by Susan Isaacs
“Trust me, my dear, if I may say ‘my dear’ without sounding like one of those male chauvinist pigs. ‘Afford’ is not the issue here.” Lee and Jazz each suppressed a smile and took comfort in knowing that the other was doing likewise. “I have your dream house. Just on the market. Part of the old Howell estate. Finally subdivided now that old Mr. Howell passed on, may his soul find eternal rest. It was his estate manager’s cottage.” He made a quick right after Hart’s Hill, then another, and bounced up a badly rutted road. “On the high end of your budget, maybe a tad over. But one must pay for charm.”
“I don’t think—”Jazz began as they drove under a canopy of elms.
“We don’t want to live quite so close to where we grew up,” Lee explained diplomatically as they passed a flame euonymus, so brilliant that its redness made her turn away. “We were thinking that some other area of Shorehaven—”
But they fell into silence as the car pulled up before their dream house. “Hey,” Jazz said softly. “I never knew this existed.”
“This place, it’s …” Lee was going to say “perfect,” but Mr. Chadman sat beside her, his chin raised in smug triumph, and she could not bear to give him the satisfaction. She turned back to the house. Not very big, built entirely of large, irregularly shaped stones held in place by gold-colored mortar. Nestled in a grassy glen, circled by ancient oaks and sycamores, it looked like an illustration for a fairy tale—a cheery, revisionist, non-Grimm tale, to be sure—with its quirky tilted chimney, windows like shining eyes, and a wide, welcoming red wood door. Rambling ruby roses climbed up the right side of the house. Nice, she decided to say to Mr. Chadman. No: Charming. Or maybe give the pompous ass Sweet. But before she could stop it, “Beautiful!” fell out of her mouth. Three months later, after the painters and floor sanders left and the carpenter screwed the final knob onto the last kitchen cabinet, they moved into the most wonderful house in the world.
Right before they moved, Lee made it clear to Jazz that she would not give up the law. Furthermore, she was not interested in some tame suburban lady-lawyer position—assisting a matrimonial specialist or pushing papers across a table at real-estate closings. No, she wanted to be in court. As a prosecutor. However, the district attorney of Nassau County was a Republican. So without even consulting Jazz, Lee went directly to her father-in-law and asked him to use his influence in securing her an appointment as token Democrat.
Fos told Ginger he was at least grateful someone connected with the Taylors was an attorney. What Jazz had done rankled him. He had not expected much from his daughters, and he had not gotten it: One did little but play tennis and golf and, at thirty-two, had skin like that on her brown alligator pumps. The other was becoming a hunchback, picking cucumbers on a commune. Kent was useless. But his Jasper! Fos was not merely anguished but infuriated by his son’s new life: Leaving Wall Street! To take up with garment center types. He could not for the life of him understand it.
While ten generations of Long Island inbreeding may have diminished the once soaring Taylor IQ, Fos was no dummy. He was smart enough to realize that his favor-seeking daughter-in-law was not a party to Jazz’s idiot decision. Further, Fos sensed that Lee might be an ally. Woo Jazz back to where he belonged. It would be such a relief, when the fellows on the Committee or at Rolling Hills inquired, How’s that fine son of yours coming along?, not to have to go mumble mumble … fur coats … mumble, feeling he would die of humiliation. Accordingly, he was not only vaguely fond of Lee but also not unwilling to help her. In addition, while not a bighearted man, Fos was worldly enough to know that there are certain requests that cannot be denied. Since he could not dream of telling the future mother of his grandchildren to go stuff it, he picked up the phone and spent half a morning being jovial to a few of his fellow Republicans who, only recently, had been badgering him for myriad courtesies at the games in Montreal—and who owed him. He hated to waste his IOUs on a cause not his own, but that could not be helped. And so, two days later, Lee was face-to-face with the district attorney of Nassau County, Woodleigh Huber, in his office.
And what an office! Oak-paneled, with a desk so monumental it seemed that nothing less than a manned rocket to Mars or the D-day invasion should be launched from it. Behind it, three eight-foot flags, representing the county, the State of New York, and the United States of America, stood proudly against a blue-draped wall.
“Homicide?” Huber inquired.
“Homicide,” Lee affirmed. That was what she wanted. And she had done her homework: The Nassau District Attorney’s Office was considered middling to good—except for its Homicide unit. That was reported to be first-rate.
“Homicide,” Huber sighed. If he was not incredulous, he was at least dismayed. “It isn’t that I don’t think you’re up to it. I hear nothing but good things about you: smart, straightforward, no fancy footwork, but delivers the goods. What you’ve got to understand, though, is that this is not New York City.” He nodded his agreement with himself, and his shock of white hair flapped in approval. Huber was a handsome fellow, high-colored and square-jawed. He looked like an actor hired to play the President of the United States for a television movie of the week. Seated as he was between his grand old flags and his important desk, his every action seemed calculated for a photo op. But if his moves appeared false and contrived that was not the entire Woodleigh Huber story. He did care that the District Attorney’s Office was perceived as a fine one and, in fact, worked hard, if not entirely successfully, to achieve that goal. “Our jurors aren’t so—shall we say—sophisticated as the ones you’re used to.”
Lee smiled. “I guess you haven’t seen a Manhattan petit jury recently.”
“I think what the Boss is getting at,” Jerry McCloskey interpreted, “is that it might be too upsetting to a suburban-type jury to have a woman representing the People in a homicide trial.” He was a squat pale mushroom of a man, who appeared to be the quintessential political gofer, existing solely to say or do anything his patron found unpleasant. “I don’t have to tell you homicides can get pretty gory.”
“So can rape. I hear you have a woman in your Sex Crimes unit.”
“We do indeed!” Woodleigh Huber said, in the powerful voice he dreamed would be heard on a segment of 60 Minutes. “Portrait of a Crime Fighter” he imagined it would be called. “Bonnie Brinkerhoff. Soft as a marshmallow outside but when she walks into that courtroom … hard as nails. A hell of a lawyer. I mean that.” Lee nodded. She had heard Brinkerhoff was, on her occasional good days, mediocre and had inherited the job when the man who had previously held it was run over by his lawn mower. “Believe me, we welcome you women. We think you’re a tremendous addition to the team. Tremendous.”
“Except this is the thing,” McCloskey explained. He smelled a little stale, as if he or his suit was overdue for a cleaning. “We’re full up in our Homicide unit right now.” Like Lee, McCloskey sat in a straight-backed chair before Huber’s desk. Unlike Lee, McCloskey was perched on the edge of the hard seat, as if not high enough in rank to have the right to rest his entire backside. “Full up to the gills.” Huber nodded.
Lee thought fast. If they were full up in Homicide, that meant they were going to put her someplace else, some less plummy unit. But she was in, it seemed. Hired! A prosecutor again! Foster Taylor had come through for her! He’d had the clout. And if he had the clout to get her—a Democrat, a woman—the job, he must have been owed some big favors. So big, she suddenly realized, that the job had probably been hers before she set foot in the office. Before she could get cold feet, Lee turned from McCloskey to his master and blurted: “Give me a month’s trial in Homicide.”
“As Jerry mentioned—”
She cut him off. “I know how competitive it is, getting a spot in the unit.” Huber’s mouth compressed in annoyance until his near-lipless mouth was merely the width of a paper cut. “And because Homicide is so good, so public, that’s all the more reason to give me a shot. If I can’t cut it, I’ll be glad to
try cases elsewhere. But if I’m as capable as your background check suggests I am, then I can make the unit’s statistics look even better.”
“Well …” Huber mused.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lee saw McCloskey inch even closer to the edge of the seat. Had she gone too far? Had he gotten some signal and was he getting ready to show her the door? McCloskey didn’t like her, she could tell. Why should he? She did not belong in his scheme of things, in which deserving people got what they deserved—and Woodleigh Huber received chits from them for future favors. True, Huber must have owed Foster Taylor or a Foster Taylor friend something major and had to pay up. But Lee understood that a two-bit pol like McCloskey would know in his bones that no further benefit would accrue from putting her in Homicide: Lee White would feel she owed the District Attorney her best efforts, nothing more. Ipso facto, a stinko deal. “Listen, Boss,” McCloskey began.
But the Boss had already filled his lungs to declaim, and McCloskey lost his chance. “You’ve got one month, Lee,” Huber said resonantly, imagining introducing her to Ed Bradley or Mike Wallace. A younger member of our Homicide unit. Non-partisan. As you can see for yourself, it doesn’t matter here if you’re male or female, black or white or green. What matters is what you do. And this girl’s won major cases. Toughies. He could hear Lee saying, I may be a Democrat, Ed, but this man is beyond politics. “Jer,” Huber commanded, “bring her downstairs.”
“Downstairs, Boss?” McCloskey asked, but without much hope.
“To Homicide. To Will Stewart.”
William Hibbets Stewart was definitely not handsome, even though everyone would give you an argument that he was. He had a round face that lacked even a single arresting angle; small, undistinguished eyes; and a too awesome nose, big and down curving, a signal that one of his African ancestors had gotten quite friendly with an individual of Arab descent. But as she stood where she and McCloskey had run into him, right outside his office, Lee judged he was well over six feet tall. Imposingly built too, with shoulders so broad they were parallel to the floor. His skin was richly dark, somewhere between ebony and mahogany. His body, the ideal male V, was slim and muscular, and his carriage was so regal that even one of his most culturally illiterate colleagues had been heard to say: Will’s like one of those, uh, African statues or somethin’.
What made Will Stewart a standout, however, was his elegance. It was the real thing. He was beautifully dressed, in a gray suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie, all so simple and yet somehow she knew: the best there was. Yet his bearing had nothing to do with money. Leonard’s Savile Row suits and hand-stitched shoes made her father look like nothing more than a rich businessman. Even Jazz’s new wardrobe showed him to be a good-looking guy with nice taste and a Hong Kong tailor. Will’s elegance came from within.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to meet you.” He had a thrilling basso that could have been singing “Il lacerato spirito” at the Met, or moving huge congregations to leap into the aisles and shout “Praise the Lord!” To Lee, it was a huge, nineteenth-century orator’s voice—a courtroom voice. “Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you.”
“Will,” McCloskey said. “Could I have a quick word with you, Will?”
With a sinking heart, Lee watched Will enter his office. McCloskey, clearly nervous, followed and closed the door. No one had prepared Will Stewart for her. He would be furious. Like hell I will! he would boom. McCloskey, terrified, would race back up to Huber, who would be forced to change his mind. Lee saw herself taking “Basic Puff Pastry” in the Shorehaven School District’s adult ed program several decades sooner than she’d expected. No, it could even be worse. Will would view her as a party hack and treat her with contempt. It would take her years to gain his respect. If she ever could: Eager to prove herself, she’d screw up case after case so badly that not only would she get tossed out of Homicide; they wouldn’t even let her try misdemeanor cases.
It was taking too long. She strained to hear shouts, but all was silent behind Will’s door. Attorneys passed and glanced at her curiously. She should not have worn a beige suit. It was too late into the fall. She felt so wrong and wished that someone had mentioned the fact that Will Stewart was black and infinitely suave. The door opened. Will stuck his head out. “Who can I call about you?” he asked pleasantly, even warmly, as if he was so pleased with her that he couldn’t wait to hear more good things. She realized that he was a smarter politician than Huber and McCloskey put together.
“You mean from the Manhattan D.A.’s?” she asked. What a moron she sounded like! What did she think he wanted? References from the eight million guys at Cornell she’d fucked?
“Right,” he said.
“Well, the D.A. himself. Or the head of the Supreme Court bureau—”
“Melanie Tucker?” he asked congenially. At least, he seemed congenial. For all she knew, he loathed Melanie and any recommendation from her would mean automatic rejection. Yes, she nodded, her head bobbing like a fool’s, Melanie Tucker. “Sorry to keep you waiting like this,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Lee replied, but he had already closed the door. All right, she thought, as long as her tortured gut did not cause her to writhe and double up, groaning in agony. She held her handbag in front of her and pressed her forearms against her raging stomach. How much longer? She couldn’t stand it. Maybe he would hate her because her last name was White. She could knock, say Excuse me, it’s really Weissberg. Except maybe, despite all those rabbis on the March on Selma, he was an anti-Semite.
The door jerked open, and Jerry McCloskey flew out. “See ya,” he muttered, and tore down the hall.
“Come in,” Will called.
Although his name was on the door, Will Stewart’s office had nothing to do with him. It was standard government issue, newer than its Manhattan equivalent and just as lifeless. But he had done nothing to make it his: no pictures, no mementos, no bound appellate briefs, no knickknacks. His pen was a twenty-nine-cent Bic. “Come in,” he repeated. Lee took a deep breath and then, propelled by the exhalation, went into his office. He was standing behind his desk, but instead of the expected forefinger pointed toward the door, he was extending his hand. “Welcome,” he said. She felt a little dizzy but noticed he had sat back down and seemed to be suggesting that she do the same. “Sorry to put you through all that.”
“No problem,” she said cheerfully.
“Lee,” he said. With his voice, it sounded like a summons from God. He sat back comfortably in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head.
“What?”
“I’m your boss. Don’t bullshit me: ‘No problem.’”
“Okay. I had terrible stomach cramps, and I was afraid I’d embarrass myself in some particularly disgusting way. Or else I’d go into shock and convulse, and my head would bang rhythmically against your door and you’d think I was interrupting your discussion with Jerry McCloskey.”
“I wasn’t discussing with him. I was torturing him by not accepting you as a fait accompli. I sat here for a couple of minutes looking dubious. Then I called Melanie. She thinks the world of you, by the way.”
“That’s what I think of her.”
“So do I. We testified together before a House committee.” He did not smile, but his face softened. “She’d be my mother’s dream girl, with those hankies up her sleeve. And pearls. The only way she could be more perfect would be if she were black.” He continued to look faintly amused—either at his mother or at some recollection of Melanie, but he did not smile. Then he leaned forward. “The stomach business. Do you get nervous in court?”
No, she was going to say, but heard herself saying: “Most of the time. Right before I open and when I sum up. But once I start talking, it disappears.”
“Too bad they can’t bottle that,” he said.
“Do you ever get that way?” she asked. A second later, she shrank back, nearly crazed by her audacity.
“I used to. Not my stomach. I used to
sweat, which is worse, I think, because everyone can see it. But it hasn’t happened in years. I guess I’ve been doing it too long. You get numb to it, and that’s not good. You lose your competitive edge.” She nodded, suddenly exhilarated, realizing they were having a conversation. “I don’t know, though. Maybe being numb is better than being scared shitless. Now, let’s see: I’ve got to get someone to find you a desk. You want a chair too?”
“While they’re at it.” She smiled at him. Her infectious smile, Jazz called it. Or contagious. Whatever. You smile at someone and they light up, Lee. I’m telling you, it’s true.
Will did not smile back. In fact, he looked away and opened a folder on his desk, passing a quick glance over the papers inside. “Okay, you get settled. Then you’ll have to fill out all the forms. We Republicans say we don’t want big government, but don’t believe us. It will take you hours. Come back around … whenever. Five, six.” He picked up what looked like a Justice Department newsletter and immediately became engrossed.
“Thanks!” Lee said. She waited a fraction of a second too long, hoping he would glance up and smile. Not a big smile, just something quick, spontaneous. Or at least say, You’re welcome.
But she got nothing more from Will Stewart until seven-fifteen that night, when he handed her five eight-by-ten photographs of Nicky “The Rooster” Gaudioso in the trunk of his Lincoln Continental—which had been found in the woods in Eisenhower Park. He was at least two weeks dead, his throat slit, his testicles stuffed into his mouth. “I think you’ll have fun with this,” Will said. Her parents, her sister, Jazz—any civilian—would have recoiled. But Lee nodded. She knew exactly what Will meant, and she knew he was right.
