by Val Bruech
I sank to the floor and buried my face in hands I couldn’t see. “Get me out of here!” I shouted.
As if on cue, I heard a loud thud and the elevator door labored open. I sprang to my feet, opened my mouth to scream for Kevin, then sank back, remembering it could be any one of the other tenants who had more right to be in this room than I did. Whoever the newcomer was, he or she was in no hurry. The elevator closed, but no lights came on. I waited, perfectly still, listening attentively. Uneven footfalls, one normal, the other long and dragging, toiled down the middle aisle directly toward me. I knew all the tenants and none of them limped. Why didn’t he turn on the lights? As the footsteps drew closer, the air grew foul with the stench of something like raw meat left out too long in the hot sun. The visitor drew up even with the entrance of the firm’s area and I shrank back. Even in the absolute dark I was conscious of a looming presence, a shapeless bulkiness. I fought an impulse to gag.
The visitor lumbered past to the back wall, turned left and trudged on. There must be an aisle between the last storage space and the wall. The rotten smell started to recede. There were long, drawn-out rustling sounds followed by a soft moan. Then a tiny click and suddenly classical music filled the basement.
Puzzle solved. It had to be Moses, a street person whom some of us downtowners named after the biblical character because of his flowing white mane and beard. His territory was the southeast corner of Chicago and Van Buren Streets. We’d usually see him on a camp chair with his transistor radio set to WFMT, a Chicago classical station. Once in a while he’d wield an imaginary baton and direct the piece. I’d occasionally toss loose change into his cardboard box, but I don’t think he took in more than ten dollars on his best day. I never gave a thought to where he slept, but now I knew. He probably waited till the lobby of the building was deserted, then caught a free ride down here.
The elevator balked open again. “Sooz!” Kevin shouted.
“Yo! Here I am, right where you left me!”
The music ceased and the lights burst on. Kevin hurried to the cage door, jammed the key in the lock. “You okay?”
“Just peachy,” I lied.
“I told ’em I needed a bathroom break, so I gotta get back quick.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll take the files out one at a time and stash them in my trunk.”
He half nodded then wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
He shrugged and turned back toward the elevator.
“Don’t forget to check on the trial transcript,” I reminded him.
“I’ll figure it out. What about the key?” It was dangling from the lock.
“I’ll bring it to you after I load the car. You can put it back.”
“That’s a plan. Leave it on my desk if I’m still tied up.”
“Right. Dazzle them with your brilliance.”
“More like baffle them with my b.s.” He gave me a thumbs-up and was gone.
I balanced the first file in my arms and rode the elevator up to daylight. I filled my lungs with the chilly spring air and noticed the city had planted flowers in the little plaza between the office and the parking deck. Pink and white geraniums. They were brilliant. Even the dull office buildings seemed to take on different hues at this moment.
It took twenty minutes to transport the three files out of the basement, over to the parking structure, up a flight of stairs and into my trunk. On the final trip, I locked up the storage area and pocketed the key.
“Moses?” I called out.
No answer. I could sense his presence, and my nose knew he was here.
“You can turn your radio back on. I’m leaving now. I won’t tell anybody you’re here.”
I waited a silent minute, wondering—well, hoping—that he would turn the radio on again. I turned to leave when the quiet strains of a Mozart concerto filled the basement. Why did I feel a connection to this street person? Perhaps because Moses, whom we all thought of as somewhat unhinged, and myself, recently cowering in a metal cage, were not quite as different as I thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Every parking space, legal and illegal, within a half mile of Mohan’s Funeral Home was taken. I spied someone pulling out a block ahead, pushed the Acura into rocket gear, and grabbed the spot. Part of me wanted to get this over with; the rest of me dreaded saying good-bye to Sam.
The doors of the funeral home were out of the Middle Ages, made of carved wood twelve feet high and four inches thick with vertical handles as long as my leg. I tugged at one till it swung open and a wall of humanity greeted me, a giant cocktail party without the alcohol. The crowd was mostly business-attired professional types, but I recognized a few of Sam’s clients. A trio of convicted burglars chatted up a female shoplifter. A fellow on probation for credit card fraud consoled a child molester. I nodded to them, saving my limited social skills for the judges and politicians and squeezed through the throng toward the “parlor” where Sam euphemistically rested. This room was noticeably quieter: perhaps the specter of death had a chilling effect.
Harry and Gina, Sam’s two adult children, dutifully greeted guests near the closed casket. Gina was matchstick thin, with the kind of cheekbones that graced fashion magazine covers. She welcomed each visitor with warm cordiality while her brother shook hands solemnly. During college, Harry had gone to a fraternity party and decided to stay for several years. His underage drinking adventures, excessive speeding tickets, and prodigious stupidity gave his parents endless worry. He was invited to leave two colleges but graduated from a third and finally seemed to settle down when he landed a job in Chicago. He would be about twenty-four now. Gina was a few years older.
“Hi ya, Toots,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear.
I tried a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. I sang in a low voice “Big Girls Don’t Cry.”
“The Four Seasons, nineteen sixty-two,” Kelly retorted. A game we often play after a glass or two of wine. One player sings the first line of a song, the other guesses the title, artist, and year. My radio dial rarely moves from the oldies station.
We queued up for our audience with the siblings. Unbidden memories shoved each other around my psyche: Sam the strategist, tie loosened, collar open, all lit up about a new case or theory of defense; Samuel Kendall, leaning casually on the courtroom podium, leading a witness by seemingly innocuous questions till the trap was sprung and the witness went wide-eyed with panic, as he realized that the one thing he least wanted to admit was being inexorably extracted from him. Another memory, much deeper but as vivid as if it occurred this morning, crowded out the others: in my mind’s eye Sam was arguing to overturn my brother’s conviction on the grounds of the prosecution’s intentional subornation of perjury. He started out controlled and steady, but as he got more into the facts and the argument, he was flooded with rage and became so impassioned, even the jaded three-judge panel was spellbound.
It was our turn. I mumbled my condolences.
“Thanks, Susan,” Gina looked at me like I was the one who needed sympathy. “Dad thought you were the best partner he ever had. I hope he told you so.”
“More like the best student. He was in a whole different league than the rest of us.”
I turned to Harry. “You’ve grown up since I saw you last.”
His freckled face went crimson. “Ran out of wild oats to sow. It was time.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
They exchanged glances.
“Okay. It’s been so hectic, I don’t think the reality has sunk in yet.”
Harry squeezed his sister’s shoulder. “We’ll be here when it does,” he assured her.
“She’ll need you both.”
Harry nodded solemnly.
“Mom’s been asking about you,” Gina said.
I nodded. “I’ll do what I can do help her get through this,” I responded, trying to sound reassuring. The crowd pressed from behind.
I mov
ed on to the rectangular cherry wood box. The cover was closed but a portrait of Sam graced the top of the coffin. He leaned toward the camera with an open, confident smile. I clasped my hands together and silently asked the heavenly tribunal to allow him in as a member of the bar.
Kelly knelt briefly, then rose. Her eyes were brimming. “I’ll miss him,” she lamented.
I was mesmerized by the picture.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Wakes are macabre.”
“People need to celebrate the deceased’s life and grieve together at his passing.” She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “It’s a process.”
“One I can do without.”
“Feelings have to be acknowledged and dealt with.”
“Psycho-babble.”
She sighed and gave my shoulder a hard squeeze.
Betty sat to the left of the casket, a venerable queen surrounded by fawning attendants. Snowy-white hair curled softly around her cherubic face. She took my hand in both of hers and grasped it tightly.
“This is awful.” I said the first thing that popped into my head.
She let go of my hand and wrapped me in a big hug. “It’s…more than I can grasp right now,” she whispered.
I remembered the last victory dinner we celebrated at their house, probably a year and a half ago. We lingered over dessert, just the three of us, recreated the justice system and did it right. I was awed by their commitment to each other and to leave the world a better place than they found it.
“He was so proud of you, Susan.” She released me and leaned back. “When you started winning the big cases all on your own, he was like a proud papa.” She glanced around the rapidly filling room. “I’ve met clients tonight who say he saved their lives…other lawyers who tell me he was an inspiration. It’s overwhelming.”
“He was all of that…and so much more.”
Betty’s eyes searched mine and for a brief time we were the only two people in that crowded room. “I know.”
A diminutive but energetic woman approached and slipped an arm fondly through Betty’s.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the restaurant wants to know how many will attend the luncheon after the funeral tomorrow.”
Betty shrugged helplessly.
“The entire bar association, every courthouse employee, and friends you never knew you had. Three hundred, easy,” I responded.
The new arrival clutched her necklace, alarmed.
“Could you tell him that, please, Aggie?”
“Of course.”
“Susan, have you met my good friend Agnes Hart?”
We nodded at each other. Agnes appeared a few years younger than Betty, with bright eyes that didn’t miss much.
“Aggie is a treasure. She’s taking care of all the details that I just can’t deal with right now.”
“It’s nothing.” Agnes gave her friend an affectionate hug.
“I just wish he could be here to enjoy this,” Betty said.
Agnes and I exchanged a quick glance.
Chief Judge Cardona bore down upon us. I bid farewell to Betty and Agnes and slipped into the crowd, hoping my social obligations were at an end.
The face that had stared at me from Tite’s photograph only a few hours ago was suddenly in my path. Donna Gillespie stood to the side of the crowded room, staring coldly at the coffin. Al Tite was behind her, doing a lousy job of fading into the woodwork. I wound my way over to the woman, extended my hand and gave her what I hoped was a warm smile.
“Ms. Gillespie? I’m Susan Marshfield. I used to work with Sam.”
She inspected my hand like it was a smelly old rag.
“He felt terrible about your case.”
She returned her gaze to the front of the room.
“The verdict haunted him.”
She speared me with a look. “You’re haunting me, bitch, and you better stop right now. I didn’t come here to talk to you or nobody else.” She brushed past me to a vacant chair, sat down and crossed her arms balefully.
Kevin appeared from nowhere. “Are we having fun yet?”
I looked at him, puzzling over Gillespie’s response.
“Kelly wants pizza. Whaddya say?”
“Pepperoni and anchovies.”
Kevin and I wove our way back to the entrance, collecting Kelly on the way. The funeral home was now a fire marshal’s nightmare.
As Kevin reached for the main door it swung open from the other side, and a striking-looking woman in a gleaming, black fur coat entered with a regal air. We stared at each other for several seconds.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Haskins,” I said.
She hesitated, then the corners of her mouth turned microscopically upward. “Nice to see you, too…um…”
“Susan Marshfield,” I volunteered. “Sam and I represented Ellen Righetti on her post-conviction case.”
She smiled condescendingly. “I remember what you were. I just didn’t remember who you were. Forgive me. It’s been a long time.”
Long enough for Brenda’s hair to change from something vaguely reddish to a brilliant silver blonde, from a bob to a series of elegant swirls. Not a style for someone like me, whose daily wardrobe includes a swim cap. The large silver balls that dangled from her ears made me wonder how she adorned herself for a real dress-up occasion like New Year’s Eve. Her image was so radically different from that of the bereaved widow who had testified in our case that I would not have recognized her but for the fact that she had been on my mind recently.
I introduced Kevin and Kelly, hoping Brenda would reciprocate and introduce her escort, a long, sinewy gentleman in a pinstripe gray suit that probably cost as much as I charged for my last felony case. He towered over everyone else in the vestibule. She hesitated, then touched his arm.
“This is Eric Benton,” she said, making it clear that the effort to introduce him was an imposition.
The two couples made the necessary noises at each other, and then Benton inclined his head in my direction. Pale blue eyes twinkled at me from under eyebrows that resembled twin bird nests. His face was thin, with a ruddy complexion. A half-smile, urbane but not kind, sat above a well-trimmed goatee.
“So very nice to meet you, Ms. Marshfield.” He bowed slightly and proffered a well-manicured hand. “You worked with Judge Kendall? Are you a lawyer also?”
He pumped my hand once and held onto it several seconds longer than necessary.
“Yes. Sam and I worked together many times.”
“Then I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. I too lost a friend to a violent death, and I remember the huge gap in my life when he wasn’t there anymore.”
“Thank you. Once the shock dissipates, there’ll be a gap in a lot of people’s lives.”
We were hemmed in near the entrance. “What friend did you lose, Mr. Benton?”
His smile widened, a disarming movement of the lips that divulged perfect teeth. “Actually, it’s Doctor Benton.” He didn’t give me time to bow and scrape. “Brenda’s husband, Gordon, was my good friend and partner.”
“Oh.”
“And if you helped Sam Kendall represent that Righetti woman, you know a lot more about why he was killed than I ever will.”
His tone was without the contempt many reserve for us scum-of-the-earth defense attorneys.
“Sometimes it’s easy to figure out the ‘why’ but difficult to come up with the ‘who’ in murder cases. In your partner’s case, both questions were perplexing.”
“Apparently not for the jury, or the judge that heard her case later,” he said crisply. “I know you and Judge Kendall had a job to do, and I respect the dedication you must have, but where it’s so clear cut, where the jury has already spoken, that should be the end. The retrial was incredibly difficult for Brenda. She had to relive the whole thing again, for what? So the murderess could get her face into court one more time? Ridiculous, I think.”
Benton was fervent but not disagreeable. I started to la
unch into my standard refrain citing the times that juries are proven wrong when the real murderer later confesses or when DNA testing reveals a wrongly convicted defendant, but Brenda nudged him.
“Let’s go, Eric. I have to be home early for that phone call from the coast.”
“Of course.” He turned back to me. “Don’t misunderstand me, Ms. Marshfield. The criminal justice system is a necessary evil. But when you get personally involved in it, like Brenda was, it’s a lot different from reading about it in the paper.”
I borrowed a page from Kelly’s empathy textbook. “Brenda’s feelings are certainly valid.”
He nodded and started to turn away.
“Given that, why would you bother coming to Sam’s wake?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, brought up short. “After my ramblings, that’s a good question.”
He looked at me, head cocked as if studying a specimen. “For whatever reason, Brenda has a soft spot for Judge Kendall.”
He raised those bird’s nest eyebrows at her, as if inviting an explanation. Her eyes were black, her expression ice. She turned away, tugging at his hand with more force than was necessary and started snaking through the mob.
“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Marshfield.” He shrugged as if to say “I just go where she takes me,” then followed her.
Kevin, Kelly, and I finally extricated ourselves, piled into Kevin’s BMW, and pointed it toward dinner.
CHAPTER NINE
The rows of Sam’s church were packed as tight as containers on ocean-going vessels. I hoped every person was here because Sam had touched them in some way, but I suspected a percentage attended out of curiosity and a few due to fascination with violent, sudden death.
The priest’s eulogy recalled Sam’s passionate advocacy for those who didn’t draw great seats at the table of life. Harry, his son, took the podium and told of being wrongly accused of cheating while in college and how upset he was when his dad didn’t leap ferociously to his defense like he did for his clients. Choking back tears, Harry repeated Sam’s words to him at that time: a defense attorney takes over the reins of the defense, plotting every last detail, calling all the shots; a parent needs to let go the reins as the child matures, allowing him to earn his own respect and dignity.