WELCOME TO LEXIS! says the screen. Machines greet us everywhere in the modern workplace; it’s the people we can’t find. PLEASE TYPE IN YOUR SEVEN DIGIT IDENTIFICATION NUMBER.
I watch the polite sentence disappear. Ben, computer maven, has rigged it so we don’t have to log on each time. The only downside is you have to erase the last user’s research.
YOUR LAST SEARCH REQUEST WAS FREE SPEECH AND ARTNETT. DO YOU WANT TO CONTINUE WORKING ON IT? Y OR N?
Probably Sarah’s. I press N, then punch in GENFED, then 3CIR, to retrieve only cases in the Third Circuit.
The screen says, READY FOR YOUR SEARCH REQUEST.
“Give me a minute, whiz,” I tell it. I’m not as speedy on this program as I should be; Lexis was born about the same time Maddie was, and my refresher training’s no match for a 486 chip. I squeeze my eyes shut and think. Assume Armen decided a case when McLean was a cop, and McLean was a witness of some kind. That means I need cases that will contain both names. I open my eyes and type in AL MCLEAN AND WRITTENBY (GREGORIAN).
In a nanosecond the screen says, YOUR REQUEST HAS FOUND NO CASES.
Shit. So there’s two possibilities: a dry hole or a lousy drill. Guess which is likelier. I double-check the search request. Wrong. Al’s name is probably Albert, or Alan. If he testified in court he would use the more formal name. I type in AL! MCLEAN AND WRITTENBY (GREGORIAN). It should retrieve all incarnations of Al imaginable. I sit back, proud of myself.
Not for long. YOUR REQUEST HAS FOUND NO CASES.
Damn it! I sigh at the computer. It’s in there somewhere, I feel it. Every judge has enemies; they make at least one with each case. In desperation, I type in MCLEAN AND WRITTENBY (GREGORIAN).
The computer says, YOUR REQUEST HAS FOUND ONE CASE.
“Yes!” One case is all I need. Excited, I squint at the template above the keys and hit .fd, which is computer for gimme gimme gimme!
Clermont v. Brewster comes up. An old case, 1983. Armen was on the panel and wrote the opinion. But it’s not a criminal matter. I don’t understand.
I type in .fu, which stands for full case and not what it usually stands fo.
The case comes up in full. I type .np to get to the next page, then the next, deflating slightly with each new screen of white-on-blue text. There’s no police testimony in it at all; it’s a medical malpractice case. A woman, Elaine Brewster, sued a doctor for not diagnosing her skin cancer early enough to save her life. A jury awarded her a whopping $15 million. On appeal, the Third Circuit reversed. Armen, writing for the panel, found the evidence of the doctor’s negligence was insufficient to go to a jury, a sympathy vote but legally indefensible.
I hit .np and the next page pops onto the screen.
Then I see it. Highlighted in bright yellow by the computer.
Mr. McLean.
A man who testified in the trial court about the plaintiff’s pain and suffering, but not in his capacity as a cop. He testified that the plaintiff had been a beautiful woman, spunky enough to keep her own name after marriage. Elaine Clermont. The disease reduced her to an invalid, her skin blackened and eaten away.
The woman was his wife.
McLean lost his wife to cancer and he lost $15 million to Armen. That’s it.
I ease back into my chair, staring at the screen. I should be happy, but I’m not. Too much pain, too much death. I imagine McLean going to Armen’s to kill him. Bernice would have known McLean from the courthouse. So would Armen; he would have let him in without question. But Armen wouldn’t have remembered McLean from a ten-year-old case. He never saw McLean testify in the first place; the appellate court bases its decisions on a record. Armen would have assumed McLean was his protector. He would have assumed wrong.
But why would McLean wait ten years to get Armen? I don’t know the answer, but I intend to find out.
My hand is shaking as I pick up the phone to call Winn. It’s not hard to convince the young girl who answers the phone that I’m Winn’s cousin, I sound pretty depressed. I tell Winn the story and after he gets over the initial surprise, his tone turns cautious. “How do we know it’s the same McLean?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“You said the computer searches the name exactly, right?”
“Right.”
“So how do we know it’s the same man?”
“How many Mr. McLeans can there be who had a case before Armen?”
“Maybe one, but that’s not the point. The question is, can we charge this McLean just because a guy with the same name had a motive to kill Armen?”
“But it’s him.”
“McLean is a common name.”
“Not really.” It sounds feeble, even to me. I went to high school with one.
“Does it at least say he was a cop?”
I scroll through the case. “No. It identifies him as the husband, that’s all. He’s only mentioned in the opinion for a paragraph.”
“Does it say his age?”
“No. But the wife was thirty at the time. That would be about right.”
“Only if you assume she married a man about her age, but an assumption’s not enough to charge a man with murder. The whole thing could be a coincidence. After all, why would McLean wait ten years to kill him? Can’t we verify it somehow, get the actual record instead of just the opinion?”
Of course. I should have thought of that. “The record will have the trial transcripts, all his testimony. Address, work history, the whole thing.”
“Where’s the record now?”
“The case was from the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, so the record would be downstairs in the district court file room. It’s in this building, unless it’s archived.”
“Can you get it? I mean without your standard B and E.”
I smile. “We order district court records all the time. We call on the phone, they deliver them to chambers.”
“When will you have it?”
“In four hours.”
“Four hours? I thought you said the file room was downstairs.”
“This is the federal government. They have to fill out forms and type up receipts. If I went downstairs and got it myself, I’d have the answer in fifteen minutes.”
“Do it the normal way. I want everything by the book.”
“It’s not a Miranda warning, Winn.”
“McLean’s already in custody, what’s the difference? It’s more important that it be done right.”
“I’d do it right. It’s perfectly safe. Let me get the file.”
“Grace,” he says, “I want no suggestion that you tampered with the records. I want the chain of custody to be clear. Order the record, please. Keep the reason to yourself. Don’t go running in and telling everybody you caught Armen’s killer.”
“Come on.”
“You come on. Now order the record and call me when it comes in.”
“Mighty pushy for a Quaker.”
“You love me anyway.”
“Bullshit.”
“And one other thing. There’s a loose end.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t explain Armen’s bank account. Or Canavan.”
“Do I have to do everything for you?” I say to him before I hang up.
Then I look at the phone, thinking. He’s right. It doesn’t explain the money, but that was his investigation. My investigation is just about over.
We celebrate Ben’s big news at a picnic lunch on the grassy mall between the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, just catty-corner to the courthouse. Ben got the call from Justice Scalia this morning and was so delirious he even became likeable, helping all of us box the last of the case files. For a time it was like when Armen was alive and we all worked together, despite the clerks’ bickering. My spirits were high, fueled by my certainty that the record would prove me right about McLean. I felt so good I sprung for hoagies all around.
“They call this a sub in New York,” Artie says, inspecting his sandwich with a frown.
“What do they know? We invented it,” I say, wiggling my toes in the grass. Behind my digits is Independence Hall, the most beautiful building in the world, in its own subtle way. Its muted red bricks have a patina that only two hundred years can bring, and its mullioned panes of glass are bumpy; perfectly imperfect even from here. A long line of schoolchildren piles two by two out of Congress Hall, the right wing of the building, where Congress used to meet.
“Look around you, Artie. This is a real city, a city where people can live. It’s beautiful, and there’s history everywhere.”
“Except for that,” Sarah says flatly, her long granny skirt spread out on the grass. She points over Ben’s shoulder at the new housing for the Liberty Bell, a structure of sleek concrete with corners that stab out onto the cloudless sky. “I hate that building. They call it a pavilion, but it looks like a Stealth bomber.”
“Something the matter with Stealth bombers?” Ben says, smiling.
Eletha picks a paper-thin onion out of her hoagie, her nails working like pincers. “It’s not that bad, Sarah. It’s just new.” She drops the onion onto a pile of its brethren.
“That’s the problem.” Sarah raises her voice to be heard over the tourist buses gunning their engines next to the pavilion. “It should be compatible with the surrounding architecture and it’s not.”
“I agree, they should’ve left the bell where it was. It belongs in Independence Hall.” I remember how angry I was when they moved the Liberty Bell from Independence Hall. Now Independence Hall has to face its bell’s new home; it’s like sitting across the table from your ex’s trophy wife. For eternity.
“You mean they didn’t consult you?” Artie says. “You, Miss Philadelphia?”
“Isn’t it terrible? I don’t know why they think they can run this city on their own.” I tear into my cheese hoagie.
“So Ben,” Eletha says, “the clerkship begins in September?”
He nods and sips his coffee.
“What’ll you do till then?”
“I’m working on an article.”
“What about?” she asks, fishing out another onion.
“The European Convention on Human Rights.”
“Human rights? You?” Sarah says, bursting into tactless laughter.
Ben smiles easily; not even Sarah can bother him today. “I’ve been doing some thinking on the subject.”
“You?” she says, still laughing.
“Real nice, Sar,” I say. “What are you going to do next? And you better say join the Peace Corps.”
“How about joining Susan’s staff? Is that good enough?”
“Not since she got my name wrong,” Ben says, and Eletha laughs.
“Is she still in Bosnia, finding facts?” I ask.
Sarah nods, and I hope she forgets that I accused the woman of murder. Nancy Drew, my ass. She had a roadster, not a station wagon.
“So Artie,” Eletha says, “are you all ready for Wall Street? You pack your toys?”
Artie looks down at his hoagie. He seems out of sorts today, quiet. “Guess so. Off to peddle my soul.”
“For how much?” Eletha asks.
“You don’t want to know, girlfriend.”
“Yes I do. Hit me with it.”
“Just shy of one hundred large.”
Eletha almost gags. “You’re kiddin’ me!”
“Not including the endorsements. Justice. Just do it.”
“Justice?” I say. “On Wall Street?”
“Isjdjr! Keidnbu!” shouts a young man with flyaway blond hair, who troops with a park ranger onto the lawn behind Ben. Suddenly, a group of tourists is thronging around the man and the ranger, a bobbing mass of blond heads. “Keird ishdsn!”
“What the fuck is this?” Artie says. “Our neighbors to the north?”
“I would like to propose a toast,” I say, ignoring the interruption. I hoist my Diet Coke in the air. “To all of us, even Ben. And to justice.” I’m thinking of McLean, behind bars.
“Perfect!” Sarah says. “To all of us, even Ben. And to justice!” She hoists her Evian bottle to Eletha’s paper cup.
“To all of us, even Ben,” Eletha says. “And to justice, and happiness.”
Artie raises his bottle of Yoo-Hoo. “There is no justice or happiness. To all of us, even Ben, and to Patrick Ewing.”
“Kirs eushjk!” shouts the young man. He points to the Liberty Bell, visible through the pavilion’s glass wall. Crudely embossed letters at its top say ALL THE LAND AND UNTO ALL THE until the sentence disappears around the cast-iron curve. Tourists encircle the bell, but a park ranger will prevent them from touching the rough-hewn letters. I touched the letters once, when the ranger wasn’t looking; they felt cool and ragged.
“Thank you, all of you,” Ben says. “It’s very nice. You’re all very…kind.”
Artie bursts into laughter. “Don’t choke up or nothin’, dude. It’s not like we meant it.”
“Artie, be nice,” I say. “Good things happened today for a change.” I think of my successful Lexis search. Wait until they find out Armen was murdered. Will it make it worse or better? Which way does it make me feel?
“God knows, we needed it,” Eletha says, taking a slug of her iced tea.
“Welcome to Philadelphia, ladies and gentlemen,” the park ranger booms, then launches into his spiel with official enthusiasm. The tourists frown up at him almost instantly. Either the sun is bright or they don’t understand English with a Philadelphia accent. My guess is they’ve seen the sun before.
“I have some good news of my own,” Eletha continues, shouting to be heard. She sets down her cup in the grass and inhales deeply. “I’m a free woman, as of today. I broke up with Leon.”
“Really?” I say. I was wondering what she meant about happiness.
“I told him this morning, no more shit. Life is too short to take shit from any man.”
“Good for you!” Sarah says, drawing a sharp look from Artie. There’s an awkward silence, and I think of my promise to Ray.
“Don’t hang it up too fast, Eletha,” I say. “Have I got a man for you.”
“So have I,” Ben says, leaning over. “Chief Judge Galanter is single.”
Eletha laughs. “That’ll be the day! Shoot me before I get to that point. Shoot me, child!”
I think of Armen and stop laughing slowly. The others don’t seem to notice.
Sarah says, “No, Eletha, you got it backwards. Shoot him.”
They all roar with laughter, even Ben. I force a smile. What does it feel like to be shot? What is the last thing Armen felt? Did McLean hold the gun to Armen’s temple? Force him into the chair? I look away to where the park ranger is addressing the tourists and tune him in.
“There were no bell foundries in the colonies at that time period,” the ranger says, “so rather than send it back, these resourceful colonists, who had previously made only pots, pans, and candlestick holders—”
“Grace?” Artie says. “You with us?”
I push it out of my mind. We got him now. That’s justice, even if it doesn’t bring Armen back. “Sure.”
“Who’s bachelor number one?” Eletha asks.
“What?”
“Who did you want to fix me up with?”
“Oh. One of the marshals.”
Eletha shudders. “One of the marshals? Forget it!”
“Back in the saddle, Miss Thing,” Artie says. “I love a man in uniform.”
“What’s the matter with a marshal?” Sarah says.
Eletha leans forward. “You know what I heard? One of the marshals was arrested this morning. For the murder of that reporter.”
Sarah pales. “You mean the stringer? The one who was calling us?”
“What?” Ben says, setting his hoagie down in its shell of waxy paper. I concentrate on the grease spots soaking the paper from the inside and try to look as shocked as he does.
“That’s unbelievable,” Artie says, between mouthfuls of corned beef.
“Which marshal?”
“Al McLean, the big one.”
“How did you hear this?” I ask her.
“Millie, from the clerk’s office. So no marshals, honey. Not for me. No way.”
“But it’s Ray Arrington. He’s a teddy bear.”
“Ray? A what?” Artie says, chomping away. “Gimme a break! You ever see him on a basketball court? The man is a maniac. He almost knocked Shake and Bake out.”
“Ray?”
“The Shakester had a bruise all down his side.”
“Poor schizophrenic,” Ben says. He stows his empty coffee cup in his hoagie wrapper and rolls them up together. “We should get back to the office. It’s been over an hour.”
Eletha and Sarah look at each other and laugh. “What are they gonna do, fire us?” Eletha says.
“I want to work on my article.”
But Sarah doesn’t hear him. “We’re free. We have no work, no job, no office.” Her face falls suddenly. And no boss, is the thing we’re all thinking, but nobody says it. Artie wraps up the remains of his lunch in silence and Eletha watches him, her eyes unfocused. I feel a lump in my throat and raise my can in a silent toast.
“I agree,” Sarah says softly and touches her drink to mine. Eletha raises hers, too. Only Artie doesn’t say anything. I can’t catch his eye.
Ben clears his throat. “We’d better go back. Grace still has a job, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.” I’ve indentured myself for nothing, unless I want to help Winn’s bribery investigation. “Anyway, today I’m off duty.”
“So why’d you come in?” Sarah asks. She gets up, then helps me up.
“I don’t know. We don’t have much more time together. I thought I’d say good-bye.” It comes out of its own force, and even though it’s not the reason I came in, I realize how true it is. The lump comes back.
“Awww,” Sarah says, and to my surprise gives me a warm hug, which Eletha joins.
“Group hug!” Artie says, rallying. He wraps his long arms around Eletha and presses us all together. I’m somewhere in the middle, trying to swallow the damn lump.
“Come on in, Mr. Human Rights,” Sarah calls out.
Final Appeal raa-2 Page 20
