by Paul Heald
“What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is why the blowback wasn’t an act of violence.” His brow furrowed. “Violence usually begets violence … I would have been less surprised to hear that he’d slapped Maria for whining or gotten drunk and hit Suzanne or something like that.”
At first she recoiled from the thought. Arthur would never hit anyone; the idea was ludicrous, but then she remembered the intensity of the sex and his hurry to leave her bedroom, his inability to look her in the eye the next day. To be honest, there was no way to call it lovemaking.
She spoke in a level voice, pretending her question was merely rhetorical. “What’s the difference between that and using someone?” He flinched and looked away. “With the wrong attitude, hitting and fucking can both be pretty violent.”
Silence. If Phil were worried that his friends did not confide in him, he could rest easy now. After a long pause, he sat back down across from her. He reached over, touched her hand, and smiled.
“So, what did Arthur say to you last night?” he asked. “How come he came in today without a black eye? Or two?” He laughed. “Or maybe as a soprano?”
“Oh God,” she sighed, “he was so pitiful. He was like a whipped puppy.” She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “I was furious, but when he told me about some epiphany he’d had during the concert—I swear he sounded like he was on a mission from God—then I realized that he just knew deep down the right thing to do. He just knew. And then I knew that I could fuck it up if I wanted to be a bitch.”
Phil nodded his head.
“I didn’t want to be that bitch. Arthur may be a little prig sometimes, but ….”
“Yeah, I love him too.”
“It’s good you can say that.”
“Well, I don’t mean—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean …”
* * *
An hour later, Phil knocked tentatively on the Judge’s door.
“Come in!” He entered and was immediately taken aback by the change in the room. The Judge was sitting in his chair, shoes off, feet perched on the sill of an open window. When Phil set the Watkins file on his desk and sat down, the Judge pushed himself back to the desk and glanced at it.
“What does your memo say?”
“There isn’t any memo.”
“No memo?” He squinted the question at his clerk. “Why the hell is there no memo?”
“I can’t work on the case, Judge.” He felt like a piece of scripture being scrutinized by a studious rabbi. After a while, he dared to look up and meet the Judge’s famous stare. “I don’t believe in the death penalty.”
“Pretty shitty case, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” It was safe to admit that much.
“Conscience bothering you?” the Judge asked. “That’s a serious problem.”
Phil dropped his head and stared at his knees. He was completely drained, but however dreadful the Judge’s verdict, he would submit to it. For a moment, his time in Clarkeston flashed before him and he realized how happy he had been in the cloister of the Judge’s chambers working side-by-side with Arthur and Melanie.
“A very serious problem indeed.” The Judge repeated himself. “You can go now, Mr. Garner.”
Phil got up and walked slowly to the door, but as he was about leave and collect his things from his office, the Judge cleared his voice and stopped him.
“Mr. Garner.” There was an unexpected lilt in his voice. “You may have noticed that I’m the senior judge on the panel hearing Watkins’ appeal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll remember, I’m sure, that it’s the senior judge who gets to assign the job of opinion writing once the case has been heard.”
Phil nodded.
“I get to decide which of us drafts the opinion, and you might be interested to know that I plan on assigning myself that job.”
He gave Phil a faint smile.
“See this spot on my credenza? After the hearing, the file is going to sit there for a very long time waiting for an opinion to be written … maybe until I retire. Maybe the law will progress between now and then. That’s the best we can do for your sergeant.” He nodded his dismissal. “Don’t worry about it, and make sure you have a beer with Arthur tonight. He may need one.”
* * *
Melanie knocked on the door an hour later. When she entered, she saw the Judge, bathed in bright sunlight, rearranging the drawers in his desk. He turned around and gave her a curious look. She stopped in the doorway, speechless at the state of the room, the expression on his face, and the three packs of crumpled Lucky Strikes on his desk.
“Yes?” he asked. “Do you need something?”
The story of Carolyn Bastaigne refused to come out, and the Judge no longer looked like he needed to hear it. And maybe the image of the guilt-ridden jurist had always been a figment of her imagination. And what was the point of the story anyway? Jennifer Huffman would never be prosecuted for murder, and maybe the chambers were better off living with the comfortable tale of a trip to get a candy bar gone awry. Was there any justification for the revelation other than her own vanity, her own desire to impress the Judge with her cleverness?
As he stared at her, she realized that her motivation for telling him was part of the same desire to please that led to pageant victories and straight As in law school. It was a useful desire, often a productive one, but one that she needed to let go of. She needed to please herself. She needed to junk the law firms and join a team of Justice Department prosecutors instead.
And she needed to start by keeping a well-earned secret to herself.
“No,” she replied as she turned to leave the room. “I was just looking for a file.”
* * *
“Well,” Phil asked as Melanie walked into the library, “what did he say? Was he impressed or did he fire you?”
Instead of sitting down, she leaned against the bookshelves next to the door. “Neither. I didn’t tell him.” She absentmindedly pulled a book halfway out and popped it back in with a rap of her knuckles. “There’s just no point.”
Phil let out a long sigh. “I know that I told you not to tell the Judge, but I have to admit that I was kind of looking forward to seeing him go after Jennifer Huffman. It just doesn’t seem right that she should be able to get away with securities fraud and probably murder.”
Melanie smiled. “Well, look at you. Mr. Retribution finally comes out of the closet.”
“I’m not saying that she should get the death penalty!” He smiled back and dared Melanie to contradict him. “But a little prison time for her would not be amiss.”
“Well, we’ve got no evidence for a murder charge, and even the Hatcher memo only mentions Carolyn in the securities fraud.”
“The Hatcher memo?”
“Yeah, the memo from the Justice Department in Carolyn’s personnel file.”
A broad grin spread across Phil’s face and a rumble of sinister amusement filled the room. “You don’t mean Glenn Hatcher?”
“Yeah.” She drew out the syllable as she sat down and tried to figure out why he could not stop smiling.
“Glenn was at the beach.” He paused for a moment. “Glenn is awesome, and I’ll bet he would love to get a phone call from you ratting out Jennifer’s little stock scheme.” He watched Melanie process the suggestion and tried to anticipate her objections. “He could keep the Judge totally out of the investigation, and once he tracked down the stock purchase, he could swoop in and take her down.”
“But how could he do that?” She looked doubtful. “Jennifer would have bought the stock through a third party. Hell, she admitted as much to me in New York.”
“It’s the Justice Department!” he exclaimed. “They can track her financial records around the relevant time and find any deposits that look suspicious. One thing the feds know about is following the money.”
Melanie nodded slowly in response and then more vigorously as she remembered her conversation
with Jennifer. “And I think I know where the feds should start looking,” she added excitedly. “Jennifer mentioned spending the summer after her clerkship in England with her boyfriend. Having him buy securities on the London stock exchange would be too fucking clever. I’ll bet that’s how she financed her little vacation over there too.”
“Could be,” he replied enthusiastically. “We’ll never get her for murder, but a little jail time for fraud is way better than nothing.” He studied his co-conspirator and asked her to deliver the verdict. “So, what do you think?”
“I think”—she paused a moment while a smile spread across her face—“I need to get Glenn Hatcher’s number from Ms. Stillwater.” She walked across the library and kissed Phil on top of the head.
As she was leaving the room, she paused at the door. “And I need to ask him about a job too.”
XXXII.
WATERLOO SUNSET
Arthur’s walk home showcased Clarkeston at its springtime best. The architecture of both man and nature were defined to cookie-cutter clarity against a cloudless sky rinsed clean by an early-morning shower. Even the tardiest of trees and flowers were leafing out, celebrating the end of winter with spectacular blossoms that filled the air and covered the ground with a cloak of rose and white. But the scene provided no comfort. For him, Clarkeston had become a huge pitcher plant, a seductive invitation to disaster.
He walked slowly down the street, reliving the last twenty-four hours. In a brilliantly short period of time, he had burned his bridges with the Office of Legal Counsel, confessed to Melanie and the Judge, taken a job with Kennedy, and proposed marriage to Suzanne. Whether the decision to stay in Clarkeston was going to be an act of contrition or a chance at redemption was up to her.
When he got within a block of home, he squinted to see whether she was waiting on the front porch. Unable to tell, he walked a dozen more steps before checking again. Not there. When he arrived, he crossed the yard and looked behind the house to see if Suzanne’s car was parked. The worn patch of gravel and grass was empty.
He climbed up on the porch and slumped down on the top step. Squirrels were busily searching for edible treasures buried the fall before, but no other humans intruded on their domain. He attended to the details of squirrel society, studying them until he no longer felt like crawling out of his skin. I’ll sit in the swing and wait, he told a particularly fat squirrel who was sharpening its teeth on the lattice work underneath the house.
For two hours, he swung quietly, conducting an unrelenting critique of every major decision he had made since his arrival in Clarkeston. He understood many of his mistakes, but he had no confidence that he could avoid the traps fate might lay for him in the future, nor was he sure that some irremediable and innate character flaw was not really his problem. Worst of all, he concluded, his own happiness had become dependent on forces outside himself and out of his control, contingencies from which he could not wall himself off. Slightly nauseated, he went to the kitchen to fetch a Coke and left Suzanne a note on the back door. Then, he went back out to the porch to continue his vigil, resolving to stay there overnight if he had to. When she arrived, she would find him perched where she had so often waited for him. Perhaps she would see that he had learned something.
* * *
Suzanne picked up Maria after a preschool field trip and treated them to a restaurant supper. They took their time eating and then had ice cream for dessert. She let Maria color, while she listened quietly to the last half of the evening public radio news broadcast. Fortified by a large hot fudge sundae and a report on anti-Pinochet rebel activities in the mountains of rural Chile, she drove home and chanced a confrontation with Arthur. She set the parking brake with a creak as the station wagon’s tires crunched to a stop behind the house. Exhaling deeply, she unloaded Maria, grabbed an oversize shoulder bag, and walked up the back steps to find Arthur’s note taped to the door:
I’M OUT FRONT ON THE PORCH IF YOU WANT TO TALK
“What does it say, Mom?”
“It says that All little girls have to immediately take a bath.” Suzanne read in as deep a voice as she could muster.
“It does not! What does it really say?”
“It really says that All little girls have to go immediately to take a bath or they will get a huge spanking!”
Maria squealed and ran through the door. Suzanne followed her through the hall and bedroom and into the bathroom where she let Maria soak in the tub as long as she wanted.
“Mommy, will you read ‘Bongo Has Many Friends’ to me in the tub?”
“Sure.”
When the last bit of soap was rinsed out of her daughter’s hair, Suzanne scooped up the wrinkled little girl, slipped a clean nightgown on her, and plopped her in bed with a picture book.
“It’s still a half an hour before your bedtime, but you can read for a little while if you’re nice and quiet.”
“Okay. Mommy, but it’s still light out.” She studied the fairy-tale castle on the first page of her book while her mother combed her hair.
“The sun stays up later this time of year, darling. I’ll come back and tuck you in, all right?” The girl nodded and unable to find any further excuse to delay, Suzanne walked out to find Arthur.
When the front door swung open, Arthur looked over and expelled a quick apology.
“You’d better be sorry!” Suzanne fought to lower her voice to keep the neighbors from hearing. “That was the single most embarrassing moment in my entire life!”
Arthur scooted over so she could sit beside him, but she continued to stand, glaring at him.
“I know … I’m sorry … but can you see how I thought it was a romantic idea?”
“Arthur, you must live in some sort of fantasy land. When are you going to get a clue? Do you really think anyone wants to be proposed to over pizza in front of four other people? Two of whom, for all you know, might see me pushing a baby carriage around town seven months after your announcement!” She spoke quietly, but her anger and contempt bled through.
“You mean you’ve decided to keep the baby?” Arthur’s face lit up.
“What?” She let out a squeal of frustration. “You don’t get it, do you! This is my home town—the place where I live—you just can’t barge in and fuck everything up.”
“But I want it to be my home too,” he pleaded. “If you marry me, no one will care about the timing. You can’t tell me that we’re going to be shunned if the baby comes a little early.”
“Of course not.” Her voice lost some of its hard edge as she tried to make him understand that she could not consider marrying him. “That’s not what I meant; we’re talking about two different things, Arthur.”
She sighed. “I know you’re a sweet guy deep down, but I’ve got to protect myself and Maria from your kind of chaos. I’m really sorry, Arthur, but I’m not going to take any chances.”
Arthur stopped arguing. He sat still on the porch swing, as if afraid that his slightest movement would set off an even more final and deadly judgment. He studied Maria’s Duplo creations crowding the near corner of the porch and said nothing for a full minute.
“You know, right after you left,” he said softly, “the Judge dragged me into his office and made me confess my sins. He chewed me out for a long time.”
“You didn’t tell him I was pregnant, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But I told him that I love you more than anything in the world.” He snuck a peek up at Suzanne but she was unimpressed by his revelation. He carried on nonetheless. “He told me that I should do everything I can to get you back. Even he sees that we should be together.”
“Arthur, look at me.” She sighed again and waited until he met her gaze. “Getting the Judge’s recommendation can get you a job anywhere in the country, but it doesn’t count as much where my life is concerned.”
“Well, what does matter then?” he asked hopefully. “Love, maybe? I haven’t heard you say that you don’t love me.” He looked strai
ght into her eyes as if he were playing a trump card. “I’ll stop my begging right now, if you tell me that you don’t love me.”
Suzanne’s posture lost a bit of its rigidity and she sank into the seat next to him. “Arthur, love is the least of my concerns. We’ve both been married before. So, you know as well as I do that romance has very little to do with making a marriage work.” She put her hand on his knee and squeezed. “I do love you, and I doubt that I’ll ever stop, but this can’t work.”
Frustration and anguish colored his response. “Am I that horrible? I don’t even deserve a real explanation why you’re so goddamn sure that marrying me would be such a terrible mistake.”
“Arthur, I can’t predict the future. I’m going with my intuition.” She shook her head and looked out over the street. “Today, you tried to coerce me into marrying you. You tried to blackmail me after a night when you didn’t even make it home!”
“But it’s not just that. Quaint as it sounds, predictability and reliability are virtues. I don’t know who you are anymore.”
He began to protest, but she refused to be sidetracked.
“But most of all, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I could see the look of absolute horror in your eyes when I said I was pregnant. That told me all I needed to know.” She paused, expecting an argument from him, but he was no longer looking at her and said nothing. “Arthur, none of these things means that you’re a bad person; they just mean that you’re not the kind of a risk I want to take.”
A long moment passed when neither spoke. A car drove slowly past the house, its driver gazing with appreciation at the neighborhood and the dogwoods blooming along the avenue. As the car pulled away, the porch door opened and Maria walked out to chide her mother for failing to tuck her in. Suzanne stood up, using the interruption as a way to end the conversation, but Arthur jumped over to the near corner of the porch.
“Maria! Why don’t you show me these new guys you made?”