Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  After she left the office, she hailed a taxi but kept thinking about John Milton. And Matthew Blake, who was in so many ways almost as much of a mystery. For one thing, they seemed to have had similar early lives. It was understandable for Matthew to distrust and even dislike Milton. A police investigator builds a case for the prosecution to carry forth in a courtroom, and the defense attorney’s sole reason for existence there is to destroy that case, even to destroy the credibility of the investigation and the investigator.

  Of course, Matthew would warn her about him, but he seemed more intense than he possibly should be, suggesting that Milton did underhanded things to win his case. He made Milton seem especially malevolent with the suggestion that the black limo he saw was Milton following them, spying on them. How could that possibly matter to the trial? So the assistant DA spent more than the usual time with a police investigator on the case—how does that help the defense? Why would Milton even care?

  Aunt Eve’s reactions to him were understandable. She saw evil loitering about as it was; she would surely see evil in the man who could damage her niece’s career opportunities. And of course, she would like Matthew Blake. He was helping her niece to succeed, and he apparently had interests and beliefs similar to Eve’s own.

  It’s time to make conclusions for myself, Michele thought. She wanted her independence, her opportunity, didn’t she? Well, then, she had to strengthen herself and not be dependent on anyone else. If that was hubris, so be it. In the end, I will either congratulate myself or blame myself.

  Actually, she was feeling way better than she had thought she would when she entered the loft.

  But her aunt put that to rest quickly. “You’re making a mistake,” she said the moment she set eyes on her.

  22

  John Milton stopped at New York Presbyterian Hospital on his way to pick up Michele Armstrong. Nora had informed him of Alexander James’s collapse in court.

  “I’m surprised he lasted that long in court,” John quipped. “I always underestimate the staying power of my sinners. What’s that wonderful saying, ‘Only the good die young’? That’s as it should be.”

  He laughed with such glee that Charon turned to look at him.

  “Showing surprise? You’re starting to come to life, Charon. Considering it’s been only a thousand years or so, that’s good.”

  Charon pulled up at the entrance to the hospital.

  “I won’t be too long,” John told him as he stepped out. “Just long enough to plant the seeds for our new Garden of Eden.”

  Walking briskly, he entered the hospital and joined Bill Simon and Alexander James’s wife and children in the waiting room. It was crowded and noisy, the hum of sorrow and tragedy circling like angry bees, but the James family looked up with surprise and interest as he drew closer. The children hovered around their mother, who, John thought, looked more frightened and concerned than he would have anticipated. Everything he had learned about James led him to believe he had one of those marriages held together like a spider’s web. A brisk wind could blow them apart. They shared involvement in their children’s lives but were more like business partners than husband and wife. He found that so common with married couples today. How easy it was to make a joke of their oaths and the priests and rabbis who extracted them at the ceremonies.

  Perhaps James’s wife thought she would be punished for not being sad enough. Women endure so much more abuse than men, especially from their own men, and carry on like good soldiers. Women can be much stronger when it comes to pain but not when it comes to vanity. Just ask Eve, he mused, and laughed to himself.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” John told Bill Simon.

  Simon nodded and turned to James’s wife and children. “This is John Milton, our new associate, who had a very successful day for the firm today,” he said.

  James’s wife forced a smile. His children just stared, the boy looking annoyed by the intrusion of a man with such an aura of power and success. This was a time for sadness, not accolades and certainly not smiles. They would tolerate none. They glared back at him like imps chained to dungeon walls. They were obviously caught between hating their father for bringing them to this point and concern for his survival.

  “I’m sorry to have this occasion as our first time to meet,” John said.

  “Thank you,” James’s wife said. The kids said nothing.

  He and Simon stepped away.

  “She doesn’t know it all yet,” Simon said. “There were significant traces of cocaine, which definitely contributed to his heart attack.”

  “Cocaine? I suspected a little too much alcohol, perhaps, but cocaine? He doesn’t strike me as the type.” He shook his head with a look of disbelief. He caught his reflection in the glass over a nondescript landscape print. He could take on any emotion and convince even one of God’s angels that he was sincere.

  “I didn’t think so, either, but you never really get to know anyone, do you, no matter how many years you’ve been together and what you’ve gone through together,” Simon said, now unable to hide his bitterness. John could see he was sinking into deep depression. Soon he’d be beside himself, and talking to him would be a waste of time.

  “No, you never do. The best you can hope for is fifty percent. What’s his condition now?”

  “He’s fallen into a coma.” Simon looked back at the family. “The prognosis is not good.” He kept his eyes on James’s wife. “I knew they were having their troubles, just like any married couple, but I just learned that they’ve slept in separate bedrooms for some time now. That’s why she didn’t know what time he came home the night before.”

  John nodded. He ratcheted up his concern. “I wonder why people don’t realize that their personal lives will affect their public and professional lives. If you’re miserable at home, you’ll bring that with you and infect others who depend on you.”

  “Very true,” Simon said. “All these other people will have tough days tomorrow.”

  John nodded. Looking around at all the obvious misery, he concluded that there were no angels here. None but one rebellious bastard—himself. He pulled up into the posture of an obedient soldier. “I assume you want me to step into James’s current case.”

  “We have a postponement, of course.”

  “Bad timing for all this. I was about to inform you of three other cases crossing my desk today when I was told about Alex. My secretary handled it all well.”

  “Three?”

  “All highly lucrative, clients who can easily afford us, I might add. Alex’s condition is bound to get out, Bill. I think it’s time we talked about taking on some more associates, and in particular, I’d like to see the firm have its own public relations officer. We’re going to need one, not only for the negative news but also for the upcoming jolt to our business.”

  Simon nodded, not failing to hear the “we” and the “our” so clearly stated. He sighed. “We’ve done well with our boutique firm up to now.”

  “Absolutely, well enough now to expand gracefully and naturally. You have room for more offices, and there will be no question about earning the finances to do it all. I hate to talk about the future when we’re sitting in the midst of this tragedy, but sometimes events dictate themselves, don’t you think?”

  Simon nodded again. “Sometimes I think I’m too old to have any more ambition.”

  “Age is a funny thing. People tend to think it can be measured only by time, but events crowd days into weeks, weeks into months, and months into new years.”

  “Yes,” Simon said, a little taken aback by John’s observation. “Lately, I’ve been thinking just that. Many of my professional friends look older than they are.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re ready to be put out to pasture, but you might think about slowing down. That’s why taking on more professional help is a good idea, too, don’t you think?”

  Simon looked at him with a little suspicion. “You’re a fast mover, John.”

 
“It’s all a matter of perspective, Bill. To me, it’s taken far too long to get where I am, and I’ve set some high goals for myself. I have a ways to go. It’s only natural to be a little impatient.”

  “Probably. Okay, let’s talk about it in the morning.”

  “Of course. I have some excellent young and talented attorneys to suggest and some very good secretarial help.” He leaned in. “I’d like to bring in one young attorney for an interview this week. I’ve worked with him. He’s with a small firm in the city, and we can easily steal him away. His name is Paul Scholefield. I’m eager to know your impression of him.”

  “If you’re recommending him, he must be good.”

  “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed. We should also discuss redoing the offices. Unfortunately, most people do judge a book by its cover.”

  “Whatever,” Simon said. He saw a doctor moving toward James’s wife and children. “This doesn’t look good,” he muttered, and started toward them.

  John hung back. “On the contrary,” he muttered. “It looks absolutely perfect.”

  He waited to hear the definitive news. The James family was quickly escorted to a private room. Simon started out with them and then turned and hurried over to him.

  “I’m calling my wife to help out here. Please take charge at the office tomorrow. This coming so soon after Warner Murphy . . . they’ll all be devastated.

  “I understand. Don’t worry about anything. Nora and I will handle it all. Take all the time you need.”

  Simon pressed his hand appreciatively and started away.

  John looked at the faces of family and friends concerned for one of their own. How vulnerable he has made them, he thought. Was it a mistake, or did he do it so I’d have more ambition? You’d think he’d be bored with all this testing of faith. He smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “Hello? Did you ever think it’s a symptom of low self-esteem to continually insist on total devotion?”

  He hid his smile under a feigned look of sadness as he walked out to his waiting limousine.

  “You know, Charon,” he said after he got in and they started away, “if it continues to be this easy, I might just lose interest.”

  His laughter seemed to accelerate the vehicle. Less than twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the curb in front of Michele’s aunt’s loft apartment. He started to get out but stopped. He could sense it, a very thin veil of antagonistic energy. He felt like Superman about to enter a garden peppered with kryptonite. Why suffer even the smallest pain? He sat back and closed the door. Then he took out his cell phone and called her.

  Michele heard her phone vibrate in her purse on the vanity table. It wasn’t hot, but it felt warmer than usual when she plucked it out and answered. She had decided to wear a strapless beaded-bodice gown she had bought herself for her last birthday. It was fitted, with wrapped tulle from the waist to the knee and then a trumpet skirt. She wore the thin diamond choker her father and mother had bought her for that same birthday. She thought the black silk shawl would be enough.

  “Armstrong,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I think I’m running a little late. There’s not much time for the small talk. Will your aunt be upset?”

  “I doubt it,” Michele said.

  “Would you, could you . . .”

  “Come out?”

  “Yes. I’m ashamed of my bad manners.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said. “I’ll let you know what I think of your manners at the end of the evening.”

  John laughed. “See you soon, then,” he said.

  He started to smile and then stopped. Of course, he was aware of his powers of persuasion, but he had anticipated a little more resistance or at least some anxiety on her part. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that she had told Lieutenant Blake about her date and that he had her wired or something. He hadn’t walked into traps often, but he had done so. This battle was ongoing. The biggest irony of all was that he enjoyed all the sins that characterized the souls he won. Normally, he could control them all when it came to himself. The hardest to control wasn’t sloth or lust or greed, however; it was vanity. The defeats he had suffered through the ages were usually in some way a result of that, because it blinded him to warnings he would otherwise easily recognize.

  He had intended to reveal something of his super abilities to Michele Armstrong tonight. He had wanted to sweep her off her feet and win her over so completely that she would become his Fifth Column, his spy, his eyes and ears in the district attorney’s office. He would have to do it more slowly now, he thought, more carefully.

  She appeared, and Charon instantly stepped out and opened the limousine door for her. She paused when she set eyes on him.

  “It’s all right. He’s asexual,” John said, leaning out and smiling.

  “What?” She still hesitated, obviously not sure if he was joking.

  “Charon, will you smile, please, and kindly take the lady’s hand properly.”

  He did so, and John pulled back to make room for her.

  “I’m afraid he makes Boris Karloff look like George Clooney,” she said, and John laughed.

  “You’re absolutely brilliant,” he said. “You don’t know how refreshing your self-confidence is.”

  “Overcompensation, perhaps, especially tonight.”

  “Hardly,” he said. They were off. “May I say you look as beautiful as I imagined you could be.”

  “You mean I wasn’t beautiful in court?”

  “No, no. I meant . . . look at this. You have me on the defensive so quickly.”

  “You are a defense attorney.”

  He laughed. “Okay. So tell me, what persuaded you to accept my invitation?”

  “The quid pro quo. I want to know how you learned all those things about my witness so quickly, to know more about your techniques in court. What are your secrets?”

  “All that in one dinner date?”

  “A journey of five thousand miles begins with the first step,” she said, imitating a Chinese prophet.

  “Well, as long as you realize it’s a journey of five thousand miles,” he replied.

  She laughed and glanced behind them. She had noticed a car start after them when they pulled away from the curb and wondered if it could be Matthew Blake. She had been anticipating his call after things had settled down, and when he didn’t call, she was tempted to call him to explain why she had decided to accept John Milton’s dinner invitation. At minimum, she intended to tell him about it when she saw him again, but for now, she had been afraid that he would persuade her not to do it or even be angry and hurt that she was even considering doing it. However, he kept so much from her that she didn’t see why she couldn’t keep something from him for a while. Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the trial outcome, but she was annoyed at all the mystery boiling around her. It was time to make some discoveries for herself.

  “You seem suddenly in very deep thought,” John said.

  “Maybe that’s the effect you have on people.”

  “Oh, no question,” he replied.

  Michele was surprised at some of the turns they made, weaving their way uptown to the restaurant. She had tried to find it on the Internet but to no avail.

  “How long has this restaurant been around?” she asked.

  “Angel’s Lair? Oh, years. It’s very low-key by design, however. That’s what makes it special and enables it to hold on to its cachet. It’s one of those places that don’t have to advertise. The manager, Gabriel David, takes pride in the clientele.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Some corporate entity. I think it was created more to have something extraordinary for clients than to make money, although with the prices they charge, it looks like they can’t help but make money.”

  She glanced back again. “I think someone’s following you,” she said.

  “Maybe he’s following you,” he replied, and smiled.

  “Doesn’t bother you?”

  �
��Someone’s always following me, Michele,” he said.

  The restaurant truly seemed to appear out of nowhere. They turned down a dark street and stopped in front of a door with subtle, if not indistinct, lighting. There was no sign, nothing that indicated it was Angel’s Lair.

  “This is it? They really do want to keep under the radar,” she said.

  “Yes. Gives it that mysterious, private, speakeasy feel, doesn’t it?”

  Charon opened the door for them.

  “Thank you,” she said, and turned to John, who stepped out after her. “Doesn’t he talk?”

  “Say something she’ll never forget, Charon, please.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.

  John shrugged. “He’s an excellent driver and a loyal employee, so I forgive him his social failings.” He took her arm, and they headed to the restaurant’s front entrance.

  “Does he live on this planet?” she whispered.

  John laughed. “If I can, he can,” he said, and pressed the button.

  The door opened automatically and they entered a ruby entranceway with a thick black and gold Persian rug, a large oval mirror in a mahogany frame on the left, and a coat-check counter on the right. The walls were a ruby-colored woven silk fabric. Above them, a teardrop chandelier rained down most of the light. Ahead of them was the oval-shaped entrance to the dining room. Michele recognized Mozart’s Requiem in D-Minor playing in the background.

  The woman behind the coat-check counter seemed to rise up rather than step out of a corner. She was older than most coat-check personnel Michele had seen, and she was dressed in something more like a business suit. Maybe she’s covering for someone, Michele thought.

  “Want to surrender your shawl?” John asked her.

  “Not particularly. It’s my security blanket right now.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Rosemary. We’re fine,” he told the woman behind the counter. She nodded and stepped back into the shadows.