“Lonnie.”
“I never knew his name.”
“He told your husband.”
“He didn’t know me, didn’t know who I was.”
“Don’t be a fool. And the bed only came into the studio after Tommy?”
“Yes.”
“So there were others.”
“I don’t go chasing. They simply appear. If I wait long enough the world appears. As did you. And sex is merely a tool, Victor. Like a chisel cutting through opaque stone. It is a method of exploration, nothing more.”
“I’m sure that gives your husband great comfort as he lies alone in his bed at night.”
“My husband has his own ambitions to keep him warm.”
“How did it finish between you and Tommy?”
“I ended it.”
“Why?”
“He wanted us to be together. He told me so. It was quite charming, and at first I was almost willing. He painted such a romantic picture and he could be very convincing. But I knew it would be wrong for me. I loved my husband and I suppose I was more interested in exploring my being than in being with Tommy.”
“He took it well?”
“I don’t know. Once I decided, I didn’t see him again before he disappeared. Now if you don’t mind, Victor, I have work to do.”
“You going to write up our little moment?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “It is not often I am face-to-face with such a perfect example of an emotionally stilted coward.”
I let loose a burst of laughter. I couldn’t help myself, I laughed and shook my head and headed toward her door. “Maybe you’re right. I cheerfully admit to being both emotionally stilted and a coward. But not today.”
“You’ll find them for me, won’t you?” she said.
“Your precious notebooks.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have enough here to keep you busy?”
“The work continues. I am distilling a life, my life. Those months are precious, crucial, defining.”
“Who killed Joey Parma?”
“Who is Joey Parma?”
“A loser of no apparent worth.”
“Then why would I be concerned with him?”
“You wouldn’t,” I said. “If I find your precious notebooks I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Victor.”
“Today it wasn’t so much cowardice as good taste.”
“With that tie, Victor? I hardly think so.”
I laughed again as I closed the door behind me. Just then I felt like a cockroach in Teflon boots, climbing to freedom out of a sticky mess of a web even as the spider, with all her venom, looked on with helpless contempt.
But I didn’t worry much about Alura Straczynski anymore. I had lost the fantasy of the pictures but I had gained another piece of the puzzle. She had brought me one step closer, so close I could feel the answer to it all coming upon me. I needed only to dot one more i, cross one more t, and the word “guilty” would be writ large upon the forehead of the man who had set up Tommy Greeley’s death.
Chapter 45
“ALL RISE.”
Those damn words again. I should have been on my guard, but what could I have to fear here, in the Criminal Courts Building, standing before the august Philadelphia Court of Common Pleas?
Dour Clerk Templeton did the whole “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” thing as Judge Wellman stepped into the courtroom. That word never failed to crack me up, Oyez. Like two old crones discussing their ailments. You think you have oyez? You don’t know from oyez. Vayzmir, I have oyez. I must have been finding it so amusing, and my work that day so routine, because it was only later that I registered the clerk’s hard stare or the judge’s dark countenance as he ascended to the bench.
“What do we have?” said the judge.
“Your Honor, we’re here today for the sentencing of Rashard Porter,” I said, as I put my hand on Rashard’s shoulder. I had him dressed in gray pants, green crewneck sweater, blue oxford shirt. He looked as if he had walked off the set of Ozzie and Harriet, if black men had ever been allowed on the set of Ozzie and Harriet.
“Go ahead,” said the judge.
“If you remember, Mr. Porter pled guilty to a drug misdemeanor, simple possession. Because of his prior record you asked for a presentencing report. Mr. Porter has taken three blood tests since the plea and all have turned up negative. He has cooperated fully with the presentencing officer and in that time has continued his fine attendance at his place of employment. If I may, I’d like to pass up to Your Honor a letter from Janice Hull, his supervisor at work, calling Mr. Porter an exemplary employee.”
“Have you seen this letter, Miss Carter?”
“Yes, Judge. No objection.”
I gave the letter to Clerk Templeton and continued.
“I also have another letter for Your Honor. I am pleased to announce that Rashard Porter has been accepted into the upcoming class at the Philadelphia College of Art. Mr. Porter is a fine artist who is hoping to make a career in the world of art and design. This is his acceptance letter from Dean Sandhurst, along with the terms of his financial aid.”
“Have you seen this letter too, Miss Carter?”
“Yes, Judge. Again no objection.”
“And you’ve checked that it’s legitimate?”
“I spoke with Dean Sandhurst just yesterday. She was very impressed with the defendant’s portfolio and his potential.”
“Go on.”
“Mr. Porter has pled guilty and admitted his mistake,” I said. “He has lived up to all the expectations of this court since his plea. He understands the rare nature of the opportunity that has opened up for him at PCA and intends to make the most of it. He has pledged to continue to work diligently, Your Honor, and his mother is here to say that she will be sure to make him live up to that pledge. In short, Mr. Porter is a perfect candidate for probation, Your Honor, and that is what we are asking for here. We have no objection to having his continued enrollment at PCA be an element of that probation. This is a young man who has turned his life around and earned this opportunity. We ask the Court to allow him to pursue it.”
“Miss Carter?”
“We have no objection to probation under the terms outlined by Mr. Carl.”
“That’s all you have to say, Miss Carter?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Porter. What about you? You are entitled to speak for yourself.”
“I’m sorry for what I did,” he said softly.
“Speak up,” barked Clerk Templeton.
“I know I made a mistake,” said Rashard, “and I won’t do it again, I promise. My mum’s here and I promised her too. I’m sorry I let her down. All she’s done for me, I can’t let her down again. I’m going to do my best at that art school, Judge. I never expected there was a college for drawing, but I’m excited at the chance. That’s all.”
I took hold of Rashard’s arm, gave a squeeze to let him know he had done well.
“Yes, okay, I guess I have what I need,” said the judge, and I was certain he did. It was why my pleading was muted, no reason to go overboard on the verbiage here. For Judge Wellman, this was not a difficult decision, not, in fact, a decision at all. The ADA and the defense had agreed on a course of action, the presentencing report had concurred, Rashard’s acceptance by PCA had sealed the deal. This was a kid with a chance and no judge in the courthouse would take that away from him. I could have maybe even gotten the sentence suspended, without probation, but I thought it might be profitable for Rashard to have a probation officer reviewing his performance at school, just to be sure, and ADA Carter had been insistent.
The judge looked down at the letters in his hand, looked up at the ceiling, then at me with a troubling expression. It wasn’t that he wasn’t smiling, judges don’t smile at sentencings, but there was something else there. Was I just imagining it, or was he looking at me as if I were the man in the dock?