A Woman’s Eye

by Sara Paretsky

  Cynthia, after continuing her slow breathing and word repetition for a few seconds out of gratitude, contemplated the wonders of Angela Epstein. She had come to Cynthia’s office only a week or two ago to say hello. Could fate, were there any such thing, have whispered in her ear? Cynthia was the dean in charge of finances at a large, urban college quite different from the elite suburban institution in which Beatrice taught. In that capacity, Cynthia had, in the past, been able to put Angela Epstein in the way of fellowship aid, and Angela, unlike the greater number of her kind, had continued to be grateful. Finding herself in the area of her old college, she had stopped in to greet Cynthia, to thank her for her past help, and to tell Cynthia about her present life. What Angela did-it was something in the investment line-Cynthia could not precisely remember, but a sentence of Angela’s echoed, like the voice of a guardian angel in a legend, in Cynthia’s postmeditation ears: “I’m living with a wonderful guy; he’s a public defender, and he loves what he does. It’s great to live with someone who loves what he does, and who does good things for people caught up in New York’s criminal system; between us, we can afford a loft in Manhattan.”

  From Information, Cynthia got the number of Angela Epstein. Here, as it was night, she got a message machine. She left as passionate a request for Angela to call back as she could muster; indeed, passion quivered in every syllable. But if Angela and lover had retired at midnight, they might not return her call until morning, perhaps not until they returned from work the next day. Cynthia decided-rather, she was seized by a determination-to go and visit Angela herself at that very moment. Perhaps she would not get in; perhaps she would be mugged in the attempt. But with Beatrice behind bars, any action seemed better than no action. She pictured herself banging on the door of their loft until allowed entrance and the chance to plead. She dressed hurriedly, descended to the street, commandeered a taxi, and told the driver to take her to the Lower East Side, insisting over his protests that that was indeed where she wanted to go.

  “This time of night, you gotta be outta your mind.”

  It occurred to Cynthia, even in the midst of her distracted determination, that she had not been driven by an old-fashioned cabdriver for a very long time indeed. He was American, old, shaggy, and wonderfully soothing.

  “I have to go now,” she said. “Please. Take me.”

  “It’s your funeral, literally. I’m telling you. I wouldn’t be out on the streets myself this time of night, except it’s my nephew’s cab; my nephew’s having a baby in the hospital with his wife. It takes two to have a baby these days, I mean to have it, not to start it, if you see what I mean. Me, I drive only by day.”

  “I see,” Cynthia said, blessing him for beginning to drive.

  “He’s working his way through law school, drives a cab at night. These days, in this city, you don’t need to be a lawyer, you need to hire one, and a doctor too while you’re at it, I tell him. So he’s crazy, so you’re crazy. You’re not buying drugs, I hope?”

  Cynthia assured him that she was not. Was meditation like prayer? Was it answered like prayer? First the name had come to her, then this wonderful cabdriver. Could another miracle happen, that they would hear her pounding on the door and let her in and listen to her story?

  Another miracle happened, though not quite that way. As she emerged from the taxi, a couple approached her. They looked at her oddly; she was not, it was to be assumed, a usual type to be seen in this neighborhood at this hour. The couple had also emerged from a taxi, even now departing.

  “Dean Sterling!” someone shouted. It was Angela Epstein. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for you,” Cynthia said, suddenly unbelievably tired, worn out by all the sudden good fortune that had come her way.

  “So ya gonna pay me, or ya forgot and left your purse at home?”

  Cynthia came to her senses, apologizing to the cabdriver and the astonished young couple. She reached into her purse and gave the cabdriver a large bill. “For you and your nephew and the baby,” she said. “You are wonderful.”

  “You too,” he shouted, taking off with a screech of tires. Cynthia had meant to beg him to return, but she merely shrugged. It was Angela Epstein’s young man upon whom she now turned her full attention.

  “You are a public defender, you understand the criminal system?” she said, as though he might deny it and turn out to be something wholly useless.

  “Yes,” he said, taking her arm. “Are you in trouble? Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it?” Over her head, for he was a tall young man, he gave Angela a quizzical look; she made soothing gestures and rushed ahead to open the building door, peering about to see that there were no dangerous types lurking.

  “I’m afraid I don’t even know your name,” Cynthia said.

  “My name’s Leo,” he said. “Leo Fansler. What’s yours?”

  “Cynthia Sterling. My sister Beatrice Sterling is in jail, accused of murder. And I’m afraid they won’t even let her out on bail; that seemed to be the only coherent statement I could get out of the lawyer I called. Will you help us?”

  “I’ll try,” Leo Fansler said.

  They got her settled on the couch with a cup of tea and a blanket over her legs because the loft was chilly. Besides, they wanted to do all the easy things they could think of to help her. She had always appeared to Angela as a woman of such power and efficiency, but she now looked the very picture of distraction and disarray, rather-Leo later said to Angela-like the White Queen. (Leo had to explain who the White Queen was. “You’ve read everything,” Angela lovingly accused him. “Not really,” he answered. “I just lived for a time with a literary aunt.”)

  At last Cynthia managed to tell Leo, in answer to his questions, with what her sister was charged, when she had been arrested, whether or not the detectives had had a warrant, and whether she had yet been arraigned. He tried, as gently as possible, to keep her from telling him the whole story from the very beginning, “Not yet,” he said. “I’ll find out from your sister; I’ll talk to her, I’ll get the whole story, believe me. But right now all I want to know is where she is, and what’s already happened in court.”

  Cynthia made a noble attempt to be as coherent as possible. To her infinite relief, Leo understood her, interpreted her vague answers, knew what to do,

  “Do you know when the arraignment is?” he asked, “Did they tell you, or her?”

  “Probably tomorrow, but they can’t be sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there,” Leo said. “Her lawyer will try for bail at the arraignment, but probably won’t get it. The chances are she’ll be remanded, and we’ll try again; we may do better upstairs at the felony arraignment. But if she does get bail for a murder charge, it may be in the neighborhood of a million dollars. Can you raise that much? There are bondsmen….”

  “I’ll raise it,” Cynthia said. “The lawyer already spoke to me about that. The one who doesn’t know anything. I think he talked about money because that’s all he knows anything about. We’ll mortgage our apartment. It’s very valuable. It’s worth over a million now, though it wasn’t when we moved in thirty years ago.”

  “It takes a while to get a mortgage, even a loan,” Leo said, more to himself than her. “I’m going to call you a taxi now; the company will send one if we offer double. Otherwise they avoid this neighborhood at night. You go home and try to get some rest. Meet me in the public defender’s office on Centre Street across from the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine. Can you manage that?”

  “I could take her,” Angela said. “I could be late to work.”

  “I’ll find it,” Cynthia said. “Please, you’ve done enough. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Get off the subway at Chambers Street. Then ask someone the way. Don’t take a taxi; you’ll be stuck in traffic for hours.”

  “I’ll be there,” Cynthia said. “Poor Beatrice. I’ll be there. You will let me convince you she’s innocent.”

  “Tomorro
w, or maybe even later. The important thing is, you’ve got someone on your side who knows the system. That’s all you have to think about right now. I’m going to try to get you another lawyer for the trial. I know it’s impossible, but try not to worry too much.”

  Cynthia arrived at the public defender’s office at nine o’clock. She saw no reason to tell Leo, who came out to the reception desk to meet her, that she had set out at seven, and wandered around the confusing streets of lower Manhattan for at least an hour, until a truck driver finally gave her proper directions. Leo led her off to his office, hung up her coat, sat her down, and tried to tell her what had happened so far.

  “Where is Beatrice now?” Cynthia asked, before he began.

  “Probably on her way in from Central Booking. We haven’t much time, so you must listen.”

  “I am listening,” Cynthia said, drawing together all her powers of attention. The time for action had come.

  “All right,” Leo said. “She was arrested and taken to your precinct, where pedigree information, name, address, and so on, are taken, and a warrant check is made, that is, to see if she is wanted on any other cases. I know, I know, but we’re talking about the system here, not your sister. As you’ll see when we go to court, most of those arrested have records, and quite a number do not have an address, so she’s ahead on that count. The detectives will have questioned your sister extensively, and we can only pray she had the sense not to say anything at all. Any statement she made upon arrest can and will be read out at her arraignment,”

  “It all seems very unfair,” Cynthia said, “taking advantage of people when they’re upset.”

  “That’s exactly the point. And even hardened criminals rarely know enough to shut up. I don’t know how long she was held in the precinct-I’ll find out-out it was as long as they had to wait before Central Booking was ready to process more bodies.” Leo ignored the fact that Cynthia had closed her eyes and gone white. He kept on talking to bring her around. “Her prints were then faxed to Albany, where they are matched by computer against all other prints in the state. The result is a rap sheet, which in your sister’s case will be encouragingly blank. I assume she has no record.” He looked at Cynthia, who nodded certainly. “That’s good news for our side when it comes to pleading for bail,” Leo said.

  “The reason she’s now in jail is because the system was backed up; they had to go to the DA’s office for a complaint to be drawn up, and because she had to be interviewed by the Criminal Justice Agency.” Leo noticed that Cynthia was beginning to look faint. “Hold on,” he said. “We’re almost finished with this part. She’s got a CJA sheet-for Criminal Justice Agency,” he added, as faintness was now joined by bewilderment. “Everyone in court, the judge, the DA, your sister’s lawyer, will use that sheet. It gives her years at her address, her employment, length of employment, and so on. That’s going to help your sister, because she’s obviously been a responsible member of the community with a good employment record and a steady address. We’re waiting now until all these papers reach the court. We’ll try for bail at the arraignment, but don’t be hopeful. On a murder charge like this, she’ll almost certainly be remanded at arraignment.”

  “Will you be at the arraignment arguing for her bail?”

  “I can’t be,” Leo said. “She’s not eligible for legal aid. But I’ve got her a lawyer, a woman I went to law school with. She’s first-rate, she has worked for the DA, she knows what she’s doing, she’s smart, and above all, she’ll understand where your sister’s coming from. She’s already gone to the court to be ready to meet with your sister when she’s brought in from Central Booking to the arraignment. That’s the whole story. Are you okay for now?”

  “Will they put her in a cell when she gets here?”

  “No, Women aren’t put into pens. She’ll sit on a bench with other women prisoners at the front of the courtroom. She’ll go into a booth there to talk to her lawyer. We’re going over there now; you’ll see the setup.”

  “Will she see me?”

  “Yes. But you mustn’t try to talk to her or to reach her. Sally, that’s her lawyer, will tell her about what you’ve done so far, including finding me. Ready? Here’s your coat. Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you need a coat?”

  Leo shook his head. Nothing, he thought, would keep a woman from noticing he didn’t wear a coat racing around the courts; no man would ever notice it. It had something to do with female nurturing, Angela would say.

  “Do you think you could walk down six flights,” he asked, “because the elevators take forever? Good. We’re off.”

  There was a lot happening at the court. Cynthia saw the judge, the DAs, and men in white shirts with guns who Leo said were court officers; they carried the papers between the lawyers and the judge. When Beatrice was brought in front of the judge, holding her hands behind her, Cynthia thought she would weep and never stop. She couldn’t hear what any of them said, except for the DA who spoke loud and clear: “The people are serving statement notice. Defendant said: ‘I didn’t kill her. I loathed her but I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill anyone.’ No other notices.”

  Cynthia looked with agony at Leo.

  “Never mind. Not exactly inculpatory. It’s always better to shut up, but a protest of innocence is not the worst. Listen now; Sally’s asking for bail. The DA asked that she be remanded-sent to jail while awaiting trial. Sally’s answering.”

  “With all due respect, your honor, the ADA’s position, while predictable, takes no account of my client’s position in the community. The case is not strong against my client; the major evidence is circumstantial. We have every intention of fighting this case. My client not only has no record, but is a long-honored professor in a well-established and well-known institution of higher education. She has been a member of the community and has lived at the same address for many years. There can be no question of my client’s returning. We ask that bail be set sufficient to insure that return, but not excessive. My client is a woman in her late fifties who is innocent and intends to prove it.” There was more, but Cynthia seemed unable any longer to listen. Leo had said there was little hope for bail at this point. She tried to send thought waves of encouragement and support to Beatrice, but the sight of her back with her hands held together behind her was devastating.

  The judge spoke with-Cynthia might have felt under other circumstances-admirable clarity. “The defendant is remanded. Adjourned to AP-17, January sixth, for grand jury action.”

  That was that. Beatrice was led away, and Cynthia wept.

  “It won’t be too long,” Leo said, trying to find some words of comfort. “The law does not allow anyone to be kept more than one hundred forty-four hours after arrest without an indictment. And now she has a lawyer who knows what she’s doing, and who will, with any luck, get bail for her after her felony arraignment upstairs. You go home and try to be ready to raise it. At least a million; that’s a guess, but probably a good one. Can you get home all right?” Cynthia looked at where Beatrice had been, but she was gone. She saw the booths, like confessionals, she thought, where Beatrice might have talked to her lawyer before Leo had brought her. But Leo hurried her out; he was already late for another hearing in another court.

  Later Leo and Sally met for lunch in a Chinese restaurant on Mulberry Street. Sally was not encouraging. “Am I sure she didn’t do it? No, I’m not sure, so what is a jury going to make of her? Talk about reasonable doubt: I’d have less doubt if I saw the cat licking its lips before an empty birdcage. Leo, my love, my treasure, take my advice: start thinking about a plea in this case. She’ll get eight and a third to twenty-five if she’s maxed out on a manslaughter plea, with parole after eight and a third. Otherwise, we’re talking fifteen to life. Think of Jean Harris.”

  “Jean Harris shot her lover.”

  “That’s more excusable than bludgeoning to death a twenty-year-old girl.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “According to
the DA? The girl was found dead in her dormitory room on a Saturday night. The dormitory was close to empty, and no one saw anything, except some boy on his way out who saw an old lady, and picked Professor B out of a lineup. A hell of a lot of good her corporate lawyer did her there. Professor B says she was home; sister away at some institutional revel. Every one of the girl’s friends has testified that Professor B hated her, though only slightly more than she hated the other girls in ha’ seminar. Something to do with women’s studies, more’s the pity.”

  “That’s all the DA’s got?”

  “An eyewitness, a lack of other suspects, and Professor B’s prints all over the girl’s notebook. Even Daphne’s friends admit she went rather far in goading the old lady, but that hardly excuses murder. It’s not as though we’re dealing with the battered woman’s syndrome here. That’s how it is, Leo. We’ll have to plead her out.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for agreeing to a Japanese restaurant,” Leo said. “I know it’s not your thing. I needed some raw fish: brain food. Also you like the martinis here; I think you better have two before I start on my story.”

  Kate Fansler sipped from the one she had already ordered and contemplated Leo. He had said he wanted advice; the question was, about what? Kate considered the role of aunt far superior to that of parent, which did not alter the fact that the young made her nervous. This advice, however, turned out not to be about the young.