“Do you suppose any of it is true?” I asked.
Irina shrugged. “Truth is not selling newspapers.”
I thought about that as I munched on a chestnut, breathing its fragrance and holding the warmth of the bag close as I walked the final blocks home.
The message light on my phone was blinking when I got there.
“Hi. This is Brent William? I don’t know if you remember me, but, like, I met you at Kerrin Adams’s office for that mock jury thing? Anyway, I didn’t know who you were then, but, when I phoned Metcalf College — I was trying to find someone who could help me with this idea I have? — they gave me your name. So, what I was wondering, is, like … ”
The machine cut him off. A minute later the breathless voice resumed.
“Hi. This is Brent William again? I think your machine just cut me off. If I leave you my number, could you, maybe, give me a call back? I’d really appreciate it.”
Since he had gotten my number from Metcalf College, I was pretty sure Brent was calling about “Alternatives.” Some students want a more detailed outline of the course than the syllabus provides and I was happy to give it. Dealing with their concerns before things start was much easier than coping with their frustrations later. The fall term at Metcalf was just winding down. I was committed to teaching the winter session, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue after that. I was getting restless.
As I made a note of Brent’s number, the phone trilled in my hand and startled me into dropping the receiver. It bounced off the side of the table with a crash that must have hurt the ear at the other end of the line.
“Sorry about that,” I said, snatching at the receiver before it could bounce again.
“Well, that’s one way of discouraging unwanted callers.”
I stammered something inane, surprised at hearing the voice and at my easy recognition of it. Even over the phone, the faint undertone of humor was unmistakable. It brought the image of hot peppers, rather than lilies, to mind. As if he could read my thought, David Maitland said, “I hope you don’t mind my calling. I thought I saw you at the cemetery this afternoon, but I was afraid of intruding. I, uh, feel I should apologize for rushing off the other day. I enjoyed our lunch, and I rather wondered if you’d care to have dinner with me on Friday? I promise to feed you something milder than the burger at The Sandwich Board.”
I hesitated. It had been years since I had last been on a date, not counting the odd foray to the theater with a cousin or an old family friend. By and large, the men I knew were either too married or too newly divorced to hold any attraction for me. I didn’t know exactly what David Maitland’s status was but I hadn’t seen a wedding ring or the telltale signs of one recently removed when we had lunch. Now, remembering his puckish grin and the lovely bone structure of his hands, I decided to take a chance, and I was surprised by a springtime lift to my spirits when he said, “Great. Friday then. Pick you up at seven.” I was still smiling when the doorbell rang ten minutes later. I hadn’t felt so popular in years.
Kerrin stood on the step, laden with an assortment of bags and bottles, looking like a packhorse with an inflated rubber bridle. Her hands were too full of groceries to accommodate the strings of a dozen balloons, which she held clenched between her teeth.
I had not spoken to my sister since that day of revelation in her office. The balloons were a peace offering.
“Happy Birthday, Nini,” Kerrin said, and I reached to pull the strings gently from her mouth.
“They’re helium,” she added, daring me to loose the kaleidoscopic mass into the room. I let them go, one by one. They floated on eddies from the still-open door, around the newel post and up toward the ceiling. They clustered like butterflies in the alcove by the fireplace.
While Kerrin uncorked a bottle of champagne, “From Oenophile, of course; Gerard recommended it,” I lifted plates from the cupboard and unwrapped fragrant take-out bundles from Ristorante Tarina: tiny ravioli stuffed with meat, long tubes of pasta curled around exotic cheeses and drowned in a delicately flavored sauce, a creamy froth of meringue. I looked from the feast on the counter to my sister’s smiling face.
“It’s exactly the menu we had at your twenty-first and your twenty-fifth. We kind of skipped over thirty, so … Gino prepared it all himself.”
I set a match to the fire while she poured the wine. She lifted her glass to me. Firelight spun and spangled up through a million bubbles. Balancing plates on our knees, we ate and laughed and talked like castaways unexpectedly rescued from their desert island, unable to get their fill of food or companionship.
“Remember when Mom brought that can of peas over for Thanksgiving?”
“And thought it was a bottle of wine, and told Brian to decant it?”
“Remember the day she almost set the house on fire, when she put the groceries into the oven, bag and all?”
At the time, there had been nothing even remotely funny about the events that signaled disintegration. Now, amid the commonplace of laughter, even the most painful memory was one to cherish.
A log in the fireplace fell apart, sending a shower of sparks flying upward. I rose and poked it back into place, savoring the contentment of the moment. I should have known that life is too complex for such facile endings.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The fire had dwindled, the champagne bottle was empty, and the debris of our impromptu party littered the room. I started collecting plates and forks.
Over the muted clatter, Kerrin said, “Leave that alone for a minute. There’s something I need to show you.”
I subsided into my chair. Kerrin pulled her soft leather bag up from beside the couch and rummaged in it briefly before extracting what looked like a CD. She held it in her hand as if weighing it.
“I’d better give you some background first.” Gone was the bantering tone, back was the studied professionalism, and I marveled at the speed with which my sister had switched personas with the trial consultant. It was like moving from one room to another, flipping off the light in one, switching it on in the other.
Kerrin said, “From time to time, amid more run-of-the-mill theft and drug cases, I represent people accused of pretty terrible crimes, and sometimes, not often, but sometimes, I get a few nasty letters in the mail as a result. That’s okay,” she waved aside my protest. “That’s okay. I can deal with that. But this time, with the Outray case, I’ve gotten something different, and I’m not sure what to do with it.”
My eye went to the disk Kerrin was holding out to me. I took it from her gingerly, not sure I wanted its dreadful secret exposed, then slipped it into the player and pressed a few buttons.
There were no opening credits. It was not a professional film but a home video collage of a handsome man and a beautiful young woman holding a baby; helping a toddler learn to walk; blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. There was nothing remarkable about the little group or what they were doing. This was simply the record of a loving couple watching their daughter grow up. There was nothing to suggest that the wife and the daughter would one day soon be butchered in the woods not far from their home.
“This came with it.” Kerrin handed me a folded sheet of paper.
“You bitch” it said. “How can you defend that murdering bastard. Nothing can excuse what he did, or what you are doing to my family now. Look at them! Just look at them. And remember who the real victims are.”
On the screen, Tracy Forrester was hugging a ginger kitten and giggling at the caress of a rough pink tongue. I had a sudden image of a small boy perched high on the shoulder of a handsome man, laughing and clutching a stuffed bear named Ted. The child’s image faltered and the screen went blank.
Pain has its uses. It gives you time to think about what life does to other people.
I said shakily, “That poor man. What are you going to do?”
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I expected a routine, automatic response of kindness but it didn’t come.
“I thought of calling the police.”
“The police! Why on earth?”
“This is harassment. Mel Deloitte hasn’t received anything like it and he’s the boy’s lawyer. Obviously, Ian Forrester’s centering me out because I’m a woman and he thinks I’m an easier target for the sympathy vote. The problem is, if I make this public, the sympathy will all be on his side and that won’t make defending Randy Outray any easier. What’s the matter with you?” she said. “You’re looking at me like I’m speaking in tongues.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. The man who sent you this is in pain. His wife and his child have been murdered. The press is doing a song and dance about how Randy Outray may be guilty but not responsible, and they’re trashing the reputation of the dead woman. This is a cry for justice. Ian Forrester is asking you to keep some perspective on this case, to remember that his family, not Randy Outray, are the victims. And you’re talking about calling the police! As far as I’m concerned, you should be writing a note of apology.”
“Come off it. My job is to find the best defense I can for the guy accused of the crime, not to send flowers to the people trying to put him away. I can’t afford to look at anybody other than my client as the victim.”
“But Kerrin, he’s practically admitted that he did it! You saw the reaction of the mock jury. You can’t tell me that anything you say in court, even if Randy Outray is a total head case, is going to buy him innocence.”
“No. But what we say, and the way we say it, can buy him pity and that, Mel can trade in for acquittal.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As soon as the door opened, I was struck by the barrenness of the apartment. Brent William’s living room didn’t even have a rug on the floor. There was a ratty sofa, a 30-inch TV and a leafy green plant with the gift card still attached. In one corner, housed on its packing box, was an elaborate computer setup with a padded half chair so odd-looking, it had to be a masterpiece of ergonomic design. I could imagine Brent’s gangly frame balanced on it while his mind was lost inside the machine in front of him.
At the moment, his long legs straddled the arm of the sofa as he outlined his plans for a venture called “Roadblocks.” I had accepted his offer of coffee while I heard him out. The longer I listened, the more firmly convinced I became that an assistance bureau for fledgling entrepreneurs and inventors would be worthwhile. Brent needed more specific help than “Alternatives” could provide.
There was none of the breathless hesitation I had heard in his voice on the phone. Nor any of the rising inflection.
“People waste a lot of valuable time,” he said, “Aimlessly surfing the net instead of zeroing in on the information that’s really pertinent. Some of them get completely lost.”
“Hence ‘Roadblocks’?”
“That’s right. Have a look at the logo I designed. What do you think?”
Black lettering stood out boldly against an orange background that reminded me of road construction signs. Brent had printed “ROADBLOCKS,” enclosed the word in a circle and drawn a line through it.
“Clients will hire me to teach their staff how to use the Internet efficiently. You know, you can do everything online now. But if you don’t know how to separate the wheat from the chaff, especially if you’re researching, you waste a lot of time and money.”
I nodded. “And of course the advertisers don’t help. They track which sites you visit and throw out banners aimed at distracting you.”
The Internet pushed life beyond the old physical barriers of time and space; it allowed us to roam the world without ever leaving home. But it fostered a kind of nonlinear literacy. Patience was becoming obsolete. People were increasingly unwilling to read anything of substantive length requiring concentration. They wanted brevity, fast-moving images, instant stimulation, constant gratification. We have created a world in which the worst sin is to be boring.
I suggested as much to Brent. He shook his head emphatically. “We’ve created whole new forums for discussion and for transmitting information. People read more, research more, question more than they ever did before. I have a niece who’s three. I figure by the time she gets to university — if there is such a thing then — she’ll be able to access all the world’s information via her wristwatch. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Wasn’t it Einstein who said, ‘never memorize anything you can look up?’”
I sipped my coffee. “Are you planning to expand this service beyond Kingsport?”
Brent laughed. “Of course. It’s Internet-based, I’ll sell it on the Internet. Which means around the globe.”
His earnest intelligence had me hooked. I knew he was right. Real power now rests with those capable of absorbing, manipulating, and marketing information. Brent had the technical know-how; I had the business acumen. And “Roadblocks,” or something like it, could provide an essential element for my IdeasCenter. With a shock of surprise, I realized that the Center was moving steadily from fantasy to reality. My file of questions and answers, how-to’s and what-not-to’s was fast becoming a blueprint for a viable business. It was an exhilarating thought.
“Did you ever read Ray Bradbury?” I said. “Fahrenheit 451?”
Brent nodded.
“Remember the fire captain? His idea was to cram people full of noncombustible data. He said, ‘Chock them so damned full of facts they feel stuffed, but absolutely brilliant with information.’ He wrote that in the fifties. Now TV and computers have made it real. People are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information available to them.” I grinned. “You’d better help them sort it out.”
It was after seven when I shrugged back into my coat. Brent offered me a sandwich. I said no thanks. Sonja Reid had taken up most of my afternoon with eleventh hour fussing for The Party. The caterer had prepared samples of the finger foods he had to offer and Sonja needed to make her final choices. We had spent the afternoon taste-testing. It was not arduous work. We approved scallop shells filled with some delicious concoction of creamed crab; crisp pastries bulging with mushroom and chicken and lobster; petit fours bland with almonds; small, frosted glasses of whipped cream tangy with strawberries and wine.
Afterward, I made a close inspection of the house. The last two weeks had seen a flurry of activity from the cleaning staff as, corner by corner, under my critical eye, Reidmore was readied for the event of the year. Chandeliers were washed luster by luster, mirrors were polished, parquet floors waxed, furniture and rugs spirited from one room to another. Outside, floodlights had been fitted up and a fountain like a firework stood ready to shoot its sparkling trails to a December sky. On the day before the party, a small army was scheduled to deliver flowers that would denude greenhouses for miles around.
For a woman accustomed to such star-studded occasions, Sonja seemed unaccountably nervous about this one. Mentally reviewing the preparations for the hundredth time, I could find nothing to justify her brittle air and finally concluded that the cause must lie with the guest list. Sonja had drawn up the list herself, addressing the envelopes in her own distinctive hand, so, although I knew the number of invitees and could easily predict who most of them must be, I guessed there must be a wild card or two giving her pause.
As usual at mid-month, I balanced Sonja’s ledger and paid her outstanding accounts. At this time of year, there were many. I made out checks to the dressmaker, the wine importer, and the electrician. Clipped to the bill from the printer who had supplied the invitations for the party was a copy of the guest list. Curiosity struggled briefly with good manners and easily won.
Next to each name on the list was a tick mark indicating the invitation had been sent. A second column, for replies, showed only the rare “x” where someone had declined. These were people who regularly spent the Christmas season elsew
here. My eye stopped with a little shock at the tick beside the name Outray.
There was no reason, I supposed, why the Outrays should not be invited this year as they were every year, though I was surprised to see that they had accepted. If my son stood accused of murder, I am not sure I would have the nerve to face my neighbors. It would be interesting to see just how far aplomb could carry them, though it was discomfiting to know I would soon be meeting them face to face. I wondered how closely reality would match the media image. My interest had been further piqued at Mel Deloitte’s.
Deloitte’s study easily qualified for earthquake relief, the usual clutter supplanted by an Olympian mass of briefing notes, research texts, and scrap paper that had not yet made it as far as the shredder. I knew better than to touch any of it. The piles only looked haphazard. In fact, they were carefully arranged to give the lawyer easy access to whatever facts or ideas he wanted to reference, but I couldn’t help noticing that many of them dealt with the subject of abuse. He had been researching the topic heavily, no doubt seeking a new avenue of escape for his client. The mock jury had been unwilling to accept a straight plea of insanity. Would they be more open to an abuse excuse? I would find out soon enough. Kerrin had recalled us to duty.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I hardly recognized Kerrin’s secretary, Louise. The stiff golden locks had given way to black with generous swatches of gray, the tight curls shorn to within an inch of her scalp. The overall effect was not unlike a poodle whose coat has been mangled by an inexpert groomer. Oddly enough, on Louise it didn’t look bad.
Around the conference table, seven mock jurors greeted each other with polite handshakes. David held on to mine longer than good manners strictly dictated. I didn’t object. Brent waved from his end of the table. No one mentioned the absence of Daintry Gregg.
While we took our seats, Louise passed around a tray of pastries.
Kerrin got straight to work. She looked drawn, the fine skin under her eyes smudged with fatigue. She took no special notice of me.
Trial Run Page 6
