Deadlock (24 page)

Charlene put a hand on her shoulder. Almost immediately she felt a hand on her own. Aggie was pulling Charlene away. “Don’t touch her,” she said.

“Please — ”

“No! Sarah Mae, come along. Now.”

Helpless, Charlene watched as Aggie yanked Sarah Mae up like a sack of linens. Sarah Mae’s eyes flashed at Charlene, a mix of confused emotions Charlene could not read. Following her mother through the railing, Sarah Mae Sherman disappeared from view, and for all Charlene knew, from her life.

She fought back tears. She would not cry, not here. But she longed for someone to talk to.

Anyone except Beau Winsor. He offered his hand to her. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said. “There will be other fights.”

Charlene opened her mouth, and there it stayed. Open and without speech.

“You’re young. You’re talented. Ever think of joining a firm?”

Slowly Charlene shook her head.

“Give me a call. Let me take you to lunch.”

All she could do was shake her head.

Winsor said, “If you change your mind . . .” And then he nodded and walked away.

Larry Graebner also offered his hand, and Charlene felt compelled to take it.

“I’d consider his offer,” Graebner said. “It’s a good one.”

“This isn’t over,” Charlene said weakly. “I’ll file an appeal.”

Graebner glanced at the courtroom doors. “If you do, and you lose, our position will become precedent in this circuit. Would you want that?”

“Has it occurred to you we might
win
on appeal?”

“It really hadn’t,” Graebner said. “But anything’s possible.” Larry Graebner smiled. “Good luck, Ms. Moore. You did a fine job.”

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1

Millie was beginning to hate the word
hope.
Jack Holden had used it several times already in the eulogy. And each time he said it, she heard a few mumbled “amens” behind her. She felt herself wanting to sear these people with a
don’t you understand?
look.

Hope was in the casket, about to be buried. The hope that she would get more time with her mother. The hope that had been waved in front of her when her mother had managed to talk to her at the hospital.

“ ‘Therefore, since we have been justified through faith’ ” — Holden was reading, and she heard the words as if outside the building — “ ‘we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.’ ”

This was how her mother would have wanted her funeral, and for that she could endure it. But not the word
hope
anymore. Please.

“ ‘And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.’ ”

More amens. Holden had asked her if she wanted to say a few words, and she had declined. What did she have to say to these people? She was an outsider. She had once been one of them, but she had left long ago. In body and in spirit.

She dutifully stayed for the meal that had been prepared by several in the congregation. She dutifully shook hands and received condolences. She dutifully said what needed to be said without sounding rude.

They were good people, and they had been her mother’s family. Millie hated the way she felt about them now. She was jealous — of the times they’d had with Ethel that Millie had not. Her smile felt forced. But she smiled. Mom would have wanted it that way.

She was grateful for the job Jack Holden had done. But she was also jealous of
him.
He had had time with her mother, too.

He approached her at the back of the fellowship hall, where Millie had sought some respite from talk.

“You’ll be going back to D.C. soon?” he asked.

“Two days,” Millie said.

“May I say something?”

“Of course.”

“Even though the circumstances are not the best, it’s been good to talk with you. You know. About all the things we talked about.”

“My mother thought highly of you,” she said. “You were a great comfort to her.”

“You have her qualities.”

“I wish.” Ethel Hollander was so unlike her daughter. Or was it the other way around?

“I’ll be here if you need anything,” Holden said. “Arrangements with the house, that sort of thing.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And I’ll be praying for you.”

She felt a scream welling up inside her. It did not issue, but the pressure was intense. “Why wasn’t I there?” she said suddenly. Loudly. “Why wasn’t I with her?” She wanted to grab Holden’s shirt and shake him, shame him out of his assurances, force him to join her in guilt and doubt.

Her mother was
gone.
There would be no more words. Ever.

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2

Anne was starting her second espresso when she heard a knock. She looked through the peephole and saw an African American man in a sharp brown suit looking directly at her.

“Ms. Deveraux?” he said.

He must have been waiting for the light to change in the hole when she put her eye to it. She still didn’t say anything.

“Detective Markey, D.C. police,” he said. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

Police? “No,” Anne said. She watched him through the fish-eye glass.

“Are you refusing to speak to me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That is quite unusual.”

“I’m busy. Slip your card under the door. I’ll call you.”

“It concerns your boss.”

Anne paused, then thought she’d better get this over with. If he had something on Levering, she had better get it.

“Let me see the badge,” she said. Markey held his shield to the lens. Anne unlocked the door.

“Careful, aren’t you?” Markey said, stepping inside.

“You have no idea,” Anne said. “I’m in a hurry. Can you make this quick?”

“Certainly. You had a run-in with a man yesterday.”

“The homeless guy? He reported it? I can’t believe this. He was . . .”

“He was what, Ms. Deveraux?”

“He was approaching me in a menacing way.”

“So you maced him?”

“That’s why I carry it. Is this some major case? The guy want money?”

“The guy you took down is a street person. They call him Elijah.”

“Who does?”

“The other street people.”

“Okay, so his name’s Elijah. What do you want from me?”

Markey said, “Well, Elijah is not someone unfamiliar to us. We’ve talked to him before.”

“About?”

“Your boss.”

Anne blinked, feeling very annoyed. She’d been around cops many times, for various reasons, and usually got what she wanted from them. Now this guy thought he could play detective with her, like he was in some bad HBO movie, doing the cat-and-mouse thing. Anne did not do mouse.

“Detective,” she said, “I’ve got a full schedule. Just give me the whole thing in one gulp, and let’s get on with it.”

“Where was Senator Levering on the night of June fourteen?”

Anne felt her throat clenching. “Why?”

“Do you know where he was?”

“Senator Levering has a busy schedule.”

“You know his schedule, you probably tell him where to go and when. You troubleshoot. All the usual stuff. It wouldn’t be hard for you to check your book, or your palm thing, whatever it is you keep a calendar on.”

“Detective, I’m not inclined to check anything until I know the relevance. And what does any of this have to do with that guy on the street?”

Markey said, “You assaulted a witness.”

“Witness?”

“You remember that on June fourteenth, Justice Hollander was hit by a car?”

“Of course. Everybody knows.” Anne tried to keep her voice even.

“She was with someone right before it happened but won’t say who.”

“So? Maybe she wants to save a friend embarrassment or something.”

“Like the senator?”

Anne swallowed. “Come on.”

“About a week after it happened I got a call from the desk that somebody wanted to talk about the accident. Somebody who was probably nuts. It was a slow morning, so I took it. Turned out to be our friend Elijah. And he had a very interesting story to tell.”

“A street person,” Anne said, making it sound as ridiculous as possible.

“That’s what I was saying to myself. He said he was out by the Lincoln Memorial when he saw Senator Levering with a woman in some sort of wrestling hold, and then the woman ran off. He followed the woman. And he saw what happened.”

“Wait a minute here. Are you trying to tell me some street bozo sees Senator Levering in the dark and can identify him?”

“Who said it was dark?”

Anne put her hands on her hips. “I’m assuming.”

“I try never to do that. “

“Still, you’re taking this guy seriously? Where’s the credibility?”

“You’re right. We didn’t take him seriously. He had kind of an odd way about him, you know, that crazy kind of look.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But then yesterday, somebody sprayed Elijah. A witness wrote down the license plate number of the person who did it. The guy in dispatch who ran the plates crossed it in the computer with Elijah, and sent it to me. So now it looks like Senator Levering’s number-one aide sprayed mace at a potential witness, one who IDed the senator. Suddenly, I’m interested again.”

This isn’t happening,
Anne told herself. The potential damage was huge. “Senator Levering was not out wrestling with Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander,” she said. “That much I can tell you. But even if he was, why are the D.C. police interested? Would that be a crime?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not what this is about, is it?” Take the offensive. “It’s about some low-grade detective trying to notch a prominent politician.”

He looked at her evenly.

“I’ve seen this before,” Anne said. “You’re not kidding anybody. So why don’t you go get some real bad guys for a change?”

“You are not being very cooperative. It would help your own situation, you know.”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“You maced a guy. That’s an assault, too.”

Anne felt frozen in place, as if a police officer had asked her to assume the position
.
“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am, Ms. Deveraux,” Markey said.

“Then you can contact my lawyer. Our interview is over.”

Markey took out a pad. “Who is your lawyer?”

Anne glared at him. “You’re the detective. You find out.”

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3

Aggie Sherman angrily shook her head. “You shouldn’t of come here.”

Charlene stood in the doorway of what could only be described as a shack. A bare yellow lightbulb on the porch gave a strange circular glow in the night. Facing Aggie Sherman through the screen door, Charlene looked past the huge mosquitoes hovering around the mesh and said, “Please. I need to say something.”

“Say nothin’. You lost us a load of money and we don’t need to hear you say any more! Now get off my porch afore somebody sees you.”

“I need you to forgive me,” Charlene said.

In the long silence that ensued, Charlene felt as much as heard the din of the cicadas in the night. What would be her fate? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down? Then Aggie Sherman wordlessly unlatched the screen door and opened it.

“Thank you,” Charlene whispered as she stepped inside.

“Just so you know,” Aggie said, “Sarah Mae’s been crying ever since we got back here.”

Charlene’s heart cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sit down then.”

Charlene sat down on the sagging brown sofa. Aggie lit a cigarette and sat opposite Charlene in a faded recliner. “You like my place?” Aggie asked with bitter sarcasm.

“It reminds me a little of the place I grew up in,” Charlene said.