Compelling Evidence

by Steve Martini

  “What’s your interest?”

  “Got a client in a little pickle—a little trouble,” he says.

  If Tony’s client knows Hawley, it’s more likely that his pickle got him in that trouble.

  “Maybe this Hawley broad can help,” he says.

  “In what way?”

  “Can’t talk here,” he says. “Maybe my office in a few days. I’m in a good position to deal. Make it worth your while.”

  This is Tony’s idea of lawyering, a quick deal, no ethics asked.

  “What’s it about?”

  He waves me off with the back of the hand holding his drink. “Harold Stone,” he says. He nods back over my shoulder. “Do you know Justice Stone?”

  I shake my head.

  “A prince,” he says. “Absolute prince. I’ll introduce ya.”

  Oh joy, I think.

  Skarpellos hoists himself out of the chair.

  “Tony Skar—pell—os.” The name emanates from a grating bellows of a voice. Like molten phlegm from Vesuvius, it erupts behind me. Skarpellos is motioning me to my feet. I rise and turn.

  “Harold, it’s good to see you again.” This is the stuff the Greek lives for, prattle on a first-name basis with the judicial brass.

  Stone is an immense man of awkward proportions, a face dominated by sagging, fleshy jowls. Threadlike veins seem to erupt at the surface of loose flesh that wallows like waves on his cheeks as he speaks.

  His expression suddenly turns moribund. It’s an easy transition.

  “My sympathies, Tony. You have the condolences of our entire bench.”

  For a moment Skarpellos looks down at Stone’s hand and I wonder if he’s about to kiss his ring finger. Then I realize that the Greek’s just buying time, the bard, again at a loss for words, this time with a more influential audience.

  “He was a great man, Harold.” Skarpellos sucks a little saliva and completes the thought. “It will be many years, if ever, before this town sees his likes again.” He delivers the lines as if his eyes have just peeled the words from some mystical idiot board.

  Their voices drop deeper, to the diaphragm, as private chatter is exchanged. I begin to feel like the proverbial potted plant, standing here. Finally Skarpellos looks over at me.

  “Harold, I’d like you to meet someone. Paul Madriani. Paul used to be with the firm.”

  A limp hand comes out to meet mine and I get the once-over by Stone. He’s keyed on that all-important phrase—“used to be.” There’s a quick, pained smile, and he returns his undivided attention to Skarpellos.

  “Paul, I think we should talk again, when I have more time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not now, later at my office.” Skarpellos has turned me into an unwitting standin, an understudy for the usual cadre of office eunuchs that the Greek has somehow managed to misplace—a little show for jurist.

  Stone waits for me to be dismissed.

  “Call my office for an appointment, next week. We’ll have more time to discuss the thing then, the thing with your client.”

  Standing here with nowhere to go, I have but a single thought on my mind—“What an asshole.”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar. It’s pretty full next week.”

  “Well, make time.” It’s the imperial Greek command. He turns before I can say anything, putting distance between us, Stone in tow.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” My words are delivered down into the nape of his neck as he walks away.

  I move away, abandoning a full drink on the table behind me, the price of salvaging a little pride, of saying “I was leaving anyway.” For the first time I realize that perhaps my departure from Potter, Skarpellos was preordained, for even had I survived my affair with Talia, pride would surely never have allowed me to weather Ben’s death and the compulsory primping and preening of Tony Skarpellos, the price of all success in the firm after Ben’s passing. It is, after all, a considerable consolation.

  CHAPTER

  8

  I’VE picked the Golden Delicious from the tree behind the house, a whole bag, and brought them with me, a kind of peace offering for my regular visitation at Nikki’s.

  Sarah, my three-year-old, is standing on a chair at the countertop by the sink, turning the crank on the little apple peeler. She is an endless litany of “whys?”—“Why is the apple round?” “Why is it yellow?” “Why does it have seeds?”

  I tell her the ultimate imponderable—“Because God made it that way.”

  She says, “Why?”

  I catch Nikki looking at me from the sink.

  It’s in moments like this, though increasingly when I’m alone in the big house, that the pain is greatest. The realization settles in that Sarah, this oblivious, energized innocence will never have a childhood like my own, two loving parents together with her. My daughter is rapidly becoming the product of a broken home.

  “I have to go to the store for a few minutes. I may not be here when you two get back.” There’s an edge to Nikki’s voice. Watching Sarah and me, she’s caught herself teetering on the precipice of happiness in my presence. But my wife is nothing if not resilient. Quickly she recovers her balance and is again the image, the very soul, of indifference.

  “I was just going to take her to the park. I thought you might want to come along. We could have lunch out.”

  “I don’t think so.” The apathy of her voice is overshadowed only by the aloof language of her body huddled over the sink, her back to me. “The two of you should have some time alone.”

  “I think she’d enjoy it.”

  “No. I have some things to do.” Nikki is now emphatic.

  I don’t pursue it. She is painfully civil toward me. But increasingly I sense that any relationship that remains between us now revolves around Sarah, locks of auburn hair, pink pudgy cheeks, and dark brown eyes like olives. She is the link that binds us.

  I have tried on numerous occasions to have Nikki take the house. I have offered to move into her apartment. But she will have none of it. This is a point of stubborn pride with Nikki: It was her decision to move out.

  She’s priming the dishwasher with soap now. “Tell me,” she says. “How’s the practice going?”

  “Haven’t missed any support payments, have I?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She turns to look at me, a pained smile on her face. “You always manage to twist what I say.”

  I can’t tell whether she’s angry or embarrassed.

  “Just a joke.”

  “No, it was a dig.” She is hurt, silent as she looks at me. They’ve become like deadly clouds of cobalt between us, these monthly payments mutually agreed upon to keep the lawyers out of our lives, a form of alimony to keep the wolves away from her door. Without intending it, I have unleashed Nikki’s perpetual nemesis. It’s a demon I have never managed completely to comprehend. She will stand her ground in arguments on the most meager point or principle until more timid minds capitulate. But place her in circumstances where she is required to ask for money and she becomes an instant, stammering wreck. I suspect that if I ceased my support payments she would suffer silently until the county, in a miasma of welfare payments, hunted me down and hung the collar of contempt about my neck. It’s as if the creator of all things dependent had omitted some vital element in Nikki’s makeup that permits her to ask when there is a need.

  For the moment she has reclaimed the soul of her autonomy. Nikki now works for a small electronics firm, programming computers. Logic, it seems, is her second love, after Sarah. She would have me believe this is a position she secured as a result of fortunate last-minute training before our separation. But I know now that it was more the product of design than fortune.

  Her return to academia revealed a certain master plan, a plot to leave me long before she actually stepped out of the marriage and pulled the rip cord. I’m now afflicted by a sort of melancholia on these visits whenever I am reminded of how obtuse I’d been not to see the sign
s. Still, I am sure in me deep recesses of my soul that had I known, it would not have changed the ultimate result.

  “I’m sorry about Ben Potter. I know you’ll miss him a great deal.” It’s delivered with meaning. But I’m reminded of Clarence Darrow, who admitted that while he never wished for the death of another man, there had been a few obituaries he had read with some pleasure. I think that Ben’s passing is such an event for Nikki.

  “The two of you spent a lot of time together,” she says.

  More time, she means, than I spent with her.

  Nikki still does not know the reason for my abrupt departure from Potter, Skarpellos. Whether she doesn’t care, or simply hasn’t mustered the brass to ask, I’ve yet to discern. She is packing a considerable burden of pain these days, masked by a cool indifference that I know is only skin deep. With our separation I have finally come to concede, at least in my own mind, that I had relegated my family, Nikki and Sarah, to some secondary place in my life. Nikki could not win in this war with my career, and she has always taken that as her own special failing in life.

  “The firm was a busy place. It’s the nature of law practice.”

  “I know. But if it means anything, I just think that he appreciated the fact that you never let him down.” She locks on my eyes for a fleeting instant, reading the pupils like tea leaves. “All those long hours, briefs to write, prepping for trials into the early hours of the morning. Whenever he called, you were there. It was a little more than just work,” she says. “It mattered what he thought of you. It mattered to you. That was important.”

  She’s right. I’d come to realize too late that a single psychic “attaboy” from Ben was worth any endless number of long hours locked in the mental drudgery of the fluorescent cave that was my office at P&S.

  For at least forty of his sixty years Potter was a human dynamo, the closest thing to perpetual energy this side of the sun. He worked seven days a week. In addition to his law practice and academic pursuits, he served on a dozen government and private panels. He was the penultimate blue-ribbon commissioner. Work was his life. It was his addiction.

  Perhaps it was because of this that Nikki never trusted him, nor for that matter liked him much. He had made particular efforts to be gracious in her company. But for some unstated reason she treated these gestures with the skepticism one might reserve for alchemy. I knew almost from the beginning mat my marriage and my continued association with Ben were relationships destined to produce friction—that one would ultimately devour the other. I suppose I also knew which was likely to fall victim, for I’d contracted the disease of my mentor. I’d become afflicted with a compulsive and purposeless need for work. That is what ended our marriage.

  “Your work was important to you,” she says. Nikki’s now making justifications for me.

  I leave it alone, let it stand, as a truism.

  “What about her?” asks Nikki.

  “Who?”

  “Ben’s wife—what’s her name—Tricia?”

  I pause for an instant, as if I have to search the dark recesses of my memory for the name of some fleeting acquaintance.

  “Talia,” I say.

  “That’s right, Talia. How’s Talia doing?”

  “I haven’t seen her. I don’t know. I suppose she’ll cope.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” says Nikki.

  I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

  “What will happen with the firm now?” Nikki speaks while she mops the countertop.

  “I don’t know. I suppose it will go on.”

  “The papers are treating the whole thing with a lot of sensation, Ben’s death and all,” she says. “A lot of speculation.”

  “Newspapers always speculate. That’s their job,” I say.

  “It could be embarrassing for her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Talia. The suicide, all the controversy, you know. It can’t be pleasant.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Has she offered to give you any help?”

  “What?”

  “Talia. Has she offered to help you get back in with the firm?”

  I am psychically coldcocked. But I do not stammer. I carry the farce to its conclusion, almost as a reflex. “What makes you think I want to go back to the firm? Why would she want to get involved?”

  Nikki turns from the sink and gives me a look, a “what am I, dogshit?” expression. She knows about Talia and me. It’s written in the smirk mat envelops her mouth. I am certain that wonder has crept across my face. It pains me that she may know only half the truth, that she may not know that Talia and I are no longer an item. But I can’t bring myself to say it. The careful shield of discretion that I had erected had been so transparent that Nikki has seen through it, and I am left to wonder, how many others? I stare back for several seconds. She blinks and breaks eye contact. She is bluffing—I think. A deft exercise in female intuition. But I take no chances. I avoid confrontation on the point.

  “It’s only natural mat there would be speculation and talk. It’s not every day that a nominee to the United States Supreme Court kills himself. Ben’s death leaves quite a hole in the firm,” I say.

  “Yes.” She pauses as if for effect. “That’s what I was talking about,” she says, “filling the hole.” The words are delivered with biting sarcasm.

  “Well, we’d better be hitting the road.” I have suddenly lost my desire for meaningful dialogue. “Come on, kiddo.” I scoop Sarah off her feet and balance her on my shoulder.

  “Be careful of her.”

  “What?” I turn to look at Nikki, waiting for some last-minute motherly admonition. She has dropped the sponge into the sink and now stands staring directly at me.

  “Watch yourself. She’s not to be trusted.”

  Her words strike like a thunderbolt when I realize that Nikki is talking not about our daughter, but about the woman, whom to my recollection she has met only twice in her life—Talia Potter.

  My Saturday-morning sojourns to the park with my daughter do double duty. As she scampers up the ladder and down the slide I do pull-ups on the monkey bars, and push-ups in the sand. It’s a cheap standin for my canceled membership at the athletic club, one of many luxuries now gone, the price of contributing to the support of two households. We move through the ritual, twenty minutes on the swings, five or six trips up and down the slide, and then it’s off to the ice cream parlor a dozen blocks away.

  I usher Sarah out of the playground and close the Cyclone gate to keep the other little inmates from escaping. As I turn, I see her.

  “Damn it.”

  Sarah’s wandered off the concrete and is up to her ankles in mud, an adventure spawned by a leaking sprinkler head.

  “Your mother’s gonna kill me.” I’m on her, but it’s too late. Her legs and lower torso are a thousand points of mud, courtesy of the hydraulics of two stamping little feet.

  “—I told you once, Madriani, a long time ago, a little more light, a little less heat. You’ll live longer.”

  It’s a voice from the past, lost in the tangle of a towering fern. I crane my neck. There, behind the plant, I see a ghost seated on a bench; he has a familiar smile, but the face is pale and drawn. Marginally recognizable, Sam Jennings, the man who hired me a dozen years ago to be a prosecutor in this county, looks up at me, a twinkle in his eye.

  He rises from the bench.

  “Good to see you again, Paul. Yours?” He nods toward Sarah.

  “Yes.”

  Her condition by now is hopeless. She has smeared the mud on her upper legs with her hands.

  “How old?” he asks.

  “Three.”

  “And a half,” Sarah chimes in, holding up three fingers.

  Jennings laughs. He stoops low to look her in the eyes. “I once had little girls just about your age.”

  Sarah is all round eyes. “What happened to them?”

  “They grew up.”

  I’ve missed this man grea
tly since leaving his fold and joining Potter, Skarpellos. I have on more than one occasion since my ouster from the firm considered calling him, but have thought better of delivering my problems to the doorstep of a sick man. When he called to ask me to attend Danley’s execution in his place, I knew how ill he really was. Sam isn’t the kind to ask people to do something he’s unwilling to do himself.

  His skin has the pallor of paraffin. Radiation and the ravages of chemistry have taken their toll. I tower over this man who was once my equal in physical stature. He is stooped and withered like straw following a rainstorm. A condition, I suspect, rendered not so much by the cancer that invades his body as by the clinical horrors that pass for a cure. It is, by all appearances, a losing battle.

  Our eyes follow Sarah, whose attention has been caught by a gray squirrel making for one of the trees. Her condition is hopeless. I let her go. I will simply have to absorb Nikki’s tongue-lashing later.

  Sam Jennings is, by nature, an affable man. His countenance has all the appearances of a face well stamped from birth with an abiding smile. But there are those who learned too late that this is an aspect of his character that belies an acquired predatory sense. For in his thirty years as chief prosecutor for this county and in the early decades of his tenure, Samuel Jennings, for crimes well deserved, sent a half-dozen men to their final peace in the state’s gas chamber.

  “See any of the old crowd?” I ask.

  “I suppose that’s one of the benefits of leaving voluntarily instead of getting your ass kicked in an election. You can stop by the office every once in a while. Even so,” he says, “Nelson doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Who knows. Maybe he thinks my being there is going to crimp his management style. Hell, look at me. What’s he think, I’m gonna run against him?”

  “Maybe he thinks you might plant the idea elsewhere,” I say. “Maybe with one of his deputies.”

  “Who, me?” he says. There’s a lot of feigned innocence here. I can tell that this scenario is not original with me, unless I’ve misread the twinkle in his eye. He’s probably been solicited for an endorsement. I wonder who in the office it is, who will be fingered to step out on the ledge with Nelson on election day, to try to nudge him off. Nelson was appointed to fill the vacancy left when Sam retired. Now he has to earn his spurs in the next election.