by A. J. Carton
“Let me show you the yard,” Jack said leading her past a formal dining room with a glass and chrome table that would easily sit fourteen.
An enormous white marble kitchen spanned the back of the house. Jack motioned to her to follow him through double French doors opening onto a beautiful patio. The moon was just coming up – a cold white, almost full moon.
“Here,” Jack said pointing to a large stone table. It sat a few feet from a forty-foot swimming pool surrounded by lawn, fruit trees and evergreens. “I thought we could eat outside. I’ve never had a party here before, but I think this would do.”
“Jack,” Emma sighed. “This will do perfectly. In fact,” she added, “I can’t think of a more beautiful spot.”
It was almost dark by then, and getting cold.
Jack motioned to Emma to return inside. “See, Emma, Frannie could have thrown a party here in her sleep. Sometimes I think Cara really picked this place out for her mother, not me. It’s just too bad she isn’t here to enjoy it, huh?”
Tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. She wanted to give the man a hug – but she knew that wasn’t what he was after. And for some reason, knowing that made her sad.
“You want something to drink while you look around the kitchen?” Jack asked once they were back inside. He had taken off his sports coat, and helped her off with her jacket. “To make sure you have everything you need.”
“Just water,” Emma answered. “Tap water is fine.”
“Please look around,” he called over his shoulder as he reached into a cupboard for a tumbler. “I probably have everything you need, but how would I know?”
He handed her the glass of water, and then opened cabinets one after another. They were all stocked with plain white china – probably enough for twelve. Cups, saucers, plates of all sizes, bowls, mugs and glasses. Lots and lots of glasses.
Emma inventoried it all in her head, thinking through each course, from hors d’oeuvres to dessert, coffee and after dinner drinks, imagining exactly what they would need.
“Have you got table linens?” she asked.
Jack opened a cabinet of short, wide drawers. They were full of linens. Emma pulled out a set of eight paisley placemats and napkins.
“Use these,” she said. “And tell Celina about the party in advance. So she can make sure everything is clean,” she added unnecessarily. The place mats, she noted, still had the price tags on.
Next Emma pulled open the deep, sliding drawers under the kitchen counter looking for serving dishes, pots and pans. Beside the professional Viking range, she found a cupboard filled with All-Clad cookware. Every size and shape imaginable. All brand new.
After spending about twenty minutes looking around, she turned to Jack.
“Honestly, I think you are all set,” she announced. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better equipped kitchen. Except maybe my daughter’s,” she added with a laugh.
“Great. Shall I take you home?” Jack asked.
Emma had turned to put her glass down by the sink when her eyes rested on the only personal clutter to be found in the entire, virtually unused room. It was a random collage of photographs stuck to the oversized stainless steel SubZero fridge. She set down her glass and walked up close to the refrigerator to look at the photographs while Jack went to get her coat.
One picture, Emma guessed, was obviously of Frannie, the multi-talented and beloved saint/wife. From the photograph, which appeared to have been taken when Jack’s wife was in her fifties, she looked to have been a pretty brunette. Perhaps a little overweight, Emma noted. In the photograph, taken somewhere at a beach, she wore black slacks and a black cotton T-shirt that covered her hips, much like the uniform the Walkie-Talkies wore.
There were also photographs of two boys at various ages. These must be the grandkids, Emma surmised, recognizing them from photos Jack had shown her on his cell phone. And there was a wedding photo of Cara with a stiff, serious young man who she assumed must be the radiologist, Mike Perkins.
One photograph in particular, however, caught Emma’s eye. It was of a little boy – obviously one of the grandchildren, Mikey or Josh. Emma guessed that in the photograph he must have been around three. He was an exceptionally bright-eyed little imp, laughing, full face into the camera. What struck Emma most of all, however, was that he was the spitting image of Jack.
When Jack handed Emma her jacket, she pointed to the photograph.
“Which one of the grandsons is that, Jack?” she asked. “He looks exactly like you.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. Then that wistful look crossed his face again that she had noticed before. It was few seconds before he spoke.
“That’s Johnny,” he finally said. “That’s my son. He died six months after that picture was taken. Of leukemia.”
Emma felt her heart free-fall into her stomach. “Oh my…” she said. “Oh, Jack…”
She couldn’t continue, afraid her voice would crack. Even though she realized that the little boy in the photograph had probably been dead now for over thirty years.
“I’m so sorry,” she finally said.
Jack shrugged in his fatalistic way. “Funny thing, Emma,” he said. “He’s been gone now over thirty years. And you know what? I never got over it. I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone before. Not even to Fran.”
Emma started to reach out to him, but he turned abruptly and walked to a far cabinet where he removed a bottle of Laphroaig and poured himself a couple of fingers of scotch. He downed it in one gulp.
“I guess you never do get over something like that,” was all Emma could find to say.
Jack nodded. “It was the end of everything, Emma. The end of my marriage. Sometimes, I wonder if it was the end of my life. Of course, Fran and I went on living. We had to for Cara. But, you know what? Instead of binding us together, it pulled us apart. She kept wanting to talk about it. I couldn’t. Instead I buried myself in my work. She devoted herself to Cara. And to her friends. The ones who would listen. Cara was the only one who came out stronger. The day Johnny died, we were all crying and she said, ‘Daddy, you’ll see. I’m going to be a doctor. This isn’t going to happen to anybody else’s little brother ever again. I promise.’ Poor kid, I think she’s still trying to keep that promise.”
Jack took a deep breath, and smiled. “Too much information, right Emma? Let’s go.”
On the way back to her house, Jack didn’t bring his son up again. Seated next to him in his car Emma wanted reach over and give Jack a hug. But she knew it was a cheap shot. Taking advantage of his pain. Sympathy wasn’t what he wanted. So she chattered away about the party. How perfect his house was. All the fun it would be. The words sounded forced and hollow.
When they got to her door, Jack kissed her lightly on each cheek. “Ciao, bella,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
“Ciao,” she replied. “Thanks for dinner.” As she opened her front door, she heard the wheels of his Tesla crunching on the pebbles of her drive. She couldn’t bring herself to look back.
Chapter 7: Monday Morning – Under the Bus
Emma awoke the next morning, pulled her fleece muumuu over her pajamas and went downstairs to make coffee. Bundled against the Blissburg morning chill, she sat on her back deck, dunking a Claud’s fig and pistachio biscotto into the coffee she’d poured into her favorite Marimekko mug.
How little we understand each other, she thought. Even our closest friends. After nine months, I hardly know Jack Russo. Did I think we were close simply because I told him everything that was on my mind? A running verbal twitter of my random thoughts, opinions and deepest fears? The idea embarrassed her.
Then, again, she reminded herself, it was Jack who once said he could tell her “anything.”
“You know Emma,” he began after they’d spent an hour over dinner discussing 81/2, a movie they both adored, “I married my high school sweetheart. And, don’t get me wrong. I was a lucky man. She
was a wonderful woman. But she didn’t get Fellini. In fact, and I hate to say it,” he laughed, “I think the only books she read were store catalogues.” He paused as though considering what he was about to say. Then he shrugged, “I have to admit, once in a while I used to wonder what it would have been like to meet someone…I mean, later in life. When I was older. Someone I connected to. You know, in the head.”
“And that didn’t happen?” Emma had asked. “I mean, you must have met a lot of very bright women over the years…”
“Sure I did,” Jack readily replied. “But I didn’t let anything happen. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that, you know, to Cara, to Fran. I loved them.” He squinted sideways at Emma. “And don’t get me wrong. Forty years of marriage doesn’t mean I was a saint. I was not always a good boy, Emma. Once in a while I played around. I just made sure it was never with anyone I was actually gonna fall for.”
Emma had winced. She’d heard the excuse before. And by the sheepish look on Jack’s face when he spoke, she knew he understood that she did not approve. Nonetheless, at the time she’d appreciated his honesty, the heads up.
“By the way,” he’d added before she could reply, “I’m not trying to excuse my conduct. And you can bet I’ve never told that to anyone else before.” He laughed again. “What is it with you, Emma? I feel like I can tell you anything.”
Oh my, Emma now mused, remembering her response to his confession of infidelity. In that one statement, with the artistry of a con man, she now realized that he had sealed her confidence in him – in them. At that one moment, she’d felt sure she knew everything there was to know about Jack Russo.
Now she realized just how wrong she had been. She’d been falling in love with a man she hardly new. A man who kept secrets from her.
She stood up abruptly from her chair on the deck, gathered her mug and the plate of biscotti, and went inside. Time to get on with my life, she whispered to herself.
That day, getting on with her life meant showing up at her Monday morning meeting with Steve Zimmer at the free legal clinic to discuss the Gomez matter. As she dressed, Emma mulled over the approach she would take. On the one hand, she wasn’t going to let her son-in-law, Piers, bully her into interfering with Steve’s lawsuits and jeopardizing her job.
On the other hand, she was going to try to keep an open mind with regard to Steve’s proposed litigation. Maybe her son-in-law was right about settling the workers’ grievances. Maybe they were trumped up. As for the wrongful death action against Curt Randall? In her heart of hearts Emma simply was not convinced Curt Randall was a murderer.
Emma decided to try to dress professionally that day. So Steve, her boss, would take her seriously.
Fine for Steve to dress in shorts, wrinkled T-shirts and flip flops, she mused - the better to identify with his downtrodden clients. Steve was a member of the California Bar and a graduate of UC Berkeley’s prestigious Boalt Hall School of Law.
Emma, however, was a paralegal. In the late sixties, many years before, she’d chosen to marry a lawyer instead of going to law school herself. Her father, a well known civil rights advocate, agreed with her choice.
“It’s a man’s game, Emma,” he’d said. “Like baseball. The rules are made by men, for men. There’s no sense in a woman trying to play on that field. She can’t complete – at least not a womanly woman,” he added. “Women lawyers aren’t…you know…feminine.”
Not “feminine.”
Emma smiled. Her father was not a highly successful trial lawyer for nothing. He knew exactly where to land the knockout punch. After hearing her father’s comment, Emma fled law school like a stray escaping the pound.
“Mark’ll go to law school,” her father had explained.
Mark was Emma’s younger brother. At the time he was fifteen. Interested solely in wildlife and sixteen year old blondes.
In fact, however, her father was right. Mark did go to law school. And hated it. He practiced law for five years. Then married a girl from Costa Rica and moved there to start a successful eco tourist lodge in the rainforest around Braulio Carillo National Park. He and Emma Skyped a few times a year. She tried to visit every two or three. Mark, however, returned to California only twice. For each of their parents’ funerals.
Now Emma perused her wardrobe. Shorts were out. Sweat pants as well. And forget about colors. Only highly successful female partners at big established firms wore colors. Three thousand dollar red wool Akris suits or cobalt blue Armanis with themed Hermes scarfs and three-inch heels. The rich fabrics and vibrant colors screamed success. The I’m so good I don’t have to dress like a man kind of success.
Deep down, Emma admitted she admired these women. The ones who didn’t take their fathers’ advice. Or the younger ones, like Julie and Cara, whose fathers were actually proud of their daughters’ success.
That day, for her take me seriously meeting with Steve, Emma picked gray cotton twill slacks and a black and white striped, short-sleeved cotton knit sweater. She thought of it as the make sure no one notices me look. Instead of her beat up Tods, she wore black Final Call Ferragamos – without one of the goofy pairs of socks her grandson gave her for Christmas. It was hard to be taken seriously wearing socks with purple and blue dinosaurs on them.
A few minutes later, driving north on 101 to the legal clinic, Emma rehearsed what she would say in her meeting with Steve. Over the years she’d developed a certain analytical style. Old friends like Mary loved it. Jack bore it patiently.
Emma described it to herself as stream of consciousness. But she knew it was more like a sea than a stream. Driven by its force of logic like a strong tide. Building to an irrefutable crashing conclusion.
Piers once described it as an oil slick, slowly surrounding you till you were trapped.
Whatever the style was, Emma knew Julie hated it. Steve did too, often interrupting her mid-first-sentence with questions like, “so what’s your point?”
That morning in the car on her way to the meeting she tried to articulate her “point.” As usual, it wasn’t easy.
There were numerous points. Steve would only have patience for one. So somehow Emma had to combine all her points into one big irrefutable truth. She rehearsed her presentation in her head.
Point number one: Curt Randall probably did not kill Santiago Gomez.
Despite Emma’s confidence that this was true, even she had to admit that three pieces of evidence suggested that Curt did kill Gomez. First, his own bloody knife found hidden in his garage. Second, his anger with Gomez over the lawsuit. Third, his threat at the Chatham Club. Means. Opportunity. Motive. It added up to a strong case.
On the other hand, Emma reminded herself, people who actually know Curt Randall don’t believe he’s a killer.
In fact, lots of evidence demonstrated that was true. First, he was eighty-eight years old and battling lung cancer. Everyone who’d seen him recently agreed that Curt Randall did not have the strength to kill a strong, thirty-something farm hand. Even if he took Gomez by surprise.
Second, Curt had an alibi. His housekeeper saw him asleep in front of the television wearing his oxygen mask when she left his house the night Gomez died. Teresita had sworn Curt was asleep in the very same chair in the very same position when she arrived at his house the next morning. He’d never moved.
Third, Emma noted, those who knew Curt well believed the old man simply didn’t have the will to murder. He’d been depressed and broken for years. Ever since his son died in the Viet Nam War. The old man was mean, but not violent. According to them, Curt Randall wouldn’t hurt a flea.
Point number two, Emma continued. Plenty of people besides Curt Randall wanted Gomez dead.
First on the list was Gomez’s cousin, Jose Diaz. The two recently came to blows, Emma reminded herself. When Gomez tried to force Diaz to join the class action. Piers even suggested that Gomez was blackmailing his cousin.
There was also the husband of the woman Gomez seduced. Surely, Emma thought, a j
ealous husband has a motive to kill.
And what about Randall’s nephew? What if the Gomez lawsuit bankrupted the old man’s estate? Did Curt’s nephew and heir kill Gomez to stop the suit? And then frame his uncle for the murder?
Finally, Emma wondered, what about the prune fanatics? Would Silas Bugbee go so far as to frame Randall to stop the plum ranch sale? The look in Bugbee’s eye when he talked about the “slaughter” of the trees had certainly unnerved her. Emma asked herself, is the plum sucker capable of more than tears?
Point number three, Emma concluded. Regardless of who killed Gomez, settling the farm workers’ grievances out of court made sense.
Did all out war ever achieve a better result than an agreement? she asked. More importantly, if Randall didn’t kill Santiago Gomez, then Steve’s wrongful death action could destroy an innocent old man.
Before Emma finished rehearsing, she’d pulled into the parking lot in front of the free clinic. Unfortunately her attempt to articulate one universal “point” had raised more questions than answers.
Emma turned off the engine knowing she wasn’t prepared for her meeting. But it was 10:05. She had no more time to rehearse. She got out of the car, locked it and entered the building.
As she strode past the reception desk, Emma noted that Barbara had embarked on a new romance. This one was titled Rid Hard and Put Away Wet. Its cover featured what looked like a buxom bar maid galloping over dusty Western terrain chased by a fierce looking posse.
Barbara looked up, “Steve’s been wondering where you were. Says you have a ten o’clock.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Emma answered before opening the door to Steve’s office.
Steve gave Emma a big smile when she walked in the door. “Boy, this Gomez thing is heating up fast,” Steve said. “The sooner we lodge a wrongful death action, the better. Yolanda Gomez is completely on board. What kind of punishment is a life sentence for a sick, eighty-eight year old murderer? I want money for the widow and children.”
