But my daughter doesn’t budge, instead she is clinging to my side. Since Nikki’s death I have found that Sarah is possessive, of the house and its contents, but most of all of me. She does not like change. The few times I have talked about moving to a smaller place that is easier to take care of, she has thrown a pitched battle. It is as if as long as we stay here, Nikki is present, at least in spirit. It seems that she has taken a turn for the worse now that Danny and Julie are gone. Danny had, at least once a week, and regardless of his father’s objections, slipped by to visit with us, to tease and play with his cousin.
With a little coaxing I finally get Sarah to help with the dishes. She’s in the dining room. We can see her over the pass-through, setting place mats and dishes, mine at one end, her own dish nearly on top of it, and another lonely plate, by itself, at the far end.
Dana looks at me. ‘Now who do you suppose is sitting way down there?’
‘It’s a tough time for her,’ I say. Though I have to admit that at times Sarah is awful. We both laugh.
‘Hey, I understand. She’s a little doll.’
The steaks are well done, we sit down, pour the wine, and Sarah makes a show of grace. It was always her treat when there was company. Ten minutes and Sarah is full. She eats like a bird, weighs fifty pounds, with spindly legs that now represent two-thirds of her height, like a baby gazelle. But she will have two snacks between now and bedtime.
‘Two more bites,’ I tell her.
She argues a little and makes a face. When this doesn’t work, she fills her cheeks and excuses herself, disappearing into her bedroom to play.
‘You’re a lucky guy,’ says Dana.
We talk about children. Dana lamenting that she’s missed her chance, the biologic clock.
I scoff. Somehow I think the only clock that is keeping Dana from having kids is the one that beeps hourly with the appointments of her ambitious schedule. The idle speculation on a judicial appointment, the so-called A-list, has suddenly turned real. It has been whittled down to two candidates, a fifty-four-year-old white male and the woman now sitting across from me at my dinner table. According to today’s paper, their résumés are being shipped to a special evaluation panel for a thorough review of qualifications and background. Word is that Dana has already met the political litmus test. She has the backing of higher-ups in the Justice Department in Washington, and the two United States Senators from this state, both women with aggressive gender programs.
On the couch we’re doing coffee. Sarah is now asleep. My invitation to Dana this evening is only partly social. She would have to be sedated not to sense this.
‘Something’s wrong,’ she says.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘What is it?’ She puts her coffee on the table and gives me her undivided attention.
‘I suppose you’re packing boxes in your office,’ I tell her. ‘Doing fittings for a black robe.’
‘Is that what’s bothering you?’
‘Not really bothering me. Just curious.’
‘Ah.’ She gives a knowing tilt to her head.
Now I’m embarrassed. Dana must think I’m part of the testosterone troop, the guys who can’t deal with women in black.
‘You’re thinking it would change things,’ she says. ‘Between us, I mean.’
‘Do you?’
‘I asked you first,’ she says.
I make a face, something thoughtfully Italian, stretching the cheeks a little and shrugging.
‘Actually I think it might be fun. I’ve always had this fetish.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to do it to a judge, from behind, up on the bench,’ I tell her.
‘Maybe I won’t allow you to approach,’ she says. Then a smile as she drags a single nail of one finger, like some predatory claw, across the worsted fabric of my thigh.
I clear my throat, hoping that when I speak again my voice won’t be an octave higher. I’m using a napkin to keep the perspiration from being noticeable on my upper lip.
‘Actually I was going to ask you for a favor,’ I say.
‘Have I ever refused you anything?’ She gives me a look that could defrost my freezer. At this moment I think neither of us is certain whether we should laugh or just jump each other’s bones.
‘I’m not worried about your taking the bench,’ I tell her. ‘I’m worried about when it might happen.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re worried about when my office is going to take the wraps off of Jack’s sealed indictment, and his plea.’
‘Always the lawyer.’ I smile at her and sit back a little in the couch.
‘I think Jack Vega deserves whatever he gets,’ she says.
‘It’s no secret that I didn’t embrace the notion of letting him walk based on hardship. That decision was driven by higher authority.
‘And it is true we cut a deal with him. Of course, exactly when we release the news concerning that deal, well, that’s more of a housekeeping matter.’
‘Can I take it that I’m talking to the upstairs maid?’
‘Monsieur. Perhaps you will allow me to polish the knob of your gentleman’s walking stick.’ Dana is quick.
If state prosecutors find out that Jack has copped to a couple of felonies, they will never put him on the stand. If I subpoena him into my case-in-chief, it won’t take Jack and his lawyers long to figure that I am grooming him for the lead role in Melanie’s murder. He would refuse to testify, take the Fifth, and leave the jury thinking that he was merely worried about more political carnage, additional uncharged crimes involving corruption.
In trial, as in life, timing is everything.
No doubt Cassidy, the prosecutor, is building a good part of her case around Jack the victim — Jack the psychically martyred widower. What could be better than a community leader bereft by the loss of his wife and the murder of his unborn child? With any luck, and if the gods of timing are on my side, there will be a mugging on the way to Jack’s canonization. But if I have my way, Vega will end up just a few miracles shy of sainthood. As I gaze into Dana’s gleaming eyes, I get a shiver of excitement that shutters all the way down to my sphincter, what for a defense lawyer is the equivalent of an intellectual orgasm — the prosecution is building its case around a convicted felon and they don’t know it.
Chapter 17
Judge Austin Woodruff is from an old-line GOP family in the valley, more conservative than God, but without the compassion. He is fifty-four, with a ruddy complexion and an aristocratic bearing made more patrician by his utter lack of humor. Woodruff is a stone-face that could slay a dozen comics.
He has the look of authority, like some aging anchorman from the network days of yore — a flowing gray mane and eyebrows like spun silver. He is what the average citizen thinks of when he or she hears the word ‘judge.’
He can be called fair in every way that the word is defined and spelled, from lack of bias to ability on the bench. Though at times I have wondered if he has ever seen a defendant he likes or a golf course he does not. He is stern, with the personality and warmth of a bronze bust, which has moved some cruel observers to lay on a few monikers. I have heard cursing references to the Ice Prince and Old Marblehead issuing forth from stalls in the men’s room, but the one I like best, and which seems to have stuck, is Chuckles.
For better or worse, Austin Woodruff is our trial judge. At the moment he’s shuffling papers on the bench.
Harry and I are in Department Twelve to argue motions intended to prevent the state from putting its own spin on the various faces of truth. Dana has joined us today, just behind the railing. She is here earlier for a luncheon date. Since Hawaii she has taken a particular interest in the case.
This morning Morgan Cassidy sits at counsel table with Jimmy Lama, the cop from hell, and a young assistant DA, a kid getting his first glimpse down into the volcano of crime.