Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  And then Mary Lou comes out of the dining-room. She’s with a man. I know him, one of the senior partners in her firm, a married man twice her age. It instinctively bothers me in my gut, even though there’s probably nothing to it. It’s selfishness is what it is; I can’t have her so I don’t want anyone else to. Not even platonically, which I’ve never believed in anyway. If a woman’s attractive to you you want her, she could be your wife’s best friend, her sister, if you want her you want her. Your cock is always more powerful than your ethics.

  They must’ve had dinner in the restaurant, stopping in the bar for a nightcap. They sit across the room. She’s dressed up like a woman, not a lawyer. The light is flattering to her; she looks great, succulent.

  I don’t want her to see me. I don’t like what I’m seeing. It feels demeaning to her. Fuck; I’m jealous.

  Of course, she does see me. She stares for a moment, excuses herself from the table, walks over to me.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asks.

  “Didn’t know I needed permission.” I’m smiling, low-key, but I’m on edge.

  “I don’t mean that. Why are you alone?”

  “They don’t serve minors in here.” I explain about Claudia, my short break. “In fact,” I say, checking the time, “I’ve got to leave now.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Her hand is on mine; not by accident.

  “What?”

  “I’ll follow you. I’ve got my car.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asks, putting her hand back on mine.

  “You’re with another man for openers.”

  “A lawyer, for Godsakes.” As if lawyers are eunuchs. “A man in my firm.”

  “A senior partner. A married senior partner,” I add, unable to resist the dig.

  She doesn’t rise to the bait. “Let’s just go, okay? I won’t even make a pass, I promise. We’ll just talk. I need to talk to you, Will, I really do.”

  She crosses the room and talks briefly to the man, who glances at me, nods. Business is business. She comes back with her purse and wrap.

  “What did you tell him?” I ask.

  “That I was going home with you.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Joke, Will, joke,” she says, calming me. “I told him I needed to run some stuff by you, it couldn’t wait. He understands, we’ve all been there.” She realizes I’m not buying this. “It was a friendly dinner, Will, nothing more. His wife’s out of town and he’s lonely. He’s not my type, anyway.” She looks me in the eye. “I don’t chase after lost causes.”

  She finishes my drink for me, takes my arm. We promenade out. I don’t want this, but I really feel good. Flag that; I want it, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle it.

  We talk for hours. We leave the lights off, sit on the couch in the living room. The windows are open: the hot, dry, late-summer winds blow in the scent of night-blooming flowers. She tells me about herself, her life, her family, I do the same back, all the stuff you do when you’re courting someone. The stuff you’ve saved up until you’re with someone you know wants to hear it.

  We can’t not talk about the case; it’s what brought us together, it’s all-consuming. She tells me the scuttlebutt that’s going around town, the overwhelming sentiment against the bikers on the street, how the legal community’s looking at it.

  It’s all wine and roses for her, a young lawyer, a woman, conducting a major murder defense. My situation’s more complex, more precarious. The whisperings about the firm and me are getting louder, more persistent; apparently Fred isn’t being very discreet. (I make a mental note to brace him the next time I see him, we have an agreement and I’m going to hold the bastard to it.) In a sense I’m walking on a long highwire. If I win, I’m still major stuff, with or without my firm; if I don’t, I could be hurting.

  We talk until there’s nothing left to say except is she going to stay or leave. I’m stuck, frozen in gear, I can’t do anything either way.

  It doesn’t matter, it’s her script and she wrote it long before tonight.

  We start out kissing each other for a long time with our clothes on, lying on top of the bed. French kisses, high school make-out kisses, the kind you never outgrow. Then she undresses. I watch her as she strips, not at all self-consciously, unhurried, letting me feast on each part of her body as she reveals it: to me, for me, alone. She has a good body, not quite as slender as it looks in clothes. Better, actually; full, womanly. No soft fat anywhere, she must work out. Ample hips, lovely round ass, smaller breasts than I would have thought for a woman of her size, the skin pale, almost translucent. Long nipples and large round areolas. She doesn’t have much bodily hair, curly tendrils around her vagina. She’s smooth everywhere else, waxed.

  My disrobing is more prosaic, I’m anxious to catch up. I want it to go slow, to stretch it out as long as possible, kiss every inch of her, from her ears to her toes. That all goes out the window as soon as I touch her, she’s too hot, we both are. We eat each other, cock and pussy, for less than a minute, and I’m inside her.

  She’s wet but she’s also tight, she’s never gone through childbirth. I’m on the verge almost immediately, I have to stop pumping, we lie together, trying to be still. Then we go at it again, long, slow thrusts, she’s grabbing me hard by the ass, pulling me deeper into her, kissing me all over my face and neck, digging into my back with her fingers, moaning into my throat.

  I smother her mouth with mine; I don’t want Claudia to hear. She comes with a series of jolts that lift me into the air, I release behind her, an explosion, everything inside me flowing up and through my cock into her.

  We open our eyes at the same time, kiss, nibbly little kisses. I couldn’t move now if the house was on fire.

  “Will?”

  “Yes?”

  “Were we unprofessional?”

  “I thought we gave a very acceptable accounting of ourselves.”

  “You mean it’s okay?”

  “Yeh, it’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “No. Better.”

  “Are you always so effusive after making love?” she asks. She looks happy.

  “I’m not used to my lovers using the word ‘effusive’ after fucking,” I say. “But to answer your question, no.”

  “Oh.”

  I look at her. She really cares about me.

  “I don’t want to sleep with anyone else anymore,” I tell her.

  She caresses my cheek with her fingers in reply. “We’ll have to be careful in public,” she says. “I don’t like to be gossiped about.”

  “Me neither,” I assure her. Christ, that’s all I need.

  “But I want to be with you as much as I can. Is that being too forward too fast?”

  I’m scared suddenly; not because it’s too fast, but because I want her.

  “I hope not,” I say.

  “I’m very open to you, Will. You could hurt me without even knowing it.”

  “I’d know. I won’t.” At least not intentionally.

  “Okay. I think that’s enough for now.”

  She curls into me, ready for sleep, her head resting on my shoulder. It feels like it’s rested there for years.

  A light goes on in the hallway, spilling under the door. I’m bolt upright immediately, Mary Lou’s head falling onto the pillow as her eyes pop open.

  “Daddy?” Claudia calls. Her voice is shaking.

  “Be right there, sweetheart,” I call out. Mary Lou looks at me. Should I …?

  I shake my head ‘no,’ my finger to my lips. I slip into my robe and go into the hall, shutting the door tight behind me.

  “What is it, angel?” She’s standing in the open doorway of her room, clutching her Teddy.

  “I had a bad dream.”

  I come over, pick her up, hold her to me for a moment. “What was it about?”

  “A monster was chasing me. In a cave.”

  “Have you seen any scary movies
lately?” I ask. That triggers it more than anything, I’ve had friends take their kids to stuff like Halloween or Friday the 13th because they couldn’t find a sitter.

  “No. Well, I saw kind of a scary one on TV.”

  “That was probably it. Anyway it’s over now.” I carry her back into her room. “It’s okay, I’m right here. Go back to sleep.”

  “I’m too scared.”

  “No you’re not. I’ll stay with you for a minute.”

  “I want to sleep with you in your bed.”

  “You can’t, angel. Not tonight.”

  “I want to.” She starts to cry, half-real tears. “I won’t be able to get back to sleep by myself.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say, “I’ll stay here with you ’till you fall asleep.”

  “I’ll wake up again.” She snuggles closer. “Please, daddy. I won’t toss around.”

  I sit her on her bed, sit next to her.

  “I can’t, Claudia. Not tonight.”

  “Why?” She doesn’t understand; why should she? “We did last time.”

  “Because I’ve got someone with me.”

  She stares at me for a second, then jerks away, turning to the wall, crying. I reach out to touch her; she slaps at my hand.

  “Claudia …”

  She wheels on me, enraged.

  “This is our weekend together,” she yells through her tears. “You promised me.”

  “It is.”

  “Alone. Not with some other person.” She turns away again, her body racked with sobs.

  “Honey, I …”

  She starts throwing a fit. Major. Slamming her fists against the mattress, kicking, screaming into the pillow. I back off, sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s nothing I can do but let it work itself out.

  “Will.” Mary Lou is whispering from the hallway.

  I turn. She’s standing in the dark, fully dressed. I get up, walk to her, closing Claudia’s door.

  “I’m leaving.”

  Either way I turn, I’m fucked.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “It’s all right, Will, I understand. I know exactly how she feels; I want you for myself, too.” She touches my cheek. “There’ll be other times. Soon.”

  I walk her down the sidewalk to her car, kiss her goodbye. Then I go back inside, carry Claudia into my room, tuck her in. She isn’t asleep, as I thought; she sits up, facing me.

  “I don’t want to share you, daddy,” she says.

  “You don’t, angel. Not the way it counts.”

  “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to move.”

  What can I say to that? That I don’t want her to either? She knows that; the rest is not for me to decide.

  “You’re still here. Let’s worry about moving when it happens.”

  That doesn’t satisfy either of us.

  “I wish you weren’t having this stupid trial,” she says. “I wish I could come over every day and we could be together every day.”

  “It’ll be over pretty soon,” I say. “And you know I’m always with you in my heart.”

  She likes that; it’s something, anyway.

  “Daddy?” she asks.

  “What, angel?”

  “Promise me you won’t have anybody over when I’m here anymore.” I take her in my arms. My little baby.

  “I promise.”

  “IS SHE ALL RIGHT?”

  “She’s fine, yeh.”

  Mary Lou and I are in the courthouse coffee shop, downstairs. Just the two of us, an hour early. Paul and Tommy haven’t shown yet. That’s good; we need a private moment.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  I sigh, looking at her. I didn’t sleep well last night, thinking about this.

  “I can’t see you anymore.” I stir the sugar in my coffee that I already stirred when I put it in. “Not until she’s moved and this trial’s over.”

  “Will …”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got her and I’ve got this trial. I can’t handle more than that now. Shit, Mary Lou, I’ve got other problems as well, stuff you don’t even know about.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Yeh?”

  “Your partners?”

  I look at her, not acknowledging anything one way or the other.

  “It’s no secret on the street you’re thinking maybe you should be moving in another direction. That’s why you took the leave, isn’t it? To think things out?”

  “Partly,” I say.

  “Anyway,” she says, “about us. I don’t know what to say. I like you and … maybe I shouldn’t say any more.”

  “I like you too, Mary Lou. A lot.”

  “Funny way of expressing it.”

  “I’m over-loaded emotionally. I couldn’t do us justice; whatever us is.”

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” she says.

  “For me either. I want you real bad, I didn’t expect it, but I do, but we’ve got to cool it for awhile.”

  “As long as it’s just for awhile.”

  “It is.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Will,” she says. “You definitely don’t fit the mold.”

  “I used to think that was cool,” I tell her. I look up; Paul’s come in, spotted us. He’s ambling over. “Now it’s getting old. There’s something to be said for being square, you know.”

  “That isn’t you,” she laughs. “I could never go for that.”

  I give her a half-assed grin. She puts a hand on mine for a moment, then withdraws it as Paul looms close.

  “I’ll be good,” she whispers, teasing. “But only until the trial’s over.”

  “I hope so,” I tell her. I do. I honestly do.

  “CALL DR. MILTON GRADE.” Dr. Grade strides down the aisle, through the gate, to the dock. He stands ramrod straight as the oath is administered, carefully crosses one leg over the other as he sits, pulling his pant leg up with forefinger and thumb, making sure the crease stays crisp. Local legend has it he’s the only man in New Mexico who has his suits tailored in London. He’s pretty old now; the state mandatory retirement age has been waived for him, twice. He looks good, though; full shock of white hair, piercing blue eyes, strong Roman nose. The great American doctor.

  There’s a life-size blowup on an easel between the stand and the jury box of Bartless as he was received at the morgue. It’s black-and-white, and since it’s a blowup it’s grainy, but it’s still ugly as hell. The defendants look at it with curiosity; they don’t seem particularly repelled, but more importantly to me, they show no signs of ever having seen him, at least not in this condition.

  The photograph casts a powerful spell on everyone in the courtroom, particularly the jury. When Moseby revealed it I first looked to my clients, of course, and second to the jury. There were some sharp intakes of breath, some mutterings, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d dreaded; if one of the women had screamed I’d have moved immediately for a mistrial.

  I turn away from the jury and look at the victim’s mother. She stares intently at the picture, but to my surprise doesn’t make a sound. Either she was prepped by the prosecution, warning her she’d get thrown out of the room if she got out of hand, or it’s too alien to her to register.

  Moseby leads Grade through his testimony, and how he arrived at his conclusions, particularly the one that the victim didn’t die of the gunshots, but of the stabbings. Grade dwells, a bit too long for my taste, on the emasculation, how it was probably performed, and whether or not the victim was dead before he was separated from that particular body part. To his credit, Grade asserts that the victim was ‘almost certainly’ dead before they cut his pecker off.

  Grade is a good, professional witness. Direct, precise, his testimony specific and factual. He makes few assumptions, and those he does make are hard to challenge; he’s been doing this a long time, he’s an expert at not letting himself get tripped up. He’s testified in virtually every state in the country over the last thirty-five years, and there’s nev
er been a conviction overturned on appeal because of something he said. Defense lawyers can have a hard time dealing with him, because juries cotton to him; his credentials are first-rate and proven, not a common commodity in a small state like this. And he’s likable, he smiles on the stand, no pomposity; a patrician who doesn’t act superior to people, talks like a regular guy.

  The prosecution takes all morning, they want to cover the bases. They conclude just before the lunch recess.

  When we resume, Paul takes up our case. He asks various questions about the way Grade arrived at his conclusions regarding how Bartless was killed; he’s trying, we all will as we cross-examine, to find a chink in the armor that would make it, if not impossible for our boys to have done it—we have no expectations of pulling a rabbit out of the hat with this witness—to at least cast some doubt on what happened up there, so that we can cast our seeds of ambiguity.

  “Regarding the stab wounds … forty-seven in all … that you claim are the specific cause of death, Dr. Grade,” Paul asks.

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t the victim bleed more? You stated in your autopsy report that there was hardly any loss of blood.”

  “That’s correct, yes.”

  “Shouldn’t there be, sir? With all those stab wounds?”

  “Under normal circumstances, of course,” Grade answers easily. He shifts his position slightly, leaning forward. “But these were not normal circumstances.”

  A faint buzzing starts inside my head. What was it that Rita Gomez had said? Something about the way they had stabbed the victim with the knife? It was something out of the ordinary. Since our claim is that they weren’t there in the first place, none of her specifics resonated. I’m going to want to review that section of her testimony during a break.

  I look at Paul. He’s sensed something’s not quite kosher as well.

  “Let’s move on to time of death,” he says, deftly changing gears. “There would seem to be cause for a conflict of opinion as to the exactness of that, wouldn’t you agree, due to the deterioration of the body?”

  Grade answers professionally. I’m only half-listening—that beat in Grade’s earlier reply is lying uneasily in my stomach.

  Tommy handles the rest of the questioning of Grade. Nothing new—he’s a buttoned-down expert. We didn’t expect much; our case will be made in a different direction, irrespective of medical expertise.