Janice arrived in Grand Central Station on the 7:05 and quickly found a cab outside the loading ramp on Vanderbilt Avenue.
Having bought a late-edition Post in the station, she scanned the headlines, finding, in the rising and falling light of street-lamps and shop windows, nothing of interest on the front page.
The story, however, filled page three, continued on pages thirty-seven and eight, and was replete with sketches covering the highlights of the morning’s mayhem.
A small box in the center of the page told of James Beardsley Hancock’s heart attack and contained a quotation from Dr. John Whiting, a cardiologist in the intensive care unit at Roosevelt Hospital. “His condition is critical, but he seems to be holding his own. The next twelve hours will tell.”
Entering the lobby of Des Artistes, Janice had the feeling of having been away for months. Mario’s greeting was effusive, as was Dominick’s as they rode up the elevator. There was a flush of victory in the air, the kind of jubilant delirium that follows a war’s end.
She even found Bill sparkling, flushed with the day’s success and in a celebrating mood, which was totally unexpected. She had prepared herself for a sullen and quarrelsome evening and was, instead, greeted with festive gaiety and lingering kisses. After her trials of the past twenty-four hours this was precisely what she needed.
The bridge table had been lovingly set for two before the fireplace, crackling and sputtering and exuding a pine-scented warmth. A magnum of Taittinger was icing frostily in the bucket. Large red apples, a wheel of Brie, and a crispy cold roast duck in foil tray garnished with minted greens awaited their appetites. Janice was overcome.
“How lovely,” she said.
Bill grinned and twirled the bottle in its bucket. He seemed sober, which meant he had slept since they talked. He was dressed in pajamas and robe and was gazing at her longingly.
“Hurry down,” he said, with a meaning that didn’t escape her.
Bill timed it so that the cork popped as Janice, fresh and scented and in filmy, flowing peignoir, descended the staircase.
Their first toast was to success.
“Pel Simmons called,” he told her, chuckling. “The old boy was really fractured by the day’s events—couldn’t stop laughing—kept congratulating me over and over, as if I’d had anything to do with it. Good to hear, though,” he added, draining his glass. “Restores the faith.”
He topped off their glasses. The second toast was to health—theirs and Ivy’s.
“We’ve all been through a hell of a lot,” he said, his expression hardening, “too damn much. But it’ll be over soon. The seven o’clock news had Hancock sinking fast, poor old guy.”
The tragic face he affected failed to camouflage the note of exultation in his voice.
“The defense is scrambling for cover. Velie tells me two lawyers spent the afternoon down at the hospital trying to con the doctors into allowing them to set up a deposition, but Hancock’s on ‘critical,’ and chances are they never will.” Bill grinned. “Desperation time.”
He refilled his own glass.
“It will be over, you know,” he assured Janice. “All we have to do now is sit tight and keep our cool. Mack’s run out of time and people. Velie said that Hoover rejected his last expert witness—you know the one, that woman on the talk shows—the witch.” Bill laughed. “Can’t say I blame the nut. Probably the best decision he’s made so far. With their luck she’d probably put a hex on the court—turn Langley into a goddamn bat—he’s half bats already—”
Janice maintained a careful noncommittal smile that she hoped would conceal her shock at the callousness of his remarks.
“By this time tomorrow it’ll all be over but the shouting,” he went on thickly, putting down his glass and approaching her. “And when it finally is, there’s a hell of a lot of making up I’m gonna have to do to you. I know what I’ve been, Janice. And what I haven’t been.”
Janice felt herself stiffen in his arms as he kissed her, and she tried to repress it, tried to relax, but failed. Bill either didn’t sense it or didn’t care.
They made love on the rug, unsatisfactorily, then ate in silence and went to bed.
Bill feel asleep before Janice.
At three o’clock in the afternoon of that same day Brice Mack, laden down with hat, overcoat, and bulging briefcase, left the interviewing room and began to walk down the long Spartan corridor toward the elevators. His gait was sluggish as his head was aching, and the glaring fluorescents reflecting hot and bright off the enameled walls hurt his eyes. His underclothing clung damply to his skin, and his face felt clammy and feverish. He was suffering all the usual symptoms of another claustrophobic bout with Hoover; only this time, instead of dissipating, the symptoms seemed to linger and escalate. He smiled wanly and reflected on what his blood pressure must be at this moment and decided he wouldn’t care to know.
The meeting had been a normal one—predictable and totally bizarre. He knew in advance there would be no way to make his client understand the direness of their situation, that they were down to the wire and would lose the case unless they acted with boldness and daring.
“You don’t seem to understand,” insisted Mack anxiously. “There’s nobody left. By the time Professor Ahmanson finds a replacement for Hancock, it’ll be too late—unless we bring in Marion Worthman as a stopgap. I can keep her going for days.”
Hoover’s eyes narrowed to cynical slits, minutely studying the perspiring attorney.
“Don’t worry so much, lawyer,” he said imperiously, then added cryptically, “this case won’t be won by Mrs. Worthman’s presence, nor will it be lost by her absence. Whether you believe it or not, the verdict is already in. It was written long before you entered the case.”
The remark had literally flabbergasted Brice Mack. For a moment he thought he would burst out laughing. It could not be said that life till now with Elliot Hoover had been entirely logical or sane, but this—this was pure, unadulterated, looney-bin talk.
“I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Hoover,” Mack had replied. “I don’t try my cases with a crystal ball. I’m forced to rely on the plain, ordinary, everyday methods prescribed by Sir William Blackstone.”
Hoover was neither impressed nor offended by the remark and, seeming to dismiss it entirely, hunched forward across the table with an arch smile and softly confided to Mack, “A great man once said, ‘Coincidence, traced back far enough, becomes the inevitable.’ What happened today, for example, the gross and shameful degradation of a saint; the sudden illness of a key witness—these were not simply arbitrary occurrences, but necessary steps in a larger and infinitely complex movement of events that will inevitably lead to a predetermined conclusion, the nature of which will ultimately be revealed to us in its own good time. There is nothing you or I can do to alter its course. It is clear to me now that the case you so carefully planned and structured was always doomed to fail. In other words, you have tried to manipulate the unmanipulatable. Goaded on by personal ambition, you have tinkered with the workings of a force far beyond the scope of your knowledge and have been soundly repudiated. There is no further need for you to ponder, plan, or toil in my behalf. All matters will attend to themselves, so just sit back and relax. The machine purrs smoothly under its own management. Even now, as we sit and chat, forces are aligning themselves to feed its forward momentum and bring about those events and those people who will bear witness to my innocence and render justice in my behalf.”