Mrs. Gambone remained silent, her lips a resigned line, but Mary could see she was mulling it over.
“It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gambone, and I don’t want to judge you. I can’t put this back in the bag, or pretend I don’t know, which gives you a compromised lawyer. I can’t be objective about your case, so I can’t be the one to represent you.”
Mrs. Gambone frowned, and Trish looked at Mary, astonished, the pain of betrayal reminding Mary of that first day in her office.
“I can’t believe you’re doin’ this, Mare.”
“I have to. There’s also a conflict of interest here, Trish. Right now, I’m your lawyer, and we both know you’re not completely in the clear. There’s lots more evidence to come, like that lamp in the cabin, and it’ll show Bobby’s blood on it. What if any of it points to you?”
Trish’s outrage diminished.
“The best way for me to get you off the hook is to take your mom in to confess. Is that what you want? Should I sell your mom out-for you? That’s in your interest, but not hers, understand?”
Trish nodded, reluctantly.
“You see the issue, then.”
“So you’re gonna leave my mom in the lurch?”
“Of course not.” Mary rose on knees that felt surprisingly weak. “Mrs. Gambone, I’ll get you the best criminal lawyer I know. Then you can decide what you want to do, with solid legal advice. Be right back.” She crossed to the door and slipped outside, taking her phone from her purse. She closed the door behind her, then sat down at the top of the stairs, and pressed in the number, ignoring a bad case of jitters. When the call connected, she said, “Bennie?”
“DiNunzio. It’s about time you called. Are you clearing out your office tomorrow?”
Ouch. “No, uh, it’s not about that.”
“What else do we have to talk about?”
“I…don’t know who else to call. I just heard a murder confession.”
There was a pause, then Bennie asked, “Are you serious?”
“Can you come?”
“Tell me where you are,” Bennie answered, and the sudden softness in her tone made Mary feel like crying.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
M ary, Bennie, and Trish didn’t leave the Roundhouse until past midnight, the three women crossing the parking lot in a silent little group. That they had left one of their number behind hardly needed saying. The drizzle hadn’t let up, and the night felt heavy and muggy, the dampness making a vaporous halo around the streetlights. The lot was busy, but not with the clamoring media, only with routine hustle and bustle, the everyday business of murder and mayhem.
Mary led the walk to her car, feeling a heaviness she had never known, her heart a weight. It was a grown-up perspective, new to her, but she was coming to the understanding that not every ending could be a happy one.
“I’m gonna catch a cab,” Bennie said abruptly, waving a hand, and Mary looked over, surprised. In the lights from the building, she could almost see the boss’s expression, impassive. They hadn’t exchanged a word in private, like a couple keeping their fight before a dinner party a secret.
“I can drop you at home,” Mary said, anyway. They had all come together, and she felt funny just letting Bennie go, an attack of separation anxiety. She wondered if they’d ever work together again or if she’d ever even see her another time.
“Understood, but I’ll get a cab.” Bennie’s blond hair curled in the humidity, a fuzzy topknot, and her trenchcoat hung open. She turned to Trish and extended a hand. “It was good meeting you. Don’t worry about your mom.”
“Thanks, Bennie.” Trish smiled wanly. “I guess I shoulda told you, I don’t know how soon I can pay you. If we could do installments-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bennie answered easily, turning toward the street. “This one’s a favor to DiNunzio.”
“For real?” Trish sounded as incredulous as Mary felt.
Huh? “You don’t have to do that, Bennie.”
“Don’t worry about it. Trish, take care now. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks,” Trish called after her.
But Mary didn’t know what to say. “Bennie, can we talk?” she blurted out. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Tuesday’s better, nine o’clock,” Bennie answered, then she walked to the street, her trenchcoat billowing.
“That was nice of her, not to charge me,” Trish said quietly.
“It sure was.” Mary nodded, watching her go. She was thinking about what Judy had said about Bennie’s clients not paying. Maybe it was because she’d been doing nice things, like that.
They got into the car and slammed the doors, and Mary turned on the ignition, rewinding the events of the night like a video. Mrs. Gambone had confessed, and Bennie had proposed a plea bargain that would reduce the charge to voluntary manslaughter, with a two-to-four-year term. She had argued that the murder was the misguided act of a loving mother, the inevitably tragic response to domestic abuse, and that Mrs. Gambone deserved credit for coming in voluntarily and preventing an all-out Mob war. The young A.D.A. had said he’d take the offer to his boss and even he appreciated the sympathy factor. The whole time, Mrs. Gambone had remained stoic, if shaky, but Trish had cried hard.
Mary cruised through the drizzle, and her thoughts clicked ahead. She was already thinking of ways to help the cause, maybe with a well-placed leak to the press, to help spin the story in Mrs. Gambone’s favor. She could even notify women’s groups and domestic abuse organizations and tell them what had happened. They might file briefs on Mrs. Gambone’s behalf or support her in the media. Certainly the neighborhood groups would get involved, and Mary made a mental note to contact local magazines like South Philly Rowhome and the newspapers, too.
Mary stopped at a light and glanced over, with concern. Trish’s face was turned away to the window, her shoulders slumped. “How you doin’?” she asked.
“Okay.” Trish voice was hoarse.
“It was a really good deal.”
“I know.”
“Four years, if they go for it, isn’t forever. She might not even serve the whole time.”
“I know.”
“Your mom did the right thing. The smart thing.”
“We’ll see.”
“Brinkley and Kovich will take good care of her. Believe me, they take no satisfaction in locking up someone who could’ve been their own mother.”
“I saw.”
Mary stopped trying to make conversation. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Trish must be feeling, knowing that somehow she was responsible for her mother’s ruin, and even Bobby’s murder. It would change her life. It would change everything. In time, they hit South Philly, and Mary steered the car through the neighborhood. Most of the houses stood dark at this hour, and Mary flashed forward to how difficult it would be for Trish in the morning, when everybody in the neighborhood knew.
“One more thing,” Mary said, and Trish turned, shadows flashing on her face as they drove under the streetlight haloes.
“What?”
“I was thinking we should call Giulia and the girls. Have ’em come over. Agree?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?” Mary asked, and Trish looked away again, out the rainy window.
“What’re they gonna do?”
“They can help.”
“How?”
“Be your BFFs. Do girlfriendly stuff. Hold your hand. Listen to you cry.”
“Gimme a break.” Trish reached for her purse, anticipating Mary’s turning onto her street.
“I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“It would be nice to have some company. Who wants to go home to an empty house?”
“I better get used to it, huh?”
Mary didn’t reply, but pulled up in front of the Gambones’ and set the emergency brake. “Hope you’re not mad at me, but the girls are inside waiting for you.”