Final Appeal

by Lisa Scottoline

  My mouth goes dry. By four o’clock Armen and I were on the couch. “Did you come into chambers either time?”

  A smile plays around his lips. “Don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Is there an echo in here?”

  I grit my teeth. I’ve deposed bigger bastards than this. “Do you usually go into chambers?”

  “I check the doorknobs. If the door’s unlocked, I go in. I forget if that one was open that night. Now you better get through the detector. We got a line here.”

  I walk through the detector, trying to remember if the door was unlocked that night. I have no idea. The alarm sounds again.

  “Come on back, Ms. Rossi.”

  I walk back through and the noise stops. My handbag sails past me in the opposite direction. McLean looks over his shoulder at Jeff. I can’t see his face but I can see Jeff’s, and he’s smiling.

  “Now your belt, please, Ms. Rossi.”

  “Cut her a break, man,” Ray says.

  “You ain’t my boss and I ain’t your man,” McLean snaps, then looks at me. “Only one thing left. Stand up and put your hands out straight from your sides.”

  “Get real. You know I’m not a security risk.”

  “You want to get to work today?” he says. From behind the counter he produces a hand-held metal detector, which looks like a cartoon magnifying glass. He switches it on in front of my chest.

  Biiinng! It screams to life, even louder than the other metal detector. All eyes are on me, or more accurately, on my breasts. Shame and fury restrict my breathing.

  Biiinnng! Biiinnng!

  McLean holds the magnifying glass in front of my left breast, then moves it slowly in front of my right. It’s all I can do not to hit him.

  Biiinnng! Biinng!

  “I thought so,” he shouts, and turns off the noisy alarm. “Underwire bra.” One of the marshals laughs out loud, then quiets.

  I look McLean in the eye. “If this is some kind of game, pal, you won’t win.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, unfazed.

  I grab my earrings and bag and stalk ahead to the elevator, where the older woman is holding the door for me. “Here, dear,” she says, in a comforting way.

  I slip inside and punch the button for eighteen. “Thank you.”

  “What an unhappy man,” she says, looking up at the lighted numbers. The elevator doors open on the second floor and she extends a bony hand. “It was very nice meeting you. My name’s Miss Pershing, by the way. Amanda Pershing.”

  “Grace Rossi.”

  Her hooded eyes light up. “Are you Italian?”

  I think of my father. “No.”

  She looks disappointed as the elevator doors close behind her. Her perfume lingers, and I travel heavenward in an elevator filled with lavender and rage. Did McLean see Armen and me together? Where was he when I was hit on the head?

  I head for chambers but hear noise down the hall, coming from Galanter’s chambers; it sounds like a party.

  I pass the judges’ elevator and linger for a moment in the hall. The sound is coming from the office of Galanter’s law clerks. Maybe they’re celebrating Galanter’s ascension; maybe I can learn something about Canavan. I walk down the hall and stand in the open doorway.

  There are no judges, but the clerks’ office is packed with twenty-five-year-olds, crowding among the federal case reporters, laughing and talking. One of Galanter’s clerks has two party hats crossed on his head in a coarse caricature of a woman’s breasts.

  “It’s time!” somebody shouts, and then everybody starts blowing horns and noisemakers, like New Year’s Eve.

  “Ready for the countdown?” shouts a pretty blonde in a dark suit. She checks her watch, as do several of the others.

  “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!”

  The kids all shout, growing giddier with each second. I have no idea what is going on.

  “Come on in, the water’s fine!” says one of the partyers, who’s older than the others. He takes me by the hand and pulls me inside. “Count with us!”

  “What for?” I yell, over the din.

  “Six! Five!” shouts the crowd in unison. “Four! Three! Two!”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Justice!” He raises a plastic glass. “The Court denied the stay in Hightower. This is the big day! 9:03!”

  “One! Zero!”

  “Good-bye, Tommy!” shouts the blonde, next to a familiar head of wiry hair.

  Ben. He sees me in the doorway, and his shocked expression freezes for a moment. Then he turns his back on me.

  24

  “You had a phone call, Grace,” Eletha calls out from Armen’s office, as soon as I get into chambers. “From that reporter.”

  “Reporter?” I pause in the doorway to Armen’s office, taken aback by the sight. Everything has been packed up. There’s not a trace of Armen still visible; none of the books he loved or the objects he collected. Even the cudgel he kept on the wall has been wrapped. I feel a sharp twinge inside.

  “That stringer, the one who was givin’ Susan such a hard time after the memorial service.” She pushes a stiff strand of hair out of her eyes, looking beautiful without even trying. No wonder Armen loved her. “The curly guy, who needed the shave. Faber.”

  Are you gonna let somebody get away with murder? “I know the one. Did he leave his number?”

  “You’re not gonna call him back, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s an ass. He called here, buggin’ Ben, even Sarah. Artie hung up on him.” She strips some wide packing tape from a roll and presses it onto a box. “I can’t be bothered. I got another asshole to deal with. Did you see?” She steps aside, presenting the chair behind her like Vanna White. A long Indian headdress is draped over the chair. Its feathers are a brilliant cardinal red, with orange in the center, and the pointy tips of each plume are black. It’s easily eight feet long and makes a gaudy caterpillar onto the carpet.

  “What’s that doing here?”

  “It’s Galanter’s, he’s the chief now, get it? Think he’ll wear it behind the goddamn desk?” She shakes her head. “Meanwhile, check out what’s going on down the hall. You won’t believe that either.”

  “I saw.”

  “They should be ashamed of themselves. I called the clerk’s office upstairs. They’ll stop ’em.”

  “Was Galanter in?”

  “He’s been gone all morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Damned if I know. He left some typing for me, like I’m his goddamn secretary.”

  I turn to go. “I gotta check the mail.”

  “How was your weekend?” she calls after me.

  I think of my newfound father, then the secret apartment full of toys. “Same old same old.”

  “You’re talkative this morning.” She’s puzzled by my coldness, and I decide to level with her in a way she didn’t with me. Or maybe I want to pick a fight.

  “Actually, I had an interesting weekend, El. Went up to West Philly.”

  “You? In my neighborhood? What’s up there?”

  “Armen’s apartment.”

  Her mouth forms a glossy chestnut-stained O. “Say what?”

  I close the door behind me. “I thought I knew you, El, but it turns out I don’t.”

  She eases down onto one of the boxes. “Now don’t say that.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “How’d you find out about the apartment?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “I came across some papers in here the other night. A lease.”

  “I thought I packed all that stuff.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Malcolm.”

  “You expected me to?”

  “Of course, we’re friends. I thought he was yours and your ex’s.”

  She points an electric nail at me. “I never told you that. You assumed it.”

  “You let me assume it.”<
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  “You’d’ve blamed me.”

  “Blamed you? It’s him I blame.”

  She frowns. “Armen? Why?”

  “Hitting on women who work for him. First you, then me.”

  “Armen wasn’t like that.”

  I look away at the bookshelves, empty and hollow. “Come on, El. I wasn’t born yesterday and neither were you. It’s the same old shit, just in a black robe.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Wasn’t or isn’t?”

  “Wasn’t,” she says firmly. “It’s ancient history.”

  “Good. So he wasn’t cheating on me, just his wife.”

  “We ended before he met Susan, Grace.”

  It sets my teeth on edge. “Then why didn’t he marry you?”

  “Because I said no.”

  “What?” It’s a surprise.

  “The bottom line is”—she pauses, then laughs and throws up her hands—“we fell in love, then we got pregnant. He wanted to make it legal, but I couldn’t see marryin’ him, takin’ him away from everybody he loved. His mother. His community.”

  “What community?”

  “The Armenians. The dinners, the church, the whole thing. It was the center of his life.” She looks down. “You think his mama liked it when she met me, my belly big as a watermelon? I’m half the reason she killed herself.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I don’t know. Armen always blamed himself. So when he asked, I said no.” She sighs. “Don’t think I haven’t regretted it, plenty of times. I even felt a little jealous of you.”

  “Me?”

  She waves it away. “Water under the bridge. It was the right thing. I didn’t fit in his life.”

  “Did Susan?”

  She wrinkles her stubby nose. “Not really, but he fit into hers. Now you were different, you woulda been the one. You fit into his life and he fit into yours.”

  I feel a lump in my throat. I know that, inside.

  “With him and me, we were betwixt and between, both of us. My family wasn’t in love with the situation either. It never would’ve worked.”

  “So you took Malcolm yourself and raised him?”

  “Not on my own. Armen was in on every decision, we talked about Mal all the time. He was a great father, Grace. The best.”

  “How’d you swing it financially?”

  “Armen paid Malcolm’s expenses. Now I don’t know what’ll happen.” She flicks some imaginary dirt out from under a nail. “It’s part of the reason I’m thinking about quitting school. To get another job at night.”

  I think of the checkbook. “Did Armen leave a will or anything?”

  She laughs. “For what? He had no extra money, it went to us. You saw the apartment, he bought that boy everything. I told you he saved. Well, it was Malcolm he was saving for, for his college.”

  “How much had he saved?”

  “About fifty–sixty grand, like I told you. Not bad, huh?” She smiles proudly, and the irony hits me full force. I can’t shake the image of the $650,000, socked away in a money fund. Did Armen hold out on her and Malcolm?

  “Let’s say he did have money, Eletha. Do you think he had a will? Did Susan say anything?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Does she know about you and him?”

  Eletha’s eyes widen comically. “You crazy, girl?”

  I smile, feeling my hostility subsiding. Maybe I wouldn’t have told me either. “Why not?”

  “Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to tell her, and he promised me he wouldn’t. She has no idea.”

  “But how did he get away every Sunday?”

  “How do most men get away? Work. Clubs. It became his Sunday off. We were careful during the campaign, laid low, and she found plenty to do, believe me. She was into him early on, but when she caught Potomac fever she left him behind.”

  “Is that when he asked for a divorce?”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy again. “Armen? Never. He loved her in his bones. She’s the one who called it quits.”

  I don’t understand. “Susan was the one who ended the marriage, not Armen? But he told me she’d asked him to stay with her.”

  “Through the campaign, because she needed a hubby to smile pretty for the pictures. Otherwise, that woman didn’t need him at all.”

  I sit down in one of the chairs at the conference table. “I don’t know what to think, El. I don’t understand Armen. I don’t understand anything.”

  “You’re takin’ this bad, girlfriend,” Eletha says. “What don’t you understand, baby? Mommy make it better.”

  “I don’t know if Armen was a bad guy or a good guy.”

  “A good guy. Next question.”

  “I don’t know who killed him.”

  “He killed himself. Next.”

  I look at her in bewilderment. “How can you say that? You had a son with him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You said he was a good father.”

  “He was. The best.”

  “How could he be? What kind of father leaves his own child?” I think of my own father, though I hadn’t started out thinking about him. Suddenly I need to know the answer to the question, burning like hot lead at the core of my chest. “Tell me that, Eletha. How can a father turn his back on his own flesh and blood?”

  “Because he has no choice. Maybe the pain is too great to stay.” She shakes her head. “Look, you left your husband, didn’t you? Why?”

  “He cheated on me,” I say, the words dry as dust in my mouth. “It’s not the same.”

  “Yes, it is. You loved him, didn’t you? But you left.”

  “I had to.”

  “Right. You had no choice. Just because you left doesn’t mean you didn’t love.”

  I feel a catch in my throat. I can’t say anything. I think of Sam, Armen, then my father. I need Ricki, fast.

  Eletha folds her arms. “And I always thought you were so smart. Fancy degrees and all.”

  “You just assumed wrong,” I say to her, and she laughs.

  The marshals’ smelly gym is empty; it’s midafternoon. Against the wall is a huge mirror and racks of chrome free weights. A treadmill stands at the end behind some steppers. On the far wall hangs a poster of Christie Brinkley and beside it one of the electric chair. At the bottom it says: JUSTICE—FRIED OR EXTRA CRISPY? I kid you not.

  “How can they have that there?” I ask Artie, who’s flat on his back, pumping a barbell up and down over his chest.

  “Have what?”

  “That poster.” I point, and his eyes follow my finger.

  “Christie? She’s a babe. An old babe, like you.”

  “The other one, whiz.”

  He hoists the barbell up and down, exhaling like a whale through a blowhole. “I never noticed it. They let me work out here, Grace, I don’t give a shit about the artwork. Which rep am I on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a lousy spotter.” He presses the barbell into the air.

  I can’t take my eyes from the poster. The newspaper said that Hightower’s last meal was steak and an ice cream sundae. He ate the dessert first. After dinner he played Battleship with his guard, and the guard won. “Artie, if you were playing Battleship with a man who was condemned to death, wouldn’t you let him win?”

  “What?” The barbell rises and falls.

  “Wouldn’t you let him win? I mean, the man’s going to die.”

  “I don’t know, would you?” He grunts with effort, his bangs damp from sweat.

  “Of course. I let Maddie win all the time. What’s the difference? It’s a game.”

  “Games matter, Grace.”

  “Excuse me, I forgot who I was talking to.” I look back at the poster. The witnesses at Hightower’s execution said he shook his head back and forth as the lethal chemicals flowed into his veins. His feet trembled and his fingers twitched for about three minutes, and then it was over. Final, unknowable,
and beyond this world. “Artie, what do you think about the death penalty?”

  “What is this, menopause? Hot flashes and questions?”

  “Come on. Tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t think about the death penalty.”

  “But if you had to say, how do you come out?”

  He presses the barbell all the way up to a hook on a rack behind him, where it falls with a resounding clang. “It’s no biggie.” His arms flop over the sides of the bench.

  “I thought you were against it.”

  “That was when I was fucking Sarah. Now that she’s fucked me, it’s just fine.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead. “Yes, I do.”

  “But think about the act. The actual act of killing someone.”

  “I could do it, if he deserved it.”

  “My, we’re in a macho mood.”

  “You started it. This isn’t why I asked you to meet me in my branch office.”

  I laugh. He has been spending a lot of time here, I gather because he’s out of work and avoiding Sarah. “All right. What did you want to talk about?”

  “I wanted to tell you I was sorry about the other night. I drank too much. I wasn’t making any sense.”

  “It’s okay. I understand why it happened.” Drowning your sorrows. I’ve done it exactly once.

  “Thanks, Mom.” He rubs his chest, and sweat soaks through his thin T-shirt. I remember the basketball underneath.

  “You still got that tattoo?”

  “Until I find a blowtorch.” He sits up, straddling the bench, then sighs heavily. “Lifting sucks. I miss hoops.”

  “You’re not playing anymore?”

  “Nah. The team broke up.” He wipes his forehead with the edge of his T-shirt. “You know, before Sarah dumped me she told me something. She said you thought Armen was murdered.”

  “I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Why, what do you think? You gonna laugh at me?”

  “No. I even thought of it myself, for a minute. After the way Galanter’s been acting.”

  It surprises me. “You suspect Galanter?”

  “I didn’t know about suspecting him, but if anybody did it, he did.”

  “Why?”

  “Besides the fact that he’s a dick?”