'*Mr. Paikinson, in making this admission, do you believe you are jeopardizing your career as an attorney?**
"I do. But the trufli is more important. I made an error of judgment, and I owe it to the memory of Owen Salinger, and to his family, to do eveiything in my power to rectify it. As
Judith Michael
long as I know that my client, old, paralyzed, not competent, was badgered into changing his will— *'
**Objection!" Rollins roared again. "Witness doesn't *know* anything of the sort; these are wild fantasies!"
"Sustained," the judge said. 'The jury will disregard the witness's last statement."
"You thought he seemed . . ." Cheyne prompted.
"Badgered," Parkinson said. "I concluded—and the doctors told me they saw this often in patients who had been powerful businessmen—that Mr. Salinger, a man accustomed to being in control, was confused because he didn't know what to do about his loss of control. He was old and helpless and sick, vulnerable to anyone who abused him or made him comfortable. Miss Fairchild did both, and in the end he was like a baby who learns to obey in order to be kept warm and comfortable— seemed," he added hastily as he saw Rollins about to object again. "I didn't realize any of that—^I thought he was afraid of dying—who wouldn't be?—but I now know — believe — there was far more to it, far more. I believe he was not given a moment's peace—not allowed to die in peace—and I cannot tell you how deeply I regret my failure in not seeing it soon enough to spare him and his family untold grief. . . ."
Parkinson had not looked at Laura; now he swung his glare on her like a spotlight. Behind Laura, Felix rigidly looked the other way. Allison was crying. Leni closed her eyes and sat swaying slightly, as if she might fall. The air conditioning in the courtroom hissed; the outside temperature was close to a hundred degrees, and Laura shivered.
"Fucking bastard," Rollins muttered, losing the last of his Bostonian control. 'They must have paid him enough to retire a dozen times over, to make him risk his career. . . . Admitting he wrote a document for a man he thought incompetent . . . cause for disbarment unless they believe his story . . . Bastard. Fucking, greedy bastard."
By the time Laura testified, she was sure they had lost. She sat rigidly in the witness chair and told again about the love she and Owen had found with each other. Her fists were clenched to stop her trembling, but she did not cry. The jury was waiting, everyone was waiting, for her to cry, but she
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could not. She looked small and vulnerable, and deep inside she was twisted with tears and pain, but her face was like stone. She's cold, the jurors thought. No feelings.
"Miss Fairchild," Rollins said after they had gone through the story of her years with Owen, "did you at any time intend to defraud or harm Owen Salinger in any way?"
"No!" she cried. "I loved him! I didn't even think about him leaving me anything in his will because I didn't want to think of hum dying. I didn't want to think about it! And he wasn't a baby, he didn't act like a baby, he acted like a loving man who loved me and cared about me even when he was dying! He caied about me! And I cared about him! And no one has a right to try to destroy what he was!" She stared at the family. "And the way all of us remember him!"
When Cheyne began his cross-examination, his voice was very soft. "N^ss Fairchild, you were convicted of theft some years ago."
"Yes."
"You were a thief."
"We were poor and I was very young and I stole some-tunes, but I didn't like it; I—"
"Just answer the questions. Miss Fairchild— '*
"I didn't want to be a thief! I wanted to change, and go to college and make something of my—^"
"Miss Fairchild!"
"I'm sorry. But you make it sound—^"
The judge leaned over. "I must warn you. Miss Fairchild, to confine yourself to answering counsel's questions."
Laura looked at him in contempt. He didn't care about the truth; he didn't care about her. "Yes," she said coldly.
"Now, Miss Fairchild," Cheyne said, as softly as before, "I believe you once knew a bookseller named Cal Hendy."
Small events of the past, the acts of a lifetime, done unthinkingly, without regard to tomorrow or next year—and long after we forget them, they appear like green shoots pushing through the earth, to change our lives.
Laura answered all the questions in a level voice, telling everything she had told Rollins. Cheyne never asked about Ben; she had been sure he would not. There was no mention of him in her records. Even in her high school files, she had
Judith Michael
listed a neighbor as her guardian because Ben thought, as he did later when she was arrested, that the city wouldn't let an unmarried young man be guardian for his brother and sister. And the building they had lived in had been torn down and the landlord had gone off, no one knew where. New Yoiic had a way of swallowing people up; it had swallowed Ben Gardner and no one knew of his existence.
At last Carver Cheyne gave his final summation. Standing close to the jury, he reviewed all the pieces with which he built his case of theft and deception, and then he lowered his voice until it sounded like a rumble of fate. 'Think of your parents. Each of you: think of your parents as they are or were. Old, tired, wanting only comfort—the comfort they deserve!—as they lie helpless in bed. They have lived a long life—a hard, noble life—and now it is drawing to a close. They have a right to a peaceful end. You have a right to give them a peaceful end. but think! Think of them in the clutches of a clever, ruthless, conniving thief who wears a pretty mask of love and innocence—who comes into your home and steals your parents from you! This woman was a thief who came to steal—and stole! Stole a man from his family—stole his love —broke into the bonds of kinship—and robbed this close-knit family of a sacred tradition! Our society believes that a man works all His life, diligently and lovingly, to build an empire and leave it to his beloved family whole and intact. This is a family's rightful legacy— unless it is stolen! Ladies and gentlemen, a thief sits before you—not only a thief who breaks into the precious sanctity of our homes and makes off with those possessions we lovingly collect over die years, but a thief who robbed the Salinger family of its father when he was too helpless to fight for his loved ones' rights!"
The jury was out for three hours. When they returned, none of the twelve men and women would look at Laura. Rollins put his hand on her arm and she listened to the foreman's loud voice as he read in staccato syllables. "We the jury find for the plaintiff ..."
Rollins let out his breath in a grunt of defeat. Laura sat very stiU.
"Pursuant to the jury's findings," the judge said in a matter-of-fact voice, "the codicil to the will of Owen Salinger is set aside."
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In a flurry, the Salingers left the courtroom. At their head was Felix, the victor, on his way to take possession of his house on Beacon Hill and Owen Salinger's four hotels. Laura watched them, barely aware that the reporter, Yank Bosworth, had cut his way through the crowd and was at her side. *'—a few more questions, okay?"
"Later," she said. She was watching the backs of the Salingers. "Just a few minutes . . ."
He perched on the edge of the table, unwilling to let her get away. "Listen." He waited until she turned to him, her eyes blank. "After this is over, if you ever need me, you know where to find me. You got a raw deal."
She nodded. It seemed so unimportant. She turned again to watch as Leni and Allison disappeared through the door. Rol-hns was watching, too. "We'll appeal," he said to Laura. "We have a good chance. Fm sure of it."
She shook her head. "I won't go through it again."
"Come now, you've done it once; you can do it again. You're not going to tell me you're willing to walk away from here with not a shied of what Owen Salinger left you."
"But I have a great deal that Owen left me." She looked at Rollins, her gaze level and clear. "I've had it all along: his love and what he taught me. And that's all I need to s
tart again and get back the rest of my inheritance."
Chapter 14
EVERY room in the Amsterdam Salinger was full. The hotel swirled with visitors who spoke a dozen languages but shared the paraphernalia of tourists the world over: cameras, maps, guide books, dark glasses, crepe-soled shoes, a nervousness with unfamiliar currency, and running commentaries comparing everything with the way things are back home.
It was the end of August: the height of the season. The Kalverstraat was so crowded that people were carried along, rather than walking, from shop to shop; the daily flower market on the Singel was packed; people stood in line to visit Rembrandt's house; and everything from Shakespeare to striptease in the Leidseplein drew full houses and curtain calls.
"It is what they call in America a madhouse," the concierge told Allison and Patricia, beaming because he had everything under control—and it was his unbelievably good fortune that the daughters of Felix and Asa Salinger had, on the spur of the moment, chosen this busiest of all times to visit the hotel. They would, of course, report to their fathers on all the hotels where they had stayed on their trip through Europe, and the concierge had perfect confidence that the Amsterdam Salinger would get the highest marks of all. 'The rooms are full, the restaurant is full ... but for the Misses Salinger, of course, we have the royal suite.*'
"'And if a king shows up?*' Allison asked.
MO
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"We would put him in tlie furnace room."
Allison laughed, remembering Owen saying that a good concierge was a good politician. I miss Owen, she thought, following the rotund figure of the concierge through the packed lobby. A year ago this month we buried him, and I never knew how much I loved him until he was gone.
She missed Laura, too, but that thought she did not allow herself.
In the living room of their suite, she stood at the window while Patricia opened the bottle of champagne that had been dehvered when they arrived. Below them the river Amstel cut a wide blue swath through the bustling streets and across the concentric rings of tree-lined canals laid out at perfect intervals in ever-widening U*s around the city center. Block after block of closely built buildings of gray stone and red brick, gabled, arched, many-windowed, often with bright orange roofs, stretched to the horizon, and Allison gazed at them, imagining families in each one: loves and hates, joys and fears, marriage and divorce. And none of them knew or cared about Allison Salinger, who had been Allison Wolcott for less than a year and now was right back where she started. At least in her name.
"What shall we doT* she asked abruptiy. "How about a walk throu^ the Walletjes while it's still light?"
Patricia made a face. "Ugly and depressing."
"It*s just a neighbortiood of self-employed women," Allison said mockingly. **And Vm interested even if you're not."
"Don't be cute." Patricia's voice was bored, 'There's nothing interesting about looking at prostitutes sitting in the windows of their rooms, knitting and waiting for customers. I'd rather go to Cafe Reynders and meet some men."
"You mean insteaid of sitting in a window, knitting, you'll go out and grab the men yourself."
"How unpleasant you are," Patricia murmured.
"I know." Allison turned back to the window. Patricia was right: she was being unpleasant, and going to the Walletjes wasn't fim. Watching those women was like staring at caged animals in the zoo. But she didn't want to meet men; she didn't want to shop; there was really nothing she wanted to do.
Judith Michael
Looking out the window, she felt ancient and world weary. It was being married and divorced, she thought; and on top of that finding out that your best friend was a thief who was out to rob your family. And on top of all that, doing your best to help a man—even marrying him!—and then finding out he was uninterested. Even worse, uninteresting.
Patricia was the smart one: nothing seemed to bother her; she never got involved; she just aimed at having a good time. I should be like that, Allison thought. What the hell, you do your best to help people and they don't give a danm. Well, fuck them all; FU be like my cousin and just take care of me for a while.
The trouble was, she hadn't felt young or adventurous for the longest time. She wouldn't be in Europe this minute, running around like a teenage tourist, if her mother hadn't practically ordered her to go. "You've been mooning around for almost a year," Leni had said in June. "It's time for you to rediscover how big the world is. Go somewhere exotic; at least go to Europe. A healthy young woman of twenty-two should be thinking about possibilities, not failures."
And her mother was right. But her mother was always right: cool and competent; in control of her emotions and her whole life. Even when she had wept about Owen, she hadn't been messy; everything about her was elegant and perfect.
"All right," she said briskly to Patricia. "Let's go shopping. And I'll ask the concierge about the grand prix in Zandvoort; I think it's this month. I want to go there, anyway, to the casino."
"Shopping where?"
"PC. Hooftstraat. And then you choose where we go for dinner."
"And then Cafe Reynders."
Allison hesitated. But Leni's voice came back: stop blaming yourself; stop blaming Thad; stop looking for blame. Look for fun instead. Try to have fun.
"Fine," she said. "Why not?"
Other shopping streets in Amsterdam were longer and more famous than PC. Hooftstraat, but Leni had taught Allison, almost from the cradle, to gravitate to the faintly hushed atmosphere that settles like a silken cloak on those rarefied districts
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where nothing is offered that is not the finest the worid can produce, and no salesperson offers it who has not raised atten-tiveness and expertise to an art. For hours she and Patricia browsed in the glittering boutiques where voices were as refined as the atmosphere, and when they returned to the hotel at two in the morning, after dinner and the Cafe, their purchases were waiting for them in their suite: dresses and coats, shoes and silks, purses and jeweb^.
""Allison?" Patricia called suddenly as they undressed in their separate bedrooms. "EHd you see that litde vase I bought in Venice? I had it on the table next to my bed.**
'The maid probably put it away with all your other treasures," Allison said from her room.
"Why would anybody put away a vase?"
"I can't imagine."
Patricia was opening and closing drawers. '^Definitely not here. Somebody stole it.**
Allison appeared in the doorway wearing a nightgown and a satin robe. "You*re sure it*s gone?'*
Patricia gestured at the room and the open bureau drawers.
"It was worth something, wasn*t it?"
"Only about fifteen hundred, but I liked it."
"Fifteen hundred is a lot of money to a lot of people." Allison went to the telephone and dialed the front desk. "This is Miss Salinger, would you please send someone from security to our suite?**
The voice at die other end, young and nervous, turned wary. "Security. Ah, yes, of course. But, please, if you could tell me what is wrong . . ."
"Something is missing from our rooms. I don*t want to discuss it over the telephone; I want someone here. Now."
"Yes, now, of course, but also I will call the director of security; I think it is better— **
"Fine." Allison reached for a pencil. "What is his name?"
"Ben Gardner," said the boy.
Ben had just fallen asleep, his hand loosely cupped around the ample breast of his latest young woman, when the telephone rang beside his bed. "I wouldn't have bothered you,** Albert apologized as soon as he answered, "but someone in
Judith Michael
the royal suite just called—about something being stolen. She said her name was Salinger, and I thought you would want to handle it your— '"
"I would." He was aheady out of bed. "Which Salinger?**
**l don't know; she arrived on the day shift and I didn't take the time to look it up; I thought I should call yo
u first."
"You were right. Tell her TU be there in hadf an hour."
His voice had been steady, but his thoughts were churning. Somediing stolen. Royal suite. Salinger.
He pulled on daric twill pants and a white shirt just back from the laundiy, knotted a somber blue tie at his neck, and grabbed his jacket on the way out the door. The young woman in the bed had not stirred.
Saling^, he thought, unlocking his bicycle. Salinger. Somettdng. Stolen. He bent low, pedaling fiercely through the streets to the nearest taxi stand, the route so familiar he barely noticed it, concentrating on his thoughts.
Theft was a serious problem in hotels the world over, but not here; they'd been lucky or they'd been better than others, or both. He'd been at the Amsterdam Salinger for two years, helping to enlarge the security staff and overseeing the instal-latioo of a new system of door locks and safes in all the rooms. It had been his suggestion that guards be hired to patrol die loading dock—a suggestion that got him the position of director of security when the old director retired. And in those two years, not one major theft had been reported. A few minor (soblems, nK)stly packages taken in the lobby and restaurant, but nothing serious and nothing involving anyone influential. Until now. A Salinger robbed in a hotel where Ben Gardner is director of security.
He locked his bicycle at the taxi station and leaped into the first car in line. At two in the moming the streets were mostly quiet, and it took them only a few minutes to cross the bridges over die series of canals around the Centrum and past the slumbering shops on the Rokin to the Nieuwe Doelenstraat, where the Amsterdam Salinger stood in restored seventeenth-century grandeur. And where the assistant manager stood nervously at the entrance, awaiting him.
"I called Henrik," he said as Ben strode toward the elevators. "His wife said he is sick—^"
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*'ril take care of it/* He kept going, noting that his breath and voice had sounded normal even though his heart still raced. In the elevator he tightened his tie, made sure his suit jacket was smooth and straight, and ran a comb through his hair. At the last minute he took from his inside pocket a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put them on.
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