Rough Justice raa-5

by Lisa Scottoline

  Mary's gaze moved down the street, where some kids played in the pool of brightness cast by the streetlight. One kid flapped his arms to make a snow angel and two others wrestled in the snow, dark figures tumbling over one another like fairies in the night. They'd made a hill by packing the snow on one of the stoops and were sledding down the makeshift mountain on a piece of cardboard. One of the kids, the smallest, wasn't playing. He was standing off to the side, facing them. Facing Mary. It was dark, but his tiny shadow fit the little boy from the house.

  "Judy, it's the kid!" Mary said, her heart leaping up. She dropped the skis with a clatter and hurried down the street, her legs churning in the deep snow. She slowed as she reached the boy, then stopped and waved. He waved back. He couldn't have been four years old. "My name is Mary" she told him. "What's your name?"

  He didn't answer. He held his arms stiff at his sides in a hand-me-down parka and black gloves. His knit Eagles cap was stretched out of shape and floppy at its peak.

  "Do you have a name?"

  Still no answer.

  Mary tried to think of what to say next. She was never good with kids, but her husband had been. He'd taught school and wanted a passel. She tried to think of what Mike would have done, but it had been so long since she'd heard his voice in her head. Judy caught up with her, lugging their skis and poles.

  "What she got?" the boy asked loudly, pointing to the skis. He had a big voice for such a little kid.

  "They're skis," Mary answered.

  "Skis?" he said, testing the word.

  "Right, skis. You can play with them in the snow." Mary saw interest sparkle in his large, round eyes and wanted to get through to him. But she needed help from somebody who was better with kids. "Judy, skis are fun, right? A lot of fun. They're like toys."

  "No, they're not." Judy frowned under her hat. "They're serious equipment. They're not toys."

  Mary wanted to throttle her. "Don't be so technical." She grabbed a maroon ski from Judy's hand and held it in front of the boy. "See? You want to touch it?"

  Startled, the boy edged away.

  "There's nothing to be afraid of," Judy said. She wrenched the ski from Mary's hand. "Skis are cool. Watch this." The boy's dark eyes followed her as she turned the ski over, set it down on the snow, and gave it a push. It glided to the boy like a model sailboat in a fountain, and he looked down at it and grinned. "Cool, huh?" Judy said, and looked back over her shoulder. "Why am I doing this, Mare?"

  "Because I think our friend likes to play outside," Mary said, her gaze on the boy. "I bet he plays outside all the time and I bet he makes lots of friends."

  Judy smiled, catching on. "I bet you're right, Mare." She eased slowly onto her haunches, eye level with the boy, and Mary stood behind her, watching his reaction. They were concentrating so intently on the child that they didn't notice the white Grand Cherokee coming slowly around the corner and rumbling toward them in the snow. The driver of the Cherokee was Penny Jones and he was heading straight for the women, his hunting rifle under the front seat.

  23

  Jen Pressman fled the mayor's office and hustled down the marble corridor in City Hall. This migraine was going to be a whopper. She needed that Imitrex. A flock of TV and print reporters dogged her, headed by Alix Locke.

  "Jen!" Alix yelled in her ear. "Jen Pressman! What will the mayor say tonight at the conference? Come on, Jen, tell me."

  "You'll see in an hour," Jen said, wishing Alix would stop shouting. She was supersensitive to all the sounds in the corridor. The clacking of her own heels. The snapping of camera shutters, the whir of the motor drives. Jen wanted to cover her ears.

  "Where's a copy of the mayor's speech?" "Do you have a copy of the speech?" "Will he get the plows?" "Did the deal go through with the Canadians?" "Can you confirm or deny?"

  "Press conference in one hour, in the conference room down the hall," Jen said, elbowing her way ahead. No one would have guessed spots were popping and jumping behind her eyes.

  "What's the deal on the security guard murders?" "Any suspects?" "Any leads on Richter or the others?" "What do the police have to say?"

  Jen didn't bother answering. She had lost the ability to distinguish whose questions they were. It was all a cacophony. She felt seasick but couldn't let it show. She waved them all off, pushing through the gauntlet until she finally reached the mahogany door across the hall. CHIEF OF STAFF, said the pullout plaque. Jen yanked the heavy door open, and a white-hot light blasted her eyes. Seared through the shutter of her pupils. Cut like a laser right through to her brain. "Ah!" she cried out, putting up a protective hand.

  "Turn off that light!" shouted her secretary. "I told you! No TV cameras in here. Turn it off!"

  "Turn that fucking thing off!" Jen screamed. The TV light sputtered to darkness, but she was reeling, seeing exploding lights everywhere. She pressed into the wedge of reporters to get past the reception area to her office.

  "Are we getting the new plows, Jen?" Alix Locke shouted, among others. "Is it true we paid a fortune for them?" "When will they get to the streets in the Northeast?" "Why don't they plow the streets off Vare Avenue, Jen?"

  Jen barreled ahead, leaving the reporters behind. She heard her secretary shouting for them to leave, but she couldn't bear any more shouting. Not one more minute of it or she would scream and her cover would be blown.

  Jen flew down the short corridor to her office, ran inside, and shut and locked the door. Her large office was unrecognizable. The furniture had melted into shapeless forms. She couldn't focus on her diplomas. Her poster for the City Hall blood drive was a crimson blur and a banner for the organ donor drive read GIVE A LIVER, SAVE A LIFE GIVEALIVERSAVEALIFE.

  Jen ran to her cluttered desk against the window. It faced north over the ornate Masonic temple and ordinarily she loved the view. Tonight she couldn't see it. She tore open the right-hand drawer and felt for her purse. It wasn't there, where she always put it. Oh, no. The injector was inside it. Where was her purse? Jen rifled through pencils, pens, and paper clips for the brown Coach bag. It wasn't there. Had she put it here? Where was it last?

  Jen ripped through her personal bills. Nothing but paper. She threw them up in the air, frantic. She had put it here, hadn't she? Had she locked the drawer? There'd been thefts even in her office. Jen tried to think through the pain clenching like a fist behind her eyes. Of course she hadn't locked the drawer. It was unlocked when she came in.

  Nausea bubbled in her stomach. She almost burst into tears. The snow and all, and the murders. She'd forgotten to lock the drawer. Now she didn't have the Imitrex. Fucking what was she going to do? She had only minutes before she'd collapse completely. Jen flung open the second drawer and ransacked it for her purse, then searched the third. Memos and other papers flew everywhere, floating to the carpet. Please don't be lost. Please be here. But it wasn't.

  Jen leaned on the desk for support. Think. Yes! She had a spare injector in the ladies' room. She ran for the office door and flung it open, trying not to cry. Trying not to scream, not to puke. She took the hallway corner full speed and dashed flat out to the ladies' room. She wrenched the door open, slammed it behind her, and ripped open the mirrored medicine cabinet. Her vision was almost gone; she had to find the injector by feel. It was hidden in an empty Tampax cylinder and marked JEN ONLY OR DIE. Her whole world was dissolving. Dematerializing. Breaking up into a jagged kaleidoscope of light and pain.

  Jen fumbled with shaking hands through the skinny glass shelves, knocking everything out. She heard the thunder of a toothbrush as it crashed to the basin. The din of a plastic cup as it smashed to the floor and rolled around the porcelain tile. Where was the goddamn syringe?

  There! Jen grabbed the Tampax with the syringe and fell onto the toilet seat. She bit off the cap, spit it out, and jammed the needle through her panty hose and into the muscle of her thigh. In three minutes she would be human again. She closed her eyes and tears slipped from beneath her eyelids. Relief was on the way, exce
pt there were the sounds of a scuffle outside the bathroom door and then someone started pounding on the door.

  "Jen, it's Alix! Alix Locke. I need a copy of that speech!"

  24

  Marta stood in the hotel room of one of her jurors, about to engage in conduct that would constitute jury tampering and obstruction of justice, as well as violate several key ethical and disciplinary rules. She didn't want to think about what would happen if she were discovered. Humiliation, loss of license and livelihood. As much as she needed to be here, Marta felt slightly stunned that she actually was. She scared herself at times.

  Christopher was even more stunned than Marta. He couldn't say anything, and she wasn't saying anything, so they stared at each other for a minute. It was unreal. She was Marta Richter, everything he ever wanted in a woman, and she was dressed up like the woman he'd married, Lainie. Christopher couldn't deny his feelings. He wanted Marta, and here she was. She'd come to him, dressed as his wife, on a conjugal visit. He didn't know if it was luck or Providence.

  "Do you mind if I sit down?" Marta asked, finding her voice.

  "Yes. No. Sure. Suit yourself," Christopher said. He gestured awkwardly toward the bed, then caught himself. What was the matter with him? Just because he thought about an affair with her didn't mean it was going to happen. Christopher was supposed to be a gentleman. He pushed his room service cart out of the way and patted the chair. "Uh, here. Here, in this chair. I mean. Would be better."

  "Thanks." Marta took off her knit hat and perched on the edge of the chair. She had to get to the point and fast. Maybe it was the beard that hid most of his features, but Christopher was so impassive Marta wasn't sure he knew she wasn't Lainie. "Do you know who I am, Christopher?"

  "Marta."

  "Right." He'd called her by her first name, and Marta wasn't entirely surprised. "I bet you think this is a little strange. Not to mention illegal."

  Christopher laughed, and it came out like a gulp. Of what? Fear? Hope? Love? His own laughter was a sound he didn't hear often, and it sounded odd. It made him aware that the ruckus from next door had finally stopped. They'd even turned off the TV. "Well, yes," he said, his voice low, out of caution. "I was, well, wondering."

  "It's a surprise, I know."

  "Huh? Sure. Well, yeah. You look good," he blurted out, and as soon as the words left his mouth he winced. He was a grown man with his own business and he was acting like a teenager. It was all because Marta was so beautiful, and dressed in casual clothes, she looked more friendly. Softer. Christopher could actually see them together. Married. Maybe because she was wearing clothes like his wife's. "I mean, you look a lot like Lainie. You did a real good job. How did you know what Lainie looks like?"

  "I have her picture in the file. It's from the newspaper. The photo of the two of you, above your engagement announcement."

  "How did you get ahold of that?" Christopher asked in surprise. "It was only in our local paper."

  "One of the jury consultants got it from the computer. If it's published, it's on the computer. Local or not."

  Christopher wasn't sure he liked them spying on him like that, but he couldn't be mad at Marta. She looked so good, different. Her hair was all changed. The stiff blond cut was gone, replaced by a looser brown hairdo. Lainie used to call her haircut a "shag," but it didn't look shaggy on Marta. "What did you do to your hair? Did you cut it? Dye it?"

  "Not exactly. I didn't have much time." Marta reached up and yanked the wig off her head. The shock of it brought another surprised laugh from Christopher.

  "Oh, man," he said, sinking onto the dresser in front of the bed. "Man, oh, man."

  "I got the whole outfit at Woolworth's." Marta scratched her scalp, relieved to have the itchy wig off even though it had kept her head warm. "I remembered what your wife wore in the photo and the way she kept her hair."

  Jesus. The resemblance was eerie. Christopher had so many questions. Why was Marta here? Was it because she had feelings for him, like he did for her? "Uh, how did you get past the guards downstairs?"

  "I told them I was Elaine, Lainie. I remembered we looked alike. The sheriffs didn't recognize me. In fact, one of them told me he'd seen my picture. I mean, Lainie's picture."

  Christopher nodded. He'd shown the guards his wedding picture once, but he didn't tell them Lainie had run off. Not even Mr. Fogel knew why Lainie didn't visit, because Christopher didn't like to talk about it. One day he'd take the damn picture out of his wallet and throw it away.

  "You're wondering why I'm here," Marta said, suddenly uncomfortable in his gaze. He was looking down at her from his perch on the dresser, his strong legs spread slightly. Christopher's body language was as subtle as an express train, though his expression was still unreadable. "I have a problem," she began, and told him the whole story.

  Christopher listened intently, resting on the edge of the dresser. His face betrayed no emotion even when she told him about the killings of the security guards, but inside he was horrified. He had never heard anything like it, and the more Marta talked, the more worried he became. She was in danger. "How can I help?" Christopher asked when she was finished.

  "Get the jury to convict. I'll work on finding out why Steere killed Darnton, but I need you to work it from the inside. The jury has to find Steere guilty of murder."

  "Guilty?" Christopher asked, astounded. "They're about to find him innocent. They're going to acquit."

  "They can't."

  "We voted twice. It's nine to two, with one juror abstaining. We think it's self-defense, just like you said. It's going your way."

  "Not anymore." Marta had never been so unhappy she was kicking ass. "Who's voting to convict? Kenny Manning and one of the other black men, right?"

  "Not all the black people are voting to convict. Kenny Manning is, I think, but not Gussella Williams." Christopher heard himself lecturing, but he figured he was entitled. The jury deliberations had made him think a lot about race. Skin color didn't make a difference to Gussella, but it made a difference to Kenny. Just like it made a difference to Ralph Merry. Christopher didn't understand people sometimes. Horses didn't group together by color, and people were supposed to be smarter than horses.

  "Okay, fine. Whatever," Marta said. She had picked an almost all-white jury, figuring they'd favor a white businessman against a black homeless man, and she'd been right. Race wasn't everything, but Marta had to be realistic. Now she was working against herself. Against time. "What about Mrs. Wahlbaum, the schoolteacher? She wants to acquit, right? Will she stay with it?"

  Christopher nodded. He didn't think anything could move Mrs. Wahlbaum when she'd made up her mind, not even Mr. Wahlbaum.

  "And the young girl, the computer programmer? Megan Gerrity? Will she hang tough?"

  "I don't know. Probably."

  "She'll acquit." Marta shook her head. Fucking liberals. Any other time she would have kissed their asses, now they could cost her her life. "You have to hold out. Tell them you're voting to convict and stand your ground."

  "I can't do that." Christopher crossed his arms in his flannel shirt. "Today I voted to acquit. I almost convinced them. They want to go home. They're tired of living in a hotel."

  "Tell them you changed your mind," Marta said. "You thought about it. You've been wondering why Steere didn't testify and tell his side of the story."

  "Judge Rudolph said that wasn't supposed to matter."

  "Say it matters to you, you can't help it. Juries always wonder why the defendant didn't take the stand. If Steere was defending himself when he shot that man, why didn't he just come forward and explain what happened? Elliot Steere is not a shy man, he's a killer. Announce your vote and stick to your guns."

  "Wouldn't that make it a hung jury?"

  "You have to convince them all. I don't want it hung. I don't want a mistrial. Either one of those, Steere is free and I'm dead. It has to be a conviction, nothing less will do. And take your time. I need all the time you can give me."

 
; Christopher tried to think of what he'd say tomorrow. He pictured the other jurors sitting around the table, looking at him like a crazy man when he told them he'd changed his mind. He'd been so adamant today. Christopher liked to think he was a man of his word, but Marta was in real trouble. Two men had already been killed.

  Marta rubbed her forehead with anxiety, and it throbbed in response. "Who's the foreman? Ralph Merry?"

  "No. I am."

  "Wonderful!" Marta took heart. What a break. Maybe her plan would work. Maybe Christopher could make this happen. "Then you can persuade them. Jurors look up to the foreman. They look for a leader. That's why they picked you in the first place."

  "No."

  "You're being modest."

  "No, really," he said, but Christopher would die before he'd explain what happened. It was hard enough to talk with Marta here in his room, right across from him. In his bedroom. Christopher felt as if she knew how often he thought about her. So many nights he had pictured her here, and now she was. He had to know. "Why did you come to me, Marta?"

  "I needed to get to the jury."

  "But why me? Why did you pick me? You didn't know I was the foreman. You were surprised."

  "I came to you because you were most likely to help."

  "Why did you think that?"

  Marta paused, then let it rip. "Because I think you're attracted to me."

  The hotel room seemed suddenly very still to Christopher. The silence sounded loud. He didn't know what to say. He could keep his feelings inside, but he'd let so many feelings go in his life, seizing none of them. This feeling, it seemed, should not pass. This feeling had the strength of a runaway horse. It was time to take it in hand. Grab hold and hang on. Cowboy it. "Do you have feelings for me, Marta?" Christopher asked, and his heart felt like it was stuck on his Adam's apple. "Tell me, yes or no. Because I do have feelings for you."