Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  Monday morning, Maureen insisted on meeting Jane at her office rather than having Jane come to her apartment.

  “I’m quite able to get around, my dear,” she’d said good-humoredly, but a bit impatiently, as Jane had walked her to the 86th street bus after their meeting. The shops along Lexington were shuttered at that hour and the pedestrian traffic was sparse. “I’m only seventy-eight you know. My mother, God rest her soul, lived to be almost ninety.”

  Jane had explained to Maureen the alternatives available to her on Sunday night. She was being summoned to appear and give testimony before a grand jury that was investigating the Diana killings. The grand jury doesn’t convict a person of a crime; it merely investigates and decides whether there is evidence to support a charge that a crime has been committed. But when the grand jury subpoenas you and gives you immunity from prosecution, then you must testify. If you don’t testify, the Judge can put you in jail.

  Maureen had listened carefully, asking questions from time to time which indicated that she understood the process and had spent some time at the library and online reading up on the New York court system. When Monday morning came and Jane began to repeat the explanation, Maureen just smiled.

  “Believe me, you explained it very well. I do understand,” Maureen said. They were sitting in the office on 92nd Street. Jane had moved her own chair so that she could sit close to her, with no desk between them. Maureen was dressed as though she were going to church in a gray silk dress and a small straw hat with multicolored dry flowers woven like a band close to the head. White suede gloves and a black patent leather handbag rested in her lap. “But my dear, I will not give them her name. You wouldn’t either, I believe.” Maureen gazed at Jane so intensely that Jane looked away. She had said to Maureen twice that she did not want to be told Diana’s identity. It was information she didn’t need. But a surge of unease seized her at Maureen’s words.

  “What I would do is not relevant,” Jane said. She sat forward in her chair, taking Maureen’s thin, white hands with hair-like veins crisscrossing the translucent skin, engaging her pale blue eyes, watery with age, flecked with green and brown.

  “They can keep you in jail for the term of the Grand Jury, Maureen. That’s eighteen months. Maybe longer if the Grand Jury is extended.”

  “I wasn’t planning any trips, my dear. And I have many books to read. There are three or four Dickens novels I have left to go. And I have never read any Balzac or Les Miserables. That’ll keep me going a long time, I understand.”

  “Jail is a stressful place, Maureen. You have high blood pressure and a weak valve. You said your mother died of a stroke.”

  “Yes, but my doctor tells me I am in no immediate danger. He thinks I will outlive my mother.”

  Jane let out an exasperated sigh.

  Maureen cocked her head slightly to one side, smiling her half smile. “I told you I was a good Taurus.” She gently pulled one hand from Jane’s grasp and patted her on the wrist as if Jane were the one in need of comforting.

  “Joking aside. I do understand what you’re saying, Jane. But I would have a great deal more stress if I were to betray her, believe me.

  They took the subway to the Brooklyn Bridge stop and walked the few blocks north on Centre Street to the Criminal Court. As they grew near, they saw a group of news vans with their roof antennas sticking high into the air. Jane wondered if there was a big criminal trial starting that day until Scott Harper saw her with Maureen and came over.

  “Jane!” he called. “Good morning. Harry sends his regards.”

  “What’s going on, Scott? Why all the news vans?”

  “Are you kidding? As soon as Harry heard about this, he told me to get my rear-end down here.”

  “Do you know how he found out? I didn’t tell anyone. Did you, Maureen?”

  Harper shrugged.

  “I think Harry received a voicemail by someone from Stacey Sanders’ office. All the news guys got e-mails.”

  “And who the hell is Stacey Sanders?”

  “The ADA. That’s her over near the door talking with the network TV guys.”

  Jane looked in the direction that Scott pointed. She realized now that when Smalley had said the ADA was ambitious, she had assumed that it was a man. In her mind, she had even pictured him in a white shirt, a dark blue suit off the rack that didn’t fit quite right, and a one-color tie that hadn’t been cleaned since he bought it, probably from a street vendor. But standing by the door was a young woman who had already made the news once or twice for prosecutorial wins. The public’s interest in her successes had been increased by the fact that she was a very attractive woman, with short hair cut to the ear in a pixie style, bleached and further enhanced with perfect highlights, light green eyes and a dimple in each rosy cheek.

  Today she was wearing a navy pleated skirt that was a bit shorter than usually found on a female prosecutor and showed off her long, slim well-muscled legs to great advantage. Her tailored blazer hugged her hips and waist, with not a hint of fat anywhere, all the product of frequent trips to the gym. A white silk, low-cut top under the blazer accentuated her cleavage, completing the effect. She was a knockout. By contrast, Jane had worn a dark gray suit with a pink pinstripe. Her only concession to femininity was a pale pink blouse that buttoned up to her neck.

  Sanders was answering a question from the gathered press when she spotted Jane and Maureen and walked toward them quickly.

  “Miss Larson,” she said, extending her hand to Jane and producing a smile that spread across her face, those dimples dancing at her command. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. Your mother was a hero of mine.”

  “I’m sure I would feel the same way under other circumstances,” Jane said. “Last night I faxed your office a letter telling you that Maureen is not going to testify.”

  “I didn’t get it,” Sanders replied. “But she should know we’re not interested in pursuing her in any way. We will give her immunity if that is the problem.”

  “The problem is that she isn’t going to testify. Period.”

  The impassive expression on the ADA’s face revealed that Smalley had told Sanders all of this already.

  “Then she will take the consequences,” Sanders said with a shrug. “I am sure you have explained them to her.”

  For the first time, the ADA turned toward Maureen, whose slight smile betrayed no reaction at all to her threat. She stood waiting, as dignified as the Queen of England.

  “She’s an old woman in poor health,” Jane said.

  “Tell it to the Judge when the time comes,” she replied. “Maybe he’ll care.”

  Members of the press corps had caught up with the ADA and formed a circle around the three of them. The cameras were turned on and the lights were blinding.

  “Any comment, Counselor?” one of them yelled.

  “No, sorry.”

  “How about you, Maureen?” he asked.

  “Do you really know who Diana is?” asked another.

  “Who is it, Maureen?”

  “She’s not going to talk to you folks,” Jane said. “Please let us through.”

  She put her arm around Maureen and started to usher her through the crowd toward the courthouse door while they called out their questions addressing her as if they knew her well and could afford to be so familiar. Maureen, in turn, kept looking from one face to the next, giving Jane the impression that she hoped to find among them an old friend.

  “Yes, I do know who Diana is,” she blurted finally in her high thin voice. “And they can lock me up and throw away the key, but I’ll never tell.”

  Stacey’s eyes glittered at the comment. “See you upstairs,” she said.

  They took the elevator to the third floor where the Grand Jury met.

  On a bench near the door Maggie was waiting. She stood up at the sight of them.

  Maureen stopped for a moment, squinting ahead of her, then reached into her handbag for her glasses to be sure who it was.

 
“Oh, Maggie, what a pleasure it is to see you. Thank you for coming. I know you’ll bring me luck.”

  Maggie greeted her with a kiss.

  “I hope so. But I have to tell you that my publisher asked me to be here so I could write it up for The Portal.”

  She kissed Jane in greeting, and as she did she whispered so softly that it was like a mere breath, “I missed you.”

  “Even better,” Maureen said. “I’ll have something to say later if I get the chance. I’m glad to know someone will get it right.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jane.

  Maureen gathered herself up in her very dignified way, no smile on her face now but mischief in her expression.

  “Nothing to worry about. An explanation of sorts. Let’s call it that.”

  “Let’s forget the whole idea,” Jane said. “I don’t want you making any statements, Maureen. Sanders will use them against you. They can’t help.”

  “My dear,” Maureen said, “When my mother was alive, I would obey her because that is what the Bible said I should do. But my mother died several years ago, and now I am finally my own woman. I make my own decisions.”

  “Maureen, for Christ’s sake—”

  Maureen lifted her hand, palm open toward Jane, as though giving her a blessing, then lowered it again and placed it on Jane’s shoulder.

  “I know I must be driving you crazy, my dear, but I must do this.” She turned to Maggie. “She’s a wonderful lawyer, you know.”

  “I do know,” Maggie replied.

  A courtroom clerk came out of the door to the Grand Jury and called out Maureen’s name.

  “Show time,” Jane said.

  “Yes indeed. Show time.”

  Ever calm, Maureen turned and walked toward the clerk, who was holding the door open. Down the hall by the elevators, a small group of news representatives had gathered. Maureen waved to them.

  “If you need a break, tell them!” Jane called after her. “If you don’t understand something, tell them that too! And don’t be foolish!”

  Once Maureen disappeared behind the door, Maggie and Jane sat together on the wooden bench. The sides of their legs touched in a way that no longer seemed casual.

  “So when did you get this new assignment?” Jane asked.

  “I must have had a dream,” Maggie said. “I woke up with the idea this morning and called Harry right away and he thought it was a fantastic idea.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t dream the conversation with Harry too?”

  “I’ll show you the check when I get it. How’s that, my suspicious friend? The fact that it gives me a convenient excuse for spending the day with you is pure coincidence.”

  “You don’t need an excuse to be here.”

  “You’d be surprised how quickly rumors start.”

  “I don’t care about rumors.”

  “Well, maybe you and I both should. I have a reputation as a writer of hot heterosexual sex. Who knows how that might be affected by news that I love a women more than I ever loved a man?”

  The elevator opened and a few more members of the press came out. Maggie turned to Jane. It seemed for a moment that she would kiss her but didn’t.

  “You think I’m not ready to tell people, right?” Jane asked.

  “I think you haven’t considered fully how such a disclosure might affect the way people look at you, whether clients, colleagues or judges. It can’t hurt for time to pass, for brains to think, for heat to cool.”

  “I’m sleeping with you tonight,” Jane said firmly. “Preferably in my own double bed but on a palette on the floor of your place if it comes to that. Understand?”

  Maggie’s cheeks flushed slightly. She smiled.

  “I love it when you talk tough to me.”

  The door opened from the Grand Jury and Maureen appeared. The members of the press immediately rushed over, shouting questions, but Jane guided Maureen into a small meeting room that opened off the same hall.

  “What happened?”

  “They asked me what my name was, where I lived, what I do for a living, what I used to do, did I know the man who died in my building.” Maureen ticked off the subjects on her fingers one by one. Jane wrote each question down, and the answer.

  “And then what?”

  “And then I said I would like a break. It didn’t seem that Ms. Sanders wanted to give it to me, but one of the nice ladies on the jury said she needed a break too.”

  “Okay. Very good.”

  The court clerk knocked on the door and Maureen accompanied him back to the Grand Jury. Jane and Maggie remained in the conference room.

  “Was that planned?” Maggie asked.

  “I can’t go in with her, but they can’t really stop her from coming out once in a while. And they certainly can’t stop me from taking notes out here.”

  They went back into the hall and sat on a bench to wait. A few minutes later, Maureen emerged again.

  “I think I’m making Ms. Sanders angry,” Maureen said.

  “Ms. Sanders can go fuck herself,” Jane replied. “Excuse my French.”

  “Anglo Saxon,” Maureen said.

  “Right. Now, tell me what she asked.”

  “She asked about my conversation with the police that night. The date. The time. Who was there? And then she asked if I remember telling them that I had seen Diana the night of the murder from my window, and of course I said I did remember saying that. And then she asked me if that was a true statement, and I replied that it was. And then she asked me who Diana was and I told her I had to go to the bathroom, which is something of a fib. Although I probably could go.”

  The clerk knocked on the door again and Maureen followed him once more into the Grand Jury room. She went to her seat without prompting from the ADA. She smiled politely at the jurors. Some smiled back. She was beginning to recognize faces. There was a young black woman in the front row, heavy-set with a radiant smile. Thin braids fell on either side of her head, each with a pair of white beads at the end of the strands that clicked when she moved.

  “Are you ready to continue, Miss O’Reilly?” Sanders asked.

  “You may call me Maureen,” she replied.

  “Thank you, Miss O’Reilly, but I prefer it my way. Do you remember the last question I asked you?”

  Maureen nodded politely.

  “Yes, you asked me if I would tell you who Diana is.”

  “And what is your response, Miss O’Reilly?”

  “My response is that I would rather die than answer that question.”

  The members of the Grand Jury seemed to sit back in their seats at her words, although no one said anything.

  “Are you refusing to answer my question, Miss O’Reilly?”

  “I am refusing to answer your question. Yes. I’m sorry. I mean no offense.”

  Someone laughed at the rear of the room. The ADA shot him a glance that quieted him.

  “You may leave the room but not the building, Miss O’Reilly,” she said. “I will be out to talk to your lawyer in a minute.”

  * * * *

  A short while later, the court officer came into the hall and advised them that Judge Adamo would hear the ADA’s application for an Order at the end of his regular motion calendar at 12:30, courtroom 605.

  “Wonderful,” Jane said, once he had left. “Judge Adamo.”

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked. “Hanging judge?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m sure Sanders is happy to have him. He actually started out as a Legal Aid attorney, and he was a good one too. Then he got appointed to the bench as a criminal court judge and for the last twenty-five years he’s been one of the toughest judges in New York City—especially at sentencing. I think you can expect that the judge will order Maureen to testify. The refusal to comply with the order is a contempt of court, punishable by being put in jail. It’s very simple.”

  They sat in silence, each with their own thoughts in the empty hall. Without people, it was easy
to see the accumulations of dust in the corners and scattered pieces of paper on the scuffed tile floor. The walls and ceiling had been patched and painted over so many times it seemed like the inside of a cave. Even the light coming through the high windows seemed to cast a gray pall over the area.

  “Well, don’t you worry, my dear,” Maureen said. “I know you are doing the best job anyone could. This is my decision.”

  At 12:15, the courtroom was already filled with members of the media, a few lawyers who had heard that the argument would be occurring and members of the public who sit in on criminal proceedings as a form of entertainment.

  Sanders was already there, seated at the counsel table closest to the empty jury box. She’d put on another layer of make-up and her heavily mascaraed lashes flickered thoughtfully. Her pretty blond head bent over her notes for the upcoming argument. Jane and Maureen were at the other counsel table. Maggie found a place in the front row next to Scott Harper.

  Promptly at 12:30, Judge Adamo arrived. He was in his late sixties with charcoal gray hair and shaggy eyebrows that were still jet-black. Rather famously, he walked every morning from his house in Chelsea to the courthouse in rain, sleet, snow or hail, beastly heat or bitter cold. He came onto the bench with the jaunty step of a younger man, his robes flowing behind him but his square, fleshy face reflected the years he’d spent as a lawyer and a judge.

  Everyone stood, responded to his “good afternoon” and sat again at the brisk wave of his hand.

  Then he took out a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses and put them on, glancing at the papers before him for a moment before looking over the top of them at Maureen and Jane and then at the ADA. Sanders stood up, stated her name and that she was representing The People of the State of New York. Jane gave her appearance for Maureen.

  Martha had always told her to look the judge in the eye before you argue, just to let him know you’re not afraid. The lines of his face were set in a deep frown. It seemed clear that he was not filled with sympathy for Maureen.

  “Proceed, Ms. Sanders,” the judge said.

  ADA Sanders was a good lawyer and well prepared. She hardly referred to the long white sheets of paper on which her outline had been typed. Her voice was clear and loud, modulated where it helped her to make a point, and she gestured for emphasis. With a kind of surgical precision, she summarized the facts of Maureen's refusal to answer questions pertaining to the investigation of the Diana killings. When Sanders said that Maureen admitted she knew the name of Diana but refused to disclose it, the judge stared at Maureen for a moment, his thick eyebrows seeming to merge above his narrowed eyes. Sanders then rattled off the names of several well-known court decisions that supported The People’s right to the order she was requesting. When she was done, there was a smattering of applause from spectators in the back rows that the judge cut off with a rap of his gavel on the wooden desktop.