing in your closet?”
“I don’t drink.”
“You saying that flask wasn’t yours?”
“I said I don’t drink.”
“That hip flask, mister, was empty, but my nose said it had been filled with an inflammable fluid. Do you fill your lighter from a hip flask? Don’t answer.”
Cooper would be damned before he’d pull out a plastic card and read the Miranda. “You’ve got a right to remain silent,” he told Ed. “Anything you say can be used against you.” Then he said, “Can we come in now?”
“I want to read that warrant.”
Cooper put it in front of Ed’s face without letting go. Ed read it through word for word. He needed time to think.
“I want to call my lawyer,” he said.
“It’s your dime,” Cooper said.
Ed looked in his wallet for Thomassy’s number.
*
The phone in Thomassy’s office was answered by a secretary, who said Thomassy was in court, could she help?
“Can you get word to him? This is Ed Porter. Tell him Detective Cooper is here with a warrant. Yes, the same address I gave him for billing me.”
After Ed hung up, he asked Cooper, “What if he doesn’t call me back?”
“He’ll find you in the station house.”
“You’re arresting me? I thought the charge was dropped the other night.”
“This isn’t grass. It’s murder.”
Ed put his hands on his belly. “I think I’ve got diarrhea,” he said.
Cooper pointed in the direction of the bathroom. “Don’t lock the door.”
In the bathroom, Ed tried to organize his thoughts, shake off whatever was cluttering his brain.
“Hurry up,” Cooper yelled from the other room.
Ed looked in the mirror. Thomassy would hate the fact that he hadn’t shaved.
Ed had to sit in the chair in the corner and watch the two of them, Cooper and the man in uniform, going through everything. The grass was in the refrigerator in a plastic container, under leftovers Ed would never eat. They didn’t look in the refrigera
tor.
Cooper spotted Fuller’s book on the bed, opened it, found the inscription to Ed that ended With affection, Martin Fuller. Cooper looked at him as if he always suspected that eggheads had a hole in their brain and this was proof.
The shrill phone rang.
Cooper jabbed a finger at Ed and then at the phone.
Ed picked the phone off the cradle.
“What’s up?” Thomassy asked. “I’m in a phone booth. Make it fast.”
Ed tried to tell him, Cooper, the warrant, the New York City cop with him. Thomassy sounded exasperated, as if Ed was taking too much time. “Give me Cooper,” he snapped.
Ed held the phone out to Cooper.
All Ed could hear was Thomassy yelling at Cooper just like he’d yelled at him. Cooper said, “Sure it’s a search warrant. But I’ve got probable cause for an arrest.”
Cooper listened, his face reddening. “Look, Mr. Thomassy, the form is he goes to the station house to get booked. You want to talk to him, you talk in the station house.”
Cooper glanced over to make sure the other cop was at the door. “I know how you feel about station house interviews,” he said to Thomassy, “but I can’t bring him to your office. You want the captain down my throat? He’ll think I’m on the take. No, no, no, I don’t want you talking to the captain. I’m running this. You deal with me. Don’t give me that false arrest shit, Mr. Thomassy, I’m too old for that. You what? You can’t do that.”
Cooper turned away. He didn’t want Ed to see how angry he was. “Sure I know you’re an officer of the court. You’re making a lot of trouble for me. Suppose—”
Ed still couldn’t hear anything Thomassy was saying, but his voice was less strident, as if he had stopped yelling and was giving instructions.
“Okay,” Cooper finally said, “okay.” When he hung up, he said, “Shit.” Then to Ed, “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Thomassy’s office.”
Ed couldn’t help saying, “Is that usual?”
“I don’t want any extra grief from that son-of-a-bitch,” Cooper said, grabbing Ed’s arm.
“Then,” Ed said, “let my arm go. If you’re angry at him, grab his arm.”
“Get going.”
Ed looked around the room for his jacket. The apartment was sure a mess. He slipped the jacket on and Cooper held the handcuffs out.
“Do we need to do that?”
“Just shut up,” Cooper said. He hated the idea of a lawyer who made the law come to him.
CHAPTER NINE
Thomassy got to his office a bit out of breath, wanting to be there before Cooper arrived with Ed Porter. Alice held up a warning hand.
Alice, though “comfortably married” for six years now, still occasionally had the fantasy about her boss lifting the sheet and sliding in beside her, touching her waist with the tips of his fingers. His hand would never move up to her breast, or down to her thighs, just stay safely in the isthmus between erogenous zones, her soul longing for his fingers to move down or up. About six months after her marriage, she’d gone to a counselor because of that recurrent fantasy, and he’d said, “Why don’t you find employment somewhere else now that you’re married?” She’d wanted the fantasy explained, given some harmless excuse, not eliminated. Working elsewhere wouldn’t have stopped her thinking, would it? She hadn’t gone back to the counselor. She was Thomassy’s proximate woman, more than any other woman, even when there was a closed door between them. And if her mind set was right, she could feel his emanations through the door. Thomassy might fire her, though he had no reason to, but she’d never quit.
Alice’s warning hand having stopped Thomassy in his tracks, she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, “She’s in there.”
“She who?”
“She who is right,” Alice said, her voice losing its grip on neutral.
“I forgot to tell you Miss Widmer was dropping by,” Thomassy said.
“I’ll bet.”
The truth was that he had forgotten.
Francine was sitting behind his desk, in his chair. Thomassy closed the door. He didn’t want to lose a good secretary.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
She waved away his apology. “Why do you keep my picture face down?”
On the credenza next to the desk was her swan-neck photograph, as if she was turning away from the camera and got caught at the precise angle that made her seem what she was, fleet yet catchable.
“I’m glad you could drop in, Francine. Got a couple of semistupid questions for you.”
“You haven’t answered me. Why face down?”
Thomassy sighed. “In this office I try to find out as much as I can about my clients. I don’t want them finding out much about me.”
“You mean you want to be thought by female clients to be available.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I was a female client. You just lied to me, George. Alice turns my picture face down.”
Thomassy’s smile flickered for a moment. She’d guessed a half truth. Alice had turned the picture down the first time. She claimed she’d been dusting around and forgot to raise it again. Men, he thought, fought about women with their antlers. Women scratched.
“Before you ask me anything, counselor, I have three questions to ask you.”
Oh well, he thought, making himself comfortable in the chair he reserved for visitors, if Cooper comes, Cooper will wait.
Francine stretched her legs, her body seeming to elongate itself in his chair. “You’re staring,” she said.
“I am a student of your body.”
“Don’t distract me,” she said.
“I could say the same.”
“Enough. George, would you take on the case of an ordinary seaman who’d—”
“Is this a hypothetical case?”
“I’m not saying. Yet.”
“Go ahead.”
“This seaman,” she said, “jumped a ship from one of the Warsaw Pact countries and asked for asylum under the following conditions. He told the immigration authorities he was bored with socialism, and they found that insufficient reason to accept him as a political refugee and risk a rumble.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing I’m going to tell you before you answer. Obviously he doesn’t have any money so all you’d get was a promise to pay something out of his future wages if he stayed. Would you take his case?”
“Why did he give a frivolous reason?”
“Boredom frivolous? George! Boredom is one of the great instigators of migration, domestic and international.” She sat up straight in his chair. “Come on risk it, gamble.”
“How?”
“By answering truthfully.”
“I’d take him on.”
“Based on?”
“Anybody who votes with his feet has got guts. Anybody with guts ought to be defended. Are you fronting for a prospective client or testing me?”
Francine touched her long fingers together, forming an arch. He remembered her father doing that.
“Question two,” she said. “Presumably you’d defend an adolescent who killed a parent.”
“As a matter of fact I have. What are you getting at?”
“Would you defend a mother who killed her baby?”
He was silent.
“Is this hypothetical?”
Francine said nothing.
“I’d need to know a lot about the mother,” Thomassy said. “Her life. The circumstances.”
“How do you distinguish between the two cases, then?”
“Well, if you’ve read the books…”
“I’ve read the books.”
“I don’t mean law books. I mean Aeschylus, Freud. Killing a parent is like all killing, wrong, but it’s a not-unknown response to the relationship, held in check by most people. Killing a baby is not natural. Insanity cop-outs are not my dish.”
“If the baby had an incurable disease?”
“You’re loading it on, Francine.”
“If the baby weren’t born yet?”
“Look, this is turning into the kind of discussion I like to have after hours.”
“I’m trying to see if your brain is functioning and you’re copping out.”
“I’m asking for a postponement, Your Honoress.”
“You try calling a female judge that and you’ll get your brass balls tarnished.”
“I’ve got a client coming soon. You’re getting your questions in and I haven’t asked one yet.”
“I have one more before you get your turn.”
He held up a finger. “One,” he said.
“Don’t panic. My lease is up in less than two months. Do you think I should give up my apartment?”
“Have you found a place you like better?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where?”
“On Allerton, a house set back from the street, occupied by a bachelor with lots of room to spare.”
Thomassy examined the fingernails of his left hand.
“Need a manicure?” Francine said.
“I’m thinking.”
“Once, on the spur of the moment, you invited me to move in. This isn’t spur of the moment, George. We’ve come a long way. Are you worried about what your cleaning lady will say if I move in? She’ll say she finds the house a lot neater.”
“You’re not pregnant?”
“No. And what the hell’s that got to do with it? Your cleaning lady do D&Cs on the side? You don’t like contracts, I’m not asking for one. I was just being practical. I’m there half the time I’m not at work. It’d save nearly five hundred a month. Just think of the vacations six thousand a year could buy. Please don’t just stand there, say something. Say you don’t want a roommate under any conditions.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what the hell is it? You waiting for a woman who’s two inches taller than I am and three points higher on the Richter scale? Look, forget it. This is your meeting. I didn’t mean to preempt it. What did you have in mind?”
Thomassy closed his eyes. He could handle the worst surprises in cross-examination, why was he tongue-tied now? And as he asked himself that question, he remembered his father pointing to a new brown-and-white filly he’d acquired that looked like she’d grow into a stallion instead of a mare. What you see, Georgie, his father had said, is a horse you ride where she wants to go. Other horse, you give apple, piece sugar. Not this horse. This filly eats respect. Can’t buy respect in feed store. You think you handle horse like that, Georgie?
