The Fall

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  By the time the elevator door opened, Joanne was light-headed with rage. She stepped around Paul Minorini without making eye contact, and out into the hall. A stainless steel plaque on the wall told her where to go to report in, and she turned toward the courtroom with the FBI agent following.

  Three men in charcoal-gray suits and power ties blocked the doorway. One of them, a man who looked about forty, detached himself from the knot and came toward her. “Mrs. Lessing?”

  “Ms. Lessing.”

  “Ms. Lessing. Sorry. I’m US Attorney Aaron Mercer. I’ll be taking you through your testimony.” He held his hand out to shake.

  Joanne ignored it. Mercer seemed startled. After a long moment he dropped the hand and looked pointedly at Paul Minorini who was standing on the elevator side of the group. The agent shrugged.

  A fourth man, older than the others, had been hidden by the group. He stepped close to Joanne and said, “Ms. Lessing? I’m Carl Norman. Mr. Rage asked me to represent your interests. Could we—” He jerked his head toward the far end of the corridor. “Talk?”

  Joanne followed him down the hall, where she told him the whole story.

  “Mercer will ask you questions,” Norman told her. “Or he’ll ask you to tell the judge your story.”

  “Do I have to tell it?”

  “The only grounds on which you could refuse to testify is to avoid self-incrimination. And since you haven’t committed any crime, you can’t plead the Fifth.”

  “What if I refuse on the grounds that the mob will kill me if I talk?”

  “The judge will order you to talk and offer to put you in the witness protection program. You said you won’t consider that. Why on earth?”

  “I have a life, Mr. Norman.”

  “Well, if this man they want to wiretap really is connected, you won’t for long.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “But it’s the law.”

  “What if I just refuse to talk?”

  “The judge will jail you for contempt until you testify. And I doubt the mob would trust you to accept an indefinite stay in County. Even in solitary you wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Then I have no choice?” In her head she heard her own voice telling Sean, “You always have a choice,” mocking her.

  Norman shook his head.

  “Why did you bother to come?”

  “If they ask you anything irrelevant or anything of a personal nature, I’ll object. And the judge will probably sustain me. He’s known for being scrupulously fair.”

  The courtroom reminded her of a chapel—dark, paneled walls, subdued lighting with spots on the main altar, but with a US flag and the seal of the Northern District Court instead of a cross. The sanctuary was divided from the spectators by the first row of pews, and the acolytes positioned themselves between two marble-topped tables within it. A man in a suit sat behind a dark wood partition before the bench, paying no attention to the federal lawyers. And on the bench, the judge was already seated.

  If the room resembled a chapel, the judge was an inquisitor in his black robes. He was a big man, old and heavyset, with a stern expression. He moved only his mouth and his eyes.

  Mercer and his cronies put their files on one of the two tables. Norman led Joanne to the other and held a chair for her to sit in, then took a seat himself. Agents Minorini and Haskel stood at attention, like sentries, by the door behind the jury box.

  After a few moments, Mercer asked the judge if he’d like to “do this in chambers.”

  “No,” the judge said. “Just lock the doors.” They waited while one of Mercer’s junior partners walked back and complied. Then the judge said, “Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Mercer?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Mercer called Joanne to the witness stand and swore her in. He started a series of stilted questions: “Were you, on the morning of November 1, in the area of…” etc. They seemed silly to Joanne, and must have to the judge as well because he finally said, “Just let the lady tell her story, Mercer.”

  Joanne looked up at him and thought she saw him wink. What she saw for sure was that the judge had one hand gripped tightly in the other and both were trembling slightly. He must have thought she was staring because he frowned, then said, “Just tell me what you saw.”

  When Lessing had finished testifying, there was a long, uncomfortable silence, broken when she asked, “Your Honor, may I go?”

  “If there are no further questions, certainly.”

  Lessing looked at Mercer. He shook his head. She got off the stand and walked over to confer with her lawyer, seated at the defendant’s table.

  Minorini would’ve stayed where he was—the back of the jury box—if Haskel hadn’t followed her when she went out.

  Minorini entered the hall in time to hear him say, “Ms. Lessing.”

  Joanne stopped. Haskel held out an 8x10 of Albert Siano, one of the autopsy photos taken from an angle that showed off the bullet holes.

  “Just so we’re on the same page, this is what this guy does to people!”

  Joanne reacted as if someone had handed her a snake. Then she seemed to recover. “If you had proof of that, you wouldn’t need my testimony.”

  “These people don’t go to trial,” Haskel said. “One way or another, nobody testifies against them.”

  “Because they kill people?”

  “Not just that. The way things are, if you go to court and testify you lose. Even if we win, you lose.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Hancock was setting up his lights by the time Joanne arrived. Jan had finished Rita’s makeup, and Rita was glowing.

  She seemed curiously nervous, Joanne thought. This must be more important to her than she cared to let on. When she spotted Joanne, she brightened and relaxed. “You changed your mind?”

  “No. I’m just here to watch.”

  “Watch and learn,” Hancock said.

  Joanne laughed.

  Hancock removed his suit jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves to the elbows. Like a symphony conductor, he began to direct Rita’s every movement without ever touching her, all the time stooping or stretching, walking backward, or pushing invasively close to get his shots.

  “Relax, darling. These are stills, not videos. Let’s have a smile. Very nice. Now the one you make when you’ve got Rick tied in knots.”

  Rita gave him a murderous glare; he snapped it and said, “My God, don’t smile. You’ll crack your face!”

  Hancock recorded surprise, a laugh, then irritation as she processed his suggestion and tried to foil his intention by not smiling.

  Joanne only half-paid attention as Hancock shot off three more rolls. Rita followed his instructions tentatively at first, then with greater and greater enthusiasm until they both seemed to have forgotten Joanne.

  When he had used up the film in all four of his cameras, Hancock told Rita to take a break.

  She came over to where Joanne was sitting. “You set this up!” Joanne didn’t bother to deny it. “Why?” Rita answered for herself. “To get rid of me!”

  Joanne grinned. “Let’s say we thought your energy might be more productively directed.”

  Hancock rolled his eyes.

  “When will the pictures be ready?” Rita asked him.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! You haven’t heard of One Hour Photo?”

  Hancock stopped. “If that’s what you want, why don’t you go to one of those snapshot kiosks and take a strip of passport photos? You could blow them up yourself at Walgreens.”

  Rita flushed.

  “Hancock!” Joanne found herself close to shouting. He turned and stared at her. She ignored him. “Rita,” she said. “We have other clients. And contracts with deadlines. And when you’re paying for your portraits—I’m sure you understand…”

  “I understand Mr. Hancock’s forte is photography, not diplomacy.”

  Touché!

  “Shall we continue?” Hancock asked. “Give me a look l
ike a cat watching a bird.”

  Rita looked at him and widened her eyes.

  “Very good. Now, imagine I’m from the IRS, here to see your books. Now I’m the man you love most in the world. Turn. Now your fantasy lover is coming through the door.”

  At this point, May entered, and Rita guffawed. Hancock said, “Whoops!” and blushed.

  In confusion, May looked from Rita to Hancock to Joanne, which caused Rita to laugh more heartily.

  Hancock recorded everything.

  “Joanne,” May finally said, with annoyance in her tone. “Rick wants you.”

  “How’s it going with the Bitch Goddess?” Rick asked.

  “Rita’s sensational. And you’d better watch your mouth or we’ll be back to square one.”

  He held his hands up in an “I surrender” gesture. Then he put them down and asked seriously, “How did it go with the Feds?”

  She shrugged. She felt like the heroine in one of those woman-in-danger thrillers. Bad melodrama. Only she wasn’t Julia Roberts and her nemesis hadn’t presented her with an overt threat.

  “Mr. Norman seems to think that we’ll have to go into the witness protection program if they bring Dossi to trial.”

  She remembered how up Sean had been when they came home from the farm. “Does Grandma have to sell it?” he’d asked. After today, it was denial not to break the news. Maybe she should just give up and start planning…

  No! Then she’d have to give up photography. And Sean would have to start over in a new school, and abandon the extended family he’d finally come to appreciate. No way! She’d shoot Dossi first!

  Rick said, “Shit!”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to get back. I’ll keep you posted.”

  On the train, on her way home, Joanne thought about the day. The anger that had propelled her from the courtroom in a white heat still made it hard for her to think straight. She had to go to Naperville in the morning to set up a shoot for an advertising layout. She should have asked Rick to cancel. She hoped the Feds had fixed her car. If not, she would have to cancel.

  She remembered the rifle in her hope chest. Hope.

  When it was her father’s, she’d ignored the gun. But now that it was hers, she could feel it exerting a subtle pressure to settle her differences with Dossi permanently. Why not use the definitive solution?

  My God! What am I thinking?…

  That was the trouble with guns, why private citizens shouldn’t have them. The knowledge that it was there stopped you from thinking of a better way to solve things. And if you didn’t plan to use it, you wouldn’t be ready if you needed to. And only the police were trained to plan.

  She wished she could ask Paul Minorini about it, but then he might suspect about the gun. Then she would have to stop fantasizing that it would save her life.

  Thirty

  She was already ten minutes late when she and Sean flew out of the house. Ten minutes late, ten to drop Sean, twenty-five or thirty to get to the shoot, twenty more to get set up. Damn! And the car was furry with frost.

  Her gloved fingers fumbled for the right key, and the key slid off the lock twice before it found the keyhole. Upside down. Damn. Damn.

  “Hurry up, Mom. I’m freezing!”

  Joanne suppressed a retort as she opened the door and dropped her camera bag on the middle of the seat. She reached over and unlocked Sean’s door. She had the key in the ignition before she remembered her promise not to drive another foot without first checking the oil. This time she said “Damn!” aloud. “I forgot to check the oil.”

  “Can’t you check it after work?”

  “Like I was going to do yesterday? Anyway, we can’t go till the windows are scraped, so you can do that while I check.” She flipped open the camera bag and grabbed the package of lens papers, then pulled the hood release. Sean reluctantly took up the scraper. He started working with a haste spurred by cold.

  The hood hinges groaned. Nothing in the engine compartment was distinguishable in the half-light. Cold seeped through Joanne’s pants, prickling the skin of her thighs. She shivered and hurried to get the flashlight from her camera case. She had to do a little dance to avoid colliding with Sean as he rounded the car to get the driver’s side window. He finished the window by the time she’d located the dipstick. “Come here, Sean. I want you to learn how to do this.”

  “Can’t I learn in the summer?”

  She paused long enough to give him a daggers-look, and he shut his mouth tight and joined her. She handed him the light. “Keep it there, please.” She guided his hand until the light was where she needed it. “On the hole where the dipstick goes.”

  Sean shifted his weight from foot to foot but managed to keep the light steady. She didn’t tell him to hold still. Her own feet were burning with cold, and she jigged up and down, in place, as she pulled the dipstick out. She didn’t bother to wipe it; “add oil” could be read clearly above the black, congealed oil. Threading the stick back into place took a freezing eternity.

  She said, “Take off the filler cap, while I get the oil.”

  She started to point, but Sean said, “I know, I know, just hurry.”

  She almost gave it up. It was too cold to be fucking around with the stupid car, too early in the morning. But that’s what she’d said last time she drove it, when she’d only suspected the car needed oil. Tomorrow morning probably wouldn’t be any warmer. And she couldn’t afford a new motor.

  When she had the stuff out of the trunk, she put the keys back in the ignition so she wouldn’t lose them, and fumbled with the cap on the container.

  Sean was playing the flashlight beam around the engine compartment. “What’s that?” he asked. He pointed at an off-white mass of what appeared to be glazier’s putty stuck with wires on the back of the engine.

  Jesus Christ! A bomb!

  “Sean, get away from the car!”

  “What?”

  “Just get away! Now!” She looked up and down the street, as if whoever did this might be waiting around to watch the fireworks. No one.

  Sean said, “That looks like a bomb or something. What’s going on?”

  Joanne stepped around to lift her camera case from the seat and to reach for the keys. Better not! There must be a limit to how far their luck would hold. “Sean, have you got your keys?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then let’s go.” She half-ran towards the house, forcing Sean to turn and run ahead of her. The terror she was feeling must have been apparent, because Sean began to move with the urgency of near-panic, fumbling with haste. He got the key in the lock and said, “Mom, what is it?!”

  “Just go! Get inside!” When the door was safely closed behind them, she said, “Get away from the windows. In fact, come in the kitchen.” The adrenaline rushing through her made her feel lightheaded. She grabbed the phone and punched in 9-1-1. She held her hand up when Sean looked ready to interrupt. One minute.

  “Nine-one-one. Emergency.”

  “Good morning.” Why did she say that? “I think I found a bomb.”

  The squad car pulled up without the fanfare of red, white and blue lights she’d been expecting, and she walked out to meet it, giving her car a wide berth.

  The officer got out and put on his hat. “You the lady with the bomb?” He wasn’t successfully hiding his amusement.

  She pointed towards the car. “Yes. On the motor.”

  “You’d better stay back.” He almost sniggered. He walked over to the car and began a perfunctory examination. She could tell when he spotted the bomb—his whole body expressed his surprise—and he hurried back to grab his radio mike. “Guess what?” he told the dispatcher. “The lady’s got a real bomb!”

  “I’m Sergeant Amis. Maybe you’d better tell me what happened.”

  “I told the other officer…”

  “I know. We like to get it more than once.”

  She told him.

  “You got any enemies?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Non
e that she could name.

  “You owe anybody?”

  “Just the bank.”

  “They usually just repossess things. How about work? Any trouble there?”

  “The sort of people I deal with would probably just kill me on the spot if they were that mad.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “I don’t have a husband.”

  “You got an ex?”

  “Yeah, but we’re on good terms.”

  “Maybe you’d better give me his name and address. Maybe he’s got someone trying to kill him.”

  “It couldn’t just be a mistake? The wrong address or something?”

  “It looks like a professional job.” he said. “Pros don’t make that kind of mistake.”

  She couldn’t resist. “Are you sure? I mean, who’d know?”

  “Good point, but are you willing to take the chance?”

  When Detective Gray arrived, he was furious that he hadn’t been notified immediately, and brusque to the point of rudeness. “It never occurred to you that this might be connected with that mob hit you witnessed?”

  It had, but she said, “I didn’t witness anything but a hit-and-run fender-bender.”

  “Yeah.” He turned to the man with him, another detective, Joanne surmised. “Get that Fed on the phone—Minorini.”

  “I called him already,” Joanne said, “while we were waiting for the bomb squad.”

  “I don’t hate to say I told you so,” Special Agent Haskel said. “I told you so! These people don’t kid around.”

  He was standing in her kitchen with Paul Minorini, facing her across the counter. Detective Gray and Sergeant Amis stood at either end of the counter and let Haskel do the talking. The bomb squad had disposed of the bomb and hauled her car away. Sean was in his room.

  “How did they find out about me?” Joanne demanded.

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”