Читать книгу Everywhere That Mary Went - Lisa Scottoline - Страница 10

6

“Oh-ho!” Brent whoops behind the closed door of my office. “She’s jealous of you, Mare. Sammie’s giving you your big chance, and it’s killing her. This ain’t a law firm, it’s a miniseries!”

“You think she’s jealous?”

“That girl needs a spanking, and I bet I know who’s gonna—”

“Jealous enough to send me that note?”

His face falls. “My God, Mary. I didn’t think of that.”

“Is she capable of it?”

“I only know what I hear about her. Sure, she’s the type to send a hate note—she’d do it in a minute. But follow you around in a car? That’s a bit much. I’d sooner believe that of Waters. And he has more of a reason. It’s his partnership you’d take.” Brent bites at a thumbnail.

“I don’t think it’s Ned.”

“Why?”

“Something tells me it’s not him. I don’t know; if anything, he seems kind of vulnerable. And why not Delia? Look, I don’t know if she’s having an affair with Berkowitz, and it doesn’t matter. What if she has a crush on him and he’s favoring me? Maybe that’s enough to piss her off.”

“They’re having an affair, Mare. He left five minutes after her Monday night. Janet won four bucks.”

I flash on the way Berkowitz looked at Delia before they closed the door. “Okay. So maybe they’re having an affair. That would make her even more jealous, wouldn’t it?”

He shakes his head, examining the ragged nail. “It’s not her,” he says with certainty.

“How do you know?”

“No typos.”

So he’s seen her work, too.

A while later, Judy drags me to the Bellyfiller for lunch, which is fine, because I’m not hungry. The place is packed with middle managers. They sit behind combination meat sandwiches, pretending not to be interested in the soap opera on the big-screen TV. I tell Judy about the car that drove by my parents’ house and about the note in the morning mail. It sounds more farfetched than the soap and takes almost as long to tell. Judy’s finished dessert by the time I’ve finished the story.

“Brent’s right,” she says with finality. “I think Ned wrote the note. It makes the most sense. He wants to make partner so bad he can taste it.”

“More than we do?”

“Sure. He has a famous daddy to live up to, remember? And the firm is his whole life. It’s all he has.”

Judy’s words echo inside my head. It’s all I have, too. That must be why I obsess over it and she doesn’t. I take a gulp of water from a smudgy glass.

“We don’t know enough to say whether the car’s connected to the note, but it seems more likely than not. And for some reason, call it sexism, I find it hard to believe that a woman would be stalking you in a car. So Delia’s out.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I feel tense and confused. On the big-screen TV, a gigantic nurse looks tense and confused. My life, parodied before my eyes. I try to block out the TV, but it’s as hard to ignore as the huge clock in my office window. Big, scary things seem to be everywhere I go lately, like a nightmare of Claes Oldenburg’s.

“Do you ever see the car in the daytime?”

“No.”

“That’s consistent with someone who works during the day.”

“Everybody at Stalling, in other words.”

Judy thinks a minute. “Have you thought about calling the cops?”

“Brent wants me to, but I hate to do that. The last thing I need right now is an investigation in the department. I might as well kiss my career good-bye.”

“Hmmm. I see your point. Let’s not do the freak yet, let’s see if it blows over. I’ll be your bodyguard in the meantime. How does that sound?”

I consider this. “I can’t afford to feed you.”

“Very funny.”

On the TV, two monster nurses are discussing whether somebody will live through the week. Their glossy mouths are the size of swimming pools. A commercial for a mile-high can of Crisco comes on.

“Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“You look spaced. Listen, it’s okay to be upset about this. I don’t blame you. It’s spooky.”

“It’s not just the car, Jude. It’s everything.”

“What do you mean?” She sets down her milkshake.

“I don’t know what I mean. What I mean doesn’t make sense.”

“So tell me what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense.”

I look at Judy’s blue eyes, so wide-set and uncluttered. I’m reminded of how different we are. There’s a whole country between us. She’s so free and openhearted, like the West Coast, and I’m so—well, East. Burdened with my own history, dark and falling apart. “I don’t know. Forget it, Jude. It’s stupid.”

“Come on, Mary. Let’s talk about it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Try it.”

“All right.” I take another gulp of water. “It’s just that lately, like after my argument for Harbison’s, I hear this … voice. Not that I’m hearing voices, like Son of Sam or something, not like that.”

“No German shepherds,” she says with a smile.

“No. Sometimes the voice sounds like Mike, you know? Not the tone of it, I mean, but what it says. It sounds just like something he would say. Something right. Am I explaining this okay?”

“You’re doing fine.”

I take a deep breath. “You know the expression, what goes around comes around?”

She nods patiently. Her long silver earrings swing back and forth.

“Sometimes I think that the car, and now the note, are happening for a reason. And I think it’s going to get worse unless I change something. Do something different, do something better. I think Mike, or the voice—whoever, is trying to tell me that.”

She frowns deeply. “You think you did something to cause the note? And the guy in the car?”

It strikes a chord. That’s exactly how I feel. I nod yes, and am surprised to feel my chest blotching up.

“That’s crazy. You didn’t do anything, Mary. Somebody’s jealous of you. It’s not your fault.”

I feel flushed and hot. There’s no water left in my glass.

“What is this, some Italian thing? Some Mediterranean version of karma?”

“I don’t know.”

Judy looks sympathetic. “It’s nothing you did, Mary. You did not cause this. You are not responsible for it. If it doesn’t go away, which I sincerely hope it does, we’ll deal with it. We’ll figure it out together.”

Judy gives me a bone-crushing squeeze and we leave the restaurant. We decide not to walk around after lunch, and she buys us both some shoestring licorice from a candy store on the basement level. She says it’ll cheer me up, but she ends up being wrong about that.

I’m back at my desk at 1:58, wrestling with my fears and the Noone brief. After it’s finished, I send it along to the partner in charge, Timothy Jameson. I do a good job because every partner gets a vote in the partnership election, and I can’t afford to screw anything up at this point. I tally the votes for the third time today—I’m like an anorexic, counting the same few calories over and over. If Berkowitz votes for me, I might have the requisite votes right there, but there’s a faction that hates Berkowitz, and Jameson’s in it. The election will be close. My head begins to thunder.

In the afternoon, I’m in the chambers of the Honorable Morton A. Weinstein, resident genius of the district court. Judy calls him Einstein, naturally. Einstein is stoop-shouldered, with a frizzy pate of silvery hair. Steely half-moon reading glasses make him look even smarter. He’s flanked by a geeky law clerk who mousses with margarine Even the geeks want to look like Pat Riley.

We’re sitting at a chestnut-veneer conference table to discuss my new case, Hart v. Harbison’s, which, to my dismay, is a stone-cold loser. I’d spent the cab ride to the courthouse skimming the thin case file as I looked out the window for the dark car. I don’t know which worried me more. I’ve seen bad discrimination cases in my time—evidence of the shitting upon of every minority in the rainbow—but Hart is the worst. I’d settle the case instantly if it were up to me, but I have a mission. Search, destroy, and petition for costs.

To make matters worse, there’s a cherub posing as plaintiff’s counsel. He can’t be more than a year out of law school, and his face is as tender and soft as a newborn’s. His hair, a wispy strawberry blond, brings out the rosy hue of his cheeks. His briefcase is spanking new; his bow tie looks clipped on. My job is to ignore all this cutehood and yank out his nuts with the roots intact.

“Young man,” interrupts Einstein, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, Your Honor.” He blushes charmingly. “I’m new at this, I probably forgot to say it. My name is Henry Hart. Henry Hart, Junior.”

“Is the plaintiff your father, Henry?” asks Einstein.

“Yes. They call me Hank. I just got my mother to stop calling me Little Hank, if you can believe that. I have to remind her that I’m twenty-four now.” He smiles, utterly without guile.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Harbison’s did this to the child’s father? And I have to justify it?

“Twenty-four, my, my.” Einstein turns to his law clerk and chuckles. “Was I ever twenty-four, Neil?”

Neil doesn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Judge. You’re not that old.”

“No? I remember the big one. World War II. I was a navigator in the Eastern Theater. Flying B-24’s out of Italy.”

“The flying boxcars!” says Hank.

Einstein looks delighted. “How do you know about the flying boxcars?”

“My father flew a B-29 out of England.”

“Well, I’m impressed. I look forward to meeting him, even under these circumstances.” Einstein’s gaze lingers warmly on Hank’s face. “Now, is this your first pretrial conference, Hank?”

“Yes, sir.”

Einstein touches Hank’s sleeve lightly. “Well, son, it’s nothing to be afraid of. All I want to do is to hear both of you out. Maybe see if we can settle this matter.”

“Right, sir.”

“Go ahead and outline the facts for me. You needn’t rush.”

“Okay, Your Honor. Thanks.” Hank glances down at his notes. “The facts in this case are simple. My father worked at Harbison’s for thirty-two years, as long as I can remember. He’s an accountant. He started out in Harbison’s bookkeeping department.” Hank rechecks his notes. “He got promotion after promotion and a salary increase each time. He entered management in 1982. He was promoted to chief financial officer in 1988, reporting directly to the chief executive officer, Franklin Stapleton. But as soon as he turned sixty-five, Your Honor, Mr. Stapleton told him he had to retire. In clear violation of the Age Discrimination in Employment Act.” Hank glares at me accusingly.

I scribble on my legal pad to avoid his stare. I write: I hate my job. I’m moving to New Jersey to grow tomatoes in the sun.

“Go on, Hank,” says Einstein.

“Of course, my father refused. He was at the peak of his skill and experience, and he needed the income besides. So, in retaliation, Harbison’s demoted him. They stripped him of his tide, his office, and his pride, Your Honor. They busted him down to office manager of their store in the King of Prussia mall. So, after serving Harbison’s for thirty years, after reporting directly to the chief executive officer, they had him peddling eye bolts, Your Honor. In the mall.” His boyish chest heaves up and down with outrage.

The chambers are silent. I write: The beach would be nice. I could look for dimes in the sand with a metal detector.

“Well, Henry, I was about to give you a lecture on the relative wisdom of representing relatives,” Einstein says with a smile, “but your dad has found a very fine lawyer in you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hank blushes again.

The judge frowns at me over the rimless edge of his half-glasses. “Ms. DiNunzio, you represent Harbison’s in this matter?”

I nod yes. I feel like the devil in disguise.

“That’s quite a story I just heard. I’m sure the jury will be as impressed with it as I am.”

I clear my throat as if I know what I’m going to say, but I have no idea. “Your Honor, I just got this case today. We’re new counsel.”

Einstein frowns again. This frown says, You are making excuses, and that is reprehensible.

What’s a girl to do? I parrot back what I read in the file on the way over. “As you know, Your Honor, there are two sides to every story. Harbison’s denies that it made such statements to plaintiff and that it demoted plaintiff on account of his age. Harbison’s position is that it demoted plaintiff because his management style was abrasive and, in particular, he was verbally abusive to company employees.”

“That’s a lie and you know it!” Hank shouts, and leaps to his feet.

An appalled Einstein clamps a firm hand on Hank’s arm. “Sit down.”

Hank eases back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

Einstein snatches off his reading glasses and tosses them onto the file in front of him. The judge plays by the rules, which don’t provide for name-calling in chambers. He can barely look up, he’s so offended. “It’s not me you owe the apology to, young man,” he says finally.

“That’s all right, Your Honor,” I break in. “I’d be upset too, if it were my father.” I mean this sincerely, but it sounds condescending. Unwittingly, I’ve exploited the only weakness in Hank’s case—that he is his father’s son.

The point, however inadvertent, is not lost on Einstein. The tables turn that fast. The judge replaces his glasses and, without looking at Hank, asks coldly, “Henry, is your father interested in settling this matter?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ms. DiNunzio, is Harbison’s interested in settling this matter?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Einstein snaps open his black Month-at-a-Glance and thumbs rapidly through the pages. “The deadline for discovery is two months from today. You go to trial July thirteenth. I’ll send you both my Scheduling Order. Exchange exhibits and expert reports in a timely manner. I Ho not expect to hear from either of you regarding extensions of time. That’s it, counsel.”

We leave Einstein’s chambers. Hank flees ahead of me to the elevator bank. As he forces his way into an elevator, I see that he’s in tears.

“Hank, wait!” I call out, running to the elevator. But the stainless steel doors close as I reach it, and I’m left staring at the ribbon of black crepe between them. I press the DOWN button.

I hear the voice. It sounds harsher now, less like Mike. What goes around comes around. You made an angel weep, now you’re getting it back. A phone call greets you at the door. An anonymous note shows up in your mail. And a dark car is tracking your every move.

Pong! The elevator bell rings out, silencing the voice.

The doors rattle open. The only person in the elevator is a steroid freak in a muscle shirt and mirrored sunglasses. Acne dots his shoulders and his hips jut forward suggestively as he leans against the side of the elevator. “Come on in, honey,” he drawls. “The water’s fine.”

“Uh, no. I’m going up.”

“Maybe next time, sugar.”

As soon as the doors close, I punch the DOWN button again. I slip thankfully into the next elevator, packed with honest citizens wearing yellow JUROR buttons. I grab a cab back to the office and spend most of the ride as I did before, looking out the windows, peering anxiously at every dark sedan on Market Street. When I get back to the office, Brent’s desk is empty. He has his opera lesson tonight; he says there’s more to life than short-hand.

I go into my office to empty my briefcase.

There, sitting at my desk, bent over my papers, is Ned Waters.