Dante's Poison

by Lynne Raimondo

  “How do you know I’m not one of them?”

  He didn’t reply right away, apparently looking me up and down. I’d changed into the clean shirt Josh had brought me, but was still in the suit I’d been wearing the night before, which, if not spattered with blood, was undoubtedly filthy. That along with the wad of bandage above my ear apparently disqualified me from Ms. Barrett’s exalted attention. “I’m afraid Ms. Barrett does not involve herself in plaintiffs’ work, let alone charity cases,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” I heard him turn back to his keyboard.

  I considered my options. Raining down blows on him with my cane might satisfy a certain primitive urge but was likely to succeed only in my being arrested and forcibly removed. Instead, I stepped away from his desk, extracted my phone from its holder, and pretended to enter a telephone number. I held it up to my ear and waited a second or two before commencing a loud soliloquy. “Hello? Is this the Disability Advocate at the Attorney General’s office? . . . Yes, thank you, I can hold. . . . Yes, hello? I’m calling to lodge a complaint against a licensed member of the bar. You see, I’m blind and I came here to . . . that’s right, she won’t even speak to me. Yes, I’m at her office now. Oh, you say I should be calling the Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Committee hotline? Right. If you’ll just give me that number. . . .”

  A few minutes later, I was in a private elevator going up to the building’s penthouse, where Jane apparently kept her living quarters so as to be instantly available to clients—at least those wise enough to have called ahead. The car ride took all of thirty seconds, whereupon I was deposited in a small anteroom whose carpeting molded itself to my shoes like a Tempur-Pedic mattress. From my tactile inspection the door a few yards ahead had probably wiped out an entire grove of ancient oaks.

  I located the bell at its side and rang. Nothing happened. After a while I put my ear to the door, listening for some indication of life inside, but there was none. I rang again, holding my finger to the button for a full minute in the hope of getting someone’s attention. At last a set of footsteps approached. With a click of the latch the mammoth door swung inward. I caught the scent of a rich, exotic perfume I couldn’t identify, along with something I would have sworn was glue.

  “Doctor, how delightful of you to come,” Jane said.

  “That’s not the way your winged monkey downstairs put it,” I said.

  “Yes, Gregory is sometimes overzealous in the performance of his duties. But you can hardly blame him. As you might imagine, we’ve been overrun with curiosity seekers recently. Please accept my apologies for his behavior. And for the delay in coming to the door. I was lighting some logs in the outdoor fireplace when you rang.” It sounded as phony as one of Graham Young’s drug sales pitches.

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  “Certainly,” Jane said. “I was merely wondering how best to help you.”

  “Just tell me where to go and I’ll be fine.”

  I followed her instructions to a sofa in the center of a spacious, sunlit room. A door was open somewhere beyond it, bringing the marine odor of the nearby river and the sweet scent of wood smoke. I collapsed my cane and settled myself down on a silk-covered sofa no bigger than a houseboat. I hoped I wouldn’t soil it with my clothes. On second thought, maybe I did.

  “Would you like some tea?” Jane asked. “I order it specially from Mariage Frères in Paris. I’m particularly fond of their Eros infusion. And perhaps some macarons to go with it? I just picked them up at Vanille this morning.”

  “Never mind that,” I said testily. “Have you heard what happened to Hallie?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “A colleague called with the news this morning. Poor darling. And by the appearance of things, poor you. You look like you’re still in shock. And shivering. I can shut the door to the terrace if it’s too cold. Why don’t you just get comfortable and I’ll bring that tea. Unless you’d prefer something stronger . . .”

  “Look,” I said. “I didn’t come here for petit fours. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “But you are my guest and I insist upon it. Now relax and I’ll get us some refreshments.”

  I decided I wasn’t in any position to argue. Jane moved off to what sounded like an open kitchen area and began bustling around while I sat back and listened. The couch was soft and I must have dozed off briefly because the next thing I knew she was perched beside me holding a steaming towel. From the smell, there was also something strong and aromatic brewing nearby.

  “Here,” she said. “You still have dried blood on your face.” She moved in closer. I was too taken aback to do anything but sit still while she dabbed at my cheek and chin. “There. That’s much better.” The warmth was soothing, and I admit it felt good to be nursed.

  She removed the towel and sat back within inches of me, not saying anything. This close, her perfume was stronger and I could detect her low, rhythmic breathing. Once again I had the unnerving sense I was being examined under a microscope by a patient and disinterested scientist. I couldn’t remove her gaze by returning it, which only intensified my feeling of being on the wrong end of a powerful lens. And there was something else too about her silent and unhurried inspection. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being sized up for something. I shifted in my seat to put more distance between us.

  “How much can you see?” were her next, abrupt words.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Of course. How rude of me. But if we’re going to become close you’ll have to get used to it. I always want to know everything about my new friends. But you do see something, yes?”

  “My real friends know better than to ask questions like that. Can we talk about Hallie now?”

  “In a bit. But first you must satisfy my curiosity about something.”

  She rose then and walked briskly across the room, opening a drawer and shutting it again. She returned and put a pack of cards in my hands. “Do you know what these are?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to show off one of your card tricks.”

  “No, but I’d like to finish what we started in court. Mix them up and pick one out.”

  I sighed. But it didn’t appear that I had a choice, so I did what she asked, shuffling the deck several times before removing a card from the middle and running it Carnac the Magnificent style across my forehead. “Two minutes,” I said, returning the rest of the deck to her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s the answer to the question of how long I’m going to remain politely sitting here before my patience is gone.”

  She laughed again. “I don’t think so. Since I appear to be holding all the cards—in more ways than one. Do you know anything about the Tarot?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Well, there are two types of cards. The Minor Arcana, which roughly corresponds to an ordinary deck of playing cards, and the Major Arcana, which depicts characters and scenes of deeper meaning and significance. The one you’re holding comes from the Major Arcana and is called the Hanged Man. It shows a man hanging upside down from a tree. One of his legs is tied to a branch, and the other is free, though bent downward at the knee. The man has a halo of light around his head, and his face is serene, as though he were calm and patiently awaiting something.”

  “And that tells you what?” I asked. “That I’m in line to become the next Jesus Christ?”

  “No, although untimely death is one possible interpretation. More often, though, the Hanged Man is a sign of an individual at a crossroads—suspended between the past and the future, if you will—who must let go of a treasured hope before he can move on. He’ll remain hanging there until he accepts that what he so desperately desires is unattainable.”

  My thoughts immediately flashed to the bottle of pills in my pocket. Could there be some truth to this gimmickry? Or was she giving me a clue I was supposed to figure out? I shook my head. “That’s very interesting, but how do I know t
his hanging man, or whatever you call him, is on the card I picked—I could be holding any one in the deck.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it. Now, let’s drink our tea and get down to business. Cream and sugar?” I nodded yes while she continued. “You said you had some questions for me. What do you want to know?”

  “You could start with what you were lying to Hallie about,” I said, taking the cup from her and briefly wondering whether I would survive the first sip. I tried it anyway. The tea was remarkably good and instantly made my head feel better.

  “What makes you say I’ve been lying?” Jane asked, seeming not in the least offended by the question.

  “A feeling of Hallie’s—she called it an instinct—that you weren’t telling her the truth. And that you were there that night, in Gallagher’s townhouse. Were you?”

  “I don’t know that I should answer that. And how is it important? I assume you’re here because Hallie was mugged. Surely you don’t believe there’s a connection to my case?”

  I considered telling her about the strange note but decided against it. “Let’s just say I don’t think it was a random street incident.”

  “Why? Did Hallie say something to indicate the contrary?”

  I shook my head. “She was only awake long enough to say she was sick and needed to get to a phone. But she knew who it was, I’m sure of it.”

  “And that leads you to believe the attack is related to her representing me? Interesting. But not entirely fanciful. I have a number of enemies, some of whom, no doubt, would view my release from prison as unfortunate. Still, it would be foolish to think my defense could not go forward without Hallie. As talented as she is, there are dozens of attorneys in the city who could take her place.”

  “I’ll grant you that, but if there is a connection, I’d like to know what it is, starting with an explanation of what you’ve been holding back.”

  She studied me again in silence. I wondered if she would be any easier to read if I could see her. Somehow I doubted it.

  Her next remark surprised me. “How much do you know about the rules of evidence?”

  “About as much as I know about the Code of Hammurabi.”

  “Well, let’s see if I can make this simple. You’ve heard the term ‘hearsay,’ I presume?”

  “Sure. Isn’t it like rumor or innuendo?”

  “That’s the ordinary definition. But in the law it has a much more technical meaning, stemming from the nature of our adversary system. The system places great weight on witnesses being under oath when they testify, as well as physically present in the courtroom. It’s thought that direct observation of their testimony is of the utmost importance, both so that the jury can judge its credibility, and also so that the witness’s version of events can be tested through cross-examination. Are you with me so far?”

  I nodded, though I hadn’t a clue where this was headed.

  “The corollary is that the system generally frowns on the introduction of statements made outside the courthouse, whose truth or falsity the jury has no practical means of assessing. That’s the legal definition of hearsay: an out-of-court statement offered in evidence to prove the truth of its contents. An easier way to think about it is testimony that quotes somebody else.”

  “So you’re saying hearsay is claiming to know a fact you only heard about?” It wasn’t all that different from my feeble layman’s understanding.

  “Close enough. The classic example is when Tom testifies, ‘I know Dick murdered Aunt Sally because Harry told me so.’ What Tom heard Harry say is clearly hearsay and won’t be allowed into evidence unless Harry is subject to the court’s jurisdiction and willing to repeat his statement under oath. Only Harry can testify about what he knows.”

  “Go on,” I said, thinking this couldn’t be all there was.

  “There are, however, exceptions, the most common of which are admissions against interest. If Tom testifies, ‘I know Dick murdered Aunt Sally because Dick told me so,’ Tom will be allowed to repeat Dick’s words on the theory that Dick wouldn’t confess to a crime he didn’t commit. It doesn’t have to be a formal confession to qualify. Nearly any statement that flies against the speaker’s self-interest will do. So now you’ll understand why I’m unable to help you,” she finished cryptically.

  My forbearance, such as it was, had reached the breaking point. “I’m sure all of this is of intense interest to legal scholars, but I don’t see what it has to do with my question.”

  “You really don’t?” she said in a pitying tone, like I was a promising student who’d just earned a failing grade in her class.

  I grimaced in annoyance. “Just answer this. Were you lying to Hallie about not being at Gallagher’s place that night?”

  “I see I shall have to spell it out for you. The trouble is, if I had gone to Rory’s house that night—hypothetically speaking, of course—and I were to tell you so, it would qualify as one of the admissions we’ve just been talking about.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that you could be subpoenaed and forced to divulge everything I said under oath.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I said, more out of spite than genuine confusion.

  “Too bad. I gave you more intellectual credit than that. But you are obviously not at your best at the moment. Think about it some more—after you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep—and you’ll have your answer.”

  I was thoroughly sick of whatever game we were playing. “And that’s all you’re willing to tell me?” I said harshly. “While your friend is lying in the hospital in a coma?” I searched for the saucer for my cup and put it down, rattling the china.

  Jane reached out and put her hand on mine. “Don’t be upset. I’m sure Hallie will come out of it soon.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “Then, regrettably, I shall be forced to hire another lawyer.”

  “What a bloody mash-up,” Bjorn was saying. “I’m as done in over it as you are.”

  I was in his office, located in a modest low-rise on Stony Island. Boris had dropped me off there at 9:00 a.m. and provided a quick snapshot of the building, which stood in the shadow of the Reverend Dixon’s People United in Freedom church. Based on Boris’s description, the latter was a lofty structure not far in appearance from the Hagia Sophia. “I prefer to remain close to my roots,” Bjorn explained when I expressed surprise at the non-Loop address. I wondered if his roots included a peerage or two. Or a great-great-great-grandfather present at the signing of the Magna Carta.

  “And my father gives me a break on the rent,” Bjorn said. “If it gives you any peace of mind, I’ve arranged for round-the-clock security outside Hallie’s room. My lads will make sure the wanker who did this doesn’t get within a hundred feet of the door.”

  “That’s not a hundred percent reassuring,” I said. “I know hospitals. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to get past the front desk. Or pretend to be someone you’re not.”

  “They have a list of everyone who’s authorized to go in and out. I made sure you were on it, by the way.”

  “That was sporting of you,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Bjorn said. “It’s small beer compared to what you’ve been through. If you don’t mind my saying so, you look a fright.”

  I was sure he was right. I’d hardly slept an hour the night before, and between the bags under my eyes and the bandage on my head I could probably pass for an extra in Night of the Living Dead.

  “And I know Hallie would want it that way,” he continued. “The girl is positively bonkers over you. In a purely platonic way, of course.”

  Of course. “Have you and your lads developed any leads?” I asked.

  “On Hallie’s attacker?”

  “Or Gallagher’s killer.”

  Bjorn considered this. “So you think the two incidents are connected?” he said from his place on the opposite side of a broad desk. The shades of the window behind it were up, givin
g me a sense of his height, which would have been at home on a point guard for the Bulls. Outside the building’s thin walls, there was a continuous grumble of cars headed for the Skyway. “I’m hard on that theory myself, though it seems right barmy. By the way, do you mind if I smoke? It’s another reason I keep my office down here, where the bobbies are too busy to enforce the building code.”

  “Yes, I think they’re related. Take a look at what came across my desk yesterday.” I removed the photocopy of the pasted-together note from my pocket and tossed it onto the desk.

  Bjorn lit his cigarette with the flick of a lighter and perused what I’d given him. “Somebody’s been playing with scissors,” he remarked before too long.

  “Either that or reading too much Agatha Christie.”

  “It does seem a bit old-fashioned.”

  “So what does that say to you?”

  “The author was trying to make a statement?”

  “That too, but I think there’s more to it. Tell me something. In our computer age, how hard is it to trace a document back to the machine it was printed on?”

  “Not that hard actually. Forensic scientists have come up with several ways to do it, using quality defects like banding—excess lines caused by successive passes of the printer head—or by analyzing toners. There are enough anomalies among different makes and models to allow for a statistical analysis that can pretty accurately say where a document came from.”

  I’d figured as much. “So if you wanted to be sure something couldn’t be traced back to you, you wouldn’t just dash it off on your word processor.”

  Bjorn sucked in a big lungful of his cigarette and blew it out again. “Well, it depends. Very few people have that kind of sophisticated knowledge about forensic techniques.”

  “Who besides you, for example?”

  “Well, just about anyone in law enforcement—police departments, Homeland Security, the FBI, etcetera—but also anyone who routinely works with legal documents. It used to be that a witness could just deny authorship of a ‘smoking gun’ and feel fairly certain of not being caught out unless it contained their signature. Nowadays, all the big law firms hire e-discovery consultants when the origin of a document is in dispute. In fact, we were just hired to do that kind of analysis for—” He stopped short. “Bollocks.”