What caption to give this? She put the paper down, stood up, and stretched. This reminded her of those back-page contests in the New Yorker, where they put in smart cartoons and people wrote in funny captions. She hated reading the witty lines she wished she’d thought of.
It was seven fifteen. DiPaulo’s reservation was for eight. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to go out in public, but it would be good to see Ted. Get his wise counsel. He’d just come back from his latest excursion with his Air France girlfriend. They’d been to Rio or Buenos Aires, she couldn’t remember which one, only that it was someplace warm.
In the washroom she looked at herself in the mirror. The fucking fluorescent lights. Her skin, which had been among her best features, looked tired and splotchy. Her hair was a semi-disaster. In her haste to leave the house this morning, she’d forgotten her makeup. If she were like those smart and stylish career women who worked at one of those big law firms—the ones who’d be filling up the restaurant tonight—she’d have had an emergency makeup kit in the bottom drawer of her desk. Or at least some lipstick.
Thanks to Zelda, she had something decent to wear. One afternoon last year, she’d pried Parish out of the office and dragged her to some boutique down in the PATH—the underground walkway that snaked for miles under the downtown core. Zelda made her try on a “little black dress,” and, to her surprise, Parish liked it. Cap-sleeved. Light wool. Then they’d gotten her a pair of leather pumps. Zelda had tried to get her into one with stiletto-like heels, but she’d opted for something more sensible. This way, she could look half-decent and run for the streetcar if she needed to.
Ten minutes of scrubbing her face with institutional soap and drying it off with harsh brown paper towels put some color back into her skin. She’d found a crappy old brush with a bunch of bristles missing, and after ten more minutes of hacking away at her hair, which she still wore down to her shoulders, it didn’t look horrible. Thank goodness for the dress. All those years of playing hockey. She still had a good figure, and a woman could get away with a lot if her body was in shape and she had a dress that showed it off.
But wait. Parish couldn’t believe it. She looked more closely at the mirror. “Fuck,” she screamed, her voice echoing around the tiled bathroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” There it was. A gray hair. First one in her life. Off to the right, above her ear. Oh, no. She pictured a whole row in the pharmacy packed with women’s hair-coloring products, which she’d managed to avoid. Until now.
Her hair was so thick it was hard to isolate the renegade strand. Zelda, who changed her hair color even faster than her lovers, had told her that this day would come. And warned her in advance that if she plucked a gray hair out, it would come back thicker and more wiry.
To hell with that. “I hate you,” she screeched. She gave it a good hard yank. It took two pulls to get the thing out. What a way to spend a Saturday night, she thought.
“You look ravishing,” DiPaulo said twenty minutes later when he greeted her on the marble steps outside Jump. He rarely met anyone without giving them a compliment. The restaurant was on the underground path, so she hadn’t had to go outside in the storm.
“Yeah right,” she said. “Nothing like working on a jury address all day before going out on the town.”
The place was packed. Every other woman had on shoes with killer heels. Impossibly high, narrowing to a teeny-tiny point, yet somehow these female creatures managed to float about the hardwood floor, as graceful as ballet dancers. Their dresses were as minuscule as their heels and hardly covered anything. Perfect hair, flawless makeup, nails that looked as if they’d never touched a keyboard—or a dirty dish—in their lives. Somehow they were able to snack away on pristine little hors d’oeuvres without touching their carefully applied lipstick. Crunching them with their perfect white teeth.
The place was so bright. What the hell was she doing here?
DiPaulo loved the spotlight. The action. He had a regular table right in the middle of the floor.
The two lawyers couldn’t have been more different, and that’s what made their partnership work. He was the rainmaker, always out and about, meeting and greeting, stirring up business. So many very rich lawyers had messed-up kids. And it was amazing how much they’d pay DiPaulo & Parish to get their young charges out of trouble. Made it possible to do killer Legal Aid cases such as this Larkin St. Clair file.
“Don’t fall over in shock,” DiPaulo said. “But I had Emanuel save us that round table around back where we can talk in private.”
“There is a God,” she said, punching him in the arm.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.
Emanuel, the maître d’, who treated DiPaulo as if they had been best friends since childhood, appeared out of the crowd with impeccable timing and led them to their private spot in back. He drifted along the polished wood floor as effortlessly as a king’s courtier.
“How was the trip?” Parish asked after Emanuel seated them in the wonderfully high leather seats. She was hoping Ted would fill her in on the forgotten destination.
“Buenos is phenomenal. Eleven-hour direct flight, only one time zone east. No jet lag.”
“Sounds warm.”
He frowned. “I know I haven’t been around. I’m going to stop traveling so much. It’s been hard on Olivia too.”
DiPaulo was referring to his second child, a very bright kid in her last year of high school. His son was away at university.
“You deserve some time off after all these years of hard work.”
“Enough’s enough,” he said. “I’ve been a shitty partner for six months.”
It was true. He’d hardly been around at all, leaving her strapped with her practice, his files to cover, and now this murder trial. But she’d made a point of not complaining. Since he’d teamed up with her a few years ago, after he left the Crown’s office, he’d been extremely generous with his time, mentoring her.
“I’ve done fine on my own, but right now I need to talk through some things.”
“I knew you would. And I knew you’d never leave the office if I didn’t drag you out.”
He insisted on ordering a very expensive meal—seared sea scallops for her, cedar-planked maple-glazed salmon for him, with a box of their delicious “Jump Fries” to start—as Parish talked him through the case.
“The worst thing,” she said, crunching on one too many of the delicious fries after she’d got him up to speed on everything, “is that Larkin’s not going to let me call him to testify.”
“Hard to win a case where a little boy is killed if your guy doesn’t testify. Juries like to hear an accused tell them he didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?” she asked.
“In the end it’s your client’s case, not yours. Besides, if he testifies what’s he going to say? That Dewey was the shooter? Then you’ve got a crossed-swords defense and the jury will convict him for sure. After that the Crown would probably say Dewey lied, the deal’s off, and get him convicted too. How long do think your client would last in jail after that?”
She nodded. “Larkin told me the very first day that Dewey was connected inside.”
“That’s no surprise.”
“So I’m stuck.”
He pointed to the main courses that had just come. “Eat your scallops,” he said. “I know they’re your favorite.”
She ate. Ted wasn’t often very quiet, but he ate his salmon in silence.
“How did the boy’s father do when he testified?” he asked when the dishes were cleared.
“Could have been worse. In ways he actually helped us. Still the jury was touched. Everyone was. He was the first witness. I keep hoping maybe they will forget about him. Stupid.”
“They won’t. No matter what you do, they’re going to be thinking about that little boy and his dad.”
“I know,” she sai
d again.
“Tell me about this missing witness, the baker,” DiPaulo said when they started on dessert. White chocolate cheesecake for him, banana cream pie for her, and, at Ted’s insistence, an assortment of orange, blackberry, and mango ices. This whole meal was a thousand miles away from the food-court sushi and pasta dishes she’d been living on for weeks.
“He’s here in Canada illegally. Crown wants to find him as badly as I do. They have his name but aren’t going to release it to the press. Figure it will drive him farther underground.”
“How about your jury address?”
“Work in progress.” She took her dessert fork and twirled it on the white tablecloth, making a small indentation in the linen.
“How’s the rest of your life?” he asked after the waitress cleared away the dessert dishes.
“Horrible, pathetic, nonexistent. Take your pick.” Her fling with Brett the waiter from the Pravda Vodka Bar had lasted about a month. Until he heard about the trial she was doing. In a nanosecond he lost all interest in going out with someone defending the child killer in the Timmy’s shooting.
“Then let’s get a drink at the bar. It’s packed with smart, attractive, eligible young bankers and bond traders and lawyers at big firms who know how to make real money.”
She shook her head. “After the trial. Right now this is my life.”
He smiled. DiPaulo had one of those smiles that radiated happiness. She needed a few rays of his sunshine right now.
“There is no after this trial, Nancy,” he said. “Don’t you see that?”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that you have the curse of true talent. It’s easy to be a good lawyer. It’s not that hard to be a very good lawyer. But there are no shortcuts to being great at this.”
“Thanks, but—”
“You know, when I came out of the Crown’s office, I could have gotten a job anywhere. Everyone was surprised when I picked you to be my partner. A young lawyer still establishing her practice. You have talent and drive. Not many people have both. And you see things other people don’t. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
She stopped twirling the fork. The indentation was deeper than she thought it would be. She started to knead the tablecloth, hoping to restore the smooth surface. She didn’t know what to say.
“Thanks for letting me drag you out for dinner,” he said. “You’re going back to the office, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got to put in a few more hours.”
“I know,” he said. “You have to.”
52
Despite all her confidence, independence, and considerable charm, planning this May Two-Four party had really taxed Ralph Armitage’s wife, Penny. He hadn’t helped by being so distracted with the new job and the St. Clair murder trial. And today, for the first time ever, he saw her lose it. Of all the times and all the places. She’d just dragged him into the downstairs washroom at his parents’ estate, twenty minutes before she was set to do her big presentation to the family about the party plans she’d been working on the whole darn year. He was shocked by what he saw.
“I can’t do it,” she said. Her eyes bulged with tears. “They are going to hate this whole concept.”
She’d spent weeks putting everything on a large piece of white Bristol board—this was another Armitage tradition. At the party all the adult guests signed the boards, which were then framed and put on the wall in the downstairs rec room. Penny’s board was now ripped in half and tossed on the ground.
“No, they won’t,” he said, reaching out to her.
She batted his hand away. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”
“I’ve told you for months. I think bringing families from the shelter is an amazing idea.”
“Amazingly dumb. I didn’t know they’d need all these consent forms. Criminal record checks on all the employees. Fuck.” She grabbed one of the two pieces of the presentation and went to rip it in half again.
He reached for it and stilled her hand. She didn’t resist, instead crumpled into the corner of the floor. “The band canceled,” she said.
“What? When?”
“Two days ago. I didn’t want to bother you with this during the trial. They got a gig on some tour with a grunge group and left me high and dry. I called your sister Emma in a panic, and she said, ‘But didn’t you hire a backup?’ How was I supposed to know about that?”
After Penny had dragged him to five different auditions, she’d decided to try a hip young group named the Bloor Baby Brats instead of one of the older bands that had been doing weddings, bar mitzvahs, and special events for decades. He’d worried something like this might happen. But he hadn’t wanted to dampen her enthusiasm.
Penny’s nose was running all over her sleeve. He grabbed a box of Kleenex and passed her some tissues. She blew hard with a big snort. “And the food, I didn’t tell you about that either?”
“What’s the problem?” After picking the band, there’d been another round of visits to caterers in every part of the city. Penny found all the traditional ones boring and had opted for a couple who ran a company called Local Locos. They served only organic produce grown within a fifty-mile radius of Toronto.
“Last week I had lunch with your sister Randy, and she just happened to mention that I shouldn’t forget that some of the guests would be kosher or halal. Fuck. The second I got home I called Local Loco and they said look at the contract, it specifically says they can’t do kosher, halal, lactose intolerant, peanut allergies, wheat allergies, and about fifty other fucking things I’ve never even heard of. I grew up in the boring burbs and ate meat and potatoes for the first eighteen years of my life. How am I supposed to know about all this crap?”
Her shoulders heaved, and her nose started running again. He’d never seen anyone cry so hard.
“And to top it all off, Lindsay’s pregnant again.”
Her younger sister, Lindsay, already had three kids. For the last year, Armitage and Penny had been “trying to get pregnant,” as the stupid phrase went, with no luck. Although lately, with all the tension between them, their “efforts” had been few and far between.
“We’re going through a rough time right now, that’s all.” He reached out to touch her hand again.
She smacked it away, harder this time. “Who is she, Ralph?”
“Who?”
“The woman you keep seeing on Thursday nights.”
He started to laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m laughing because you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Well, who is it?”
“There’s no ‘she.’ ‘He’ is a witness. And he is very afraid. Won’t talk to anyone but me.” He longed to share this with her. The whole story. But how could he tell Penny he was burying the one true eyewitness to this horrific crime, to protect himself and the bad deal he’d made with Cutter? “That’s all I can say, and even that’s more than I should tell you.”
She pulled herself up. What an agile body she has, he thought for maybe the thousandth time. He had an indecent urge to yank her clothes right now.
Before he could stop her, she ripped the two other pieces of the Bristol board in half again.
“What are you doing?”
“Give me that box of Kleenex,” she said. “And find some tape real fast. I’m making this the theme. Torn lives. A stripped-down party, no music, no fancy food. Broken people and how to start repairing them.”
He burst out of the bathroom and rushed down to his father’s basement workshop. He was filled with more admiration for his wife then he’d ever had. How would he live without her, if she ever found out that he’d turned himself into a liar?
53
“Ari.”
He heard a voice whispering. It seemed very close.
“Ari.”
Something soft was on his neck. Moist. Lips.
“Ari.”
He opened his eyes, but the room was dark. Greene could hear a
whirling sound overhead, which for a moment was confusing because he didn’t have a fan in his bedroom at home. The lips moved to his cheek, then his forehead. He slipped his hand under Jennifer Raglan’s arm and around her bare back. She eased her body on top of his, and he felt the roundness of her breasts curl across his chest.
“It’s eight o’clock. I have to leave in forty-five minutes,” she said before she directed a playful bite at his ear. “I’m leading the Sunday brunch seminar.”
“Ah yes, I saw the topic: ‘Dealing with Difficult Police Officers.’”
They were in a room at the Northlands Inn, where every Crown Attorney in the province—except those involved in major trials—met annually for their weekend conference.
She laughed, that deep guttural laugh of hers that he couldn’t get enough of. It rang in his head at the most unexpected times.
“Wonder where I got the idea for the topic?” Raglan slipped her hips on top of him.
“You must have done a great deal of research,” he said.
“Extensive.” Her legs slid along the outsides of his, making a slithering sound on the thin sheet that covered them. “I told my colleagues at the bar last night I had to get to bed early to rest up for my presentation.”
He laughed too. “You did get to bed early.” He’d driven up in the evening, parked down the road, and, as prearranged, slipped up the back staircase into her room at ten o’clock.
“Mmmm.” She curled up her toes and scratched his skin. “But I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Well then, why’d you wake up so early?”
“For this.” She trailed her hands along both his arms and squeezed the insides of his elbows, hoisting herself up before she lowered herself down. Down. The whirl of the fan was the one constant sound in the room. The air on their skin.
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