PLUMMET: A Novel

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  He was examining the hazy green video image of the dim room, trying to identify strange objects, when he heard the first sound. A faint, languid moan.

  He sat upright in his leather swivel, turning up the computer's volume slightly. He wanted to hear, but was careful not to draw attention to his office.

  The moan came again with a huff of breath. The mattress was moving. A foot appeared from beneath a cover, twitched. A hand appeared, pulling the sheet down, covering the foot up. The hand disappeared and reappeared in front of the video camera, consuming the entire screen. The images moved in and out of focus, the angle higher, the shot blurring before zooming closer on the lump lying on the bed. A woman on her back, eyes closed. She was the show now.

  A naked torso of what looked like a man passed in front of the camera. The man leaned over the woman, slapped her face.

  "She's out of it," the man mumbled, looking directly at the camera.

  Son of a bitch, Gabe thought as he watched, petrified. The man looked like Nick Mavros.

  In the video, the man took something from his pocket and huddled close to the woman in the bed. It looked as if he were rubbing something on her face. Was it lipstick? The man was putting make-up on her. Then he took a brush and ran it through her tousled hair. He lifted up her head to comb the long strands in back. As he tried to brush her hair, her head flopped forward with another torpid moan. He took out a blindfold and carefully wrapped it around her eyes, tying it behind her head. He rested her head back tenderly on the mattress, and his hands crawled over her chest. He pulled the cover down until her breasts slipped away from the fabric. The man sat on the edge of the bed, caressed the woman's hair. His voice crackled in the video, mumbling something inaudible.

  He rose, walked back in front of the camera to say, "I love them. And many women have loved me. But some, like this one here, should be treated like the mongrel bitches that they are."

  "Son of a fucking bitch," Gabe said. "It is him."

  Gabe watched the disturbing scene continue. The video file must have been old or corrupted because the image became more pixellated and the sound more muffled. But Gabe couldn't stop watching the horror unfold. Mavros was actually mugging for the camera. He would talk to the camera, announcing what he was about to do, and proceed in laborious detail, assaulting the woman while she was unconscious. At one point, Gabe thought he could even hear her snoring in the video.

  After several minutes of raping her, Mavros slid off of the woman and wiped sweat from his brow. It looked as if he were taking a break, having lost his erection. He picked up a cigarette off-camera, spread the woman's legs open, and stuck the unlit cigarette, filter end first, into her vagina. He took it out, put it in his mouth, and laughed. Then he lit the cigarette, flicked ashes on the woman, slapped her face, and pulled her hair. This seemed to excite him again, and he got back into bed and began sodomizing her.

  Gabe wanted the video to end, despising himself for ignoring it before, too disgusted to keep watching now. He had the mouse pointer on the "stop" button when a second figure appeared in the mottled images on screen. Gabe clicked "rewind." He watched again to make sure. At slow speed once more until he was convinced who the other person was. He fast-forwarded through the video until the screen became large digital squares of gray and black.

  Gabe stood and pushed himself away from his desk, stumbling into his office bathroom. He folded over the toilet and retched the scotch and guilt fermenting in his stomach. He rested his head on the cold seat for a long while, finally rose to wash his mouth and face. The person in the mirror staring at him was an old pale ghost in a gutter he would've stepped over.

  He wiped his forehead with a wet hand towel and stared at the computer screen. It was still on. He punched the "off" button, and the screen became a white pinhole, then shut off.

  He had an old-fashioned rolodex in a desk drawer. He fumbled through it, ripping cards out until he found the right one.

  There was something else he wanted to bring for his late night visit. He'd bought it years ago when he had to take a safety class for the special license. Back then, after receiving death threats, he made a call to some friends in the NYPD, and they took care of the rest. It was because of some divorce case, one he wouldn't have normally taken. He didn't practice family law, but a wealthy client had asked for a favor. Gabe had managed to get more than her share of the property, including a house in the Hamptons, and fat alimony payments even though she was arguably as successful as her ex. The ex-husband had left him profanity-laden calls, sent a couple of death threat emails, and that's when Gabe got his protection. A .38 caliber Colt revolver like the standard issue sidearm of the NYPD back then.

  The .38 six-shooter was in his office safe, in perfect shape in the protective case. He took the heavy piece of metal and a box of shells. He chugged a full glass of water and grabbed the keys to his daughter's Ford Taurus.

  $ $ $

  The inside of Sarah's Ford felt like a sauna. Gabe rolled down the driver's window while the air conditioner blew warm air at his face. Sweat trickled down his nose, hanging in salty droplets on his lip. He wiped his face, glanced at the rolodex card again. The address was a few miles southeast of the Sullivan & Adler office tower, on the Lower East Side. Near the foundation and shelter that he'd visited once before. He brooded over the bribes Carlos must have gotten: the property for the shelter, nice digs in the city, cash whenever he needed it. One call and Carlos could have gotten anything with a snap of his older brother's golden fingers.

  Gabe drove slowly through traffic, his mind still thinking of the video. And the August humidity weighed down on him, draining his resolve. He leaned his head out the window for the relief of breeze and felt only the intense steam of the city.

  It was late at night, but he wasn't sure exactly what time it was. He'd lost track of time, disoriented when he had slept in the parking garage and while he watched the video. He looked around for a clock. The one in the dashboard in Sarah's car was broken, the LCD numbers jumbled. Gabe had promised to buy her a new car stereo and have the Ford dealer fix the clock for her. But she had smirked at him then. And he knew why now. She just wanted him to help. Something he always seemed able to do for his clients but not her.

  He drove south until he tried to take a left on 23rd Street, but a Yellow Cab darted all the way from the right lane, taking the turn in front of him. He was cut off for a moment before he gunned left, in front of cross-traffic to follow the taxi. In his anger at being cut off, he didn't see the jaywalkers crossing 23rd. He plowed through the crosswalk just as an Asian woman stepped in front of his right fender, and the bumper clipped her knee.

  "Jesus Christ!" Gabe kept driving through the crosswalk, looking back at the woman.

  One of her hands was shaking a fist, the other grabbing her leg. She limped to the sidewalk, and he considered driving away as quickly as he could. But he pulled over to the curb to see if she was all right. Cabs scooted around him, honking horns, cursing.

  "You so stupid!" the woman yelled.

  Gabe leaned his head out the window, trying to apologize, but the woman just clucked her tongue, muttered angrily in Mandarin.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She clucked her tongue again, shook her little head.

  A flash of light bounced off his rear-view mirror. He froze.

  A siren blurted out for a split second.

  He stared into the rear-view mirror, put his hand on the gear shift. An NYPD patrol car pulled over behind him. He exhaled, put the Ford into "park." Without moving his head, he glanced down at his right hand. He brought his hand back to his lap, trying to stretch under his seat. He couldn't reach the floorboards, not without bending over. He kicked his right heel back, moving the .38 under the seat.

  The cops were sitting in their squad car, nonchalantly talking to the Asian woman.

  She was clucking her tongue, waving them off.

  Gabe's window was all the way down. He looked back anxiously, sweat on
his leathery brow. The patrol car motionless behind him, no lights on. He opened the door and walked to the back of the Taurus. He leaned against the back bumper, on the trunk.

  One of the cops emerged from the squad car and approached, his flashlight shining brightly at Gabe's face. "License and registration, sir."

  Gabe said, "Is she okay? She came out of no-"

  "Yeah, I know. I need your license and registration. You been drinking tonight?"

  The last question came out as a pat line, not an accusation.

  Gabe loudly said, "No." He then walked around to the passenger side, leaned through the front window. The cop was practically riding his back, flashlight scanning the interior. Gabe opened the glove compartment. Tampons fell out.

  The cop chuckled.

  Gabe forced a smile. "It's my daughter's car. I don't know where, wait, here it is." He willed his fingers not to tremble and handed over his license and Sarah's registration.

  He deflected the cop's attention, asking again, "Is she okay?"

  "She refused medical treatment," the cop said, studying the license and registration with his flashlight. "Just don't tell her you got money."

  "She came out of nowhere. We don't have to file a report, right? My insurance would-"

  "No." The cop handed back the paper. He pointed his flashlight at the back bumper of the Taurus. "One of your taillights is out. You should fix that."

  "I didn't realize. This is my daughter's car."

  The cop was still searching with that bright cone of light. Dragging it across the trunk of the Taurus, pointing it at Gabe's face.

  "Can you cut the flashlight?" Gabe shielded his face, glancing down at the trunk.

  "What's that on your bumper? The dents there. Something leakin' from the trunk?"

  "Maybe my daughter hit a deer," Gabe said. "I don't know. Can I go now?"

  "Sir, you seem a little nervous."

  "I almost ran into a lady just now. I'm a little irritated."

  "Can you open your trunk for me?"

  "What for?"

  "You consent to let me look, then you can be on your way, sir."

  The cop had sharp, searching eyes.

  Gabe stared hard into them and said, "No, I'm not consenting to a damn thing."

  26 Wednesday

  * * *

  Micah heard the garbage trucks at 6:00 a.m., stared angrily at the ceiling for a few seconds, and rolled over. He couldn't overcome his latest habit of working until midnight and feeling exhausted in the morning. He was becoming what Raphael called a "Stormtrooper." The dripping and humming of his window unit air conditioner lulled him back to sleep. When he woke again, his teeth were gnashing from anxiety over his ten active cases and a constant influx of emails and texts. He had noticed that his left eyelid had begun to twitch involuntarily.

  He checked his clock again. 9:14 a.m. "Goddamn it!" He'd planned on waking up early, showering, getting ready for work, then buying Ashley a birthday card before he went to the office. She hadn't spoken to him in months, but he thought that maybe he could get through to her on her birthday. It was desperate, he knew, but he missed her.

  He took a two-minute shower, cut his face three times shaving, and splashed on his cologne, The Good Life. He quickly raked back his hair, massaged in the expensive grease from Bumble & Bumble, his hair stylists. He slipped into a gray suit, threw a pink Armani reps tie in his briefcase, and was already sweating before he left his apartment. On the sidewalk, everyone's face was shiny as thousands scurried to work like cockroaches, piling down into the airless subway tunnels, wiping August from their faces with handkerchiefs and sleeves.

  Micah took the S train, holding onto a pole and his briefcase, encysted in the sticky crowd. Shoulders and elbows swayed with the mass of people surrounding him. He had gotten to the point of passive aggression, bumping rude people in the back with his briefcase. He pushed against a man hoarding the pole, checked his watch. He was never going to make it to the office on time.

  $ $ $

  He walked from the subway station to the office in the mid-morning sun. The crowd had slackened, but he still felt surrounded, pressured. He knew what was waiting for him. A clock on a neon billboard read 10:04 a.m. He dashed across 42nd Street, fought through the idle tourists in Times Square, and headed into The Death Star.

  Pools of sweat had collected under the arms of Micah's shirt. He wiped his forehead with the back of his tie, hustled down the hallway of his floor. His secretary called after him.

  "You've got a lot of messages. Hannah keeps calling, too! She said you were supposed to meet with her."

  Micah turned, headed back to his secretary.

  "Can you pick up a birthday card?" he said, out of breath. "And do me a favor, no personal phone calls today. I'm gonna be real busy. Capisce?"

  "You want me to buy a birthday card?" His secretary looked at him, making a face.

  "Just buy one during your lunch break. It's for a girl. I'll sign it later."

  His secretary frowned. "What kind?"

  "I don't know, a funny one. Thanks." He turned his back, made for his office.

  At his desk, he logged onto his computer and skimmed the Westlaw cases he'd read for Hannah. He punched in his telephone code, listened to the synthetic voice on speakerphone.

  "You have nine new messages, twenty-three saved messages. To listen to your-"

  He pressed "1" to play.

  The voice said, "Received today at 8:01 a.m."

  "One minute late today, Hannah," he said to the phone.

  Hannah's recorded voice calmly said, "Hi Micah, it's Hannah. Thanks so much for the research. Looks like you've been working late. As much as I hate to, I still may need you to work this weekend again. I'll see you at 10:00 today, don't forget."

  He hit the "skip" button.

  The synthetic voice said, "Next message."

  "It's Stu Greenbaum. I noticed your hours were low last week. Call me."

  "Low?" Micah's hand slammed down on the phone. "I billed fifty-two hours, asshole."

  The synthetic voice garbled out, "Next message."

  "Micah, I just read over your research memo," Hannah said, less calmly this time, "and it's a little sloppy. And this case, what is it, the Canaday case? Are you sure it hasn't been overruled? It's a great case for the client, but are you sure it's still good law? I've never heard of a ruling like this. Make sure before you stop by. Okay?"

  He hung up without listening to the rest of his messages. He knew they were all from Princess Lay-ya. He grabbed a new legal pad, headed for the elevators.

  $ $ $

  On the top floor, Micah felt the thicker spools of carpet beneath his feet as he ambled through the plush world of Sullivan & Adler's penthouse deck toward Hannah's office. He brought his copy of the research he'd done for her because he knew what she was going to ask. Her paranoia drove her to ask the same thing every time. Walking down the hall, he said hello to Gabe's secretary, Cherise, and glanced at Gabe's open door. No one was there. Gabe Weiss was usually a rough-hewn fixture in his office, anchored to his desk every morning. Not today for some reason. Probably working on C-Rex's case, Micah thought, remembering Gabe's bitching about opposing counsel moving to compel a deposition. Gabe had called them Moral Crusaders.

  Micah's attention shifted to Hannah Smythe's shrill voice, muffled but still audible four offices away. She was using her overly formal tone, pretending to know what she was talking about, never wrong. Which meant she must have been talking to a client.

  He paused, raised his hand about to knock on her door, and decided instead to eavesdrop.

  "Well, I don't disagree, Harold," her voice boomed, "but I think we may have grounds not only to make an inconvenient forum motion but also to transfer for improper venue." A pause. "That's right, improper venue. Why do I think that? Well, because of all the research I did last night. I found this great Eastern District case for us. It's called Canaday versus Koch."

  Micah felt his heart pump, thump
ing a base drum.

  "Yes, it's Canaday, C-A-N-A-D-A-Y, versus Koch, as in former Mayor Ed Koch, K-O-C-H. The decision says that if all defendants reside in one district, then that district is the only proper venue." She tittered like a beauty pageant veteran. "Well, thank you. I know it's great. I'll email a copy. The plaintiffs could drop the suit if forced to litigate in your home court."

  Micah knocked and peeked inside the office, seeing Hannah's flaxen hair, her back to him. She spun around in her seat, waved traffic cop style at him with her thin lips mouthing, "Come in."

  He stared at the screensaver photo of Hannah dressed as Snow White and her cat costumed as a dwarf while Hannah periodically smiled at him and spoke on her telephone, her voice snapping like a machine gun.

  After another minute, she said to the client on the phone, "Great. I'll speak to you later after I email that case. Take care, Harold."

  Micah took a deep breath, wrinkling the stack of paper in his clenched hand. Some of that paper was a copy of the Canaday case she was bragging about to the client.

  "Micah," she said, uncurling her phone cord. "Glad you decided to show up today. I was just talking to the client about our case. You absolutely have to make sure Canaday is-"

  "Still good law. I know. I double-checked it on Westlaw. Both last Sunday and last night and this morning. No red flags on Westlaw as of 11:09 a.m. Anything else?"

  "Aw, are you okay?" Her lips pouted with counterfeit concern. "You seem upset."

  He shook his head. "I'm fine. I have a lot of other cases to work on. Anything else?"

  This must have irritated her because she narrowed her eyes, let her Boston accent slip over her R's. "Yeah, there is something else. One more thing, in fact. Your memo was a little sloppy. Make sure you proofread for typos for the client's sake. And you typed the name of the associate general counsel above the general counsel of the client in the header. The memo's from me, and it makes me look bad if I get their seniority wrong."