“You finished with that?” Ambrosi asked, pointing a chopstick at her shrimp.
“Go ahead,” she said, and watched his graceful moves. Ambrosi Gallo gestured like a symphony conductor. Italians spoke with their hands. Ambrosi sang with them.
Soon they would be in bed, and his moves would continue to sing. Anne would make her own music, the kind that drove him wild. She had never met Ambrosi’s wife, and never would. But she was sure Mrs. Gallo would never mean what Anne meant to Ambrosi.
They’d met at a club in the Village. She’d seen this dark stranger circling her from across the dance floor. Just after midnight the move was made. The man slid next to her at the bar and immediately whispered in her ear, “You been scoping me. You serious about it?”
It was no secret who Ambrosi was, a made guy for the Calibresi family, which had moved into the five-borough vacuum created when the feds put Gotti away. The feds knew who he was – Anne knew the people to ask – and they suspected him of eight murders. But they’d never been able to put a case together. Ambrosi Gallo had beaten two raps. Nobody, but nobody, would testify against him.
“You want to go see a show or something?” Ambrosi asked.
“I don’t want to go to a show,” Anne said, feeling heat building in her. “I want to go to our place.”
“You got it, babe,” Ambrosi said.
They had a studio apartment in Gramercy Park, the place Ambrosi crashed when not at home in Queens. He was not often home. His wife, he assured Anne, was like all Mafia wives. She knew, she accepted, and she got nice things. No questions asked.
Outside the restaurant window, Anne could see a portion of the passing parade that was the foot traffic in Times Square. She couldn’t help wondering how easy it would be for Ambrosi to dispose of any one of them. And then she thought, what he did with guns she did with political clout. They weren’t really so different after all.
“What’s it like?” she asked.
“What?”
“You know. Whack.”
Ambrosi’s eyes darted toward the adjoining table. “Hey, keep it down, will you?”
That only made Anne smile. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”
“I also like walking around.”
“So tell me.”
“What do you want to know for?”
“Part of my education.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Plus it will make me very excited, if you know what I mean.”
Ambrosi’s straight white teeth gleamed between his lips. “Siete del diavolo.”
She frowned.
“You little devil.”
Anne suddenly felt oddly upset. Something about the word devil as applied to her. She shook it off.
“It’s no big deal, after the first time,” Ambrosi said. “You ever see that movie, the one where DeNiro plays a Mafia guy and that other guy, what’s his name, the little comedian, plays a shrink?”
“Analyze This.”
“Yeah, that’s it. And the shrink says it’s good to hit a pillow when you’re feeling stressed out, so DeNiro whips out his gun and shoots a pillow. And the shrink says, ‘Feel better?’ and DeNiro says, ‘Yeah, I do.’ I cracked up. But that’s what it’s like.”
“Really? Shooting a person is like shooting a pillow?”
“Once you get used to it.” Ambrosi nabbed another piece of shrimp and sent it into his mouth.
“Don’t you ever worry about someone finding out?”
“How would they?”
“What if I was wearing a wire?”
Ambrosi looked at her, unconcerned. “You wouldn’t be alive if you were,” he said, as smoothly as if ordering Peking duck.
Anne’s body filled with electricity. There it was. The edge. She realized at once she and Ambrosi were truly one. Killers both, in their own way. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, tingling all over. “Now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
Charlene watched as Beau Winsor circled her client. People sometimes called lawyers sharks. In Winsor’s case, it was apt, though he did not once raise his voice or seem upset with Sarah Mae. It was not the sort of cross-examination one saw on TV shows. This was a surgery in which the patient hardly notices both legs being amputated.
“Now, Sarah Mae,” Winsor said, sounding like he was addressing his own daughter, “when you went into the clinic that morning, you knew they performed abortions there, didn’t you?”
“I guess so,” Sarah Mae said.
Winsor gave a quick glance to the jury. “Now, we don’t want you to guess, Sarah Mae.” Her name dripped like molasses off his tongue. “You need to tell us what you know for certain. Now, did you know they performed abortions?”
“Yeah.” In her innocence, Sarah Mae did not look overly frightened. In fact, she seemed almost trusting of the man in the blue suit with the fatherly gray hair.
“You had been thinking about having an abortion, hadn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And that wasn’t an easy decision, was it?”
“Oh, no.”
Charlene watched and listened carefully. Winsor was spreading some sort of net, and priming Sarah Mae to stroll right into it.
“So would it be fair to say, Sarah Mae, that you had really gone over and over this in your mind?”
“I didn’t want to,” Sarah Mae said, her eyes suddenly wide.
Winsor put his hand up, as a comforting uncle would. “We’ll get to what you wanted in a moment, Sarah Mae. I understand you’re nervous. So I’ll ask my questions really simply, and you just do your best to answer them, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’re just interested in the truth here,” Winsor added. Charlene almost objected, but didn’t. How could anyone object to that? While it was technically an improper use of cross-examination – Winsor was simply making a statement for the jury – it wouldn’t look good. The man was an absolute master.
“All right, when you went to the clinic,” Winsor said, “how did you get there?”
“Walked.”
“How long did it take you?”
“I don’t rightly remember.”
“Was it a half hour or so?”
“I think.”
“So you had that time all the way there to think about where you were going, right?”
“I guess.”
“We don’t want you to guess, Sarah Mae. You just do your best to tell us rightly the way it was, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now when you got to the clinic, you didn’t hesitate, did you?”
“Huh?”
“You walked right in, didn’t you?”
Sarah Mae swallowed. “I think I did.”
For a moment Beau Winsor looked confused. Charlene realized immediately it was an act. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Sarah Mae, do you remember giving a deposition in this case?”
“I think.”
“You think? Don’t you remember that you and your lawyer came to my office, and I asked you questions, and a reporter, like the one sitting over there, took down what you said. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“And then your lawyer got a copy of that, what we call a transcript, and went over it with you, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And you had a chance to make corrections at that time.”
“I think.”
“Well, I’m looking at the transcript here.” Winsor slipped on some reading glasses and flipped open the document. “I’m looking at page 34. Now, Sarah Mae, do you recall my asking you this question: Did you hesitate before you went into the clinic? And do you remember giving this answer: No. Do you remember that, Sarah Mae?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I guess it’s pretty difficult for you to remember what happened that day, isn’t it?”
Sarah Mae st
arted to speak, but her mouth got stuck on open.
“Pretty difficult, isn’t it?” Winsor’s voice was like warm honey. Sarah Mae seemed drawn to it, almost stuck in it, and she began to tremble. Judge Lewis said, “You’ll have to answer the question, Miss Sherman.”
Shaking her head, Sarah Mae said, “I don’t know. I don’t!”
Charlene could not object to this. She could ask for a break, but that would look even worse.
“It’s all right, Sarah Mae,” Winsor said. “Just catch your breath for a minute. You need some water?”
Sarah Mae shook her head.
“Now, when Miss Moore over there was asking you questions, do you remember her asking you about meeting with Dr. Sager?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And there was that one question where she asked you if Dr. Sager had inquired about your feelings. Do remember that question?”
“I think.”
“And you said, let me see here, I jotted it down. You said this: He said something like that, meaning he asked how you were feeling, isn’t that right?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Now I was a little confused about that. I think the jury would like to hear a little bit more.”
Sarah Mae looked at him with saucer eyes.
“What exactly did you mean by that?” Winsor asked.
“I…”
“If you remember.”
“I don’t remember. Rightly.”
Winsor put his hand to his chin and studied the witness. “Now this is a pretty important matter, Sarah Mae. Think real hard for us, will you do that?”
“I am,” she said.
Winsor stepped to the side of the podium and looked at Sarah Mae. His demeanor changed ever so slightly – from benign consideration to the start of annoyance. Charlene was almost certain that annoyance was a reflection of the jury reaction.
“Sarah Mae,” Winsor said, “the fact is you really don’t remember much about that day, and that’s a real problem, isn’t it?”
“I don’t rightly know everything. I was so, it was so…”
“Did you discuss your testimony with Miss Moore during the break?”
“Objection,” Charlene said. “Privilege.”
“I’m not asking about the content of the conversation, Your Honor. I’m just asking if they discussed it.”
“Overruled.”
“Answer the question, Sarah Mae.”
“Did I what?”
“Discuss your testimony with your lawyer at the break.”
“Discuss?”
“Did you talk about it?”
Now Sarah Mae’s face reflected a fear born of confusion and guilt, the kind of guilt a child feels when confronted with a charge she does not quite understand. She looked at Charlene, asking with her eyes what she should say.
“You don’t have to look at your lawyer,” Winsor said. “Just tell us the truth.”
Charlene jumped up. “Your Honor, I will testify to the fact that I did what any lawyer does with a client. During the break – ”
“Now I object,” Winsor said. “That’s a self-serving statement.”
Charlene turned on Winsor. “Your whole cross-examination is self-serving, Mr. Winsor, and – ”
She was brought up short by the banging gavel of Judge Lewis. “Miss Moore,” he said sharply. “You will refrain from addressing opposing counsel. We’ll just stop it right here. Mr. Winsor has asked a question and I’ve ruled that he may ask it. I want the witness to answer. Will the reporter please read the question again?”
The court reporter, a young woman, pulled up the steno paper and repeated the question for Sarah Mae.
“So you went over your testimony with your lawyer, correct?” Winsor clarified.
“Yeah.”
“And still you are conveniently remembering some things and not others.”
“Objection.” Charlene was operating on pure instinct.
“Sustained,” said the judge, surprising her.
“Your Honor,” Winsor said, his voice theatrical, “I have no more questions for the witness.”
2
“I can’t stand this waiting!” Millie said. She and Holden were in the hospital parking lot, getting air. The afternoon was hot, dry, just like Millie felt. As nice as Holden had been, she was beginning to want to be alone. She stared blankly at the high school banner across the street. Home of the Blades.
“I know how hard this must be,” Holden said.
“Do you?” The words came hard and fast. “I need to talk to her.”
“You’ll get your chance.”
“How do you know that?” she snapped. And she knew several things at once – that he didn’t deserve her tone, that he was comforting her as his profession demanded, but that she didn’t care to hear platitudes at this moment.
“Just believe it,” Holden said.
“It’s not that easy.”
“No, it’s not easy,” he said.
She looked into his eyes and saw some long ago darkness there, shadowy and shapeless.
“I’ll call Royal,” Holden said. “The folks at the church will want to be praying.”
“Not yet,” Millie said. It sounded selfish. It was, partly. “I don’t want anyone coming up here. I want my time with her.”
“Sure. Will you excuse me for a little while? I’m going to the chapel.”
“Chapel?”
“I want to do some praying myself. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
She watched him go. When was the last time she had prayed? Millie remembered praying for kids to stop teasing her. Didn’t happen. She hadn’t taken prayer seriously since.
But then it occurred to her she had prayed recently, in a way. In her vision. Hadn’t she spoken God’s name?
And when her mother was sprawled on the kitchen floor, hadn’t she called the name of God over and over? She had been crying out for help. Now, on reflection, it seemed simply irrational. A product of stress.
Still, Millie looked up into the blue sky, as if seeking an answer. None came. The sky was just there, hot and oppressive. And never-ending.
3
On his way up to his office, Lawrence Isadore Graebner paused in front of the twelve-foot sculpture of the judge and bowed slightly, ironically. The limestone figure with a stern expression and a full British wig presided over the main courtyard of Yale Law School. His Honor always appeared ready to declare a cosmic mistrial.
Larry Graebner, however, liked to think of him as merely waiting for the right man to come along and take the law into new venues of justice. Graebner, ever since joining the Yale law faculty in 1975, considered himself that man.
At sixty-one, a time when many of his colleagues were looking toward retirement, Graebner was at the peak of his career. He was on the short list of every Democratic administration for appointment to the Supreme Court. Unfortunately, he was also at the bottom of that list. He knew why. He was a “lightning rod of controversy” according to the New York Times. He had simply said and written too much. If and when the Democrats commanded a larger majority in the Senate, and the right president was in place, he just might make it through.
Until then, he was content to offer advice and step into legal challenges he found stimulating.
One of his stimulants called just after five.
“It’s Winsor.”
“How’d it go today, Beau?” Graebner put his feet up on his African mahogany desk.
“Beautiful,” Winsor said. “The plaintiff wilted under the heat.”
“How is that young lawyer doing?”
“She’s lost. Young and lost. I tried to talk sense into her, but you know these crusading types.”
“Hey, never underestimate the power of ideals, even if we think they’re wrongheaded.”
“Ideals don’t win cases. Good lawyering does.”
“Since you are on the scene, sanity will prevail?”
“One never knows what a jury wil
l do, but this jury looks pretty solid.”
Graebner reached for his espresso, fresh from the gilded machine on his credenza. “I’ve been doing some thinking about that, Beau. And I think it would be best if we took it out of the jury’s hands altogether.”
“Why?”
Noting a hint of wounded pride in Winsor – I am a great trial lawyer, let me handle it! – Graebner spoke with modulated patience. “Juries get publicity. It’s a media fascination. And then they get interviewed. They show up on network news or O’Reilly. Win or lose, it’s publicity.”
Winsor cleared his throat. “But how do we do it?”
“I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll e-mail you the details. You have a little work to do.”
“What are you e-mailing?”
“A little bombshell we’re going to hand your opponent.”
4
Charlene Moore looked out at the lights of the big city. From her room it almost looked like a theme park. Some magical kingdom. But this was no fantasy place. This was an impersonal world that didn’t care about what happened to a teenager in an abortion mill.
She wanted them to care. They had to care. If they didn’t, the world would continue to spin out of control, downward.
Lord, give me strength for the rest of the trial. I am your woman! Go before me in power!
She heard a soft knock on her door. It was Sarah Mae. Her eyes were red. Charlene brought her to a chair and sat her down.
“What is it?” Charlene asked.
“Sorry I messed it up,” Sarah Mae said.
“You didn’t mess anything up. You were fine.”
“No I warn’t. I seen your face. Did I make it bad for us?”
Charlene knelt and patted the girl’s knee. “God is in this with us. Do you believe that?”
Sarah Mae nodded. But it was a weak nod. “Mama says we should stop now and make that settle…”
“Settlement?”
“Yeah. Like we almost did.”
“I thought you didn’t want to.”
“I don’t know no more. What if we lose?”
Charlene felt like someone had kicked her. That was, of course, the big question in any trial. You could do everything right, the evidence could be on your side, and still a jury could do the opposite of what you expected.
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