The Best Defense (2 page)

She mouthed her thanks to him and said to the other woman, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s not me, not really. It’s really for my sister, I mean.” She stopped, and began adding sugar to her coffee.

Her hands were trembling.

“Okay. But who are you? What do I call you?”

“Oh. Lucille. Lucille Reiner.” She started to tear open a third packet of sugar and Barbara reached across the table and took it from her hands, which were icy.

Lucille ducked her head and groped in her bag for a tissue.

“Just tell me about it,” Barbara said after a moment.

“I was in the jail, visiting her, and it’s like she’s turned to stone or something. She won’t talk or cry or anything, she just stares off somewhere else. They gave her a lawyer, the court did, I mean, but he thinks she did it and he says she should plead guilty. And the psychiatrist they sent her to, in the hospital, I mean, he thinks she did it, too, and he says she isn’t crazy or sick or anything, she can be tried and go to prison. Or maybe even worse. But if she did it, she had to be so sick, and she’s sick now, not talking, not crying, not eating I don’t think. And one of the women visitors told me to just talk to you about it. I mean, if she has a public defender, doesn’t he have to work for her?”

Barbara nodded.

“He does. All that means is that when a defendant can’t afford to hire an attorney, under the law the court has to appoint one. And that attorney is required to treat his client exactly the way he would any other client. He’ll do the best he can for her. The court will be watching to see that he does.”

“But he wants her to plead guilty. I talked to him this morning, and that’s what he said. And when I told her, she didn’t even seem to hear me. Back in the beginning, a couple of weeks ago, when I yelled at her for not talking to him, she said what’s the use, his mind’s made up already, and after that she didn’t talk to him or me either most of the time.”

“Who is he, the attorney? Maybe I know him and can reassure you about him.”

“Spassero. William, I think. He’s young, real young.”

Barbara shook her head.

“New to me. But I can find out something about him. Do you live here in town?

Can you come back in a few days, Friday? I’ll find out what I can.”

“We live down at Cottage Grove. I come up to see her three, four times a week, but it’s hard, I’ve got two kids, I mean, seven and eight, and I work four days a week, but I’ll come on Friday. I promise.”

“Fine. About this same time?”

“Yeah, that’s good for me, late afternoon, I mean.”

Late afternoon, four forty-five. Time for a glass of wine, time to relax, time to see what her father was after…. Barbara felt herself make the few internal preliminary adjustments that meant she would stand up now and finish this last bit of business, get on with relaxing.

Lucille Reiner leaned forward and said, “If he’s no good, this other lawyer, I mean, he might be okay, but not for her. Would you take the case for us? I have a little money, eight hundred dollars. I mean, I know you don’t charge people here, that’s what the lady in jail said, but this would be different. I mean, you’d have to go on trial and everything.”

Barbara shook her head slightly.

“Mrs. Reiner, I don’t even know what case you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I thought I told you.” She ducked her head again.

“It’s my sister, Paula Kennerman.”

The words baby killer leaped into Barbara’s mind.

“Let me find out what I can about Mr. Spassero,” she said, feeling a new tightness in her throat, “and talk to you again on Friday.”

Barbara watched Lucille leave and then consciously put a smile on her face and turned to the back of the restaurant.

“You can come out now.” She picked up her briefcase and laptop computer and put them on the table and then stretched as far as she could reach.

“Done for the day?” Prank asked as he drew near.

“Yep. One-thirty to about this time, Tuesdays and Fridays. I want you to meet Martin Owens, the best cook in the city, and the best secretary. He keeps the coffee coming.”

She introduced the two and then said, “See you on Friday, Martin. Thanks.”

“Barbara, you sure you don’t want to come back later on for some supper. Good red snapper, that creole recipe you like, corn fritters

…”

“Hush. He wants to fatten me up until I’m his size,” she said.

“Come on, Dad. Let’s blow.” She picked up her briefcase and handed the satchel with the computer to her father.

“Wouldn’t hurt to fatten you up a little,” Frank muttered.

Martin laughed and nodded.

“Don’t you guys know svelte when you see it?” Barbara said, leading the way outside. Martin’s laughter followed them.

“Where are you parked?” Frank asked.

“I usually walk over,” she said.

“It’s only three blocks.”

He knew that, and he knew that two blocks beyond her house the railroad switch yards started, lined with warehouses, lumberyards, industrial buildings of various sorts. This strip north of Sixth to the river had been built early, when people still clung to the railroad and the river; those with enough money left, others moved in and stayed until they made enough money to leave, and the cycle continued. Now it had become the only real ethnically mixed neighborhood in the city, and the only reason anyone stayed on was that the cheapest housing was here. Every drug bust seemed to happen here, every knifing, street brawls He banished the ugly thoughts and said, “Well, let me drive you. A couple of things I want to talk about, if you’re not busy.”

“Free as the air,” she said, getting into the car.

Frank stashed her things on the backseat, got in be hind the wheel.

“Mind a little detour first?”

“Nope.”

He drove in silence until she asked, “You said things to talk about? Today?”

“Martin Owens. He’s the football player, isn’t he? Or was. He lets you use his restaurant as an office?”

“He’s the one. I did him a little favor a few months ago. A legal matter. He’s barely making it in the restaurant, but he seems to think he owes me. Good guy.”

“Storefront lawyer,” Frank muttered, and she turned to look out the window.

She did not ask again what was on his mind. She knew he would get around to it in his own way, first bring it up obliquely, then change the subject, refer to it again later with more details, talk about the weather or something, and so on until it was all out. She was content to wait. When he finally got to it in detail he would pretend to assume that she was in agreement, that since they already had discussed the matter, and he had responded in advance to every possible objection she might raise, the whole issue was already settled. She doubted very much that such would be the case, but meanwhile it was a beautiful June day and she was tired. Her two days a week as a storefront lawyer were wearing.

“God, I hate condos,” he said suddenly.

She looked at him in surprise.

“So do I, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

“And apartments, too,” he added.

“I’ve been looking at condos and apartments.”

She nodded.

“An investment?”

“My accountant says I’m paying too much in taxes.”

“Aren’t we all?”

He was driving slowly now, watching for house numbers over the top of his half-glasses. Then he stopped.

They were on Twenty-first, typical of Eugene in every respect, with tall trees, low buildings, lots of greenery, lots of flowers.

“What do you think?” he asked, nod ding toward the house he had located.

“I think it’s green.” Apple green, in fact, with rust red trim.

“Well, it could be painted. Blue or something.”

“That house will always be green no matter how hard you try to cover it up.”

He sighed.

“I’m afraid you’re right.” He began to drive again.

“There’s another one.”

“You’re going to buy a house,” she said.

“Is that it?”

“Might as well, seeing how much I hate condos. I’ve looked at a few. You buy a condo, what do you own?

A piece of someone else’s building. Want a place I can walk to the office from.”

“You’re leaving the house at Turner’s Point?” Too late she realized she had played right into his hands again.

“Not exactly. See, how it’s working out is that some of those old fogies get so set in their ways, they’ve got roots clear down to bedrock and nothing’s going to change them. Old Mary Manchester, for instance, thinks I’m the only one in the office who can rewrite her will every year. I had her this morning.” That explained his nice suit and tie.

“It’s too damn far to drive three days a week,” he added glumly.

“Three days? I thought you were easing yourself out of the office, getting ready to retire.”

“I am, I am. It’s just more complicated than I thought it would be.” He had driven through the downtown section where traffic had thickened into what Eugeneans thought was real congestion. Five cars at a red light meant gridlock here.

At Fifth, instead of turning left toward her house, he made a right turn, and a block later he turned left on Pearl Street, where three of the four corners housed dozens of small shops selling everything from gourmet coffee and some of the best bread to be found to handmade wooden toys, books, natural-fiber clothes Yuppie Heaven, they call it. He was heading for Skinner Butte Park, she thought then as he drove on. She had walked hours, miles along the river here, walking off trial tension, thinking, scheming. But he turned again, and she suddenly caught her breath. Once, years ago, he had driven up here with her and her mother, just looking

“This is where I want to live,” Barbara had said, and Frank had laughed.

“The only way you can get a house in this neighborhood is by waiting for the owner to die, and all the heirs, too. Then if the real-estate agent doesn’t grab it, you might have a chance.”

This was a tiny area. a few square blocks, but she thought of it as an oasis of sanity, serenity, stability. The houses were spacious, old-fashioned, with porches and gabled windows, lots of leaded glass, even stained-glass windows, detached garages. No two houses were similar, but they were all of a piece, well constructed with individual detail work, well maintained, beautifully landscaped, without a hint of pretentiousness.

He stopped before a two-story house that was dove gray, with white trim. An old hemlock tree, top bowed as if in thought, shaded the front; tall rhododendrons lined a driveway, screened the yard on one side; the other side had deep bushes, some in bloom, all mature and lovely.

“Not a bad location,” Frank said.

“Park and the trail two blocks away, six blocks to the courthouse, seven to the office. Not bad. Walk to the post office, the per forming arts center, even the jail. Not bad.” He glanced at her.

“Well?”

“Not much yard,” she said in a low voice.

“Big backyard, even garden space. And a rose arbor.

Let’s look inside.”

“You just happen to have the key?”

He didn’t answer, but pulled into the driveway and got out on his side. Slowly Barbara got out and they went inside the house that he obviously intended to buy.

It was everything she knew it would be white-oak floors, a modernized kitchen, bright living room, dining room … There were stained-glass panels in the living room windows. Upstairs were three rooms, one of them small, a child’s room perhaps, and a bath. Another bed room and den were downstairs.

“It’s very nice,” she said after they had looked it over.

“But pretty big.”

“Oh, well, I get claustrophobic in those little boxes they call houses. Come on, let’s go. You up for dinner?”

“You bet. But first a shower and a glass of wine or something. Take me home.”

He had put down earnest money, she knew as well as she knew what the rest of his little chat would be. And her answer? That she didn’t know yet.

Over dinner he gossiped about the office, about what was going on in court, about a client or two. He did not mention Turner’s Point. She asked him about William Spassero.

“Bill Spassero,” he said, thinking.

“Young, too young maybe. In the public defender’s office, couple of years now. About thirty, if that much, but he seems more like twenty. A whiz kid at law school. Hotshot attitude. Ambitious.

Why?”

“His name came up. I wondered. I feel about whiz kids the way you feel about condos.”

He grinned, and she thought how well they understood each other. They both understood that it was time to get back to the subject at hand.

“Let’s have some dessert,” he said, “and some of that pressed coffee they make here. It’s a real production number.”

They watched in appreciative silence as their waiter performed; he ground the coffee at their table, brought water to a boil over a burner, measured the coffee into the glass pot, poured the not-quite-boiling water over it, and tightened the top in place carefully. Then he set a timer. Barbara laughed, and he grinned at her.

They both had cherries jubilee, and that called for a new table-side performance, but finally the productions ended and the coffee was delicious, the cherries no less so. And now Frank said, “I thought maybe it would work out for me to get a house, like I said. I really did look at condos, and apartments, and even a hotel apartment, but hated the idea of all of them. A real house, that’s what I need. I’d come in on Tuesday and go to the office, like I’ve been doing, and stay over until Friday morning and head back out. Or maybe Thursday afternoon. Depends on how busy I am.”

She nodded.

“When do you sign the papers?”

Without hesitation he said, “Monday. But it wasn’t that cut-and-dried from the start. That other house, the first one, that’s the kind of stuff they showed me when I finally said no to apartments, condos, and such.

Thought you should see it first, as I did.” There wasn’t a trace of shame in his expression.

“What I thought might be a good idea, Bobby, is for you to move in, too.

I mean, you’d be alone most of the time, but the house wouldn’t be empty, ripe for the barbarians to sack.”