by Paul Heald
“Well, he used to be my dad’s law partner,” Suzanne replied, “so he would visit quite a bit. I remember that he started smoking again about that time too. He’d stopped years before and used to lecture me about the perils of tobacco. And he stopped going to church. We all used to go to the old Episcopal Church on the edge of downtown, but I haven’t seen him there for five years at least.”
Suzanne’s revelations made Phil wonder when the Judge had permanently shut the shades in his office. He had not seen any overt signs of depression in his boss, but he recognized the symptoms. He had a tough time reconciling his image of the Judge with any psychological weakness.
Phil looked at Arthur but could see that his attention had wandered, and he caught him staring toward the campus. He touched Arthur’s shoulder. “Pretty shitty week, eh?”
“Huh?” Arthur blinked. “Oh, Gottlieb … I don’t know. Glad it’s over, I guess.”
“Any regrets?”
“You mean other than not finding the case that Melanie gave me?” Arthur shrugged his shoulders and fingered his beer mat on the table. “I read the briefs; I applied the law.” He started to say something about the Judge, but the aborted sentence faded to a mumble.
In the silence that followed, Melanie suggested another pitcher and Suzanne offered to pay. They argued their way to the bar together leaving Phil and Arthur seated at the table. Phil watched Arthur staring out the window again, eyes fixed on nothing or some indiscernible point far in the distance.
“You can’t tell me that it wasn’t hard to read the Gottlieb fax this morning.” With the women gone, maybe Arthur’s armor would crack a bit. After all, he had just played a substantial role in the death of another human being. He needed to vent.
Arthur turned wearily toward him. “What’s hard is losing respect for the Judge.”
He shook his head and gave a summary of the Judge’s flip-flopping on the arguments made in Gottlieb’s petition. “I think it was completely unethical. I don’t give a flying fuck about Gottlieb. He got what he deserved. But the Judge …”
Arthur set his glass down on the table with a thump. “The only way you can have a valid system of capital punishment is to follow the law.”
Phil was speechless. The Judge was his hero too.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Arthur.”
“Well, we agree on that.”
Behind Arthur, Phil saw the women returning to the table. He gave his friend a look which said they needed to put off their discussion to another time and got a solemn nod in return.
* * *
Melanie sat in her apartment and stared at the phone. She really wanted to call the reporter who had covered the Bastaigne case, but she knew deep down that her curiosity was completely idle. Not to mention that an inquiry from her might well get back to the Judge. She stood up, walked into her windowless kitchen, poured herself a mineral water, leaned on the counter, and stared back into her living room. The handsy greaseball who ran the apartment complex thought she would like the “hip rattan décor,” but after three weeks, she was already tired of sitting in beach furniture when the view out the window was nothing but parking lot asphalt.
She took a sip of water and, with a sudden burst of inspiration, crossed the room to look up the number of the reporter who had written the Bastaigne articles.
“Hello? Could I speak to Sidney Dumont please?” A moment later a languid and velvety voice came over the line.
“This is Sidney Dumont.” He pronounced his name as the French would.
“My name is Margaret Hill,” Melanie replied, hoping that her hastily concocted story would hold up. “I’m an insurance adjuster for Aetna, and we’re conducting a five-year review of our liability policy on the courthouse in downtown Clarkeston. In the course of the review, I see that we paid on an accidental death that occurred within the mandatory review period. We’ve spoken to the courthouse administrator already, but we always like to get third-party reports whenever possible. Since you were the reporter who wrote about the case, we were hoping you could tell us what you know about the accident.”
“Sure, but I doubt I know anything that the federal marshals don’t. They handled the investigation.” Of course, she thought to herself, local authorities would not have jurisdiction over something that happened in a federal building. And, she realized with a sinking feeling, a private insurance firm would probably not be asked to insure federal property! She scrambled quickly, hoping that Dumont would miss the gaping hole in her story.
“The marshal who handled the case is no longer there,” she fabricated. “In any event, we might as well get your perspective since you’re on the phone.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed “shit.”
“Well, she fell down some marble stairs at the top of the fourth-floor stairwell.” His voice sounded sympathetic. “All it would take is a little slip in high heels.”
“Any idea why she was taking the stairs instead of the elevator? I’ve been in that building, and the stairs are quite out of the way.”
“Maybe she was taking the stairs for her health?” His ironic laugh was a low rumble. “Sorry about that. I really don’t know. No one saw her enter the stairwell.”
“Who was the last to see her alive, anyway?”
“Her boss.”
“Her boss?” Melanie sat up straighter.
“Yeah, he spoke with her around six thirty. She left after that, presumably down the hall and down the stairs.”
“Uh-huh. Were there any signs of foul play?” She hoped she didn’t sound too snoopy. “Obviously, security issues impact on our rate structure.”
“Not really. She had a bruise on her chest and a banged-up face, but the coroner thought the injuries were consistent with a fall.”
“Was he sure?”
“You know how those guys are.” Dumont laughed again. “They won’t testify about the color of the shirt they’re wearing without some equivocation. My shirt color is consistent with a range of shades from lime green to avocado green. All I know is what the guy put in the report. I wasn’t at the hearing; it was closed.”
“Is that usual?”
“County hearings are always public, but this is the only death on federal property that I ever covered. Might be different rules. That’s really all I know.”
“Well, thank you so much for your help.”
“Any time, Ms. Hill.”
Melanie hung up the phone and tapped the receiver with her fingers. At least the source of Mrs. Bastaigne’s paranoia was clearer. An investigation by courthouse personnel instead of outsiders followed by a closed hearing were bound to seem suspicious. Did Mrs. Bastaigne know that the Judge was the last to see her alive? Usually such witnesses were automatically suspects in murder cases, just like husbands when their wives are killed. But why would she suspect the Judge?
She poured herself another glass of water and sat down on the couch. Now would be a good time to let the mystery go and concentrate on work. But she couldn’t. Her attraction to the case was visceral. The choice to work in the criminal law clinic in law school had not been a coincidence. Commercial law bored her silly, while the messy facts of murder cases held infinite appeal. Why not take on the Bastaigne case as a hobby? But just thinking about the mystery set her body tingling; that made it more like an obsession, but probably a harmless one.
* * *
On Monday, Melanie worked steadily until midmorning and then went into Ms. Stillwater’s office for a cup of coffee as an excuse to see if the aging secretary remembered anything more about the accident.
“Do you ever think about Carolyn Bastaigne?” She stirred some creamer into the cup and turned to Ms. Stillwater. “I know it was five years ago, and I never even met her, but every time I walk past that stairwell now, I get the creeps.”
“I know just what you mean,” the woman replied. “We’ve still got a box of her stuff back in the storeroom. When I see her name on the side, I get a little spooked myself.”
; “What’s in it?”
“Just some junk from her desk. The marshal’s office told us to hang on to it, so we did. I suppose we could throw it out by now. They can’t possibly have any use for it any more.”
“Probably not.” Melanie was seized by the sudden desire to rummage through the former clerk’s belongings. Maybe she could look for it some evening after everyone had left.
Ms. Stillwater paused for a moment. “We asked the family if they wanted it, but it’s just some office supplies, a couple of textbooks, and a pair of shoes. Nothing personal, no pictures or correspondence or anything.”
“A pair of shoes?”
“Why yes, we found them in her office the morning after she died. She always walked around without ’em. She said that high heels really bothered her feet. It used to drive the Judge absolutely crazy.”
Suzanne sat down and pressed for more details. “But why would she be going home without her shoes?”
“I doubt she was going home, dear.” Stillwater shook her head slowly, and a smile creased her kind face. “She was probably going down to get a candy bar from the second-floor vending machines. Boy, she sure loved those Milky Ways.”
* * *
“Is Sidney Dumont there?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Dumont? This is Margaret Hill again, from Aetna Insurance. Could I ask you one quick follow-up question?”
“Sure.”
“You said that Carolyn Bastaigne was wearing high heels when she tripped. Are you sure of that?”
There was a slight pause. “Well, not really. I interviewed most of the clerks who worked in the building, and I noticed that the women were all dressed to the nines. All of ’em in heels, just like lady lawyers. I just assumed she was too.” His voice took on a tinge curiosity. “Is that not right?”
“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment. Carolyn’s lack of heels certainly qualified as information not meant to the leave the chambers under the Judge’s confidentiality policy. “No, I was just checking. Thanks, again!”
XI.
A BRAND NEW PAIR OF ROLLER SKATES
One Saturday morning in early September, Arthur was awakened by a high-pitched wail that bounced off the hard plaster walls and wood floors of the house and reverberated in his head like a bad hangover. He glanced at the clock and confronted the racket with thoughts of the Belgian waffles he had stored in the back of the freezer downstairs. Visions of butter and maple syrup propelled him down to the kitchen and straight to the toaster with no temptation to look in the television room to see what was transpiring with Maria. As the miracle of modern breakfast took shape, the screaming reduced itself to sobbing, then to sniffing. Finally, he could hear the drone of Saturday morning cartoons over the murmuring of mother and child.
As he stood up and responded to the ding of the toaster oven, he turned and saw Maria stomping into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Maria.”
“Mommy said I could have a Pop-Tart.”
Wondering whether toaster pastries had been at the heart of the morning’s dispute, he considered how to respond. No sense triggering another ear-piercing eruption, especially when the core of the volcano simmered a mere six feet away.
“Mommy said I can’t go to Skateland this afternoon.”
Uh-oh. Here was a minefield where a false step could cause severe auditory damage. He considered various strategies but could only manage: “How come?”
Her lower lip started to tremble, and it was clear he had asked the wrong question. He desperately backtracked.
“The last time I skated,” he improvised manically, “I fell down and hit my head on the floor, and I got knocked out and saw little blue cuckoo birds circling around my head just like in the cartoons! My head got pretty badly dented, so the doctors had to shave it and pound it back out. But that was really cool because all of my friends could sign their names on my head, just like a cast on a broken leg. Next time I skate, I’m going to wear one of those motorcycle helmets!”
Pause.
“You wanna a bite of my waffle?”
“You’re just joking me,” she sniffed and stood quietly. She showed some interest in Arthur’s breakfast, but an experimental nibble proved she didn’t like the malty flavor of the waffle compared to a fruit pastry. He fetched her what she wanted and offered to heat it up, but she shook her head and wandered back into the television room with it cold, leaving a trail of crumbs behind her. He let out a sigh of relief and tucked into his food.
Suzanne swished in a couple of minutes later, a royal blue terrycloth bathrobe cinched tightly around her waist. “Maria said that you were in a serious roller skating accident.”
“Uh, not really. I was just trying to divert her attention.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “She’s suffered from a skating-related letdown today?”
“She’s dying to go to this birthday party at Skateland, but my friend Judy just called and reminded me that I promised to help her do some wallpapering this morning. And I’ve already cancelled on her three times! I’d let Maria go without me, but the skating rink is crazy on Saturdays and the birthday girl’s mother is a real airhead.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “So, she needs to come with me instead, whether she wants to or not.”
Whether the trauma of similar childhood disappointments lingered in his subconscious or whether a spark of spontaneous generosity had somehow survived law school, Arthur heard himself say, “You know, I could chaperone Maria, and maybe even feed her lunch afterward and drop her off at Judy’s.”
Her reply came quickly. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Really, it’s no problem.”
“Really?” Was she concerned about ruining his Saturday or fearful of putting him in charge of her daughter? “Skateland can be a scary place.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said suddenly. “If you’ll go hear a band with me at the Wild Boar tonight, I’ll take Maria to her party.”
She gave him a look like the sugar from the waffles had addled his brain.
“Phil won’t go, and I really don’t want to go by myself.” This was pure impulse, but after a week in chambers, a skate party and then some live music seemed like an inspired idea. And asking Suzanne wasn’t crazy. They were pretty much friends now, and she hardly ever got out of the house.
“I don’t know if I could get a sitter on such short notice.”
He couldn’t tell whether she was wavering or looking for excuses.
“What about Judy? Won’t she be grateful for your wallpapering?”
“Well,” she finally begrudged him a smile, “she owes me one … I’ll ask her if she can sit and let you know when you drop off Maria.”
She left to tell Maria the plan, and he was rewarded with a shriek of joy and a warning from Suzanne that they needed to be there in twenty minutes.
* * *
“Have you ever been skating before?” he asked Maria on the way to the rink.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded vigorously. “You don’t have to walk with me like a little baby.”
When they got there and put her skates on, Maria led him to the lady in charge of the party, slid her present onto a card table, and scuttled off to join her friends. He traded small talk with the birthday mom, Jeannie McCullough, in the vestibule of the building, catching brief glimpses of Maria as she shuffled past the open entryway once every trip round the rink. With a start, he realized that Jeannie was flirting with him.
“So what do you do in town, Mr. Hughes?”
“I work downtown for the Judge.” He bent his head close to hear her over the music.
“I’ll bet he runs you ragged.” She put her hand on his arm and gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of work, but the worst is having no time to exercise.” She responded by giving his biceps a squeeze as if to reassure him that he was still fit enough for some important activities.
“Oh, I try to get to the gym for at least an hour ev
ery day.” She had a horsey face and massive frosted hair, but she was justifiably proud of her trim and athletic body. “I used to know one of the Judge’s clerks. Do you know Titus Grover?”
An image of her, one knee up on the conference room table flitted through his imagination. He thought she must be a single mother, but a discrete inquiry revealed that Mr. McCullough, a local dry cleaner, was still very much in the picture. Alarm bells clanged, and he politely excused himself to check on Maria.
Spotting her at the far end of the rink, he sat down on a carpeted bench and studied the crowd. The painted concrete rink was encircled by a raised platform of worn shag carpeting designed to make a bruiseless escape from the constant revolution of skaters a theoretical possibility. The carpet ran several feet up and over the benches that were built into the walls and then up the walls themselves halfway to the ceiling except for a gap where a small snack bar overlooked the whirlpool of motion.
An incongruous selection of disco, new wave, rock, ska, and country music propelled the stumpy legs of Maria and her friends slowly around and around the rink. None of her group could really glide properly on their skates; no wheel ever completed a full rotation before being picked up and walked forward, but they seemed happy to live vicariously through the more proficient skaters whizzing past them.
Middle-class moms taught their teenage daughters to glide gracefully with only a swish and twitch of their jean-clad bottoms, while sloppy habituées of the local Waffle House huffed hand-in-hand, clearing a wide swathe before them. Teenagers of both sexes, liberated from the scrutiny of their parents, flirted openly with discrete pass-by touchings or cool-eyed exhibitions of skating virtuosity. The occasional lone adult skater, usually a woman, quietly slid by in a world of her own. Children, however, dominated the scene, sometimes demonstrating balance and coordination well-beyond their years but more often cracking tailbones as they fell on the unforgiving concrete. Knowing their cries could not be heard over the din of the music, they resolutely picked themselves up, rubbed the damaged part of their anatomy, and rejoined the circling throng.