by Jeanne Winer
“Not just one. I’m guessing more like four. Maybe even five. What do you think, Lee?”
She didn’t answer. Cary was rocking back and forth, his arms crossed in front of him.
“I’m supposed to report for duty on Tuesday. My gig’s all fucked up.”
“Maybe she saved your life.” When Cary didn’t respond, Michael turned back to Lee. “It’s possible, you know.”
Lee wiped the sweat out of her eyes and said, “I feel kind of bad now. I should have stopped when you told me.”
“I guess you’re not perfect.”
“I guess not.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have stopped either.”
“Yes, but you’re a few years younger than me. You’ve always been less mature.”
“True,” he said, smiling. “You might as well go change. I’ll deal with Cary. I’ll get him dressed and then take him to the emergency room. Make sure there are no other injuries besides the ribs.” He made a scooting motion with his hand. “Go on.”
“Okay.” She began limping toward the women’s dressing room. “You’ll call if he’s hurt worse than we think?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said. “Did you break your baby toe on that last kick?”
“Feels like it.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Hell yes.”
“Why are you limping?” Bobby asked as the three of them retired to the living room for an after-dinner drink of Grand Marnier and homemade pound cake. Lee’s baby toe was firmly taped to its neighbor and hadn’t been bothering her until now. It was late, almost ten o’clock, and she was tired.
Her first inclination was to feign ignorance, but her toe hurt too much. She needed more Advil.
“I kicked someone,” she said, limping to her usual spot on the couch. “He’s hurt a lot worse than I am.”
Bobby immediately sat down beside her while Mark lowered himself into his beloved rocking chair. After a moment, Mark picked up the bottle of Grand Marnier and began pouring a few inches of the liqueur into three small glasses. Lee hadn’t been intending to partake, but changed her mind and sipped greedily at the soothing liquid.
“Ah, that’s nice.”
“Who’d you kick?” Mark asked. “Michael?”
“No,” she said, putting the drink down before she finished it in one go. “A friend of Michael’s. Actually, a son of a friend of Michael’s, a soldier.”
“A soldier?” Bobby asked. “Sounds like an interesting story.”
“It’s not. And it wasn’t my finest hour.”
“Now you’ve really piqued our interest,” Mark said. “You kicked some soldier’s ass and you regret it.”
“Regret is probably too strong a word. I’m disappointed that I wasn’t able to restrain myself.” She picked up her glass and drained it. “More,” she said, setting it down in front of Mark.
Mark looked surprised, but picked up the bottle and poured her another few inches. Lee was a lightweight. If she drank much more than that, she’d have trouble driving down the mountain. He capped the bottle and slid it away from her.
“Enough of the prefatory remarks. Tell us what happened.”
When she finished the story, both men shrugged, much as Michael had.
“Sounds like he deserved it,” Bobby said, putting his arm around Lee’s shoulder.
“He did, but I sort of knew it would happen. I was just tired of being a grown-up. I’ve been feeling frustrated. My murder case is stalled, and I think I took it out on him.”
Both men were silent. She finished her drink, reached over, and poured herself another inch.
“What?” she finally asked. “Am I drinking too much?” After a couple of seconds, she kicked off her left shoe. Her toe was killing her. So was her hip where Cary had punched her. She’d have a fist-sized bruise for at least a week.
“You need a reality check,” Mark told her.
“Reality is overrated,” she said, feeling old and weary.
“But it’s the truth,” Bobby said. His sweet handsome face had that look of concern that signaled a reluctant but necessary reproach—the Boy Scout pulling her back onto the sidewalk. “We’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
Then it’ll keep, Lee thought. She’d reproached herself enough. She was tired and wanted to leave. What she needed was eight hundred milligrams of Advil and an uninterrupted night of sleep.
“No advice,” she said, standing up.
Mark looked exasperated.
“Lee, we’ve been reading the papers, attending vigils, and talking to people. You’re out of step with reality. You actually think we care that your case is stalled. But we don’t. We’re glad.”
“Fine,” she said, limping toward their bathroom to find some Advil. “I never expected you to be sympathetic. Why should you be?”
Bobby stood up and followed her.
“But you still don’t get it, Lee. Everyone, including us, wants you to fail. We don’t want you to save your client.”
“I know.”
“Would you please sit down,” Mark said. “I doubt it’ll change your mind, but I want to tell you what it was like when I was your client’s age.” He pointed to the couch. “Please.”
She sighed, limping back to the couch.
“Mark, I can just imagine what it was like back then to be gay.”
“No, you can’t. I was sixteen years old and knew that I was different than everyone around me. I was in the closet but hated it. One day, a group of my friends started picking on this effeminate kid who was obviously homosexual. I didn’t even like him. I was a quarterback on the football team, a jock. This kid was everything I wasn’t and didn’t want to be. But somehow I knew I had to protect him. I waded into the middle of the fight and told everyone I was gay, that if they wanted to pick on someone different, to pick on me instead.” He ran a hand through his thick blonde hair. “The fight broke up and the kid scuttled away. He never even thanked me. I lost my friends and spent the last two years of high school on my own. It really sucked.”
“Yes,” she said. “Paul told me a number of similar stories. “Just because I want to help my client, that I’m ethically required to help my client, doesn’t mean I don’t understand homophobia.”
“But the point is,” Mark continued, “I was sixteen and made a choice. Your client could have made a choice. He was old enough. He could have decided not to go along with it. It would have been tough, but he could have walked away. I think he’s despicable.”
“Duly noted.” She turned to Bobby. “What about you? Come on. Say everything you think. Let’s get it all out.” The liqueur had already given her a headache. Actually, her entire body ached, even her chest muscles. Those Japanese push ups—why did she have to do so many?
Bobby looked conflicted.
“I wasn’t as brave as Mark was. I never came out to anyone until I was twenty-two. I listened uncomfortably to all the faggot jokes, kept my mouth shut, and never stood up for anyone.” He paused. “But I would never have participated in a ‘boot party.’ At the very least, I would have run away and tried to call for help.”
“Okay,” Lee said, “I’ve heard you both and I’m not surprised. But here’s the thing: I represent a sixteen-year old boy accused of a heinous murder. Everyone hates him, including my two best friends. I’m all he has. I can’t be swayed by the victim’s agony, or by anyone else’s. I can hear your truths, but I have to set them aside. If I succumb to ‘reality,’ if I take anyone else besides him into account, then I’ll have violated my oath, which requires me to diligently represent my client no matter what he’s allegedly done.”
“Allegedly?” Mark’s eyes flashed angrily. “He confessed!”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, standing up again. “He’s still presumed to be innocent. So whether you like it or not, I’m going to do everything in my power to get my client acquitted.”
“Even if he’s guilty?” Bobby asked.
“Oh come on, guys! It’s what I do. Where the hell have you been for the past fifteen years? And, now that I think about it, where was your horror when the victims were women and children?”
Suddenly, the room was quiet. The only sound was wood crackling in the fireplace. It was their first real argument since Paul died. Lee searched for her down jacket, which she’d either hung up or thrown over the back of a chair. There was nothing more to say. When she found her jacket, she pulled it on.
“You can’t go out like that,” Bobby told her.
“Why? Because we’ve had a disagreement? Friends occasionally fight. We’ll get over it.”
“No. You’re missing a shoe.”
She looked down at her feet.
“Oh. I must have kicked it off. It has to be around here somewhere. Probably under the couch.”
The two men got down on their hands and knees, peering under the massive leather couch. Lee remained standing. If she got down on the floor, she’d want to spend the night there.
“Here it is,” Bobby said, reaching up and handing it to Lee.
“Thanks.” She bent down and tried to pull it on. After a couple of seconds, she gave up. “My foot’s too swollen. I’ll just hop to my car.”
“You’re so fucking macho,” Bobby muttered. “I’ll find you a slipper.” He headed for the bedroom.
After a while, Mark said, “I’m sorry, Lee. I don’t know what got into me. Your case just struck a nerve, I guess.”
“I think I drank too much of your Grand Marnier. Did I sound as priggish as I think I did?”
“Yes, but we deserved it. Despite everything we said, we really do understand what you do and why. If I ever commit a dreadful, disgusting crime, I’d want you to be my lawyer.”
“Thanks.”
Suddenly, Mark grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. The hug was tighter than she liked, but she decided not to struggle. She’d been kicked and punched till she was black and blue. How bad could a five-second hug be?
“You’re impossible,” Mark whispered in her ear. “But as gay as I am, I know why Paul fell for you.”
It was the highest compliment he’d ever paid her.
CHAPTER SIX
December 25th was a perfect ski day: cold but not windy, with tons of new snow in the past week. While most people in Boulder were sitting around in their L.L. Bean pajamas opening their presents (oh, another waffle iron—how thoughtful), Lee headed for the warming hut in the Roosevelt National Forest. Today was the fifteenth anniversary of the day she’d first met Paul. For the past five years, she’d skied to the hut every Christmas and toasted him with a cup of hot chocolate. The first year was the hardest—she almost turned back—but then it got easier. In time, it became a lovely way to mark the occasion and a great excuse to spend the holiday alone.
When Lee got home, she checked for messages on her cell phone, which she’d intentionally left behind. There was only one voicemail, from Dan Andrews, who sounded as if he was hiding in a closet in the middle of a raucous party.
“Hey Lee, I’m not sure you’ll be able to hear this, but I’ve got some brand new evidence to disclose in the Matthews case. You know how ethical I am, so I’m making the call today. I won’t be coy. The evidence is great for me, not so good for you. If you feel like it, call me this afternoon. I’m at a family reunion and wouldn’t mind an excuse to skip out for a while on business. I’ve got my cell phone in my pocket. Merry Christmas.”
Lee fed Charlie, went upstairs to shower, and then returned to the kitchen, where her phone still lay on the counter. Forget it, she thought. I’m not going to make your day. Enjoy your family reunion. She slipped the phone into her pocket and wandered into the living room, turning in a circle as she often did to admire a collection of photographs Paul took on his trek to the Annapurna Base Camp. Finally, she sat down on the couch. She had loads of work to do but no desire to do it.
What kind of new evidence could Dan have? If there were any eyewitnesses, they would have surfaced long ago. Had Jeremy made any other statements besides the one to the police? Possibly, which would be disastrous, but Dan hadn’t sounded quite that happy. So probably it was a jail snitch, who had come crawling out of the woodwork looking to make a deal. What kind of information could he have?
After a moment, she fished the phone out of her pocket and dialed Dan’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“Lee?” He was clearly at a party.
“It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh please, I know you’re Jewish. Wait a minute. I need to go outside. Thank God you called.” Thirty seconds later, he said, “Okay, I’m back again.”
“How’s the reunion?”
“Awful. I feel guilty saying this, but I have the most boring relatives on the planet. I almost fell asleep during dinner. Now it’s time for fruitcake. Everyone brought her own. Whose is the best? Who cares? I hate fruitcake.”
“You’re trying to disarm me and you’re succeeding. I hate fruitcake too.”
“Thanks for calling, Lee. I know I could have waited till tomorrow, but I needed some immediate gratification. I knew I’d hear from you.”
“Well, you were right.” She settled deeper into the couch and waited for Charlie to hop up and snuggle next to her. “So how bad is the new evidence? I’m standing in my bathroom in front of the medicine cabinet. Can I get by with regular Alka-Seltzer or do I need the extra strength?”
“For most attorneys, I’d say the extra strength, but since it’s you, maybe just the regular.”
So it wasn’t as bad as it could be. She relaxed a notch.
“Shall I guess?” she asked.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“A jail snitch just contacted your office.”
“I hate you,” he told her. “Go on.”
“The snitch has information that hurts the co-defendants more than me, but now you feel confident that they’ll take a deal and testify against my client if I refuse to cooperate.”
“Why did I even bother calling you?”
“Because you’re trying to wear me down.”
“Am I succeeding?”
Lee looked out the window and saw a group of people ringing her next-door neighbor’s doorbell. As soon as the door opened, they immediately linked arms and began singing. She stifled a groan. If they continued on to her house, she’d pretend she wasn’t home.
“What’s the information and is it credible?” she asked.
“Very. The snitch was the victim’s roommate. He said there was a party at his house about a week before the murder. Someone found paperwork indicating the victim was facing charges for soliciting in Cheesman Park. The solicitee was a male undercover police officer.”
“Was the victim at the party?”
“Nope. But all the co-defendants were. And, according to the snitch, they were talking about a possible boot party for the ‘cocksucker.’ ”
Lee thought for a bit, then smiled.
“The snitch can’t say whether my client was there or not.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true. This isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”
“This is actually great news for me. It proves that everyone but Jeremy knew what was about to happen. It explains his shock and paralysis during the attack. I’ll call the witness even if you don’t.”
“Nice try, Lee. You’re a real pro. But it doesn’t actually prove that at all. In fact, arguably it’s proof he knew exactly what was going to happen. These guys all lived together. The co-defendants were pretty agitated when they left the party. Stands to reason they shared the news with your client. At least that’s what I’ll be arguing.” He paused. “And you’re ignoring the real import of this bad news: that I have the co-defendants exactly where I want them. If you go to trial, three eyewitnesses—not one, not two, but three—will testify against your client. You can impeach the hell out of them, but three eyewitnesses are simply too many. He’s going down, Lee.”
Sh
e counted to five while scratching Charlie’s head.
“What’s your real best offer?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Would you have called me today if I weren’t Jewish?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“So what’s your bottom line?” There was never a bottom line.
“I am authorized to offer your client thirty-five years. The offer will be withdrawn after the arraignment.”
She stared at one of Paul’s pictures, a frozen bone-colored landscape where nothing could survive for long.
“I need more time.”
“Why should I give it to you?”
“Because you owe me. I called you back when you were about to sample a dozen fruitcakes.”
“True. And my mood has definitely improved. How long do you need?”
“Until the motions hearing.” The doorbell rang but she ignored it.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “That’s too long. I’ll give you to February 15th. If you don’t take it, I’ll never offer it again.”
“Which means you’ll offer me thirty-eight any time before the trial.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Dan.”
“Merry Christmas, Lee.”
“Shit,” she muttered after hanging up the phone. If this were a chess game, she would soon lose her queen, and in another few moves, the game would be over. Had she missed anything? Was there something she couldn’t see? There had to be. Today was her client’s birthday. He was seventeen. Lee Isaacs did not plead seventeen-year old children out to thirty-five years. Period.
Without waiting to think it over, she dialed the Matthews residence.
Hi, she would say, today is Jeremiah’s birthday. His life is essentially over. Mary would care; Leonard wouldn’t. But she’d say it anyway.
“Hello?” It was Mary’s voice. She either had a cold or she’d been crying.
“Mary? It’s Lee Isaacs, your son’s attorney.”
“I know who you are.”
“Is Leonard there?” Lee asked quickly.
“Not at the moment.” She sniffed loudly. “It’s Jeremiah’s birthday.”
