Steere smiled, amused. "Luck has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Did you ever hear of a general named Sun-Tzu?"
67
In an anesthetized sleep, Christopher dreamed he was cantering a horse across a snow-covered field, under a warm sun and a crisp blue sky. A fog hovered over the snow, so the horse appeared to be cantering on a bed of clouds. In anyone else's dream the horse would have been white, an Arabian, but Christopher thought white horses were for show-offs, so it was a brown quarter horse. A large gelding with a white blaze, over sixteen hands high.
The horse's hooves crunched through the snow as its canter accelerated without warning to a gallop. Though Christopher hadn't kicked the horse to gallop him, he didn't object to the change of pace until horse and rider were racing toward a wooden rail fence that appeared from nowhere. The fence was high, almost four feet, and Christopher didn't know if the horse could jump it.
The horse's hooves reached farther into the snow as it galloped full tilt, nostrils flaring, straining against the bit. The fence raced toward them. It was crazy to jump at this speed, but if Christopher halted he'd fly over the horse's neck. He lifted into position and tightened the reins, but the leather slipped from his hands and flapped against the horse's wet neck. The jump zoomed up to meet them. The horse leapt into the air. They'd never clear the fence.
"No!" Christopher shouted, waking up. He looked around him. Everything was white, but it wasn't snow, it was a hospital room. He wasn't crashing into a fence, he was lying on a hospital bed. And the touch on his hand wasn't a loose rein, it was a woman. Megan Gerrity, the redhead from the jury, was sitting at the edge of his bed. Christopher blinked, groggy, and cleared his parched throat.
"It's all right, Christopher," Megan said. She squeezed his hand, and Christopher squeezed back, easing into the soft pillow with a sigh.
* * *
"You almost stabbed Elliot Steere! Do you realize that?" Bennie said as she stormed down the long hospital corridor. The late afternoon sun glowed through the large windows, but its residual warmth was lost on Bennie. On either side of the hall hung polished plaques listing the names of hospital benefactors, but she couldn't have cared less. Bennie was walking so fast she didn't notice anything and was so angry she didn't care if Marta could keep pace.
"I agree, it never should have happened," Marta said, bedraggled, as she rushed along. Her boots squashed and her snowpants rustled with every step. She felt whipped, out of gas. She had spent a long day at the Roundhouse being questioned by the cops, and the night before that had been eventful even for a criminal lawyer. "I'm sorry. Sorry for all of it."
"Sorry?" Bennie didn't break stride. "For attempted murder?You can't say you're sorry for attempted murder. There are lots of legal excuses for attempted murder, but saying you're really really really sorry isn't one of them. If the cops had known what you were up to, you'd be in the slammer right now. And if I hadn't palmed that fucking knife—"
"Pritchel."
"Gesundheit."
"No. It's a pritchel, not a knife."
"What? What the fuck do I care?" Bennie fumed, her jacket flying as she charged ahead. "What the fuck difference does it make? You tried to stab the man!"
"I wouldn't have gone though with it. I didn't, did I?"
"Oh, please. Only because I stopped you. You could have stabbed me!"
A passing nurse glanced over nervously and quickened her pace. Marta whispered, "I didn't even know you were there. How did I know you'd jump in front of him?"
"I wasn't gonna let you kill him." They reached the elevator bank and Bennie punched the up button. "You could have known that, couldn't you? First rule of solo practice. Do not kill the clients. They don't come back, for one thing."
"I already said I'm sorry. What else can I do? Open a vein?"
"I should've left you in jail. In another hour they would've brought out the rubber hose. I would have brought out the rubber hose."
"I said, "Thank you.' " Marta rolled her eyes. "Listen to me. "Thank you.' 'Sorry.' 'Please.' I'm like a fucking Hallmark card."
Bennie started hitting the elevator button like a video game. It made a clikclikclik sound. "I should've let you rot there." Clikclikclik. "Let you wait for a public defender." Clikclikclik. "Thrown you to the press." Clikclikclik. "Sent you up for Bogosian."
"That was self-defense. They knew it, they were just working me over."
"And what about the jury tampering, huh? You owe me big-time on that. Community service?" Clikclikclik. "You know what, I'm charging you. I'm billing you for my fucking time." Clikclikclik. "Where is the goddamn elevator?"
"Okay, fine. Bill me, no problem. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Marta said, meaning it. She'd have a lot of time on her hands in the next few years. She might buy a house, fix it up, and actually live in it. But she'd need to do a little legal work on the side, if only to prevent ring rust. "You know, I've been thinking that you might need help getting the firm back up on its feet."
Clikclikclik. "If I even have a firm anymore."
"You do. You will."
Clik. "Hmph."
"Maybe I can make it up to you. Help rebuild Rosato and Associates. It's the least I can do. Draft briefs. Teach the associates." The elevator arrived and the doors slid apart. "Behind the scenes, you know."
"You?" Bennie's mouth dropped open. "You? Stay in Philadelphia?"
Marta began to laugh as the doors closed, and the sound of her laughter echoed all the way up the shaft.
* * *
Marta and Bennie stood at the threshold to Mary's hospital room. The associate had been moved out of intensive care and her condition was finally stable. Mary looked drawn against the thin hospital pillows, and an IV snaked to a shunt in her arm. The DiNunzio family surrounded her like an embrace, and Judy sat among them. She grinned tiredly when she saw Bennie and Marta. "Hey, guys, isn't this cool?" Judy said. "Mary's alive."
Bennie smiled with relief. "Wonderful. That's how I like my associates. Breathing."
"It's the only way they get any work done," Marta said, leaning against the doorjamb. "By the way, they are hired back, aren't they?"
Judy held her breath. Mary blinked.
Bennie thought a minute. What ran in her veins, ice? "If they got a license, they got a job," she said, and Mary smiled to herself.
It's not a job, it's an adventure.
Acknowledgments
Rough Justice is a work of fiction, but a number of people helped enormously with the research and I want to thank them here. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
First and very special thanks to Mayor of Philadelphia Ed Rendell and his former chief of staff, David Cohen. I am a huge fan of these two men, who have worked wonders for my favorite city and inspired all of us. They permitted me access to the mayor's office and to other areas of City Hall for this book, and David Cohen gave generously of his time, energy, and intelligence, as is typical of him. Thanks, too, to Robin Schatz, for the insider's tour, and to Ginny Kehoe.
Thank you to Larry Fox, president of the Litigation Section of the American Bar Association, who helped with the ethical questions herein, and thank you to criminal defense experts Frank DiSimone, Glenn Gilman, Burton Rose, and Mike Trigani for their on-the-spot advice.
Thank you to the detectives of the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department, who continue to help me in so many ways and gave me the coolest sweatshirt ever. Thanks to Mark McDonald of the Philadelphia Daily News, who took me through the lovely press area in City Hall and spent time teaching me about newspapers and how they work. Thanks to Dr. Andrea Hanaway, an emergency surgeon who taught me the details of some truly heinous injuries.