Corrupt Practices (20 page)

“We’ll honor Shabbat,” Lovely says softly. She takes a book of matches and lights the candles. “We light two candles because there are two references to Shabbat in the Torah, one in Exodus and one in Deuteronomy. The words are a little different. ‘Remember’ the Sabbath and ‘Observe’ the Sabbath. I think this means that rote observation without knowledge of its significance is meaningless and that you can’t understand it without following its rituals.”

She covers her eyes with her hands, like a young child playing peek-a-boo, but paradoxically it’s the action of a mature woman. She says a blessing in Hebrew and removes her hand from her eyes. “I covered my eyes during the prayer so I could focus without distraction on the blessing and reflect on whether during the past week I followed a righteous path. I connect with the Torah and the eternal harmony that it brings us. When I uncover my eyes and see the flame, I can truly experience the light, both figuratively and literally—the light from the candles and the light of God.”

Ed glances at his daughter and smirks. “Do you know why women conduct the Friday candle lighting ceremony, Parker? Because women were responsible for dimming the world’s light when Eve gave in to temptation in the Garden of Eden. The slut.”

“Stop, Dad,” Lovely says.

“What’s the problem?” Ed says. “The great scholar Rashi said so.”

“I hate when you say stuff like that.” She clenches and unclenches her jaw, like she does when she gets angry in class. Ed raises his palms in reconciliation.

She says blessings over the bread and the wine, and then brings out dinner—salad and some kind of pasta with tomato sauce.

“Linguini puttanesca,” she says. “Olives, capers, tomatoes. Vegetarian. I didn’t know if you eat meat, so . . .”

We pass her our plates, and she piles a large helping of linguini on them. She takes a smaller portion for herself. When we’ve all been served, I take a forkful. The burnt garlic has given the food a charred, bitter taste, and the pasta is so gloppy I have to wash it down with the wine. Fortunately, the salad is edible and the egg bread is quite good, so I eat those first and force down as much of the pasta as I can before pleading fullness. Ed eats his linguini without enthusiasm. At least she chose a good wine.

With work topics off-limits, I learn that like me, Ed is an avid basketball fan. Father and daughter get into a heated debate about the merits of a Coen Brothers movie that I haven’t seen, so I just sit and let them entertain me with their fervor. Ed hasn’t been this animated since I arrived. It becomes clear that he truly knows cinema and that Lovely’s passion for debate will make her an excellent trial lawyer.

I finish a second glass of cabernet, and during a lull in the conversation surprise myself by saying, “What do you get out of honoring the Sabbath, Lovely?”

“First you have to promise that your question doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation into the Sanctified Assembly. Because if it does, it’s work, and I won’t discuss it now.”

“No, I just . . . when you were saying those prayers, you looked so . . . joyful? I’ve just never understood how people feel that way about prayer. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

“There are a lot of answers to that question, but none will satisfy you.”

“Try.”

“All right. How about poetry? It’s said that on the Sabbath eve, you greet God as the bridegroom and the Sabbath as the bride, and by observing the Sabbath you honor the bride and groom. Or pragmatism. It’s important for your mental and physical health to take a day off from work. And there’s loyalty. Lighting the Shabbat candles meant so much to my mother.” She glances at her father. “Momma was Norwegian. She converted to Judaism when she decided to marry my dad. Not for expediency, but because she truly believed it was the right choice for her. Her family basically disowned her after she married my father.”

Ed looks down and squirms in his chair.

“My mom died when I was seventeen. Prayer is a way to hold her close.”

The only loss in my life that comes close to equaling hers was the death of Harmon Cherry. I try to honor him by practicing law the way he taught me, not through useless superstition or ritual.

She studies me, as if reading my thoughts. “I told you that my answers wouldn’t satisfy you.”

I shrug in apology.

“Well, try this. Religion can be very similar to an embrace. And you can’t really explain an embrace. But there are people who comfort me with just a hug.” Grinning slightly, she tilts her head toward her father. “If that same person hugged you, you’d probably recoil in disgust. But the trick, with both people and faith, is to find what will comfort you. We all need a divine embrace.”

I nod as if I understand, but I don’t. Oh, I comprehend the meaning of the words, but I don’t believe in mysticism.

At around nine thirty, I say goodbye. As I walk to my car, I feel relaxed, and it isn’t just the wine. I truly haven’t thought about the Baxter investigation for the past couple of hours.

This changes as soon I power on my Blackberry. There’s a message from a frantic Raymond Baxter. Several news reporters have called him about a rumor that early next week the Church of the Sanctified Assembly will sue the estate of Richard Baxter for seventeen million dollars. Fortunately, Raymond didn’t comment.

I have to tell Lovely. I spin around, sprint back up the steps, and hold down the doorbell until I hear footsteps.

She flings the door open. “Is everything OK?”

“Yeah. No. I just got this message from Raymond Baxter that—”

She touches my lips with her fingers, a mythical goddess striking me mute. “I absolutely will not discuss work. Tell me tomorrow night after sundown.”

“You’re right. It was rude of me. I just thought—”

Again, she brushes my lips with her fingertips to quiet me, and this time she doesn’t lower her hand, but instead places it on my cheek and leans in to kiss me. And though I should put a stop to it, I kiss her back, quite certain that the velvety heat enveloping and uplifting my entire body is that divine embrace she described earlier.

She finally draws away, her smile almost leveling me. “Good night, Parker. And don’t get hung up about me being your student. You’re just an adjunct professor. Anyway, you’re so crazy that the law school probably won’t hire you again.” Without waiting for a reply, she shuts the door.

After an early morning run through the Marina and down the Venice Boardwalk, I spend Saturday at The Barrista waiting for the sun to go down. I speak with Raymond, who doesn’t know anything more about the rumored lawsuit than I do. I’m sure the source is Christopher McCarthy, laying the groundwork for the Assembly’s litigation PR campaign.

Late-morning, Manny Mason stops by with his three teenage sons. While the boys sit at their own table and gawk at the Goth girls and sorority sisters and hot young soccer moms, I tell Deanna and Manny about the call from the reporters and about meeting with Ed Diamond. After Manny and his sons leave, I scarf down a turkey sandwich for lunch and then take a walk through the streets of West Hollywood—up Melrose, past the design center they call the Blue Whale, and all the way to Barney’s Beanery. Just when I think that the low clouds and incessant traffic will make the day permanently dreary, the sun breaks through, and LA’s gaudy version of an urban village sparkles. When I get back to the coffee house, I work some more and sit and think of nothing and watch Deanna glad-hand the customers and manage her employees and take her turn behind the coffee bar. I wonder what our relationship might have been if upbringing or circumstance or a trick of genetics hadn’t shaped us into people whose bodies meld together perfectly but whose hearts can’t fully connect.

Mostly, I just bide my time until I can call Lovely.

An hour after sunset, I sequester myself in an empty corner of the coffee house, take out my cell phone, and punch in Lovely’s number. When she answers, I tell her about the rumor that the Assembly is going to file suit. I would’ve thought she’d be full of ideas about the next steps in the defense, but she’s doesn’t say anything.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“What makes you think that something’s wrong?”

“You seem so quiet. Distant. After last night, I thought—”

“I’m fine. You, my father, and I had a productive working session and a nice dinner. Is there anything else you want to talk about? I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”

Over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve allowed myself to make assumptions. I usually don’t make assumptions. Not about people. Not about love. I misunderstood last night. Or maybe she thinks it was a mistake. I haven’t felt this callow since I was ten and had a crush on Erica Hatfield, the actress who played my mother in
Doheny Beach Holiday
. “I just thought we could talk a little about the Baxter defense,” I say. “But you’re right. Your schoolwork comes first.”

She doesn’t respond. Her silence feels impenetrable. I strain to hear breathing or background noise, but it’s so quiet that for a moment I think she’s dropped the call.

“Lovely?”

“Yeah. I’m . . .”

“Can you meet Monday afternoon at school to go over this? With Kathleen and Jonathan? Two o’clock?”

“If I don’t have too much work.”

I find that despite the frostiness, I want to keep hearing her voice, want to hold on to this ever more tenuous connection for just a little while longer. I struggle to think of something else to say, but I’m tapped out.

“Parker, there’s . . .”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”

“Lovely, come on. You need to—”

“I said I’ve got to go.”

“So I guess I’ll see you Monday at school.”

“If I don’t have too much work.”

The next day, over Sunday brunch at a cafe in Culver City, I meet with Raymond Baxter. He reaffirms his determination to fight a lawsuit, but I want him to know the risks. He’ll have to pay the costs—emotional and financial—and there’s little doubt that the Sanctified Assembly will churn the case to try to drain us of money and resolve. He asks about a retainer, and I tell him that I’ll take the case pro bono. I’m not sure he can afford the fees, and I don’t need the money, and for now, I’m a law professor, not a practicing attorney. He insists on paying me. I quote him an hourly rate that’s half of what I charged when I was in practice with Harmon Cherry.

For the rest of the time, he talks about his son, telling stories about Rich as a toddler, Rich playing junior golf, Rich’s broken collarbone, Rich’s first fistfight, Rich skiing in Mammoth, Rich as a college fraternity pledge. Tedious, rambling stories that only a father would care about. Yet the old man’s stories captivate me. I have no experience in the ways a father loves his son. I know nothing of how the boy’s most trivial successes cause the parent to swell with pride; how each memory seems fully preserved with a three-dimensional clarity; how the instinct to protect is so powerful that it persists even after the boy has become a man—even after the son’s life has ended.

By two o’clock Monday, the Assembly still hasn’t filed a lawsuit. Lovely doesn’t show up for the strategy session at the law school. Dispirited by her absence, I summarize for Kathleen and Jonathan the status of our investigation and confirm again that they’re willing to help out on the case as part of their classwork.