Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Thank you. And thanks a lot for the painting. Oh, I didn’t even unwrap it. How rude. I was just . . .”

  “That’s all right,” Helen said quickly. She touched Miriam’s hand, and Miriam looked into her eyes to see what she thought was excruciating mental anguish. “It’s different,” she admitted, “but it makes a statement.”

  “Really? That sounds interesting.” She started to unwrap it. Helen stepped back and looked at Norma and Jean, both fixed on the painting being unwrapped. Miriam pulled all the paper off before holding it up.

  For a long moment, no one said anything. The colors were vibrant, so bright it seemed as if there was a bulb behind the canvas. At first, Miriam wasn’t sure which side was up. Since Helen didn’t say otherwise, she assumed she was holding it correctly.

  The top of the painting was done in long, soft strokes of sapphire emerging from a wafer at the center which was the color and texture of a Communion wafer. Directly below the blue was a dark green area shaped like palisades, the edges sharp, the incline very steep. Pouring over the palisades was a female figure stretched and twisted into a liquid form, but there was a distinct face caught up in an expression of agony and dread as her body spilled over the brink and down into what looked to be a sea of boiling blood. There were tiny, bone-white bubbles popping up out of the sea.

  “Well,” Norma said, “that certainly makes a statement.”

  “What colors!” Jean remarked.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Miriam said and then wondered if she had sounded negative. “But I . . .”

  “If you don’t want it, I’ll understand,” Helen said. “As I said, my work is special.”

  “No, no, I want it. I want it very much. I can’t wait to see Kevin’s reaction . . . anyone’s reaction, for that matter.” She turned to Helen. “It’s definitely the kind of thing that draws attention and sets everyone talking. Thank you.” She stared at Helen for a moment. “It was very special to you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that makes it even more valuable to me,” Miriam said, trying to sound sincere but realizing she sounded too patronizing. “Really,” she added.

  “If it isn’t now, it will be,” Helen said prophetically. Miriam looked to Norma and Jean. Both pressed their lips together as if to contain their laughter. “Well, I’m sorry I have to go so quickly, but . . .”

  “Oh, no . . . no. I understand.” More than you think, Miriam thought. “You go on. We’ll catch up later. Once I get settled here, I want you and Paul to come over for dinner.”

  Helen smiled as if Miriam had made the most ridiculous suggestion. “Thank you,” she said and started away.

  “And thank you,” Miriam called after her. No one said anything until Helen left.

  Then Norma and Jean looked at each other and burst into laughter. Miriam shook her head, smiling.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Hang it in the hallway closet.”

  “Or on the outside of your front door,” Jean suggested. “It’ll serve as a deterrent, keeping burglars and salesmen away.”

  “I just felt so sorry for her. She is disturbed. This painting.” She held it up again. “It’s like a nightmare!”

  “It makes a statement,” Norma quipped, and Jean and she laughed again.

  “Yes, it says ‘aarrgh’!” Jean exclaimed, seizing her own throat and falling to her knees. Norma and Miriam laughed.

  “I’ll just leave it in the corner until Kevin comes home. Once he sees it, he’ll see why I would rather not hang it.”

  “You were wonderful, though,” Norma said. “You handled her well.”

  “She’s going to see her therapist, I gather.”

  “Yes. Paul’s got his hands full. I feel sorry for him. We have tried to help, haven’t we, Jean?”

  “For weeks after Gloria’s death, we called Helen and invited her to go places with us, but she locked herself up in the apartment and brooded. Finally, Mr. Milton got Paul to do something. If you think she’s strange now, you should have seen her just after Gloria’s death. She came to my apartment once and became hysterical, crying that we all had to move out of here, that we were all in danger . . . as if the building caused Gloria’s death and Richard’s suicide. I couldn’t make any sense out of what she was babbling, and finally I called Dave. He got a hold of Paul, and Paul came to take her back to their place.”

  “They called a doctor who put her on sedatives,” Norma continued. “Obviously, she’s still somewhat sedated.”

  “She must have been very close to Gloria Jaffee.”

  “Not any closer than we were,” Jean said sharply, a note of resentment in her voice.

  “I just thought . . .”

  “She’s just . . . so sensitive,” Norma explained, holding the back of her right hand against her forehead. “Because she’s an artist and the artist’s soul is in continual turmoil. After all,” she went on, taking on the voice of a pedantic college professor, “she sees the tragic irony that lives beneath all things.” She sighed.

  “Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for her,” Miriam said, looking toward the front entrance as if Helen were still standing there.

  “So do we,” Jean said. “We’re just getting a bit tired of it all. It’s such a downer. All right, Gloria Jaffee had a tragic ending and Richard’s suicide was horrible, but it’s all over and there’s nothing any of us can do to change what happened.”

  “We’ve got to go on with our lives,” Norma added.

  “The best thing we can do is be emotionally up whenever Helen’s around,” Jean said. “Mr. Milton told us that, remember, Norma?”

  “Uh-huh. Well . . .” She looked at her watch. “I guess I’d better go shower and prepare dinner.”

  “Me too,” Jean said.

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you two.”

  “Nonsense, you’ll find a way,” Norma said, and they all laughed again.

  It was good to feel happy, Miriam thought, and these two could make anyone feel that way quickly. She hugged them both, and then they left.

  As soon as they did, Miriam plopped down on the couch and closed her eyes. She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, Kevin was standing before her, smiling and shaking his head. He still had his briefcase in his hand.

  “Goofing off on the job, huh?”

  “Oh, Kev.” She scrubbed her face with her dry palms and looked around. “I must have dozed off. What time is it?”

  “A little after six.”

  “Really? I did doze off. Norma and Jean left over an hour ago.”

  “See you guys did a lot, though,” he said, looking around. “You deserve a wonderful dinner out. On the way back in the limo, Dave and Ted told me about a restaurant only two blocks west, a small Italian place run by a family. Everything has that home-cooked flavor and it’s very informal. Sounds wonderfully relaxing, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s shower . . . together.”

  “If we do that, Kevin, we may not eat for hours.”

  “I’ll gamble,” he said, reaching down to pull her into a standing position. He embraced her, and they kissed. “After all, we have to break in our bedroom. First night here.” She laughed and kissed him on the tip of his nose. They started away, arms around each other’s waist.

  “Whoa . . .” Kevin suddenly said. “What’s that?” He looked down at Helen Scholefield’s painting. Miriam had placed it on the floor against the rear wall.

  “Oh, Kevin . . . Paul’s wife stopped by. It was . . . weird. She brought us that painting as a welcoming gift. I didn’t know what to do about it.”

  “You didn’t make her feel bad, did you?” he asked quickly.

  “Of course not, Kevin, but look at that thing. It’s ghastly.”

  “Well, we’ll hang it for a while and eventually take it off.”

  “You’re not serious, Kevin. I can’t have that thing hanging on my walls. Pe
ople will . . .”

  “Just for a while, Miriam.”

  “But she will understand. She said so herself. She admitted it was special, different, and she said she would understand if someone didn’t like it.”

  “You can’t do that,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “Why not? This is my house, Kevin. I should be able to decide what I put in it and what I don’t.”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t, Miriam.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt Paul and Helen Scholefield any more than they have been.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “On my way to the office, I met Helen in the hallway and realized she was having emotional problems. Paul stopped by and we talked, and he told me they got very depressing news yesterday. Seems she is incapable of having children.”

  “Oh.”

  “That, on top of their other problems . . .”

  “Yes.” She looked at the painting. “No wonder she’s doing things like that. All right. For a while we’ll hang it. I’ll put it in that corner where it will be somewhat inconspicuous, not that anyone coming in here could ignore it long.”

  “That’s my girl,” Kevin said and kissed her. “Now, let’s see about that shower, huh?”

  She smiled, and they continued out. Miriam looked back once and shook her head. “Isn’t it ironic, Kev? One woman’s tragedy was she gave birth and another’s is that she can’t.”

  “Yeah. Well, the best thing we can do is be enthusiastic whenever we’re around Helen,” he said.

  It sounded familiar, and Miriam remembered that was what Jean had said Mr. Milton had told them. “Did Mr. Milton tell you that?”

  “Mr. Milton?” He laughed. “I know I’ve been raving about the guy, but really, Miriam, I can do some of my own thinking, too.”

  “Of course you can,” she said quickly, but still, it did seem odd.

  8

  Stanley Rothberg sat back in the chair to the right of Mr. Milton. As soon as he entered the conference room, Kevin quickly scrutinized him. Rothberg looked considerably older than forty-one. He tried to hide the premature bald spot at the center of his head by brushing long strands of his thin, dirt-blond hair over the top. Although he was a tall man, standing at least six feet three, he had such an emphatic turn in his shoulders, he looked almost hunchbacked. The bags under his eyes, the deep creases in his face, and the black stubble beard gave him the crusty look of a late-night bartender.

  So despite being dressed in a Pierre Cardin dark blue sports jacket and slacks, Rothberg had a seediness about him that triggered all sorts of alarms in Kevin’s mind. He didn’t like the sleepy look in Rothberg’s eyes. He knew juries would interpret it as a look of guilt, slyness, deceit. Even the man’s smile left him cold. One corner lifted higher than the other, making it look more like a sneer.

  Kevin’s father used to tell him never to judge a book by its cover. He was referring to all the wealthy clients he had in his accounting firm who looked and dressed like paupers, but after Kevin had graduated from law school and his father used that expression again, Kevin had to disagree.

  “I understand what you mean, Dad,” he said, “but if I had to take one of those clients to court, I’d dress him so he looked distinguished. Juries do judge a book by its cover.”

  First impressions were too often final impressions, Kevin thought, and his first impression of Stanley Rothberg was that the man was guilty. He seemed capable of pushing his wife over the brink. He looked self-indulgent, disdainful, and boorish.

  “Stanley,” John Milton said, “this is Kevin Taylor.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Rothberg,” Kevin said, extending his hand. Rothberg stared at it a moment and then widened his smile when he reached over the table to shake hands.

  “Your boss says you’re the whiz kid. Says I shouldn’t worry about putting my life into your hands.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Rothberg.”

  “Question is,” Rothberg replied quickly, “is your best going to be enough?” His smile faded.

  Kevin looked at Mr. Milton, whose eyes were so intently focused on him, he felt as if they burned into his very soul. Kevin straightened up.

  “More than enough,” he said, unable to keep out a touch of arrogance, “and if you’ll help me, we’ll devastate the prosecution’s case against you so completely, there’ll be no question about your innocence.”

  Rothberg smiled and nodded. “That’s good.” He turned to John Milton. “That’s good,” he repeated, gesturing toward Kevin.

  “I wouldn’t put you in Kevin’s hands if I didn’t have complete confidence in his ability to win your vindication, Stanley. And you can be confident that you will have the full resources of my office at your disposal.

  “Also, Kevin’s youth will work to your favor. Everyone’s expecting you to hire one of the more prestigious criminal attorneys in town, to use your wealth to buy yourself an established name and therefore gang up on the advocate of the people. But you’re confident of your innocence. You don’t need a high-priced attorney who has a media image. You need a competent attorney who can present the facts and counter any circumstantial evidence that suggests your guilt. People will be impressed.”

  “Yeah.” Rothberg nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “What they don’t know,” John Milton said, smiling, “is that Kevin is more talented than most of the media-hyped attorneys in town. He has natural instincts when it comes to courtroom skill.” Milton gazed up at Kevin with admiration. “He can be tenacious and ruthless when it comes to defending his clients. If I were on trial myself, I would want a man like him defending me.”

  Even though John Milton’s adulation rang sincere, Kevin felt uncomfortable with it. It was almost as if he were being congratulated for being a good hit man. Rothberg, however, was very impressed.

  “Oh, I see. Well, good, good. So then, what can I do to help myself?” Rothberg asked.

  “That’s the spirit,” Mr. Milton said. He stood up. “I’ll leave you in Kevin’s competent hands. Kevin, you know where I am if you need me. I’d say good luck, Stanley,” he said, looking down at Rothberg, “but this isn’t a matter of luck. It’s a matter of skill, and you’re in the hands of a very skillful man.” He patted Kevin on the shoulder. “Carry on,” he said.

  Kevin nodded, sat down, and opened his briefcase to begin doing just what Mr. Milton had wanted him to do: impress Stanley Rothberg with his grasp of the facts. He began by discussing Maxine’s illness and then asked questions about the nurse. Kevin noticed that Rothberg’s replies were tight, cautious. He was already behaving as though he were on the witness stand being cross-examined by the district attorney.

  “I hope you understand, Mr. Rothberg . . .”

  “Call me Stanley. We’re going to be livin’ pretty close to each other.”

  “Stanley. I hope you understand that for me to do the best job I can, there can’t be any surprises.”

  “Surprises?”

  “You can’t hold back on anything the district attorney might use or know.”

  “Sure. No problem. If I can’t be honest with my lawyer, I must be guilty, huh?”

  “It’s not always that guilt makes men secretive or tell only half the truth. Sometimes a person is afraid he might look guilty if a fact is known, so he or she keeps it from his or her own attorney. Let me be the judge of everything. I’ll know what to hold back and what not to hold back,” he added. Rothberg nodded, his eyes opening a little more. Kevin sensed he was impressing him.

  “How long had you and your wife occupied separate bedrooms?”

  “Oh, right after Maxine became seriously ill. I did that to make things more comfortable for her. Her room became a regular hospital room, especially after her leg had been amputated—medicines, equipment, a hospital bed. And as you know, she had a full-time nurse.”

  Kevin nodded and then sat back. “Perhaps the most damaging thing the district attorney is using against you is
the fact that you kept a separate supply of insulin and needles in your room.” He paused and looked at his notes. “At the bottom of a closet. Yet you were never required or asked to inject your wife, were you?”

  “No. I couldn’t even stand to see the nurse doin’ it.”

  “Then why did you put the insulin in your closet? Why not in your wife’s room?”

  “I didn’t put it there.”

  “But you don’t deny it was there, do you? The investigating officers found it. Are you saying you never knew it was there?”

  Rothberg hesitated for a moment. “Look, I did see it there the day before Maxine died, but I forgot all about it.”

  “You didn’t put it there, but you saw it and forgot about it? Never questioned the nurse why it was there?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Kevin. I’m running a major resort and a growing business with the raisin loaf. We’re opening markets in Canada,” he said proudly. “I just forgot.”

  “They’ve tracked down the prescription, and some of it is missing from what was in your closet, enough to provide the fatal dose. Obviously they’ll develop the argument that that was the insulin used to bring about your wife’s death. No syringe has been found with your prints on it, but if one should be . . .”

  Rothberg just stared.

  “The supply in your wife’s room wasn’t low. There was no reason for anyone to go to the supply in your closet and then to leave the remainder there,” Kevin added to emphasize the importance of the point he was making. “Don’t you realize what this suggests?”

  Rothberg nodded.

  “Well, what is your explanation, Stanley? I’m going to need some help on this one,” Kevin added dryly.

  “I’ve got to confess something,” Rothberg finally said. “I didn’t want it to come out during the trial, but I don’t see how I can help it now.”

  “Go on.”

  “Maxine found out about me and . . . found out I was seeing someone else, a girl named Tracey Casewell. She works in the accounts office at the hotel.”