Martin Fogel folded his skinny arms. “She’s a biologist now,” he said, but Christopher ignored him and stood up at the head of the conference table, in front of a large window. The snowstorm was still going strong. Snowflakes fell from the gray sky on an already whitened city. The room was quiet and the snow muffled what little noise there was outside.
“It doesn’t make sense that Steere was that afraid,” Christopher said, as he stood behind his chair. “Why was he so afraid? The poor man was obviously homeless. Drunk to boot.”
Megan couldn’t take her eyes from Christopher. His shoulders looked so broad in front of the hotel window. She had on her best Urban Decay makeup, thinking she’d get back on-line today. But when she looked at the new Christopher, Megan suddenly stopped missing her computer.
“I wonder if Steere was afraid of the knife,” Ralph Merry answered dryly. “My guess is that the knife had something to do with it. Besides, the man was a carjacker, not a hobo or something.”
“But the man was drunk,” Christopher countered. “He couldn’t have used a knife.”
Ralph shook his head. “Christopher, the defense proved the carjacker wasn’t that drunk. Remember that expert? The carjacker’s blood alcohol showed he wasn’t dead drunk. He could still have done some damage with a knife like that.”
“I disagree,” Christopher said. “It was an empty threat, and Steere killed him for it.”
Lucky Seven grinned, and Kenny Manning crossed his arms. “Man’s goin’ down,” Kenny said, nodding.
Christopher’s head bobbed in unison with his new allies. “Also, why didn’t Steere take the stand? Why didn’t he just get up there and testify? Tell his side of the story?”
“We aren’t permitted to consider that,” Mrs. Wahlbaum said. “Mr. Steere had a right not to take the stand. We’re not supposed to hold it against him.”
“I know, but I can’t help wondering,” Christopher said. “Think about it, Mrs. Wahlbaum. We took an oath. We have to find the truth. It’s our responsibility to wonder why somebody has something to hide.”
“We’re supposed to deliberate using what the judge told us,” she insisted. “We have to look at the law and the evidence.”
“But at the end of the day, it’s our conscience,” Christopher said as firmly as possible. He pointed to his chest beneath his flannel shirt and it made him feel even more emphatic. “We have to make the decision and we have to live with it.”
“Thas’ right,” Lucky Seven said. “Everybody else, they go right on. The judge and lawyers go to the nex’ case. We the ones, we got to live with it.”
Christopher nodded. “Why did Steere shoot him? Why didn’t he just hit him — clock him — and drive away? Or if he had to shoot him, why didn’t he shoot him in the shoulder or someplace else that wouldn’t kill the poor guy? Instead, he shot to kill.”
“Coulda done a million things,” said Lucky Seven, and Christopher nodded again.
The jurors’ heads wheeled back and forth.
“Right,” Christopher said. “Exactly. I know how you all feel and I felt the same way yesterday. But here’s something all of us are forgetting. A homeless man is dead today because of Elliot Steere. A man is dead. Nobody can bring him back.”
The room fell silent suddenly. Megan glanced at Mrs. Wahlbaum, who pursed her lips. Nick took a shaky sip of water. Wanthida looked down.
Only Gussella looked at her fellow jurors with undisguised scorn. She wasn’t about to miss another week with her grandson. When babies were that young, they grew so fast, and Gussella wanted to hold that little boy in her arms. She could feel his softness against her skin, a warm bundle. Chubby arms to snuggle around her neck. Little fingers to coo over. A crinkly Pampers on that little butt. She couldn’t wait a minute longer. “Are you all crazy? That man done wrong! He was tryin’ to rob Steere’s car! He held a knife to Steere’s throat! We all saw how his lawyer showed it. He cut Steere right in his face!”
“Under his eye,” Mrs. Wahlbaum added. “Mr. Steere could have lost his sight.”
Mr. Fogel said, “Thank you, Dr. Wahlbaum. She’s an eye doctor now.”
Christopher faced them all. “Yes, that’s all true. Everything you say is true about what that man did. But the question we have to answer is, did he deserve to die for it? Would you have killed him for it?”
“Damn,” Lucky Seven said softly, and even Mrs. Wahlbaum looked like she was thinking twice.
Ralph Merry looked from face to face and worry crept over him. The jurors could go south on him. Christopher might be able to reach them in that down-home way he had. Christopher might be able to talk them into changing their votes, even though they were so close to acquitting. He might hold out and force a hung jury. He could wear them down.
Ralph considered his options and chose the one that made the most sense. He had to nip this sucker in the bud, before the worm started to turn. The jurors had gotten up expecting to go home and thought they were just an hour or two from a unanimous vote to acquit. Even Kenny Manning had acted less cocky than usual at breakfast. The brothers were breaking ranks. Ralph had the Big Mo, like George Bush used to say.
Ralph checked his watch. 11:10.
He’d have this sucker over with by lunch-time. The jurors wanted to acquit and he had to clinch the verdict. He’d blitz this battle like General Schwarzkopf. Get in, kick ass, and get out. This was his own personal Desert Storm. After all, he had a deal to live up to. With a killer. “Anybody else need a bathroom break?” Ralph asked, trying to sound casual.
52
Marta stood on the sunny shoulder of Route 72 in front of a sooty, pitted mound of snow. Purse on shoulder, she was thumbing a ride. She wanted to suppress the déjà vu but it was inescapable: Marta was back beside a highway, surrounded by snowy woods. Waving, hoping, begging a ride. Familiarity and fear flooded her, undeniable. She was terrified to do this again.
Please, sir! Please stop!
An oil truck with a long silver tank headed down the highway. Marta held up her hand but couldn’t bring herself to flag down the truck. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her muscles refused to respond. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt dizzy and broke into a sweat.
Please, sir! Please!
The oil tanker rumbled closer. Its tank glistened like a bullet in the sun. Marta had to catch it. She tried to wave but her arm still wouldn’t move.
Please, sir. Please stop!
Please stop. Please don’t. The oil tanker roared closer. The driver with the glasses was almost upon her. She could feel his hand on her knee. Sliding up her thigh. Fear rippled through her limbs. Her knees buckled. She wanted to panic and run. She was trapped in the station wagon. Open the door. Run out. Run away. Run away.
Then she blinked. The driver with the glasses had vanished, replaced by a trucker with a beefy face. He wore a white uniform, not a tie and jacket. He wasn’t the man in the station wagon. Marta swallowed her anxiety and waved. Hard, then harder. Pumping away wildly.
“Please stop!” she heard herself shout. The voice was hers, not her mother’s. The gesture was her own, too. Marta wasn’t a liar or a drunk. Her car really had broken down. She really did need a ride. She jumped up and down, almost slipping in the slush. Yelling at the top of her lungs. She didn’t care. She had to get him to stop. And she felt free, absolutely free.
“Please STOP!” she cried, but her shout was swallowed up in the Doppler effect of the huge rig as it roared past her. Marta jumped to avoid the fan of gray slush it sprayed in its wake. She stopped trembling as the truck rolled down the empty highway, shrank into a silver speck, and finally disappeared into thin, cold air.
Ten minutes later, Marta was in a blue Dodge Omni inching down Route 72. An older woman was at the wheel, going to Philly to visit her divorced daughter. The ride should have been a lucky break, but less than a mile down the highway Marta regretted ever accepting it. It was 11:30, and she could have walked to Philly faster. “Are you sure I can’t put the rad
io on?” Marta asked, trying again. She had to know what was going on. Was the jury still out? Were the cops after her?
“No radio,” the woman replied flatly. She was about sixty-five years old, with a cap of straight gray hair yellowing in the front. She could barely see over the wheel, which she squeezed with arthritic knuckles. A skinny brown cigarette dangled from her lips, dusting her thin cloth coat with ashes.
“Not even for a minute or two?”
“No radio.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my car and I don’t like radio. I don’t like music.”
“I didn’t want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news.”
“No radio.” The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. “I don’t like news. I never listen to news. If news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad.”
“Don’t you want to hear the weather report? It’s a snowstorm.”
“I look out the window, that’s my weather report.” The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. “If it’s raining I get my umbrella. If it’s snowing I get my Totes. What’s so hard?”
“But there’s a blizzard in Philly,” Marta said, about to explode. “You need a traffic report. Don’t you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?”
“I know how to get to my own daughter’s.”
“What if you can’t get through because of the snow?”
“I’ll get through. If my daughter needs me, I’ll get through.” The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. “Don’t do that!” the woman snapped. “It’s freezing out.”
“Sorry.” Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they’d never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn’t know they were in motion.
“Keep that window shut! I’m older than you, not as strong.” She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. “I’ll catch my death.”
“It’s so smoky in here.”
“Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It’s discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers’ side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don’t have a sign saying NO DRUG ADDICTS, do they?”
Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the trial:
“This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere.”
Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn’t give up hope.
“In a related story,” continued the reporter, “no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere’s former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery.”
Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.
“Told you, it’s always bad news,” said the old woman. “Murder. Killing. That’s all they put on. That’s all that matters to them.” The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.
“No, stop. I need to hear this.”
“All right, fine.” The woman quickly withdrew her hand. “Don’t get excited.”
Marta turned up the volume. The reporter said, “The police have no suspects in connection with the shooting of attorney Mary DiNunzio. We’ll keep you posted as events unfold both in and out of the courtroom. Back to you, Jane, for the latest on the blizzard that has buried the Delaware Valley.”
Marta tried to get a grip. Mary, shot? What had happened? Had Bogosian done it? How? Marta didn’t know what to do. She felt shaken, torn. She was drawn to see Mary, but she’d be recognized and taken in if she went to the hospital. The press would be everywhere. Everything would be lost. No, not the hospital. Not to Alix Locke, either. Suddenly Marta knew where she had to go.
53
Ralph Merry ducked into a stall in the men’s room, unbuckled his pants, and dropped trou. His white boxers stretched between his knees, and the packet they’d sent to Ralph’s wife was taped inside the waistband. He’d carried the damn thing every day like they told him to. He’d felt like a secret agent taping the packet to his skivvies in the morning, but now he was glad he had. He would never have guessed Christopher would pull a Benedict Arnold. The man turned out to be just plain weak.
The packet was tiny and plastic, no bigger than a thumbnail, and it contained white powder. Ralph didn’t know what the powder was, but they told him it wouldn’t kill anybody, just give him a stomachache for a day or two, long enough to get him off the jury. They told Ralph to use it if he got in a jam. Ralph figured this was a jam all right.
The urinals flushed as he peeled the packet off the waistband, leaving white threads stuck to the tape. Ralph threw the tape in the toilet and tucked the packet under his sleeve, like he practiced with his wife during the conjugal visit when she brought it. It was so easy to smuggle it in; of course it wasn’t picked up by the metal detector. Ralph had realized what a cakewalk it would be to smuggle drugs into the country. The United States had to do a better job protecting its borders; it was a question of integrity, national integrity. Ralph double-checked the packet under his shirt cuff and pulled up his pants.
“Ralph, you fall in?” asked the sheriff, who was standing by the door.
“Nah, I’m good to go.” Ralph flushed the toilet for show and opened the stall door.
54
Marta sat in Judy’s apartment, sickened as the shaken associate told her the details of Mary’s shooting. So Marta hadn’t been able to keep the associates safe; they were both in it up to their eyeballs. And judging from the time Mary had been shot, it couldn’t have been Bogosian that did it; he was in Long Beach Island around that time. Steere must have sent someone else. Someone who must be out there, waiting. Marta had set in motion something she couldn’t control, jeopardizing them all. It had gone too far. She was spent after the long, exhausting night. It had to stop.
“Wait until you see Darning’s notebook,” Judy was saying, from the stool at the kitchen counter. A small TV sat on the counter on low volume; the news covered the snowstorm continuously. A blue bag of Chips Ahoy sat open-mouthed next to the TV.
“No, I don’t want to see it. I don’t care about the notebook. I care about you and Mary.”
Judy blinked at the unexpected sentiment. Erect? “The notebook could lead to why Steere killed Darning.”
“Not our concern,” Marta said. Her manner grew calm suddenly. She felt centered, more in control than when she was a control freak, ironically. “We’ll take the notebook and file to the police. Tell them we want protection, too.”
“Did you say ‘file’?” Judy straightened up on the stool. �
��What file?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Marta hadn’t told Judy anything about the buried treasure or Bogosian. It was safer if she didn’t know. “This has gotten way out of hand. Trust me.”
“Now you sound like Bennie.”
“Rosato? She knows about the notebook?”
“She’s concerned about my ethics. I’m out of a job.”
Marta winced. She’d gotten one kid shot, and one ruined. “We’ll take the notebook and the file to the police. Leave the whole thing to them.”
“Is that the file you mean? That envelope there?” Judy eased off the stool and pointed to the manila envelope peeking from Marta’s purse.
“People are dead. Mary’s been shot. No file is worth that.”
“Mary’s the reason I want to see that file. She wanted justice, and so do I. Don’t you? Isn’t that why you went after Steere in the first place?”
Marta felt a twinge. “Not in the beginning, don’t kid yourself. It was jealousy, not justice. My motives were impure.”
“So you did the right thing for the wrong reason. It doesn’t make any difference now. Steere killed Darning. We have a notebook that could prove it. Now could I see that file?”
“It’s too late.” Marta stood up, grabbed her purse, and zipped up her heavy coat. “Let’s go. You’re in danger as long as you have that notebook. We both are.”
“We worked all night for this evidence. It’s better than anything the cops have done. What’s in the envelope? What kind of file?”
“Nothing. I don’t even understand it. Maybe the cops will. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”
Judy folded her arms and stood her ground. “Wait. I’ll make a deal with you. Let me see that file. You look at the notebook. If we learn nothing in five minutes, we go straight to the cops. I promise.”
“No.”
“We’ve come this far. What have we got to lose? Five minutes?”
Rough Justice Page 28
