Everywhere That Mary Went Page 22

  Then ask Hart about Lu Ann right now. Take him through her phone call, expose the little shit. He’ll pack up his lawsuit and go home. You can win this case today, Mary. It’s yours for the asking.

  I can’t do that. It’s not fair. It has nothing to do with the case.

  You can and you should. A quick victory would clinch your partnership, Mare. No more worrying, no more vote-counting, no more headaches. Relief from pain, isn’t that what you want? Peace. You could buy a house. Get your life back on track.

  I can’t do it. His son is right here.

  So what? You’re Harbison’s lawyer, you should be representing its interests, not Little Hank’s. You’re supposed to use every weapon in the arsenal to win, even the MAC-10s. Especially the MAC-10s.

  I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

  There’s no time to decide, because the door opens and the Harts enter. Though the elder Hart doesn’t smile, Hank’s spirits are high. Undoubtedly, he’d advised his father to take notes of his conversations with Stapleton and is expecting a settlement offer after the dep. He’s been planning this victory since his graduation and thinks that its sweet moment is at hand.

  That’s what he thinks, whispers the devil.

  I take my seat in front of the notes, and Pete comes in.

  Congratulations on your partnership, Mary. It’s your choice.

  Pete sits down behind the stenography machine. “You ready?”

  I nod, but I’m not. I can’t decide what to do. I look down at the notes and ask a couple of stupid questions about them. All the time, the devil pours poison in my ear, tempting me, taunting me. I look at Hank, sitting so proudly at his father’s side. If I ask about Lu Ann, what will his cherubic face look like? What will happen at home that night, with his mother? And Lu Ann, will this Kevin—

  Save it, Mary! You’ve represented worse. You’ve done worse. You and I know that, don’t we? Mary and Bobby, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love…

  “Mr. Hart, were you ever rude to Harbison’s employees?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  See, he deserves it. Give it to him. Right between the legs.

  “What part of the question didn’t you understand, Mr. Hart?”

  “Any of it, Mrs. DiNunzio.”

  “Then let me change it slightly. Have you ever been reprimanded by anyone at Harbison’s for being rude to its employees?”

  “I have never been rude to anyone at Harbison’s.”

  “That’s not my question, Mr. Hart. My question is, Have you ever been reprimanded by anyone at Harbison’s for being rude to its employees?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone at Harbison’s ever told you that they thought you were rude to company employees?”

  “Yes.”

  God, I hate this man. I should do it, I should.

  Sure you should. But will you?

  “And who told you this?”

  “Frank Stapleton.”

  A break for me. If Hart admits that Stapleton talked to him about his rudeness, I can prove that Harbison’s had a business motive to demote him. That makes it a “mixed motive” case under the law — a tough defense for me to win, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  Hank makes a note on his legal pad.

  Just breathe the little slut’s name.

  “How many times did Mr. Stapleton discuss this subject with you?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a discussion. That would be making too much of it, and I’m not about to let you do that.”

  “Fine. How many times did Mr. Stapleton make a statement to you about rudeness?”

  “Only once.”

  “Was anyone else present when he made this statement?”

  “No.”

  “Where did it take place?”

  “On the golf course. Ninth hole.” At this he smirks.

  Hank makes another notation.

  “What did Mr. Stapleton say about the subject?”

  “It was just a comment between friends. Former friends, I should say.”

  “What did Mr. Stapleton say, Mr. Hart?”

  “Just that sometimes I could be a little hard on the staff. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure that’s all you can recall?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say in reply?”

  “Nice drive.” Hart glances at Pete to see if he appreciates the joke. Pete’s face is stony.

  “Mr. Hart, what did you say to Mr. Stapleton in reply?”

  “Nothing. That was the end of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as God made little green apples.”

  “Did you make any notes of any kind regarding this conversation?”

  “On the golf course? With those sawed-off pencils?” Hart rolls his eyes.

  “Anywhere at all.”

  “Why would I? It wasn’t important enough.”

  “Is that a no, Mr. Hart?”

  “Yes, it’s a no, Mrs. DiNunzio.”

  I need more detail to sell this to the jury. “Mr. Hart, was there a specific incident Mr. Stapleton referred to when he discussed this with you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what occasioned this discussion with you?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I take it that’s a no, Mr. Hart?”

  “You’re getting pretty good at this, Mrs. DiNunzio.”

  How long are you going to eat his shit?

  “Mr. Hart, did Mr. Stapleton refer to any employee in particular during this conversation?”

  “Just the kitchen help.”

  “Kitchen help?”

  “The people who work in the company cafeteria. The Jell-O slingers in the hairnets.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Lu Ann, I think he said her name was.”

  Whoa, baby. That’s a surprise.

  Whoa, baby, is right, mocks the devil. He sounds less surprised.

  Hank writes the name on his pad, then looks at me, expectantly, innocently, for the next question.

  His father’s sneer betrays nothing as he awaits the next question.

  Pete waits too, his long fingers poised in midair over the black keys.

  Do-it do-it do-it do-it do-it! screeches the devil.

  It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  It’s the little voice inside me talking. The Mike-voice, chirping up. It hasn’t deserted me after all. It’s still with me, and it says, “I have no further questions.”

  It’s over. Everybody packs up and shakes hands, except for Hart. “See you in court,” he says, with a braying laugh. The derisive sound is echoed by a more distant infernal laughter.

  Get thee behind me, Satan!

  I wonder if I’m losing my mind. I gather up the file and practically flee the conference room.

  Outside, the firm is alive with commerce and industry. Secretaries fly to the mailroom to get out that last letter. Associates beg another draft out of Word Processing. Partners rush to review briefs before they’re filed, the better to leave their distinctive mark on it, like a poodle does a hydrant. Everyone’s following the Stalling commandment THOU SHALT WAIT UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE, THEN GO CRAZY. The life signs at Stalling ground me, and I don’t hear the devil anymore. By the time I reach Gluttony, I’m feeling normal, almost good, for the first time in a long time.

  “Miss DiNunzio, here I am!” It’s Miss Pershing, looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs. Her rubber pocketbook’s slung over her wrist, and she’s holding an Agatha Christie paperback. Secretaries flow around her to get to the stairwell, following the first in a set of counter-commandments, THOU SHALT BOLT AT FIVE O’CLOCK. Miss Pershing’s too single-minded to notice the activity around her, like an aged pointer who’s found her quarry.

  “Miss Pershing, step over here.” I take her by the elbow and she does a mincing side step out of the path of travel. The Amazing Stella sashays behind her, making the crazy
sign at her forehead, but I don’t laugh.

  Miss Pershing looks suspiciously at the secretaries passing by. “I got that information you wanted.” She leans toward me; her soft breath smells like Altoids. “You know which information I mean? The information.”

  “The information, Miss Pershing?”

  “The information. The police information.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “The papers are on your desk. Your theory is confirmed.”

  “My theory? You mean about who—”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “That’s all right. It’s my job.”

  I suppress a smile. “Well, thank you, just the same.”

  “Also, Mr. Starankovic telephoned. He said—”

  “Starankovic? Oh, fuck!”

  Her eyes flare open.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Pershing.”

  “No need to apologize, Miss DiNunzio. I’m getting used to it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Starankovic said you didn’t call him back about the interviews, so he had to file a motion. I put the papers on your desk. I hope this doesn’t mean you need me to stay late tonight, because I can’t. I have my book club tonight.”

  “Agatha Christie, right?”

  She nods happily.

  “It’s okay, Miss Pershing. I don’t need you to stay.”

  “Well, then, nighty-night,” she says, and smiles. She’s about to turn toward the elevator when Martin comes charging out of nowhere and knocks her over.

  “My!” she yelps. She falls backward into my arms.

  Martin runs down the stairs, elbowing everyone aside frantically, with a sheaf of curly faxes in his hand.

  “Are you all right, Miss P?” I set her back onto her feet, like Dorothy did the scarecrow. She seems more embarrassed than anything else.

  “Goodness!”

  I look down the stairs after Martin, but he’s long gone. He didn’t even look back. He knocked down an old woman and didn’t even look back. What kind of a man does that? A hit-and-run. I shudder, involuntarily.

  “Wasn’t that the young man who likes owls?” asks Miss Pershing.

  “Martin H. Chatham IV.”

  “What bad manners!” She produces a flowery handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater and dabs at her forehead. The handkerchief must be scented, for the air is suddenly redolent of lilac.

  “Let me walk you to the elevator, Miss P.” I offer her my arm and we hobble to the elevator together. I tuck her in, in front of the secretaries with the neon eyeshadow and the black miniskirts. She gives me a game wave with her pocketbook as the doors close.

  Martin.

  I wonder where he was the night Brent was killed. I wonder what kind of car he drives, where he lives. If he lives in town, it makes it more likely that it’s him, since it would be easier for him to follow me. But I think he lives in the suburbs somewhere, on the Main Line. I decide to do a little research.

  I head into my office and find Stalling’s pig book on the shelf. It has photos of all the lawyers in the firm, with their degrees and home addresses. I flip through the first couple of pages to Martin’s name. Under his head shot, which makes him look almost animate, it says Dartmouth College, B.A. 1969; Yale Law School, J.D. 1972. His home address is “Rondelay II” in Bryn Mawr. The Main Line, of course. Even the houses have Roman numerals after their names.

  Damn. Who else could be jealous of me? Jameson. I wonder where he lives.

  I page to the J’s and find his picture. He looks like Atom Ant, only smug. He went to Penn too, graduating from the undergraduate school in 1970 and the law school in 1974. His home address is on Pine Street in Society Hill. A city dweller; I didn’t know that. And the houses down there — the new ones — have built-in garages. I make a mental note to ask Judy if she knows what kind of car he drives. Kurt would remember if he’d seen it at a firm party. He’s always working on old cars; he uses them in his sculpture. His last show was called Body Parts. I passed.

  I flip the pages forward to look Ned up. Ned Waters, it says, underneath a picture of him that almost takes my breath away. His eyes, his face. His smile. God, he’s beautiful. I think of him in bed, during the night, arousing me despite my slumber. It’s hard to believe he’s the killer, but Judy made sense. At least for now. I snap the book closed. The end.

  I’m about to reshelve it when I remember. Berkowitz. Everybody knows where he lives, he custom-built the house two years ago in Gladwyne, one of Philadelphia’s ritziest suburbs. The house is a palace, with a pool and a tennis court. But Gladwyne isn’t that far from the city, just ten minutes up the West River Drive.

  The West River Drive. Where Mike was killed.

  I thumb quickly to Berkowitz’s page. His meaty face takes up the entire picture frame. I skim over the schools. Drexel University, Temple Law School. City schools for smart kids with no money. I stop short when I reach his home address — or addresses, because to my surprise, there are two. One is in Gladwyne, like I thought. But the other is an apartment in the Rittenhouse, a new high-rise condo on Rittenhouse Square.

  Rittenhouse Square. Where Brent was killed. Right near my apartment. So Berkowitz had access to both sites. He could have hit Mike and disappeared up the West River Drive to Gladwyne, or hit Brent and headed home to the Rittenhouse.

  Berkowitz? Could it really be him?

  Wait. I know he has a Mercedes, and it wasn’t a Mercedes that hit Brent. But what if he has another car, an old car, that he keeps in town? The Rittenhouse has its own parking in the basement garage.

  Christ. Berkowitz. Maybe Brent was right about him all along; he never did like him. Neither does my mother. Thin lips. I slip the book back onto the shelf.

  I check the clock behind me. The huge golden dial glows brightly: 6:20. The sky looks too dark for six o’clock, as if a thunderstorm’s coming. On my desk are the subpoenas. Miss Pershing has typed in the name of the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, and the address looks right. SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM. It’s one of the older forms, which I prefer. They look positively terroristic. I peel off the yellow Post-It that Miss Pershing has signed, Secret Agent Secretary. She’s cute, but I don’t want to like her. I miss Brent.

  It’s too late, but I punch in the number for AID and listen to their telephone ring and ring. I decide to go down tomorrow, first thing. Fuck the appointment. I’m the wife, for Christ’s sake. And the lawyer.

  I hang up the telephone and flop into my chair.

  I look at the pile of mail on my desk. It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. There’s a mountain of mail, including the expected motion from Starankovic. I open the envelope and read through the motion papers. They’re not bad, an improvement over the crap he usually files. At least he didn’t request oral argument, so I don’t have to sing to Bitter Man again.

  I look through the pile of phone messages on my desk, and there’s one from Jameson. FILE THE BRIEF HE SAYS! Miss Pershing has written, with a little daisy in the exclamation point. I thumb through the rest of the pile. Judy, Judy, my mother, Stephanie Fraser again, the rest are clients that will have to wait. None are from Ned. Be careful what you wish, you might get it.

  I turn to the mail. My heart begins to pound. On top is a plain white business envelope, with my name laser-printed in capital letters. But there’s no Stalling address. And no stamp or postmark. It came through the interoffice mail, from somebody at Stalling. I pick up the envelope. My hand begins to shake slightly.

  Berkowitz. Martin. Jameson. Ned. Not Ned’s father, because it came interoffice.

  I tear open the envelope.

  I LOVE YOU, MARY

  Ned. It has to be. I feel a sharp pain. How could I have been so thoroughly duped? I close my eyes.

  When I open them, Berkowitz is standing in the doorway.

  29

  Berkowitz lurches into my office as if he owns it. I’m struck by his size, intimidated by his power. For the first tim
e, his presence alone seems menacing, and I understand why a lot of people don’t like him.

  “Mary had a little lamb,” he says. “Nice place you got here.”

  “It looks just like everybody else’s.” I slip the note and the subpoenas under my mail.

  “Except for the view, of course.”

  “Right.” I glance back at the clock, luminous against the darkening sky. Storm clouds gather behind the clock tower.

  Berkowitz leans against the file cabinet by the bookshelves. “Must be a weird feeling, having that thing over your shoulder. Like you’re being watched all the time.”

  The comment sends a chill down my spine. He knows about the notes. What is this, a game? I say nothing.

  “I don’t think I would like that.”

  “The feeling or the clock?”

  “Both. Either.” He snorts out a little laugh.

  “I don’t like the feeling. The clock I can live with.”

  He doesn’t reply, but his eyes scan my diplomas, my desk, and the other file cabinet. His expression is unreadable. “You don’t have any pictures.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you have family. In South Philly.”

  “Yes.” I flash on the car barreling by me down my parents’ street. “How did you know that?”

  “Your accent. It’s a dead giveaway.” He pauses before Black’s Law Dictionary and runs a thick finger along its binding. I can’t gauge his mood, I don’t know him well enough. He seems distracted. Tense. “Do you ever use this thing?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you have it?”

  “My parents gave it to me.” The detail makes me feel exposed to him, increasing my nervousness. I tell myself to relax. I handled Lombardo, I can handle him. “Did you have an office like this when you were an associate?”

  “When I started out, we were in the Fidelity Building on Broad Street. All the windows opened.” He laughs, abruptly, and slaps his breast pocket. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So.” He leans against the file cabinet. “Mind if I close the door?”

  I feel my chest flush. “Uh… why?”