She lifted the receiver. A dial tone stung her ear.
She saw that the phone had an automatic redial button. Which meant the last outgoing call would still be registered.
Curious, she pressed the button. The phone blipped. There was lag, and then a phone rang. Once. Twice.
“Hi there.” The woman’s voice was recorded. “I welcome your call. No one is home at present—please leave your name, your number, the date and time of your call, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
There was a beep.
“I’m sorry. I must have dialed a wrong number.” Anne disconnected.
She studied the cabin phone bill and saw that one number in Manhattan—a 427 exchange—had been dialed the same dates as the obscene calls. She tapped it into the keypad.
Two rings. “Hi there.” It was the answering machine that she had just spoken to. She hung up.
Now she studied the house phone bill. Calls to two New York City numbers—an 831 and a 929—had been made from the house on the same dates that the obscene calls had been made from the cabin. The 929 number always followed the 831.
She dialed the 831 number. “Hello.” A man’s voice, genially gruff. “You have reached the answering machine of Judge Robert MacLeod. Please leave a message at the sound of the—”
Anne pressed the disconnect bar and dialed the 929 number.
At the fourth ring a machine clicked on. “Hello, you have reached the residence of Gina Bernheim. If you have a message for the judge, please—”
A woman’s voice cut in live: “Hello? Hello?”
Anne’s finger came down sharply and broke the connection.
“So Bob MacLeod’s a judge,” Anne said. “State or federal?”
Leon’s thumb tapped lightly across a dark stripe in the afghan. “Federal. Southern district of New York.”
“Have you represented any clients before him?”
“I don’t have clients anymore.”
“Then what’s your business with Gina Bernheim?”
A startled look flashed across his face and then he covered it. “Gina and I are old chums.”
She knew there had to be more to it than that. “You phoned MacLeod and Bernheim the same nights those obscene calls were made. But you phoned from the house, not the cabin.”
Leon shrugged. “It’s a free country. I’ll use whichever damned phone I want and I’ll say whatever I want.” He thumbed his nose.
“I suppose the calls have something to do with your pro bono work?”
“What pro bono?”
“You said you’re doing some pro bono.”
“No, I didn’t.” He drew the afghan up to his waist and patted it smooth over the sofa. “Though from the looks of things I may have to consider representing myself. Which would be extremely pro bono.”
Anne felt a shaming surge of jealousy. For as long as she could recall, her father had been involved with one client or another who took precedence over his family’s needs—an atomic spy, a Hollywood black-listee, a Weathergirl protesting Vietnam with an Uzi and killing two Chicano bank guards.
“And you’ve engineered the perfect free-speech case. Dirty phone calls to the homes of five of the most distinguished lawyers in the nation.” She shook a handful of phone bills at his face. “With all the trouble you have walking, you still managed to drag yourself up to that cabin just—”
“It’s not a crime, you know, telling a pretty girl she’s pretty. Brandeis decided that issue once and for all.”
“Leon, this isn’t the forties—this is the nineties—society has changed.” She felt anger now, compounded with an instinctive desire to protect this irresponsible old genius who happened to be her father. “There’s a thing called sexual harassment. There are laws against it.”
He shrugged. “I’d like to argue against a few of those laws in the Supreme Court. The telephone is still protected speech. The government can’t listen in, and they can’t censor it.”
“Then you admit you called those girls?”
“I’m under no legal obligation to give out that information to any government. Or to any daughter.”
“For God’s sake, you’re not in court. I’m trying to help.”
“It’s a little late for help.” He stared past her, out the window into the darkness. “None of this would have happened if you’d taken the time to come see me a little more often.”
She flinched at the old familiar attempt to arouse guilt. “If you want a daughter’s company, why don’t you ask Kyra to visit?”
Leon shot her a tight, judgmental look. “Kyra does visit. But she has a child to look after, and a career. You don’t have a career. You don’t have children.”
He was as good as saying that her work didn’t matter; didn’t stack up to her sister’s. It wasn’t the first time he’d made the comparison. She turned and walked to the door.
“Anne.”
She stopped but did not turn.
“I’m redrawing my will. Leaving the bulk to a foundation to fund worthy legal defenses. And setting up an annuity for Tim. He’s a good young man. He keeps me company, which is more than some people do. Would you be interested in acting as executor?”
She couldn’t remember the number of times Leon had redrawn his will. The drafts all had a common denominator: a fortune to this foundation or that, pittances to the daughters just large enough to ward off disinheritance suits. She suspected he’d already offered the executor position to Kyra and she’d turned it down.
“It’s sweet of you to think of me, Leon.”
“You’d get expenses and you could bill the estate for your time—on a reasonable basis. Does a hundred an hour seem equitable? Up to thirty hours work a year? Above that pro bono?”
“I really don’t have a legal mind. You’d better get someone who does.”
Tim Alvarez intercepted her at the front door. He was wearing an apron and his face was shaken. “Aren’t you staying for dinner? I just put in a third lobster. Your dad so rarely has company.”
“No, I’m not staying to dinner—if that selfish old fraud wants company he can advertise for it.”
“Please don’t leave angry. Leon’s old, he doesn’t always know what he’s saying.”
“He knows exactly what he’s saying and he’s been saying it all his life. Legal Genius at Work. Do Not Disturb. Well, I have no intention of disturbing him.”
EIGHT
9:10 P.M.
ANNE PUSHED THE BUZZER. Juliana opened the door in bare feet, a spatula in one hand.
“Hi. Want some fish fingers?”
“No, thanks. I want to speak to Kyra.”
Juliana turned and shouted. “Kyra—your sister’s here!”
Anne followed her into the kitchen. Juliana flipped a spatulaful of battered fish fillets into a hissing skillet.
“Hey, Aunt Anne, do you think Max is sick?” Toby sauntered into the kitchen with the cat draped over one forearm. The animal’s nonjudgmental eyes observed Anne with a watery shimmer.
“He doesn’t look any too happy.”
Toby reached into a box of breakfast cereal and pulled out a fistful of flakes. He let the cat nibble from his hand.
“What are you feeding him?” Juliana said.
“Organic almond-date breakfast oats.”
“That stuff’s no good for a cat.”
“Why not? It’s good for me.”
“Says who?”
“Says the back of the box.”
A piece of fish was belching black emission. Juliana pried it quickly away from the skillet. “You’re the ideal capitalist consumer, Einstein—a complete dupe.”
Anne handed Toby his grandfather’s package. “Leon sent you this.”
Toby set the cat down and pulled off the tissue paper. He had a look of caution unmistakably edged with suspicion. “It’s A Boy’s Life of Justice Louis Brandeis.”
Kyra floated into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe and eye shadow. She trailed a scent of
lilac bath oil. “Hi, Sis. How was jury?”
“Tim Alvarez said you were too busy to see Leon today.”
Kyra shrugged. “What was the problem?”
Anne glanced at Toby. It wasn’t the sort of thing she felt comfortable discussing in front of a child. “Apparently Leon’s been making annoying phone calls.”
Kyra crossed to the refrigerator and poured herself a tumbler of white wine. “Who to, besides you and me?”
“Daughters of lawyers he’s pleaded with in Supreme Court. Young women. These were—you know, dirty phone calls.”
Kyra brought her glass to the table. “And are Leon’s little victims going to prosecute?”
“Not if he signs a consent order and promises to stop.”
“Will he?”
“You’ve always had more influence with him than I have.”
“You expect me to persuade him?”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Oh, sure, I want every dreary detail.”
Anne stared at her sister. “They say that extreme changes in behavior can be a sign of Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s been goofy ever since Mom went.” Kyra sighed. “I was hoping his work would pull him out of it.”
“He hasn’t got any work. All he has is you and me.”
“He has that case,” Toby said. “The amicus brief.”
Anne glanced at her nephew. “What brief is that, Toby?”
“The case he won. Mathis v. Doe.”
“He never mentioned any amicus brief to me. And he certainly never mentioned winning any case’”
“It was pro bono.” Kyra’s tone was dismissive. “No big deal.”
“A parolee in some redneck state broke parole and moved to New York.” Toby stuffed a forkload of fish into his mouth. “The home state wanted him back. But if he went back, he faced punishment that Leon said was against the New York constitution. So the issue was, did New York have to return him? Leon said no.”
“And what was Doe’s original crime?” Anne said.
“The usual tabloid merde.” Kyra had a calm little smile. “Something to do with child molestation.”
Anne frowned. “That doesn’t sound like anything Leon would defend.”
Juliana poured herself a glass of iced tea and wine. “Sounds to me as though your father’s had his mind on this stuff for so long, he’s started mixing work and recreation.”
“It’s not a joke,” Anne snapped, surprising herself with the fierceness in her own voice.
“Lighten up,” Kyra said. “It’s all very sad, but it’s water under the bridge.”
“Maybe if Leon had more visits,” Anne said, “and didn’t feel so isolated, he’d have an incentive to keep out of trouble.”
Kyra looked wounded. “I do my best—but I do have a job, and a family.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Could we have this talk in private?”
Anne followed her sister to her bedroom. “You certainly made a hit with a lot of people in court.”
“Oh, really?” Kyra cocked her head to the side. “Like who?”
“That pretty girl who runs the football betting. She seems to think you’ve got the makings of a good customer.”
“Lara. She’s a kook, isn’t she?”
“And you obviously did something to make Donna Scomoda adore you.”
“Oh, God. That hair.” She handed Anne a small prescription bottle.
“What are these?” Anne studied the label. Phendomenzapan tartrate.
“For you. They’re not habit-forming and you work straight through the night and get wonderful ideas. I use them every time I’ve got a deadline. The whole office swears by them. Great for weight control, too.”
“Why would I need pills?”
“For jury duty.”
“But, Kyra—didn’t you get my message?”
“Message?”
“The jury’s sequestered and I’ve got work to do. I’m not going back.”
“We had an agreement, Annie. You can’t back out now.”
“I agreed to substitute for you for one day. Today. Period.”
Kyra’s face seemed to say, Is there anyone in the world who does desperation as well as I do? “But I haven’t got anyone else to help me. Who’ll take care of Toby?”
“Juliana.”
Kyra lowered her voice. “She takes drugs—and it’s getting worse.”
Anne could hear the bonk of Toby’s bouncing a tennis ball off one of the apartment walls.
“Toby, cut it out!” Kyra screamed. She dropped onto the edge of the bed. After a moment her eyes came up, wounded and reproachful. “Of all the times you could possibly choose to let me down, this is the absolute worst. With Toby’s custody hearing and this shake-up at work … What if I lose my job? What if I lose Toby? Catch was an abusive husband and he’ll be just as abusive a father.”
“Sweetie, sweetie.” Anne had a sensation of arrows going into her lungs. “Mark phoned Catch and postponed the hearing. Why can’t you be realistic? Why do you have to project worst-case scenarios?”
“You haven’t got anything urgent that needs doing, have you? I mean really urgent? I’ll pay you a hundred a day for as long as the trial takes.”
“Stop it. Please. Money isn’t the point. It’s illegal and we could both wind up in jail.”
“Mark says they’re only jailing violent offenders. And you need money and why shouldn’t I help you—you’ve always helped me. Please, Annie?”
Anne considered the options. She was desperately low on cash. And her adjustable mortgage had gone up again. And New York City wanted twenty-six thousand dollars. With Kyra’s pills, she might be able to finish that TV movie tonight. She hated to take her sister’s money, but the fact was, Kyra was rich and Anne was flat broke.
“Please, Annie.” Kyra began crying softly. “I need you.”
Anne felt the old familiar knives twisting inside her. She realized it wasn’t a question of deciding. It was a question of accepting what had to be done. “Don’t be a silly baby. Of course I’ll help you. On one condition: Could you feed the goldfish and water my plants?”
“I’ll water them with champagne.”
Oh, God. She probably will. “Plain water—please.”
Anne’s mailbox was stuffed with junk mail. Riding up in the elevator, she glanced through the return addresses. She recognized appeals for contributions from spokesmen for orphans, for the homeless, for Channel Thirteen; a half dozen offers of unwanted charge cards; and a slender envelope from the New York City Department of Finance, stamped THIRD AND FINAL NOTICE. Notice was spelled “notce.”
She let herself into the apartment, hung up her raincoat over the bathtub, and fed the goldfish. One seemed to be trying to swim upside down.
There was a message on the answering machine—a hurry-up call from her producer. “Where’s the tape? The sponsors want to see the finished reels ASAP.”
She put the last of the vegetarian lasagne in the microwave and sat down at her worktable. A message on the computer monitor indicated she had e-mail. She called up the file.
Tuesday Sept 17:
Hi Aunt Anne!
It was fun seeing you.
Mom says you’re saving her life. I have a question though: why does Mom’s life always need saving? Yours never needs saving. Not criticizing, just wondering.
Let’s see a movie soon. Just you and me.
Iove you
XXX
Toby
She entered Toby’s electronic mail address and typed a reply.
Hi Toby-
It was fun seeing you too. “Saving life” is a figure of speech. Your mom has helped me out of some very close scrapes.
I’d love to see a movie with you—I’ll be pretty busy for the next few weeks. How about next month? But please, no more kick-boxing! Hope Max feels better soon.
lots of love
A.
She entered the command to send. While her modem quietly clicked and
buzzed, she loaded her Scoremaestro program.
The biggest scene still to be scored was the final sequence—the lovers’ decision to part and return to their respective spouses. Renunciation seemed to be a big theme in TV movies this season, like cancer two seasons back. Anne tried different keyboard stops, looking for a sound that suggested faith without being churchy or pompous. Finally she opted for a series of floating hymnlike chords played on an alto harmonica. She edged them in echo and laid a subliminal pulse underneath, like a heartbeat.
A bell in the kitchen summoned her. She stopped the VCR and took her lasagne out of the microwave. While she ate, she studied Leon’s AT&T bills. The calls highlighted in pink had come out gray on the photocopies.
She got the phone directory and consulted the map of area codes and time zones. The 203 number was Connecticut, the 912 Georgia. The hands of the electric clock on the wall pointed to eleven-thirty—too late to phone East Coast numbers.
The 214 number was Texas, probably Dallas. Texas was central time; it was only ten-thirty there. She lifted the phone and dialed.
Ten rings. No pickup.
The 312 number was Chicago. Central time again.
Four rings. An answering machine picked up. The woman’s voice in the recorded message had a young quality. “And please remember to wait for that signal.”
There was a beep.
“I’m sorry to trouble you.” Anne’s throat was suddenly very dry. “My name is Anne Bingham. I’m Leon Brandsetter’s daughter. I need to speak with the person who received a nuisance call from my father. It’s urgent.” She left her number. “Thank you.”
The fifth number—213—was Los Angeles. It was only 8:30 out on the West Coast. She dialed.
“Hello?” A man with broad, Brahmin vowels.
“Hello—I’m sorry to trouble you. My name is Anne Bingham.”
“Yes?”
“I’m Leon Brandsetter’s daughter.”
The voice froze. “What do you want?”
She felt a quick skid into shame. “My father apparently made nuisance calls to your home?”
“Apparently?”
“I’d like to discuss those calls with the person who received them.”
“Mrs. Bingham—your father has done trailblazing work in American jurisprudence. I have great respect for his accomplishments. But he’s obviously become a very sick, twisted person. If you or any of your family call my home again I give you my word I shall prosecute him to the full extent of the law and see him jailed for what he did to my daughter.” The phone slammed down.
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