The Quiet Game (47 page)

“I’ll do anything Mr. Flowers asks me to do, but he hasn’t asked. My father already bought Ruby’s coffin and headstone, which probably cost more than the church the funeral will be held in. Personally, I think he overdid it. Ruby never wanted to stand out from her own people in life, and I don’t think she’d want to in death. Why do you care when the funeral is, anyway?”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Penn, but Ruby’s funeral is going to be the epicenter of a media hurricane.”

“What?”

“Shad Johnson is going to speak, and there are bound to be TV trucks there—”

“Damn it, that’s all wrong.”

“You should thank God for small miracles. Al Sharpton called Shad this morning and offered to come down and ‘help out with the Movement.’ Shad told him to stay in New York.”

Even as I say a silent thank-you to Shadrach Johnson, bitter gall rises into my throat.

“Take it easy,” Caitlin says, touching my arm. “Tell me what you did today.”

“What I did? It isn’t what I did. It’s what the judge did.”

“Which judge?”

“The white one. Franklin. Two hours ago she set our trial date.”

Caitlin goes still. “
Our
trial date? The libel trial?”

“Just my part of it. You don’t have to worry. But my slander trial is set for next Wednesday.”

“Next
Wednesday
? That’s only”—she counts swiftly on her fingers—“six days from now!”

“Yep.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I expected a quick trial date, but I thought I’d get at least a month. Simply going through the materials I’ve requested under discovery could take a month.”

“How can the judge set a date like that?”

“Easily. She’s in Marston’s pocket. Why do you think he picked her?”

“Picked her? I thought they assigned judges by drawing lots or something.”

“In this district they match cases to judges by simple rotation. Theoretically, whichever judge’s name is up when a suit is filed gets that case. But all the clerk has to do to steer a case to a particular judge is hold on to it until that judge’s turn comes up. One phone call from Marston to the clerk would do it.”

“How do you know he has Franklin in his pocket? Maybe he just has the clerk.”

“I talked to a local lawyer I went to school with. Marston was the heavy hand in getting Franklin elected. Big contributions, an endorsement, words in the right ears. That was eight years ago, but she won’t have forgotten who put her on the bench.”

“But how can she possibly defend that trial date? No one could build a defense that fast.”

“In my answer to Marston’s complaint, I stated that my defense would be truth. Truth is the oldest defense against a slander charge. By definition, truth cannot be slanderous. If Franklin is challenged about the trial date, she’ll say, ‘The defendant doesn’t dispute that he uttered the alleged slander. He claims that his statements are true. Therefore, let him prove that without delay. Leo
Marston’s reputation should not suffer any more than it already has while Mr. Cage goes on a fishing expedition.’ She can also cite the racial violence in the community resulting from my charges.”

Caitlin is shaking her head. “Shit. You’re in a deep hole.”

“Will you help me wade through the materials I’ve requested in discovery?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get my reporters and interns going through the stuff as soon as you get it.”

She digs into her windbreaker pocket, pulls out a Snickers bar, and tears open the wrapper. After two bites she freezes and looks guiltily at me.

“Sorry.” She offers me what’s left.

“That’s okay. You eat it.”

“Come on. It’s not like we haven’t already exchanged germs. Though that seems quite a while ago.”

I take it from her hand. “Thanks. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

The chocolate seems to be absorbed directly though the lining of my mouth, giving me an instant sugar buzz.

“Stakeouts are the worst,” Caitlin grumbles. She glances toward the law office, then looks back at me. “Was your wife from a wealthy family?”

“Sarah? No. Why?”

“Well . . . Livy Marston is from a wealthy family.”

“So?”

“And
I’m
from a wealthy family. And I felt that you were attracted to me. Until Livy showed up, anyway. I just wondered if something about that background draws you in some way.”

“No. Sarah’s father was a carpenter. That’s probably how she stood the years when I was an assistant D.A. When we got rich, she wasn’t sure how to react. At first she insisted that I put every penny in the bank, not spend any of it. Save it for the kids. But after my third book hit the list, she loosened up. When we bought our house in Tanglewood, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven.”

Caitlin is watching me with a strange intensity. I reach out and touch her wrist. “Hey. I’m still attracted to you.”

She looks vulnerable, yet ready to withstand a hard truth. “But you’re sleeping with Livy Marston. Right?”

I know it’s a mistake to look away, but I can’t meet her eyes in this moment. “Did Kelly tell you that?”

“No. I just felt it. I shouldn’t say anything about it. I don’t have any right to. But I care about you. And Livy is just trying to keep you from hurting her father.”

“She hasn’t asked me to do anything like that. You don’t really know her. In some ways she hates her father.”

“Some ways. But not all.” Caitlin’s eyes hold wisdom far beyond her years. “And she’s too smart to be overt. Maybe she just wants to distract you. Maybe she doesn’t even admit her real motives to herself. But that’s what she’s doing. Protecting her father.”

“Message received, okay?”

“May I ask one more question?”

“All right.”

“Did your wife like her?”

A hollow feeling spreads from the pit of my stomach. “No.”

Caitlin looks away as though embarrassed by forcing me to admit this. I am about to speak when she grabs the video camera, zooms in on the office door, and begins recording.

“What is it?”

“The object of your obsession is parking in front of her father’s office.”

Peering through the rain, I see a silver Lincoln Town Car parked in front of Marston, Sims. A woman with shoulder-length hair sits behind the wheel. She could be Livy, but I’m not sure. Until she gets out. She walks briskly through the rain to the mahogany door, her regal carriage as distinctive as a fingerprint.

After Livy unlocks the door, Leo’s huge frame emerges from the passenger door of the Town Car, his close-cropped hair gleaming silver under the light of the street lamp.

“What the hell are they doing?” Caitlin whispers.

“Let’s wait and see.”

Livy holds the door open for Leo, scanning the dark street as she waits. I want to believe the best of her, but even from this distance her eyes look full of purpose. She lays a hand on Leo’s shoulder as he passes through the door, then takes one more look up the street, seeing us but not seeing. I am suddenly back in the motel room last night, being led through a carnal labyrinth with Livy as my guide, dissolving and reforming inside her until I lay inert, my mouth dry as sand, my skin too sore to touch—

“Shit,”
Caitlin hisses. “We can’t see anything now. We should call Judge Franklin.”

“Calm down. They could be doing legitimate work. Preparing his case. Livy is an attorney, you know.”

“I’ll bet they’re shredding the files you asked for right this minute.”

“Let’s just sit tight, okay? See what happens.”

The seconds pass in tense silence, with Caitlin tapping the door the entire time. My walkie-talkie crackles from the edge of Caitlin’s seat.

“I’ve got lights in the building,” Kelly says.

“We’ve got visitors. We’re not sure what they’re up to. Just stay put.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

Suddenly the mahogany door opens, and Leo backs out of the alcove with two large file boxes in his arms.

“Would you look at that?” Caitlin breathes. “The son of a bitch
is
guilty.”

“Is the time-date stamp working?”

“I think so. It’s displayed in the viewfinder.”

As Leo loads his boxes into the backseat of the Town Car, Livy emerges from the office carrying another one.

“She’s helping him!” Caitlin cries. “You’ve got to call the judge.”

“We don’t know what’s in the boxes. They could be using those records to prepare Leo’s case.”

She shakes her head with manic exasperation as Leo returns with another box. Livy soon does the same, and one more trip by Leo makes six. Livy locks the door behind them.

Caitlin takes her cell phone from the holster on her belt and shoves it at me. I push it back at her.

“No. Let’s see where they’re going first.”

“Jesus. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Enough!”

I start the car and wait for Livy to pull out.

“What about Kelly?” Caitlin asks.

I pick up the walkie-talkie and press Send. “I’m following Livy Marston, Kelly. You keep watching the back. I’ll call if I need you.” I drop the radio on the floor and glance at Caitlin. “Less for them to notice.”

I stay several car lengths behind the Town Car, but I needn’t have worried. Livy drives straight to Tuscany. The mansion is set far back from the road, with eight acres of trees shielding it from sight and sound of passing traffic. A motorized gate closes after the Lincoln passes through, leaving us locked outside.

Caitlin jumps out of the car even before I’ve stopped, video camera in hand. I shut off the engine and follow her, which requires some fast footwork, as she has already scaled the gate and run on by the time I reach it. My feet crunch on the wet pea gravel as I race after her up the long, curving drive.

Tuscany was built in 1850 by a retired English general who imported the Italianate craze to Natchez from London. Three stories tall, the mansion is a splendor of northern Italian design, with an entrance tower, front and side galleries, marble corner quoins, huge roundheaded windows with marble hood moldings, and balustrade balconies on the second floor. Yet despite its grandeur, the overall effect of this transplanted villa is surprisingly tasteful.

The great door of the mansion closes just as Caitlin and I come within sight of it. From where we stand—beneath a dripping oak with a trunk as thick as ten men—Tuscany looks like an epic film set, floodlit, surrounded by trimmed
hedges, azaleas, moss-hung Southern hardwoods, and luxurious magnolias. The broad, waxy leaves of the magnolias glisten with beads of rainwater.

“Do you know your way around the house?” Caitlin whispers.

“I used to.”

“I’ll bet. Come on.”

She starts toward the house in a running crouch. Soon our faces are pressed to the panes of a ten-foot-tall window, with spiky hedges pricking our backs. The window glass is more than a century old, full of waves and imperfections, but Caitlin is videotaping through it anyway. Through the distorting medium I see Leo Marston standing before an enormous marble fireplace. Above the fireplace is a portrait of Livy as a teenager, or perhaps Maude. Leo bends, obscuring part of the fireplace, then straightens up and puts his hands on his hips. Beyond his knees, yellow flames billow up from a gas jet.

“He’s building a fire,” Caitlin says in a tone of disbelief. “It’s seventy-five degrees and he’s building an effing fire.”

My last resistance crumbles. “Give me your cell phone.”

I call directory assistance for Judge’s Franklin’s number, then let the computer connect me. The judge herself answers, and it sounds like cocktail hour at her house.

“Penn
Cage
, Judge Franklin. The lawyer Leo Marston is suing for slander.”

“Oh. Why are you calling me at home?”

Leo lifts one of the file boxes and sets it squarely on the andirons. The flames lick their way up the sides of the cardboard, burning it black.

“Judge, at this moment I am watching Leo Marston destroy what I believe is the evidence I requested today in my requests for production.”

A stunned pause. “Is he in the room with you?”

“No, ma’am. A few minutes ago I observed him removing file boxes from his office in a surreptitious manner. I followed him home, and I am now watching him burn those file boxes in his fireplace. Watching through a window.”

“You mean you’re trespassing on his property?”

“Is that really the point, Judge?”

I hear the clink of ice against glass, a hurried swallow.

“Judge, I have the publisher of the Natchez
Examiner
with me, and the events I described are all on videotape. She’s taping right this minute.”

“Christ on a crutch. What do you want me to do, counselor?”

“Call the police and have them come straight to Marston’s house and confiscate those files. And I’d like you to come with them. You might just prevent bloodshed.”