by Ron Levitsky
“I’m Jason Hermes, Elgin’s son. Nice to meet you. Let me get the girls away from this mess. We’ll meet you outside in a few minutes. My father hasn’t finished talking to you.” When Rosen glanced at the uncle struggling to his feet, Jason added, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to them.”
Taking each girl by the hand, Jason walked them from the courtroom. The uncle muttered something to the reporter, then trudged up the aisle toward the twin podiums, where a black minister, surrounded by the victim’s family, was holding an impromptu press conference.
Sitting down, Rosen leaned heavily against the wall. His hand trembled slightly. He wanted to get out of there, to close his eyes and, in a cool, dark room, hear his daughter play the piano, as she was going to do that evening. How he’d been looking forward to the evening.
Elgin Hermes sat beside him. “Here, you forgot your briefcase. Was that your daughter?”
Rosen nodded.
“Pretty girl. You must be very proud, like I’m proud of my Jason. That’s what we really live for—our children.”
“Like Denae Tyler’s mother.”
Hermes slowly shook his head. “I don’t understand why I should have to lecture a civil liberties lawyer about a basic constitutional issue.”
“I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Maybe what’s bothering you is the color of the boys you were defending. If it’d been two white boys who murdered for kicks, like Leopold and Loeb did back in the twenties, maybe you’d feel differently. Leopold and Loeb—weren’t they both Jewish?”
“That’s not it, and you know it.”
“Then what? It seems simple enough to think about the Fourth Amendment.”
“What about the Sixth Commandment.” When Hermes furrowed his brow, Rosen continued, “‘You shall not murder.’”
“That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t justice always the point of law? Leopold and Loeb didn’t get away with murder. They were sentenced to life, like those two boys today should’ve been.”
“But the police—”
“The police should’ve been punished too.”
Hermes shook his head. “They will be. You saw to that, thank God. And maybe from now on they’ll think twice before going after the next two kids who go driving by, just because they’re black.”
Rubbing his eyes, Rosen repeated what his grandfather had always said, “‘From your mouth to God’s ear.’” He lifted his briefcase. “Good-bye.”
Hermes stood with him. “Wait a minute. You’re still going to be in town for a few days, right?”
“Yeah. I’m taking vacation time through next week.”
“You brought your daughter with you—that’s nice.”
“My daughter lives in Arbor Shore with my ex-wife.”
Hermes raised his eyebrows. “Arbor Shore, very nice. I’d never have guessed that an underpaid civil liberties attorney—”
“They live with her new husband, who does quite well.”
“I can imagine. Where’re you staying?”
“In Evanston. My boss’s brother, Miron Nahagian, is out of town. I’m using his condo. Why all the questions?”
“I like you, Rosen. You’ve got two qualities that rarely intersect anymore, intellect and morality. A lawyer with brains like you—I’d wonder why you weren’t rich.”
“You and my ex-wife.”
Hermes laughed heartily. “Yes, I like you. In fact, I’ve got a business offer. Let’s have lunch next Monday. Give my office a call, and my secretary will set it up.” He shook Rosen’s hand. “Again, congratulations. You did a helluva job.”
They walked up the aisle together and through the courtroom doors. The hallway was wide; across from the courtrooms were several county offices. Under the sign “telephones” stood back-to-back conference areas, each with a public telephone, a small table, and two chairs bolted to the floor. Sarah sat with her friend, while Jason leaned against the wall. Seeing his father signal, he said good-bye and followed Hermes toward the exit.
The hallway was quiet. Nearby two lawyers whispered, a policeman waddled by, sipping a cup of coffee, and a woman sat on a bench reading the newspaper, while her little boy crayoned the floor around him. Rosen walked into the conference area and set his briefcase on the table. Sarah’s friend quickly stood and offered her chair.
“No, that’s all right,” he said.
“Please.”
He sat beside his daughter. She stared through the glass to the courtroom door, as if waiting for something else to happen.
He turned to her friend. “You’re, uh . . .?”
“Nina.”
He hadn’t taken a close look at her before. She had deep brown eyes, a generous mouth, and eyebrows that arched when she smiled. Her thick black hair, clasped by a tortoise-shell comb, fell behind her shoulders. Although wearing no makeup, she seemed older than Sarah, maybe because of her simple white blouse and gray skirt. Not just older but old-fashioned as well, reminding Rosen of a delicate señorita adorning a Cuban cigar box.
“You’re performing with Sarah tonight?”
“Yes, I’m singing. Sarah’s accompanying me on the piano.” She spoke with a slight Hispanic accent, saying the “y” like a “j.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Checking his watch, he added, “It’s after four. I’d better get you both home.”
Still his daughter didn’t move.
“Shayna?” His nickname for her—“pretty one.”
“Daddy, how could they let them off?”
He leaned back in his chair, not knowing what to say. He wasn’t arguing in court—that was easy. But during the five years since the divorce, every time he visited Chicago, Sarah was different. She’d grown, put on makeup, pierced her ears, cut her hair, become interested in boys, liked Jell-O and hated chocolate. Each Sarah was different, like a separate photograph in the pages their relationship had become. Each page dated by her birthday, a holiday, or one of his cases that let him visit. Did he really know her anymore? God, it’d been bad losing Bess, but he couldn’t stand to lose his daughter.
He waited for her to look at him, then said, “You’re old enough to understand there are rules the police have to follow—rules that protect everyone, not just the bad guys who commit crimes, but everyone—you and me and Nina too. Suppose the police started bothering Nina for no other reason than because she’s Puerto Rican or Cuban?”
Nina said, “I’m from the Dominican Republic.”
“Okay, Dominican.” He asked his daughter, “How would you feel about that?”
“That’s different. Nina wouldn’t do anything bad. But they killed a girl for no reason. They just didn’t kill her, they . . . raped her. Just because they didn’t have a reason to search. They knew they were bad. So what if they didn’t have a warrant. The way they were all crying in there—”
“Just a minute, Shayna. You’re getting me confused with all the ‘theys.’”
“You know what I mean!”
“All right. Look, you remember your Great-grandfather Raphael?”
She nodded.
“Remember the scar on his cheek? You asked me once what it was.”
“He was cut by a sword.”
“By a Cossack, who cut him just for being a Jew. The Cossacks were like the Tsar’s police, only their job wasn’t to protect the Jews, but to terrorize them. You understand what I’m getting at?”
“I know what you’re trying to say, but it’s not the same!”
“That’s like back home,” Nina said. “What my mother tells me happened under the dictator Trujillo. He had one of my grandfathers killed, just to take his land. And my mother’s aunt—he took her and. . . .” Blushing, she bit her lip. “He did the same thing to her that those men in court did to that girl. The very same thing. Even today the police are only good for taking your money. What’s the word?”
“Bribes,” Rosen said.
“That’s right—bribes. And you shou
ld see the way they treat the Haitians who come to cut sugar cane. Your father’s right, Sarah. If you saw the things I saw in my country, you’d understand.”
Looking up at her friend, Sarah nodded. “I guess so. It’s just so unfair.”
Rosen kissed her on the forehead. “We’d better go.”
As they left the conference area, he nodded a thank-you to Nina, who smiled back. Walking down the courthouse steps, they crossed a driveway and entered the main level of the four-tiered parking lot. Rosen stopped suddenly.
“Let’s see, was it on this level? Sarah knows I occasionally forget where I’ve parked the car.”
Nina giggled. “She’s told me. Just like my mother. She’ll start talking and forget where she is. Remember, Sarah, last week when she took us shopping downtown for my birthday present?”
“It’s one tier up. Come on.”
As they climbed the stairs, he glanced back to see Sarah smiling at her friend’s reminiscences. He’d drop them both home, drive back to the condo and shower, grab something to eat, then hear his daughter play. The next ten days he’d be able to spend with her. There’d be the movies, the art museum, the ballgame next week. Just the two of them. Maybe he could learn to be a father again.
He unlocked his rental car, a Ford Escort, and the girls slid into the back seat. “You ladies probably aren’t used to such luxury.”
Sarah said, “You know, I’m taking driver’s ed. Nina already has her license.”
“Maybe we could practice this weekend. Would you like that?”
“Uh huh. I’ll drive real careful. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. It’s . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s?”
“Only an Escort.”
He laughed, and the girls joined in his laughter.
Rosen drove past the courthouse, just as the dead girl’s family walked down its steps, trailed by a gaggle of reporters. As Rosen passed them, the uncle ran up to the car and slapped his hand on the hood.
“God damn you! Let two murderers out! How you gonna sleep at night! Damn you!”
Rosen shook his head. What could he say?
Running alongside, the uncle shouted, “That your girl in back! What if it’d happened to her! Wish it woulda’ been her they’d done a job on!”
Accelerating, Rosen looked through the rearview mirror and saw the uncle whack the trunk, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap. He also saw his daughter’s face, eyes wide in fear, but she was no longer the little girl who’d run to him for safety.
“God damn you both!” the uncle shouted, stumbling after them. “I hope they do her next!”
Chapter Two
Bess and her husband Shelly waited for him in the high school parking lot. They stood behind Shelly’s metallic blue Jaguar with the license plate “FEET 1ST.” Anywhere else the car would have been impressive, but in the suburb of Arbor Shore—amid rows of Cadillacs, BMWs, Rolls Royces, and Mercedes—it was just another Jag.
Bess looked good, and not just because she’d kept her figure. As poor as they’d both been, she’d always understood that real wealth was more an attitude than a stock portfolio. It didn’t matter that she taught in the community, and might therefore be regarded as a servant, or that as a Jew she was an outsider, or, worse, that her husband Shelly’s success was recent and therefore “new money.”
She knew instinctively how to dress—never flashy, never too much makeup or jewelry, and never what their daughter called the frizzy, dyed “shopping mall hair.” Yet as understated as it was, Rosen guessed that her outfit—the pink cashmere turtleneck, stone-washed jeans, and blue slicker—cost far more than his best suit. Of course, that wasn’t saying much.
Bess crossed her arms. “I want to talk to you about Sarah. She’s very upset over what she saw in court this afternoon.”
“Murder can do that to people.”
She shivered. “I heard about the verdict. A real mess, isn’t it.”
“You knew I was representing two men accused of rape and murder. How could you let her go?”
“Sarah kept on about it—how she’s never seen you in court, how the kids have been talking about the case in school. She had the afternoon off and kept after me. I tried calling you this morning, but you’d already left for court. Sorry—I thought it’d be all right. Was it that bad?”
“About as bad as it can get. The victim’s family was ready to lynch me. One man even—” He stopped suddenly.
“What?”
“Nothing. We’d better go in.”
She grabbed his arm. “Did something happen to Sarah?”
He didn’t like standing so close to her. She still used the same perfume, the kind he’d always bought for her birthday.
“The girl’s uncle said something, that’s all.”
“Said what? Did he threaten her?”
“Not exactly. It was just—”
“Just what?”
“Just blowing off steam. You’d be mad as hell too, if it’d happened to you.”
“He did threaten her. My God!”
“Don’t worry,” Shelly broke in. “If Nate knows the man’s name, I can have some people look into it.”
“It’s nothing,” Rosen insisted, staring into Bess’s eyes. “I get threats all the time.”
“But this is your daughter.”
“You never should’ve let her go.”
“How was I to know you’d get off two animals who raped and killed an innocent girl?”
“So it’s my fault. Now I really do feel at home.”
“Stop it!”
Breaking his gaze, she walked a few steps past him, then a moment later turned back. “Sorry. I should’ve checked with you first. It’s just that Sarah wanted to show you off to her friend Nina. You know how proud she is of you.”
He didn’t know what to say, and it was Shelly who finally spoke. “If you two want to finish—”
“No,” Rosen said. “Let’s go in.”
He let Shelly step between them as they walked into the auditorium. Shelly didn’t have Bess’s sense of style, not with his plaid shirt, khaki pants, and Bulls warm-up jacket. He wasn’t much to look at either—short, balding, a brush mustache, and eyes that seemed constantly peering in amazement through a thick pair of glasses. In the old neighborhood, where they’d all grown up, he’d have probably been called a “schlemiel”—a goof. Yet now he had one of the most famous faces in Chicago, thanks to the incessant TV commercials advertising his string of podiatry clinics, the Arches of Triumph.
The auditorium lobby looked like an English hunt club, with its oak paneling and tongue-and-groove hardwood floors. Between the two entrances to the auditorium stood a handsome fireplace, logs stacked ready for kindling. Two brightly lit chandeliers illuminated walls filled with framed photographs of the school’s musical productions since the 1920’s. Glancing at some of the older photos, Rosen recognized a future U.S. senator and a secretary of state. A refreshment stand was set in a far corner, near the public phone.
Bess took a folded piece of paper from her purse. “I found this sheet music on the living room floor. I think it’s part of what Sarah’s playing tonight. I’d better give it to her. You two go on in.”
“No,” Rosen said, “let me.”
“But you don’t know where . . . All right, here. Go into the hallway, then turn right at a long corridor, go past Martin Bixby’s office, into the rehearsal room. We’ll see you inside.”
Following Bess’s directions, he entered a narrow corridor, its walls covered with playbills for Shakespeare, Hair, and Phantom among others, as well as program and scholarship announcements from the theater departments of a dozen major universities. On his left he passed a doorway marked “Bix’s Digs,” and continued until reaching a large open room. What assailed his eyes and ears, at that moment, might have passed for avant-garde theater or a painting by Hieronymus Bosch entitled Teenagers.
A solemn-faced boy tuned his violin with great deliberation, while
two others, each dressed as half a horse, tried clip-clopping to a tune played on a tape recorder. A trio dressed as the Andrews Sisters argued over who was coming in on cue correctly, a Cyrano with a long putty nose practiced his fencing, and four “cats” scampered through their Broadway number.
Rosen stepped gingerly around the young violinist, who suddenly shouted, “Take my history teacher—please!” Still he didn’t see Sarah. Nearby a flamenco dancer leaned forward and, putting one foot on a stool, adjusted the strap of her pump.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The girl lifted her skirt above the knee, then smiled. She was dark like Sarah’s friend Nina, but her face was rounder, her lips fuller. A few curls peeked from under the gypsy scarf tied around her hair. As she arched her brow, the girl’s eyes seemed about to laugh at him, while she ran a hand languidly over her calf, smoothing her stocking.
Her voice was a half whisper. “You want something, Mister?”
“Have you seen Sarah Rosen?”
“She’s over in the corner, by the keyboard.”
“Thank you.”
“Any time.”
Rosen felt his face grow warm as he hurried toward the far corner of the room. Sarah sat at a keyboard, with Nina standing beside her. Both girls wore identical white dresses with chiffon sleeves and long pleated skirts. Both listened attentively to a man who gestured dramatically with his right hand, while his left rested on Sarah’s shoulder.
Sarah’s eyes blinked in surprise.
Rosen said, “Your mother found this music at home and thought you might need it.”
“I’ve memorized this. Daddy, this is Bix—Mr. Bixby, our drama teacher. He’s in charge of the program.”
The man shook Rosen’s hand; his grip was moist. “Sarah’s told me a lot about you. In fact, I saw you on the news this afternoon. Congratulations on winning your case.” He had a bedtime story voice, with a slight English accent.
Short and plump, Bixby resembled a teddy bear, with his curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and mocha-colored mohair sweater. An impish grin lit his blue eyes as he smiled. Rosen might have guessed the teacher’s age at thirty, but the deep creases around his eyes and mouth suggested he was older. Rosen glanced at his watch—8:01. “I’d better get to my seat. Good luck, girls. Nice meeting you, Mr. Bixby.”