Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  The ocean glimmered, barely visible. The waves that had seemed black as india ink last night were jade green, and the sea foam was tinted ivory. Whitecaps broke on the shore, one after the other, and sea bubbles raced in all directions and vanished. In the distance Marta could see the lighthouse and a rocky jetty near Steere’s beach. The sight was desolate and beautiful, and she felt like it had been scrubbed as clean and raw as she was. As if God had taken a stiff wire brush to the world.

  Marta considered walking into the waves just then. Leaving the fucking shovel on the ground and strolling right in, as if she were walking into a courtroom. Taking over. Striding into the Atlantic like she owned it. Marta could do that. The waves would welcome her and take her in and suck her up, her soggy coat and her aching back and her numb fingers. She even knew the depths of the water by the shore, if indeed that was what those precisely etched numbers on the nautical map had meant.

  Marta pictured herself walking in to three feet and starting to float at six feet and by fourteen feet she could tread water, just for show. By sixteen feet she’d begin to dip below the frigid waves and they’d knock her around a little, but by eighteen feet she’d have them licked like she licked everything else. After all, she was undefeated.

  Marta turned for a last look at Steere’s house, in the light of a new day. It was majestic and serene. She owned no house like that anywhere. Not New York, Boston, L.A., or Cape Cod. She was never home anyway. She was never anywhere. She was always in motion. Marta knew where the VIP waiting room was in any USAir hub. She could work the cruise control on a rental Taurus without asking. She kept the fax numbers of every Four Seasons Hotel in her bulky Filofax.

  Marta’s wet gaze lingered on Steere’s house. What a thing a house was! To think that she could walk into the Atlantic without ever having owned a real, honest-to-God home! And Steere’s was a nice one, worth every zero. She imagined herself as its buyer, waltzing through for the first time. The house was set so beautifully, nestled alone among the dunes. Location, location, location.

  Now that the sky was brighter, Marta could see how high the dunes rose in front of the house, tall and bright white in the new sun. No wonder they had been so hard to run on, they were steep. The wooden erosion fences crisscrossing them had done their job. Marta could see the wooden fence that had caught her coat last night. It crossed the beachfront in two directions.

  She blinked against the glare. Funny. One fence ran down the beach from the upper left of Steere’s property, and one ran from the upper right. Only the tops of the wooden posts showed, and Marta could see them clearly as the sun rose and a warm golden blanket slipped over the snowy beach. The two wooden fences met at the side of the house, about forty feet from where Marta stood. The tops of the slats made two dotted lines. And where the two dotted lines met, smack dab in the center, was a rather distinct X.

  Was she exhausted? Was she crazy? Was her mind playing tricks on her? Marta wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, but the X was for real. An X, right next to Steere’s house. X marks the spot! The pinhole in the map must have been a backup, in case the fences shifted. Marta bent over and grabbed her shovel.

  45

  A large, chilly presence, Bennie Rosato stood just inside Judy’s apartment door as the associate gushed an explanation, from color blindness to a handwritten motion for a mistrial to Darning’s white notebook. Bennie remained unmoved, stiff in her Gore-Tex jacket, unwilling to set foot in the apartment. As the managing partner of the law firm that bore her name, Bennie needed to maintain a professional distance from her employees, precisely because of times like this. Times she dreaded. “So what I’m hearing,” Bennie said slowly, “is that you have been gathering evidence to incriminate Elliot Steere.”

  Judy nodded so eagerly that hair slipped from her headband. “I’m working on it. The notebook means something; I just can’t figure it out yet. It’s full of numbers. I think it has something to do with street money.”

  “You’re missing my point, you’re gathering evidence against one of our clients.”

  “Well, against Elliot Steere.” Judy stood behind the canvas futon and leaned on its back. In her hand was the notebook.

  “Run that by me again, Carrier. Are you making a distinction between Elliot Steere and our other clients?”

  Judy blinked. “Yes. Of course. Elliot Steere is a killer. A murderer. He sent somebody to kill Mary and Marta.”

  “You have proof of this? Of any of it?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Not yet?” Bennie struggled to restrain herself. The associate seemed to have no idea how dangerous this game was. It was like watching a toddler play with an assault rifle. “Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re Steere’s lawyer. Even if you had proof of his wrongdoing, the only ethical thing you could do is file a withdrawal from the case. You get to bow out, not sabotage his murder trial.”

  “The judge wouldn’t have granted a withdrawal.”

  “You didn’t even try. You should have come to me. I could have filed something with the court. We could have fought it together. Legally. Even if we couldn’t, you still have no right to be gathering evidence against your own client. It’s the D.A. who has to prove the case against Steere, and if he can’t, Steere deserves to go free. Period.”

  “But he’s a murderer!”

  “What is this, Ethics 101? Elliot Steere is a client of our law firm, my law firm. Last time I saw one of his checks, it was made out to us, for a very large retainer.”

  Judy shook her head in disbelief. “So what? What does he buy for his money?”

  “Loyalty, without apology or reservation. He buys all our efforts and skill, everything we know about the law and courtrooms. He paid for it, he’s entitled to it. There is no shame in that, none at all. That’s business. My business.”

  Judy felt sick inside as Bennie spoke. She could never agree with Bennie and regretted telling her about Darning’s notebook. Time to correct the error. Judy didn’t think Bennie had focused on the notebook, so she let it slip from her fingers. It fell to the rug behind the futon and Judy nudged it underneath its canvas skirt with her toe.

  “Didn’t you stop and think?” Bennie asked, her temper giving way. “Didn’t you realize you have an ethical obligation here?”

  “My loyalty to Steere ended when Mary got shot. My hands had her blood all over them, they still do.” Judy held out her palms, but Bennie wouldn’t even look.

  “That makes no difference.”

  “It makes all the difference in the world! What’s in your veins, Bennie? Ice?”

  Bennie stood tall. “You’re a lawyer in my employ, Carrier. I hired you to work on this case, handpicked you and DiNunzio. It was a choice assignment, the most significant case in our office. Steere was supposed to be our calling card.”

  “I understand that, but the case has gone wrong.”

  “Nothing was wrong with the case until you filed that motion for a mistrial — without the client’s authority. Before that, it was outside the record that Mary is in the hospital. It was outside the record that Marta is missing and that you found some magical notebook. As far as the case was concerned, nothing outside the record even existed. “

  “I can’t divide my brain that way. Outside the record, inside the record.”

  “Bullshit!” Bennie shouted. “You’re supposed to be a trial lawyer. You filed motion papers against a client’s express orders. He gets to define the scope of his representation, not you. If Steere is as smart as I think, he’s gone forward on his own or hired someone else. You got my firm fired, and for conduct so egregious we could all be disbarred.”

  “I was trying to find out who tried to kill Mary, and why.”

  “Are you insane? That’s not your concern. That’s not your job. You got me fired, you got us fired, and so I have only one recourse.”

  “Go ahead. Fire.” Judy grinned crookedly even though she felt like crying.

  “You’re fired. I’ll send
you the termination forms as soon as possible. I’ll also send you some forms to report this to the disciplinary board. If you don’t file them yourself, I’ll file against you. Don’t make me do it.”

  “I’ll think about the disciplinary board a little later, if you don’t mind. I’m more worried about Mary than myself right now.”

  Bennie couldn’t let that pass. “Don’t think I’m not worried about Mary. I’m the one who sat there with her parents. But what you’re doing — and what she was doing — was wrong. Ethically wrong.”

  “But not morally wrong.”

  “That’s not your judgment to make. I took on Steere’s representation, and you work for me. What happens to the legal system if each lawyer makes his own judgments about a client’s morality?”

  “Justice. Finally.” Judy stared at Bennie, who returned her gaze with equal fury.

  “No. Nobody will have a lawyer they can trust. And justice doesn’t have a chance.” Bennie yanked her jacket zipper up and turned to go. “Enough. Clean out your office as soon as possible. Don’t talk to the press.”

  Judy held her head high. She didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Her only regret was hurting Bennie and the firm. “I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’ll see you at the hospital, probably. Or around.”

  “Not so fast.” Bennie held out her hand and was pleased to see it wasn’t shaking. “You said you had a notebook. Give it to me and I’ll turn it over to the police.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not giving you the notebook.”

  “You can’t refuse me.”

  “Why not?” Judy cleared her throat. “You’re not my boss anymore. I’m single again.”

  Bennie didn’t laugh. “Stop screwing around and give me that notebook.”

  “No.”

  “You’re keeping it from the police, who might be able to figure out what it means.”

  “I’ll figure it out myself. I know the case. I’m smarter than they are.”

  “You’re not trained the way they are. They’re professional. They have tools, resources at their disposal.”

  Judy’s mouth dropped open in mock surprise. “I can’t believe my ears. Bennie Rosato, destroyer of cops, defending them? They almost deep-sixed you last year.”

  Bennie pursed her lips. Shit. This kid was a whip. Too bad the firm was losing her. “The cops can handle it.”

  “Not tonight, in this weather. You said so yourself, they weren’t even at the office. Did they find the notebook or did I?”

  “It’s not a competition, Carrier.”

  “Yes it is,” Judy said, her voice suddenly urgent. “That’s exactly what it is. It’s a race. I didn’t find out in time to save Mary, but I can still save myself.”

  Bennie paused. She should have realized it. Of course Carrier would have been scared. “You’re in greater danger if you keep it. Did you ever think of that?”

  “It’s my judgment, not yours. Like you said.”

  Bennie didn’t know what to say or do. She couldn’t beat the notebook out of her, and Carrier was right about the attention the police would give it tonight. She opened the apartment door and walked out, torn. Conflicted.

  “Good-bye,” Judy called after her, but Bennie was too upset to answer.

  Blinking against the flurries, Bennie stood in the snowstorm outside Judy’s building and looked up at the associate’s apartment. Warm light spilled out of the large, uncurtained window but Carrier wasn’t in sight. Bennie’s emotions wrenched her chest. She was tempted to go up and retract what she’d said but she couldn’t. She couldn’t sanction what Carrier was doing, it was dangerous and wrong, but she wouldn’t thwart it, not yet anyway. Bennie looked up at the snowy sky, which was brightening. It had to be close to dawn, almost morning. The jury would be back in deliberations soon. Carrier didn’t have time to stop the verdict even if she tried.

  Snow fell on Bennie’s face and thick knit hat. So Carrier had found a notebook of Eb Darning’s with numbers in it, and had learned something about Eb and street money. And Bennie’s old friend Bean had told her that Eb worked at City Hall for cash. Was it connected? Was Darning’s notebook a record of cash payments? Money for votes? The answer would be at the heart of the city.

  City Hall.

  Bennie turned from the building, jammed her hands in her pockets, and began the trek. If she could figure out what was going on, maybe she could protect Carrier. She trudged down the street in deep drifts. Every step felt heavy but it wasn’t the snow. Bennie was thinking about DiNunzio. What’s in your veins, ice? It had hit home. Bennie had been feeling more responsible for Steere than for her two associates. Where was her loyalty to them?

  Bennie tucked her head into her chest against the driving snow. She was responsible for the associates as well. She was the one who had accepted the Steere representation without a second thought; she’d seen financial viability and a dramatic opening for her law firm. Bennie had never dreamed it would turn out like this, with one associate terrified for her life and another near death.

  She kept her head down and turned north into the storm. If there was a way out of this, Bennie had to find it. That was part of being the boss, too.

  46

  Marta dug through the sand like a terrier as soon as her shovel hit something. It was hard, whatever it was, and it wasn’t a clamshell. It rang when the shovel struck it, a metallic ding. Marta shoveled in a fever. Sand flew until a tan spot appeared at the bottom of the hole. It was camouflaged, barely visible in the morning sunlight. Something was there. What was it?

  Marta fell to her knees, dropping the shovel beside the deep hole and uprooted erosion fencing. She clawed with her gloves and shoved the wet sand to either side of the hole. The sun shone cold on her back but she still had time. It wasn’t too late. It wasn’t over. She had found it!

  Marta’s heart raced with excitement and exertion. She dug and dug, perspiring in her heavy coat. The patch of tan metal widened in the wet sand. She clawed faster. Her fingers raked the sand in five deep ridges. Underneath it was a metal box of some kind. It existed.

  The hole began to widen. The circle of tan metal grew. Five inches, then eight, then ten. Marta burrowed around the box. The top was smooth metal, like a strongbox. Sunlight winked on the water covering the box in a thin layer. Marta rooted in the sand until she exposed the thick lid of the box. She heard herself laughing, giddy with relief and delight. What was it? It was good. It was something. It was it! What Alix Locke had been looking for. What Eb Darning had died for. What Elliot Steere had killed for. It was almost hers!

  Marta cleared the perimeter of the box and tried to wrench it out of the sand and snow, but it was stuck in the sand. She tore off her gloves and rammed her fingers between box and sand. Her fingers were bloody but she didn’t care. She flattened her hand between the box and the sand and wedged her fingers straight down, deeper and deeper. Her fingertips drove to the bottom of the box and she yanked with all the strength she had left. The box came free in her hands.

  Marta fell backward onto her butt and scrambled to sit upright. It was a locked strongbox about the size of a legal pad, six inches thick and apparently watertight. Marta sat on the frigid beach with the box on her snowpants, momentarily stumped by the large Master padlock, of heavy gray metal. She’d have to break it to get inside.

  Marta struggled to her feet with the box and looked around. The beach was deserted and the storm had passed. The wind had died down and the snow had formed a thick, icy crust. But the sun was high. It was morning. How long before somebody found Bogosian’s body? How long before they came after her? What was in this fucking box?

  Marta shook it and something inside jostled. Not rattled, not clanged, just jostled. Shifted. It made almost no sound. Was it paper? Was it money? What was it? She had to get inside. She thought about looking for a key, but that would take too long. She didn’t want to search Steere’s office again or the Piratical. There had to be a better
way.

  Christopher’s pickup truck. The back of the truck was full of evil tools. One would break the padlock. Marta tucked the box under her arm and ran up the beach. She picked up her pace to a sprint like a star receiver, the box in the crook of her arm. She could bust the padlock with a hammer. Saw it off. File the fucking thing down.

  Marta’s heart lifted as she dashed across the snow, her boots crunching through the hardened top layer. An ocean breeze blew sweet and clear. A slight wind gusted at her back. So the box was locked. So what? She giggled as she ran. Her breath came easily as she scooted past Steere’s house. Her coat was soaked but it felt light on her shoulders. She wasn’t even tired. She’d blow the box wide open. She’d melt the thing in the forge. She’d chew her way in.

  She hit the dune running, up, up, up and over the crest, then down again, almost falling. The box felt secure under her arms and she kept running, down the glistening white valley between the dunes. There were no footsteps in the snow except Marta’s. She ran up the dune and caught sight of Christopher’s pickup, parked by the snow-covered curb.

  She half ran, half skidded into the truck, fumbled for the keys, and nestled inside the driver’s seat with the strongbox on her lap. She twisted around and thrust her hand into one of the tool chests. Out came a hammer with a spike at the top. The nail set! Rock and roll!

  Marta set the strongbox between her padded knees, held it steady, and brought the nail set down against the padlock. The box slipped. She tried it again and hit the padlock, but it remained intact. She hit it again and made solid contact. Clang! The padlock stayed locked. Fuck!

  She tossed the nail set aside and went fishing again in the tool chest. She found a saw with a fine-tooth edge, held the box still on top of her leg, and applied the saw to the lock. Marta had never used a saw in her life and it showed. The saw went crazily left and right. She pushed too hard and it wouldn’t move against the lock. She pushed too easy and it went too fast, barely scratching the metal. An emery board did more damage.