Rough Justice raa-5

by Lisa Scottoline

  "Yes."

  "May I speak with Helen Minton?"

  "That's not very funny, you know. You're a real jerk, whoever you are."

  "Excuse me? What? I have to speak with Helen Minton."

  "No joke?"

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  "My mother was murdered," the woman said with the flatness of deep anger.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Marta said. What was going on here? "I'm very sorry."

  "I thought everybody knew, at least around here. She was killed in the pharmacy during a holdup. The scum who shot her just got to court. Sitting there every day with his fancy lawyer, tryin' to beat the rap."

  Marta couldn't ignore the pang she felt. "I'm sorry. Really sorry."

  "Almost four years later, to the day. That animal had four more years than my mother."

  "I'm sorry. I wish you the best. Thanks," Marta said and hung up quickly. Hadn't the other woman said four years, too? What did it mean? It seemed too coincidental. Marta was almost there, she could feel it. "Read me the next number. Quick."

  Judy recited the number and Marta punched it in. "Is this the Jacobs residence?"

  "Yes," said a young man's brusque voice.

  Marta braced herself. "May I speak to Sherry Jacobs, please?"

  "Nope. Sherry died about four years ago."

  Marta stopped. Four years. Bingo. "I'm so sorry."

  "Don't be sorry. Sherry wasn't the nicest person in the world. I'm her brother-in-law, take it from me. She used to torture my wife somethin' awful. 'You're too this, you're too that.' She could be a real bitch."

  "I see."

  "She left all her money to a dog, can you believe it? Put my wife through the wringer and left two hundred grand to a Welsh corgi. The only good thing she ever did was die and give her body to science. I feel sorry for the schmo who gets her heart. It's empty."

  "What?"

  "Her heart. Sherry was an organ donor. Now what did you say your name was?"

  * * *

  Marta tried another number with a new attitude. "Is this the Walters residence?"

  "Yes," said a woman's voice. Someone was playing piano in the background. "But I'm giving a lesson now."

  "Just one minute, we're checking our records. Is it true that one Ronald Walters passed away four years ago?"

  "Thereabouts. Yes."

  "Was Mr. Walters an organ donor?"

  "Why, yes."

  "Thank you very much," Marta said and hung up.

  57

  Christopher's stomach was killing him. Pain shot through his gut like buckshot. He'd never had cramps like this before. He gulped his coffee but it didn't help. He wanted to roll over and die.

  "Let's deal with the testimony, friends," Ralph was saying. He stood at the other end of the conference table and drew in Magic Marker on a wipe-off board on an easel. The thick black lines wiggled before Christopher's eyes and he blinked to bring it back into focus. It looked like a star or a triangle or something. The lines wouldn't stay put.

  "Ralph, what is that?" Christopher heard himself say. His voice sounded weak, and Megan looked over with a concerned frown.

  "You okay, Christopher?" she asked, and he nodded.

  "Sure." It hurt to talk but Christopher didn't want them to know that. He'd get sent home or kicked off the jury or who knows what would happen. He had to stay here and convince them. "You were saying, Ralph?"

  Ralph pointed to the easel with his finger. "It's a diagram of the carjacking. Point A shows where Steere stopped his Mercedes. Point B is the pillar under the bridge where the carjacker was hiding. The testimony is that this is a distance of five feet at the most. Correct?"

  The jurors nodded. Christopher watched their heads bobbing like a herd of horses. He felt so damn sick. He took another swallow of coffee, avoiding Megan's eye. She really looked worried. Lainie had never looked that worried about him.

  "Now," Ralph continued, "what I'm saying is that if I were the driver of the car and somebody jumped out of the pillar that close at me, I couldn't even think about what to do. There would be no time, like that Marta Richter showed us."

  "I agree with you, Ralph," Mrs. Wahlbaum said. "You'd have to react in a split second. You wouldn't have time to think. You wouldn't have time to consider your alternatives."

  Christopher struggled through the pain, which was worsening. He wanted to grab his stomach. He was supposed to be convincing the jury to convict Steere.

  "You sure as hell wouldn't," Ralph said. "Not with a knife at your throat."

  "It's a natural instinct," Mrs. Wahlbaum added, nodding her gray head. "Flight or fight. Even animals have it."

  Mr. Fogel smirked. "A zoologist now. Is there anything this woman does not understand? Any area of science, mathematics, or philosophy that she's not an expert in?"

  Mrs. Wahlbaum's head wheeled around and she finally exploded. "So what do you think, buster? Every day for two months I've listened to you criticize me. All you do is criticize. You never say one thing for yourself. You're all negatives and no positives."

  Christopher looked between Mrs. Wahlbaum and Mr. Fogel. Don't fight, we have to convict, he wanted to say. Don't be tired. We have time. His gut twisted like a wrung-out rag. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

  Mr. Fogel blinked behind his thick glasses. "You want to know what I think, Miss Know-It-All? I'll tell you. I'm the expert on just one thing. I'm the expert on time. And I, for one, have given enough time to this trial. I have been here seventy-two days, two hours, and" —Mr. Fogel checked his Timex— "twenty-three minutes. The way I see it, that's too much time!"

  Ralph clapped heartily. "Hear hear!"

  Support seemed to embolden the watchmaker, who stood up at his seat, tall and straight as an hour hand. "I'm not giving a day more of my time. Not an hour more, not even a minute more. I want to go home. I want to drive my own car. I want to talk on my own phone. I want to go into my shop and fix Mrs. Millstein's clock, which I owe her from September. We listened to the witnesses, the lawyers, and the judge. Now it's time for them to listen to us." And then Mr. Fogel sat down.

  The jurors started applauding, Gussella loudest of all. Megan clapped, too, less enthusiastically because Christopher wasn't clapping. His face was turning gray and he leaned to the right. "Chris?" she said softly.

  Nick's lower lip began to tremble. "I wish I could see my wife. I want to go home, too."

  Mrs. Wahlbaum patted his suit sleeve. "I miss Abe. He has a hard time all by himself, the shopping and the cooking. It's his knees."

  "Lord, I got to see my little grandbaby!" Gussella shouted, so loud that Wanthida jumped.

  "We all want this over with," Wanthida said in accented English, "and we think Mr. Steere innocent. We should vote and go home."

  "Not all of us would vote for acquittal," Ralph said, though he couldn't have been happier. The war was almost won and he'd taken out the opposing general. The only problem was Kenny Manning. Time to attack, when his enemy was weakest. "Kenny, what do you think? You still would vote to convict?"

  "Why wouldn't I?" Kenny said, cocking his head.

  "It's up to you, friend. I'm the first one to say that we all respect your right to vote however you want. I'm not tryin' to put pressure on you. If you want to talk about it longer we will. I'm here to tell you that you have a right to satisfaction."

  Christopher saw it all slipping away. Marta. The conviction. Somebody was pounding hoof nails through his stomach. Megan was saying something to him but he replied only with a gurgling sound the jurors didn't hear. They were all looking down the table at Isaiah, who suddenly cleared his throat and hunched over the table, meeting Kenny's glare head-on.

  "My fiancée's pregnant, man," Isaiah said, his voice low. "If I don't get outta here soon and get her down an aisle, she's gonna get her heart broke. And her momma's. She don't want to be showin' in front of the whole church, and I don't blame her neither."

  "Shit, man," Lucky Seven said, hanging his head. "Why'n'
t you say somethin'?"

  "She told me last night, durin' the visit. I'm sorry, Kenny, I'd like to go with you. I know how you feel about convictin' Steere, and you might be in the right. But I don't blame the man and I can't stand with you, bro. I can't even take the time to fight with you about it. I got to take care of my family. I got to get home."

  Kenny just glared back; then his dark eyes slid over to Lucky Seven, who threw up his hands like he'd been held up. "Don't look at me, man," Lucky Seven said, from between large palms. "It's up to you. I go with you, you know that."

  "Christopher?" Megan said in alarm. She rose to her feet and was almost at his side as a wave of agony wracked Christopher and he collapsed in his chair.

  58

  Ten phone calls later, Marta sat at the edge of the futon, her thoughts racing. "So what have we learned?"

  Judy sat slumped into the white cloth cushions. A carton of milk was wedged between her legs. Crumbs were sprinkled across her gray sweats. "We learned that we're terrible people, intruding on the privacy of the bereft."

  "What else?"

  "That all the people we called are dead."

  "And all died violently or by accident."

  "Yes. In the City of Brotherly Love."

  "And all died a little over four years ago. And they were organ donors."

  Judy took a slug of milk. "A file of organ donors. That's why it didn't show up on the computer fields. The whole file is of organ donors."

  "What do you mean?"

  "In Pennsylvania, you can tell by someone's driver's license if they want to be an organ donor." Judy crossed to the counter, retrieved her wallet, and handed her driver's license to Marta. "See? It says right there. I'm an organ donor. Aren't you?"

  "Of course not." Marta looked down at the small plastic card. Under an unflattering photo of Judy it said in bright green letters, ORGAN DONOR. Like a grisly caption. "How disgusting."

  "No it isn't. Everyone should be a donor. You know how many people die each day waiting for an organ transplant? I signed up at City Hall. They have an organ drive every year."

  "City Hall does?"

  "Sure. It's run by the mayor's office. It started when the mayor was D.A."

  "When did you sign up?"

  "A long time ago."

  "When, exactly?"

  "Must have been five years ago. They had a big drive. The whole office went. We were at Stalling and Webb then, Mary and I."

  Marta felt suddenly antsy and rose from the futon. Her ribs were killing her, but she had to pace to think more clearly. She had her best ideas pacing or in the shower; if she could pace in the shower she'd be attorney general. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me the mayor's office has a list of organ donors in Philadelphia."

  "I guess. The donor drives are a high-profile thing. The city runs it with the local organ donor organization."

  "The mayor can monitor deaths of organ donors in the city?"

  "I suppose so. City Hall could tap into a network of organ donors. I think it's a public organization that runs the network. I doubt it's even confidential information."

  Marta paced back and forth. "Assume City Hall connects up with the network, so they know when an organ donor dies. Some of the donors die right before the mayoral election. Their deaths get reported because their driver's license says they want to be donors."

  Judy followed Marta's line of reasoning. "Their deaths don't show up in enough time to take them off the voter registration rolls. City Hall finds out first because they're hooked up with the information." The associate paused, momentarily stumped. "But why would they do that? Why would they care?"

  Marta's eyes met Judy's. "Ten to one, Mr. Swenson and Mrs. Minton voted in the last election. And Jacobs and Walters. All of them, on all those driver's licenses. They all voted even though they were dead."

  "How? How would they physically go and vote?" Judy frowned and Marta resumed pacing.

  "Good question." Judy was more able than Marta had realized; it was almost better working together. "Maybe somebody pretends to be them and votes for them."

  "Not possible," Judy said, shaking her head. "There are women and men. Some are white, some are black. They're all different. You can't vote without somebody seeing you."

  Marta froze. "Yes you can. An absentee ballot. Somebody makes out absentee ballots for them. Somebody finds out they're dead before anybody else knows it— because of the donor card— and makes out absentee ballots for them. They have their signature right on the license, and they forge the ballot. That's why they need the licenses on file. Because the licenses have the signature and they have to sign the ballot."

  Judy's mouth fell open. It all fit together. "Street money."

  "Somebody gets paid to file an absentee ballot in the name of the organ donor."

  "Eb Darning would be the somebody."

  "Bingo," Marta said quietly, and suddenly she saw it all. Steere's scheme, perfectly planned and executed, years in the making. Steere had paid Eb Darning to file absentee ballots in the last election, undoubtedly voting against his enemy, the mayor. But Steere didn't anticipate that Eb would keep his own proof of the deal. Darning must have been blackmailing Steere, and Steere killed him for it. "Get the file and notebook," Marta said. "We have to get going."

  "What? Where? To the cops?"

  "No time for that. To court."

  59

  Bennie sat sweltering in her parka, growing increasingly impatient as she and Emil waited for Jennifer Pressman in the chief of staff's office. There was no alternative to waiting, but it went against Bennie's nature to sit on her hands. She'd excused herself twice already to prowl the corridors of City Hall, opening office doors and checking the room where the mayor had held his press conference. The conference had ended, and Jen Pressman was nowhere to be found. "Maybe she's home by now," Bennie said, nudging Emil with her elbow. "Ask the secretary to call again."

  "No." Emil flipped through the glossy magazine he'd found on the coffee table. "We just called. Behave."

  "Ask her."

  "No. Jen will be in soon, she has to be. It's her job. She's dedicated."

  "I can't wait any longer. You want the story or not?"

  Emil snapped the magazine shut. "You try me, Bennie."

  "Thank you."

  He dropped the magazine on the table and walked over to the secretary's desk. "Flossie, do you think we should call Jennifer's home again?"

  The secretary stopped typing and looked up from her keyboard. "It hasn't been that long since last time."

  "I understand, but this is an important matter. Would you mind very much? I consider it a great favor to me."

  "You know—," the secretary hesitated, then her voice softened. "To tell you the truth, Emil, it won't do any good to keep calling her at home. I don't think my boss made it home last night."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean. I don't think she slept at home last night."

  Emil colored. "I see."

  "You didn't hear this from me, right?" the secretary said, lowering her voice.

  "Right."

  "You'd never print anything we talk about, right?"

  "Of course not, Flossie. We're friends, you and I."

  "Well, I think she went to see her boyfriend last night. That's the only time she pulls a disappearing act. She hasn't taken off much lately, so I thought it was over. Maybe not, though. Guess they reconciled and she couldn't get out of bed."

  "Love weaves a spell when you're young," Emil said, and back at the couch, Bennie wanted to throw up.

  "Oh, this isn't love." The secretary leaned over confidentially and whispered, "I think he's married."

  "No," Emil said, with genuine disapproval. He was the most traditional man Bennie knew, and she would have bet that he wasn't the one frying the grape leaves.

  "Yes. I'm sure of it. In summer, she used to take off early on weekends. She'd come back tan and wouldn't say who she went with. She never brought back an
y pictures."

  "Can she be reached? Who is this man?"

  "Damned if I know." The secretary leaned over farther. "You know, I tried to find out once. I was curious and finally I just asked her, straight out. 'Are you seeing anyone?' I said to her. Just straight."

  "Good. It's best to be honest and straightforward."

  "Sure it is. I've worked for her for two years now, and we never talk or anything. You think she'd have lunch with me? Never. Anyway, know what she said when I asked her? She said, 'I don't discuss that with subordinates.' "

  Emil's face fell. "How unkind."

  "Tell me about it. 'Subordinates!' She said she was quoting somebody named Sun Zoo something. So I said to her, 'Who the hell is Sun Zoo? It sounds like a suntan cream or something.' "

  Back on the couch, Bennie's ears pricked up. Sun Zoo? Where had she heard that lately?

  "Sun-Tzu?" Emil said. "He was a Chinese philosopher. A general."

  "That's right. That's what she said. I told her, 'I don't know from Chinese generals, honey, but I know common courtesy and you don't have any.' Imagine! I'm gonna transfer back to the prothonotary's office as soon as they post it."

  Suddenly Bennie remembered. In the conference room at the office, when she was talking to Carrier and DiNunzio. What had Carrier said? If you spend any time with Elliot Steere, sooner or later he hauls out Sun-Tzu.

  Bennie sat bolt upright on the couch. The picture came into instant focus. Jen Pressman had a secret boyfriend, but he wasn't married. He was Elliot Steere. She'd have to keep it quiet because he was the mayor's nemesis. In that moment, Bennie realized the whole scam. It wasn't exactly the way she thought. In fact, it was quite the opposite. But there was no time left. She jumped up and headed for the door.

  "Bennie?" Emil asked, turning.

  "Gotta fry some grape leaves, Emil," she said, and bolted out the door.

  60

  Judge Rudolph was presiding, though when he looked down from the mahogany dais he didn't see a packed courtroom, he saw a running track with hurdles. The finish line was straight ahead, marked by a fluttering red, white, and blue banner that read JUSTICE HARRY CALVIN RUDOLPH. At the defense table, Elliot Steere watched him intently, and the prosecutors looked alert. In the stands, all eyes were on him. Everyone was quiet and waiting for the starter's pistol. On your mark, get set, go! Crack!