Moment of Truth (4 page)

“Nah, they just make that up. You know it and I know it.” Judy crammed the next folder into the thickening accordion. “See? I file at random. I put the folder wherever there’s room. I always do it this way after trial. Nobody ever came after me. The world didn’t end.”

“You mean all this time we’ve been packing up after trial, you haven’t done it right?”

“Never.” Judy grinned. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I always finished ahead of you?”

Mary’s mouth dropped open. “I thought it was because you’re smarter.”

“I am, and this is an example of it. It’s dopey to put them away right.”

“But you’re supposed to.”

“Oh, you’re
supposed
to.” Judy misfiled another folder. “It’s like permanent records.”

“I don’t want to hear anything bad about permanent records. My permanent record was spotless.”

“Well, mine wasn’t and we ended up in the same place, which proves my point. Permanent records and mattress tags. Nothing ever happens. They’re just lies they tell you to keep you in line.”

“Like heaven.”

“I knew you would say that. For a lapsed Catholic, you’re not that lapsed.”

“
Mea culpa
.” Mary crossed her legs and fiddled idly with cultured pearls that peeked from an ivory blouse she wore with a fitted gray suit. She was on the short side, but had a neat, compact figure and avoided lots of great ravioli to keep it that way. “Maybe we should go get dinner. Have a nice salad.”

“Girl food.” Judy reached for an empty accordion. “Let me finish disorganizing the file, then we can celebrate our victory in the most boring case of all time.”

“Don’t jinx it. You don’t know that we won.”

“Yes I do. We were less boring than they were. Bennie couldn’t be boring if she tried.”

“Bennie Rosato, our boss? Are you kidding? Ever hear her talk about rowing?” Mary gestured at the walls of the conference room. One wall was glass, facing the elevator bank, but the end walls, of eggshell white, were decorated with Eakins prints of rowers on the Schuylkill River. Beside them hung photographs of Penn crews rowing past Boathouse Row, the bank of colorful boathouses lining the river. “She’s boring as hell when she talks about rowing. Also golden retrievers. I’m sick of golden retrievers because of Bennie. If she could put a golden retriever in a boat and row it around, she’d have it made.”

Judy stopped misfiling. “If you actually got off your butt and did a sport, you’d understand why Bennie likes to talk about hers. As for the dog stuff, I see that too. Bear’s a good dog. I’ve been baby-sitting him for a week and he’s fun.”

“Good. Have a great time, just don’t tell me about it. Or show me dog pictures.”

“You like dogs.”

“No, I like ravioli, and I’m still pissed that you screwed up our files.”

Judy ignored it. “My family had Labs and goldens growing up and they were great. I’m thinking about getting a puppy.”

“Wonderful. See it between trials. Pat it on the head.” The phone rang on the oak credenza, and Mary looked over. “Do I have to get that?”

“Of course.” Judy gathered a stack of folders and dumped them into an empty accordion. “I’m busy wreaking havoc, and you’re closer.”

“But it’s after hours.”

The phone rang again, and Judy scowled. “Get it, Mare.”

“No. I’m beat. The voice-mail’s on.”

Brring
! “Get it!” Judy said. “You’ll feel guilty if you don’t. Don’t you feel guilty already?”

“Shame on you, guilt-tripping a Catholic. How low will you go?” Mary grabbed the receiver. “Rosato & Associates … I’m sorry, Bennie’s out of the country for the entire month. Yes, there are associates of hers here.” She slipped a small, manicured hand over the phone and caught Judy’s eye. “Man needs a criminal defense lawyer. Should I tell him wrong number?”

“Very funny. Ask him what the charge is.” So Mary asked, and Judy read the hue of her friend’s face. “Tell him we’ll take it,” she said quickly, but Mary’s brown eyes flared in alarm.

“A
murder
case? You and me? By ourselves? We can’t do that! We don’t have permission, we don’t have authority, we don’t have expertise, we don’t have any of the stuff you’re supposed to—”

“We’ll apologize later. Tell him yes.”

“But we don’t know what we’re doing.” Mary’s hand stiffened over the receiver. “We’ve only done two murder cases and in one
we
almost got murdered.”

“I thought you grew up last case.”

“Two steps forward, one step back.”

“You told me you weren’t afraid anymore.”

“I lied. I was born afraid.”

“Tell him we’ll take it, dufus!” Judy dropped the file and crossed to the credenza. “Gimme that phone.”

“No!” Mary clutched the receiver to her chest. “We can’t do it! We’re not smart enough!”

“Speak for yourself,” Judy said, and snatched the phone away.

Ten minutes later, they were in a cab jostling down Market Street toward the Roundhouse. The rain had stopped, but the streets were wet and the gutters full of cold, rushing water. Leftover Christmas garlands wreathing the streetlights blew in the wind, and the lights from the Marriott, The Gallery mall, and the shops lining Market reflected on the slick asphalt in colored orbs, like Christmas lights. To Mary, the city seemed shut down, with everybody recovering from the winter holidays. Even the cab driver was unusually quiet, but Mary and Judy more than made up for him. They had yammered since they left the office. Only God knew how many trial strategies, settlement conferences, and oral arguments had been discussed in the backseats of the city’s cabs. By now cabbies could have law degrees, set up practice, and improve the entire profession.

Mary slumped in her trench coat. “I’ve never tried a murder case, first-chair.”

“So what? We were second-chair to Bennie.”

“He called Bennie,” Mary said.

“No, he didn’t. He called the firm. You and me have more criminal experience than anybody at the firm except her.”

“Two criminal trials? Please. This is bait-and-switch, with lawyers instead of air conditioners.”

“So tell him.” Judy shrugged, the gesture buried in a white down coat that encircled her like a sugar-frosted doughnut. “Let the man make his choice. He wants another lawyer, he can get one.”

“I
will
tell him,” Mary said, as if Judy had disagreed. She looked out the window and watched the city sleep. “How did we get into this?”

“We like to have fun.”

“I hate fun. I hate rowing and goldens and fun of all sorts.”

“Buck up, Mare. We can handle it. Just use your common sense. Now, who’d Newlin kill? Allegedly?”

Mary blushed, suddenly glad it was dark in the cab. “Uh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Smooth move.” Judy laughed, but Mary didn’t.

“You could’ve asked him.”

“I thought you knew already.”

Mary closed her eyes, briefly. “I’m not competent to do this. I’m screwing up before I meet the client. Is that even possible?”

“It’s a land speed record,” Judy answered, without rancor. “You and me, we get it done, don’t we?”

Mary couldn’t smile. Malpractice wasn’t funny, and murder even less so. She looked out the window as the cab pulled up at the Roundhouse. The rain began to fall again, a freezing downpour, and somehow Mary wasn’t completely surprised.

Paige Newlin had finally stopped crying and snuggled against the chest of her boyfriend, Trevor, in the folds of his gray Abercrombie sweater. It was scratchier than her own cashmere sweater set, but she needed the comfort. Paige was still tweaking, trying to come down from the drugs. It was the first time she had tried crystal and she never thought it would make her so crazy. It felt like she’d been electrocuted, super-charged. She had hoped it would get her through dinner with her parents. She had been wrong. Her head was still a mess. MTV was on the flat TV across the living room, but Paige could barely focus on the screen.

She shivered though the elegant apartment was warm and the white couch cushy with goose feathers. She had a body that could only have belonged to a young model; rope-slim in a black sweater set and black stretch jeans that made her long legs look like licorice sticks. She had impossibly narrow hips and high, small breasts. Her crying jag had left her azure-blue eyes glistening with tears, tinged her upturned nose pink at its tip, and caused her soft, overlarge mouth to tilt downward.

“You’re still shivering a little,” Trevor said, holding her on the sofa. Trevor Olanski was a tall, strapping young man with thick, wavy black hair, round greenish eyes, and now, a troubled frown. His jeans were sliced lengthwise down the thigh and he wore brown Doc Martens. “You want me to turn up the heat, or get you a blanket?”

“It’s taking too long to come down, Trev.” Paige fingered her long ponytail, a deep red color and straight as a line. The ponytail was her trademark, the signature look that her mother thought would put her over the top. Her
mother
. What had happened? Paige’s head was pounding. “I don’t need a blanket, I need more Special K.”

“No, you’ve taken too much already. Get hugged instead.” Trevor held her closer, which she liked, though she kept eyeing his black Jansport book bag on the coffee table in front of them. Out of the unzipped partition had slid his algebra book, a graphing calculator, and a clear vial of Special K. Ketamine, a veterinary tranquilizer that was supposed to mellow her out from the crystal.

“More K would help, Trev. With the hug. Like a side order.”

“Be patient, honey. You were so high, it takes time. That’s how crystal is.”

“You should’ve told me that.”

“I did. You insisted, remember?”

“Oh, yes, maybe you did. I don’t remember.” Paige’s thoughts jumbled together like colored glass in a kaleidoscope, and her muscles relaxed with the K. “I still can’t deal with what happened. With my mother.”

“Don’t think about that now. You’ve been through too much tonight, way too much.” Trevor cuddled her in his arms. “You want something to drink? Some water or something?”

“No.”

“How about I turn the TV off? Or make it louder? You like
Pop-Up Video
.” Trevor gestured at the TV, but Paige still wasn’t able to focus. It looked like Smash-mouth doing “Dancing on the Sun,” but it could have been any white guys jumping around in knit caps.

“Nah, it’s okay.”

“You’re not hungry or anything? I can make grilled cheese.”

“Too fattening.” Paige shook her head and felt the K finally cooling her out. The fight with her mother had been the worst one since she’d moved out. She had been so angry, she had screamed at her mother. Then she’d reached for the knife, on the table. No. She couldn’t get the pictures out of her head. She felt chilled to the bone. “Trev, can’t I please have another bump?”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, babe.”

“I do. I think I need two.”

“Can you just relax and nod off? I can bring you something to drink.”

“Come on.” Paige rolled her eyes. “Just one more? Don’t be so stingy.”

Trevor sighed and gentled her back to the sofa. “All right, but one is enough. I don’t want you to overdo it.” He leaned over the coffee table, picked up the vial, and screwed off the black lid. He rummaged through his pencil case to find a Bic pen and used it to scoop powder from the vial. “Just one more. That’s it.”

Paige nodded, but couldn’t think clearly. It was all too terrible. She had known the dinner meeting was going to be bad, but it had gone way too far. Her mother dead. The bloody knife hot and slippery in Paige’s hand. She had dropped it and started crying.

“Here we go,” Trevor said, handing her the pen cap with the K, and she raised it to her nose and snorted, one nostril then the other, and inhaled deeply. Her brain clouded instantly and she dropped the pen cap. She wanted to ask; she didn’t want to ask:

“Trev, did I … did I … really do it?”

“Honey, why are you asking me?” His green eyes looked confused. “Don’t you know?”

“No, I guess, I don’t remember. The crystal. I remember some of it, but not all.” Paige felt sick inside. It couldn’t be true, but it was. She hated her mother. She had dreamed her dead a thousand times. “I remember the knife, and her screaming.”