Counterpointe
Page 25
“Like to know why.”
“You know that expression Beck uses,” Clare said. “You’ve got to walk the talk? Well, Rob walked it all right. All the way to South America.”
“And you upped the ante by planning that move to Cincinnati. That right, girl?”
“Best laid plans.” Clare sighed. “I was planning to be gone before Rob got home.”
Vinnie harrumphed. “And you still don’t believe the Father’s watching over you?”
“Are you saying the Father arranged for Jamal to be murdered?”
Vinnie looked shocked. “Course not. But the Father can take the bad, use it for good. Like making sure you’re still here when that husband of yours come home. You don’t think the Father had a hand in that, means you ain’t paying attention. Besides, notice you ain’t said you don’t love him. Course love ain’t only about what you feel. It’s about what you do. People talk about love, really talking ‘bout sex. Sex okay. Just ain’t enough to build a life on. Why I got to tell you this? You know it already, beautiful.”
Clare picture Rob standing here today talking to Vinnie and Beck. He was thinner and older than the man Clare married, but he was also more definite. As if the jungle had done away with any softness. Had it also done away with what was left of his love for her?
If so, Vinnie was wrong, and the Father was a trickster.
“I may be dancing for the fundraiser, but I am not speaking to a reporter about it.”
“What about photos?” Stephan asked.
Clare glared at him. He gave her a thoughtful look and then, as if realizing this was one time he needed to back off, did so.
Clare warmed up, using the familiar movements to calm her mind. If Stephan wanted to use her comeback as a publicity hook, he’d have to do it without her. It was one thing for her to step back on a stage, another thing entirely to have the details of her life spread out for everyone to pick over and then use as litter box liner.
Besides, there were no guarantees she’d be ready. Five minutes of performance didn’t sound like much, but spending those minutes moving in precisely controlled ways required a level of fitness she’d not yet achieved. And she had to build that stamina slowly and carefully.
Dancing again was both exciting and terrifying, but when the lights dimmed after this performance she would walk away without regret. What was becoming clear, however, was that she wouldn’t be walking away from her marriage and from Rob with the same ease.
After the visit to Hope House, Rob telephoned and invited Clare to a second dinner, this time at a restaurant.
“How are things progressing with Tyrese?” he asked, after they’d been served.
“Slowly. Although not much can happen until he’s ready to leave the hospital.”
“Is he still going to be charged?”
“It looks like it, even though Jamal was killed by someone holding a knife in his right hand. Tyrese is left-handed, and he has a broken finger on that hand. The prosecutor still thinks he did it, using his right hand.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head. “Jamal was big and fit. Tyrese is a lot smaller, and he was already injured. No way he would have survived if he’d taken Jamal on the way the witness says he did.”
Images of Tatito flashed across Rob’s mind, along with what it was like to be powerless to save the child. “You care about this kid.”
Clare lifted her eyes from her plate, and nodded. “I do.” She looked away. “It could be I’m making up for—” She bit her lip and stared at the table. “I was the one who made him come to Hope House, which is probably why the gang members kept harassing him.”
He narrowed his eyes, watching her, thinking about what she’d left unsaid. “But if you hadn’t made him come to Hope House, he’d probably be a gang member.”
“I keep telling myself that. But seeing him...” She blinked rapidly. “He’s so scared, and I am, too. Especially given his attorney.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The detective in charge of the case said the man couldn’t save Mother Teresa.”
“So why not get another attorney?”
“He was court-appointed since there’s no money.”
“You’re still married to me.”
“I already owe you more than I can repay.”
“No, you don’t.”
She flinched.
He softened his tone. “I didn’t buy you, Clare. At least, that wasn’t my intention.”
“I know. But I’ve taken enough from you.” She bit her lip. “It wasn’t right. Marrying you because I was scared.”
“I took advantage.”
She shook her head, sharply. “That doesn’t excuse it.”
His hand went to his forehead. He stopped it midway and returned it to the table.
She pushed her plate away. “Did you mean what you said to Kenny? About me staying. Or were you being polite?”
He lifted his eyes to rest on her. “Do you want another chance, Clare?” He waited, his heart slowing, his breath held.
“I do.” She lifted her chin slightly, holding his gaze. “There’s something I need to tell you, though.”
He watched her take a breath and square her shoulders. “I’m dancing again.”
He couldn’t be more surprised if she’d said she’d decided to hang glide off the top of the Hancock Tower. “When? How? Isn’t the season over?” He clamped his lips shut.
“It’s only one time. For a fundraiser. Five minutes is all. No big deal.”
But it was a big deal. A huge deal. “What about your leg?”
“It turns out the best thing was to let it all heal gradually. It isn’t as good as new, but good enough for this, if I’m careful.”
Clare. Dancing. It had always been between them, keeping them from seeing each other clearly. Like a sheet of titanium—thin and supple but opaque and ultimately too strong to breach. Since her injury, he’d learned to hate everything about the ballet. The physical toll it exacted, the focus on perfection that never let up, the indifference toward the injured dancer.
“I hoped you’d be happy for me.”
“Of course, I am.” The words merely a formula. Dancing a complication he didn’t want to confront.
Clare was saying it would be only one time, but he didn’t believe it. He’d seen how losing the ballet tore her apart. She’d go back if she could. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. It had been a mirage. Thinking she’d changed and they might be building something together to make the divorce unnecessary.
Once she had the ballet back, she wouldn’t need him.
“The Ballerina and the Bull Shark.” The headline in the Globe caught Rob’s eye, exactly as it was designed to. The article that followed was a sensationalized recounting of Tyrese’s relationship with Clare and the difficulties the boy was now facing. Only Tyrese’s name was omitted, because he was a juvenile. Prominently mentioned was the name of Tyrese’s public defender, who had to be the “anonymous source close to the case” the reporter used for the story.
Rob imagined Clare’s reaction. A quick flash of intense anger followed by concern for the small boy caught up in the machinations of the adults who should be protecting him. The public defender was obviously an uncaring asshole, but he was a marketing genius. Win or lose the case, he’d found the perfect hook to get people to remember his name.
Rob hadn’t been able to save Tatito, but maybe he could make up for that, at least in part, by helping this boy.
Rob looked across the desk at Edward Devaney, Esquire, friend and fellow faculty member at Northeastern. “I need the name of a good criminal defense attorney.”
“Not for yourself, I hope?”
“There’s a boy. Accused of killing the head of a local gang. It’s my understanding his court-appointed attorney is incompetent.”
“Who’d they appoint?”
“Frank Horzt.” Rob leaned out of the way as the secretary handed Devaney a pile of folders.
Rob sighed. Futile to hope Devaney would give him a couple of names without the third degree. “A project of my wife’s, you might say.”
Devaney’s face cleared. “Of course. The ballerina and the Bull Shark, right?”
Rob nodded.
“If it were my kid, I’d hire Marge Velez.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Entrechat
Interweaving or braiding step in which the dancer rapidly crosses the legs before and behind each other in the air
“Yes, I saw the story.” Ms. Velez put her hands together and rested her index fingers against her lips. “What’s your connection to the case?”
Rob went through it while Velez watched him over a pair of half glasses. A large, plain woman with astute brown eyes, she reminded him of Sam. “If you take the case, there’s one requirement,” he said, wrapping up.
She raised her eyebrows waiting.
“No one, particularly my wife, is to know I’m paying the bills.”
Velez leaned forward, frowning. “I can say I’m being paid by a concerned philanthropist.”
A concerned philanthropist. Unlikely Clare would recognize him with that description. A good thing. It might confuse her as to his intentions. But then, hell, he was confused about his intentions.
“I need a retainer of $2,000, and you do realize, you may be paying the bills, but I’ll be working for Tyrese. I’ll inform you of anything that isn’t confidential, but most of it will be, especially if it stays in juvenile court.”
“I don’t need reports. Just let me know when it’s over.”
“And I’ll send you the bill.”
“Of course.”
Clare arrived at Hope House for an evening tutoring session to find John Apple waiting to speak to her.
“Frank Hortz came by this afternoon,” John said. “Wanted to know what the hell we’re pulling.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Way Hortz was ranting, hard to figure out at first. Gist is somebody took offense at the newspaper article and used it to get the judge to remove Hortz. Marge Velez is replacing him. Paid for by a philanthropist who takes a special interest in kids like Tyrese. I called Rabbit. He says she’s one of the best defense attorneys in the city, but he’s never heard of a philanthropist doing that here.”
“So who cares?” Clare said. “Being fired couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” The whys and wherefores didn’t matter. The truly important thing was Tyrese’s fate no longer rested in Hortz’s grasping, incompetent hands.
“First time I’ve seen someone’s face turn purple. We worried he might stroke out.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on him,” Clare said. “But it feels good to know he’s off the case.”
“Tell me about Tyrese.” Marge Velez tapped a pen on her legal pad. “How you met him. Your interactions with him at Hope House.”
Clare repeated the story she’d told Rob. When she got to the part about the mugging, Velez’s eyes widened in surprise. “What did your husband think about you befriending a mugger?”
A John Apple kind of question. Not the kind Clare was expecting from this crisp, no-nonsense woman. “He didn’t know about it until recently.”
Velez looked at her notes, turning over a page and clearing her throat before asking Clare to continue. Clare then related how Tyrese changed from his tough-guy stance into an apt pupil and willing worker. When she reached the part about Tyrese showing up at Hope House with injuries, Velez slowed her down, asking detailed questions about when Tyrese was hurt, and the nature of those injuries.
“What happens next?” Clare asked when Velez finished.
“I expect Tyrese to be released from the hospital in a day or so. He’ll then be transferred to juvenile detention, and there will be a hearing within forty-eight hours. The prosecutor plans to ask that Tyrese be tried as an adult.”
It was what they feared.
“I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Velez capped her pen and reached out to shake Clare’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Chapin.”
Afterward, Clare compared notes with John and Beck, who’d also been interviewed by Velez. “I forgot to ask. Will we testify at the hearing?”
“Only the prosecution’s case is presented,” John said, “but Ms. Velez will get a crack at the witnesses. Given her rep, that may be all she needs.”
Tyrese was discharged from the hospital on Monday, and Clare took Wednesday morning off to join Beck and John at the courthouse for the hearing.
“Beck, Appleseed, Clare,” Nellie Brown said, walking up to them. Then she stopped speaking to pull a handkerchief out of her capacious purse and mop her eyes. “It sure good of y’all to come be with me and my boy.”
“We couldn’t be anywhere else, Nellie,” Clare said. “We’ll be right here praying.”
“Y’all ain’t coming into court with me?”
“The hearing is closed. Only family’s allowed,” John said.
Nellie looked outraged. “Well, I never. If y’all ain’t family, don’t know who is. I talk to the judge.”
“That’s okay, Nellie,” Clare said.
Nellie just harrumphed and marched into the courtroom. Five minutes later, a young man in a dark suit came out and approached them. “The defendant’s mother asked that you be present. If you would follow me?”
When they entered the courtroom, Nellie gave them a satisfied look. Clare sought out Tyrese. Frail and thin, he was seated at a table beside Ms. Velez. Across from them at another table sat the prosecutor, a heavyset man with an incipient comb-over. As the judge began to speak, Tyrese peeked over his shoulder, and Clare wiggled her fingers at him. His lips curved in a smile, but his eyes remained fearful.
After the preliminaries, the prosecutor called his first witness, D’Shawn Williams. The bailiff went off to fetch D’Shawn, who turned out to be a six-foot-tall black man with bulging muscles. After being sworn in, he strutted to the witness chair and slouched into it, glaring at Tyrese.
Clare listened intently as the prosecutor led D’Shawn through his testimony describing how Tyrese stabbed Jamal and the subsequent struggle to subdue Tyrese.
“Your witness, counselor.” The prosecutor smirked at Ms. Velez as he returned to his seat.
Velez stood but remained behind the table. “Mr. Williams, you’re eighteen years old, is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“You look very fit. I bet you work out.”
D’Shawn grinned at her, obviously pleased. “Do some.”
“Bet you can bench-press, oh, a hundred, hundred and fifty pounds.”
He frowned. “Three hundred more like it.”
“Of course. Three hundred pounds.”
“Objection.” The prosecutor’s tone was bored. “I fail to see how Mr. Williams’s bench-pressing prowess has anything to do with this case. No bench-pressing involved, as far as I recall.”
“Your Honor, this crime involved a violent confrontation,” Velez said. “The fitness and strength of the participants is very much an issue.”
“Overruled.”
Clare clenched her hands in anticipation as the questions continued.
“Tell me, was Jamal Hicks as big and strong as you are?” Velez’s tone was sugary.
Williams straightened his shoulders slightly, preening. “Sure. All us Bull Sharks big and strong.”
“So Mr. Hicks could also bench-press three hundred pounds?”
“Yeah. Well, maybe bit less.”
“What was your relationship with Mr. Hicks?”
“He, uh, he the head of us, and he a friend.”
“A good friend?”
Williams slumped in the chair. “Sure.”
“Do you own any knives, Mr. Williams?”
“Course I do. Got steak knives, butcher knife.”
“Do you own a pocketknife?”
D’Shawn wiggled and looked at the judge, who reminded him he was testifying under oath.
“Sure, we all got pocketknives. They for protection.”
“How big is your knife?”