by Val Bruech
No one mentioned Sam’s abject refusal to lose: perhaps that was unseemly. The soloist’s clear mezzo-soprano was a showstopper. A number of guests fumbled for handkerchiefs.
At the conclusion of the service, the casket was guided down the aisle and loaded carefully into the hearse. Constantine Ross and Al Tite had staked out positions at the rear of the church, one on each side. They could have been undertakers, except for the eyes that scrutinized every face. When he got to me, Tite’s gaze lingered at certain strategic locations. I gave him a pitying shake of the head to let him know I’d caught him. He shrugged in a “just looking” response, and his attention shifted to those who filed out behind me.
I rode to the cemetery with Kevin and Sarah. The canopy at the gravesite could shelter only about fifty people; the rest of us huddled into our coats against a fine mist. We were handed a sheet of paper with the graveside program and the words of a final song. When the priest got to the part about Sam returning to dust, I bit my lip. More likely he’d be reincarnated as a samurai warrior, fighting the forces of evil.
The mourners struggled through the closing hymn. Soggy handouts were shoved into pockets as individuals filed past the casket for a final farewell. The crowd thinned, and the cars departed in a somber procession.
Kevin and Kelly started back to their vehicle, arms wrapped around each other. A big Caterpillar machine lurked back in the trees surrounded by four guys with shovels. I threw the hood of my coat back and let the drizzle permeate my hair and scalp until I was chilled. Then I turned to follow my friends with new respect for the term “a heavy heart,” when I noticed an elderly black man materialize out of the gloom. A nylon windbreaker flapped against his thin, bent frame, a misshapen woolen hat hugged his head. He relied on a cane for balance, causing his gait to be jerky and uneven. I continued to glance at him as I picked my way to the car. He came to a halt just inside the protection of the canopy, hands clasped on the cane in front of him. His shoulders rose and fell in a gigantic shrug that was obvious even from a distance. He bowed his head as if in prayer. The next time I checked he was limping away, and the Caterpillar was closing in.
I asked Kelly and Kevin if they recognized the visitor. Kevin peered at his retreating back. “I don’t think so. But I never saw half the people who were here today.”
We watched the curious fellow get into a vintage Chevy from the late 60s. I made a mental note of the number on his license plate.
Antonelli’s, a restaurant renowned for their smorgasbord buffet, was the post-mortem reception/luncheon destination. I left the coat check room and almost slammed into Ross, who had planted himself squarely in my path. He’s my height, built like a can of tomato sauce, and proudly carries an extra twenty-five pounds or so around his middle.
“I hear we’re not getting total cooperation,” he said.
“Good to see you, too.”
“Al’s certain you’re holding something back. I want to get this case behind us just as much as you do, Marshfield. It’s time for you to tell us what you know, so no one has to get nasty.”
I counted to ten. That enabled me to start with something other than, “Look, dick-head…”
“Al’s wrong,” I said heatedly. “I spent the better part of a day reviewing all the work Sam and I did together, trying to come up with anyone who’d have a motive. I gave him some possibilities, and all he does is flagellate me. I’m still working on it. If I think of something, I’ll call him. But I can’t solve his damn case for him.”
He took a wide stance, hands on hips, head thrust forward. “No one’s asking you to solve anything, Marshfield. You just be a good citizen and stop trying to snow Al with a bunch of b.s.”
“Tite apparently doesn’t think that people murder each other over professional livelihoods and licenses. Did he tell you the facts on the Wheaton and Stevens’ cases?”
The chief looked at me stonily, but I sensed an advantage. “I thought so. You make him tell you and you decide if it’s b.s. or not.”
We had a little staring contest. “Awright,” he said. “Stay in touch.”
I glided away, smugly certain that I had planted a seed of doubt about Tite’s assessment of me with the homicide chief.
There was a long line for the buffet, and the early arrivals were already feasting on fried chicken, their appetites whetted by a half day of mourning. I scanned the room for Brenda Haskins, Donna Gillespie, or the man in the windbreaker, all in vain. Marlene Edwards, an assistant circuit court clerk and notorious courthouse gossip, chatted with a group from her office on an outside patio, where smoking was allowed. I pushed through the door, approached her, and said hello.
“Such an awful tragedy! Who could ever do such a thing?” She drew on a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from me. Was she referring to Sam’s demise or her nicotine habit?
“I’m sure the police will figure that out,” I said and winced.
“Oh, you don’t like my cigarette. Let me put it out.” She snuffed it, carefully saving the butt.
“Marlene, can we talk in private?” I gestured to an empty table in the corner of the deck.
She bounced ahead of me eagerly. The chief clerk insisted that her staff look professional and Marlene complied, dignified in a rose-colored blouse and gray skirt. Her hair, more bleached than blond, perched in an old-fashioned beehive atop her head. Saying “Good morning” to Marlene was like putting a quarter in a merry-go-round: she started talking and didn’t stop till you walked away, sometimes not even then.
We settled ourselves at the table, and she looked at me expectantly.
“You know Sam and I were close.”
“Oh, yes. Everyone knows that.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Always on the up and up. No one ever thought you and Sam…uh…” She ran out of words, an unusual occurrence.
“Of course not, Marlene.” I leaned toward her like we were co-conspirators. “What are people saying about him?”
“Oh, he was such a lovely man! So considerate to us clerks—he’d spell out those long legal words, and he’d never yell if we made a mistake.”
“Yes, I know. I mean, what are people saying about why he was killed? There must be rumors floating around.”
Her eyes searched all points of the compass, avoiding mine.
“C’mon, Marlene. Good, bad, or indifferent, I don’t care.”
She rubbed her chin nervously. “Well, there is a bit of gossip.”
“And…?”
Her face lit up like a homeless person invited to a Thanksgiving feast. “Mmm…other women…gambling debts…a client or witness who hated him…someone said he had an incurable disease and paid to have it done.”
“Oh, brother,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. What do you know about other women, Marlene?”
“Let’s see.” Her face screwed up in concentration. “I only know about two times.”
“Tell me.”
“He had a woman in his chambers. I walked in on them.”
“What were they doing?” An impossible vision of desktop sex flitted across my mental movie screen.
“Talking. He was in his big chair and she was across the desk from him.”
“Was anything inappropriate going on?”
Her tongue massaged her gums as she wavered between truth and trash. “I guess not.”
“When was this woman in his chambers?”
“Today’s Friday, right? Judge Kendall was killed Wednesday. Yes, it was the beginning of the week. Monday, I’m sure it was Monday.”
“What did she look like?”
“She’s here,” Marlene said.
“Here? Where?”
Marlene got up, walked to the door leading inside and pointed triumphantly to the tables where Betty’s friends had gathered: the bridge club group, the cause people, the social friends.
“That’s her!”
“Which one?”
“The one with the blue hat.”
I
sighed aloud. Agnes Hart. The dark blue hat perched on top of her head contrasted nicely with her pearl white hair. Betty’s best friend, and certainly a close acquaintance of Sam.
“She was wearing the same hat,” Marlene added.
“You said two times. Was it the same woman the other time?”
“Oh, no. The other time it was a black lady, young, well-dressed, with lots of jewelry. I’d remember her, too.”
“Is she here?”
Marlene searched the room. There were maybe fifteen or twenty African Americans, mostly men.
“Uh-uh.”
“When did you see Sam with the black woman?”
“A couple of weeks ago. We were taking Sally out to Majors for her birthday. They were in a booth in the back.”
Major’s was a carriage trade restaurant specializing in tax-deductible business lunches and expensive dinners. Patrons can choose a secluded, intimate booth or a spotlit table.
“Go on.”
“They had papers spread out in front of them.”
“Did the judge see you?”
“I don’t think so. I noticed them when I went to the ladies’. I couldn’t see them while we ate or anything.”
“Now, Marlene, this is really important.” I held her gaze. “Is there anything about these two women that made you suspect that everything wasn’t on the up and up? Anything at all?”
She traced an eyebrow with a fingertip.
“Well?”
“Nn…ot really.”
“What have you been telling people?”
Marlene focused on a point behind my left ear.
“I…never say anything. If someone asks I might mention that Sam…was with another woman…Her voice trailed off. “I can’t help it if people think the worst.”
I slammed my fist on the table. “You know damn well what people think when they hear that. If I catch you talking out of school any more, Diane will definitely know about it!” Meaning Diane Campbell, the circuit clerk and Marlene’s boss. “And I’ll sue you for defamation.” Never mind that a third-year law student could get that lawsuit tossed out.
She examined her cigarette butt with the hangdog look of a reprimanded child. “I won’t say…anything more.”
“Don’t.” I wanted to drop-kick Marlene all the way downtown.
She hurried into the restaurant, cheeks aflame. Her fellow clerks stared at her in puzzlement, then their collective gaze swept back to me. I vaulted off the deck and stomped down a narrow walkway to the rear parking lot, throbbing with anger. Why wasn’t gossip-mongering a felony?
I paced up and down the rows of cars until my wrath abated, and I thought I could behave in a socially acceptable manner. I returned to the restaurant, loaded a plate at the buffet, and searched for a vacant chair.
My opponent for Monday’s drug trial, Dave Roberts, waved me over. He was not one of the evil cabal of assistants looking to put me in my place after Wednesday’s jury verdict, and by the time we finished lunch he had reduced his offer to settle from a seven-year sentence to four. I thought I might be able to sell my client, and we promised to talk again.
Agnes Hart’s blue hat wasn’t difficult to locate. The multi-colored scarf tied loosely around her neck complemented both the hat and her soft, translucent complexion. Even the fashion-challenged like myself recognized that the woman, while no longer young, had style.
I borrowed a chair from the next table and slid in beside her. “Lunch was good. What was the final count?”
She looked baffled, then smiled in acknowledgment. “Sam had a lot of friends.”
“Were you were a friend of his, Agnes?”
“I’ve known Sam for years, through Betty, of course. He was my lawyer when he was a…lawyer.”
“I’m chasing down some loose ends,” I said carefully. “Did you ever visit him in the courthouse?”
She gave me a puzzled look but answered without hesitation.
“Certainly. After he became a judge he continued to advise me. Of course, he couldn’t take any money then,” she assured me. “He gave me carte blanche to see him about insurance, or real estate, or whatever I needed. He was more than kind.”
Agnes smiled. “I guess I’ve lost my counselor. But they’re easy to replace.” She picked up on the look that crossed my face. “No offense, dear. Sam’s irreplaceable, especially in Betty’s life.”
“Did you see him last Monday?”
“Let me think. This whole week has been so discombobulated…” The crow’s feet deepened around her eyes.
“One of my tenants hasn’t paid rent for two months. I gave him the notice Sam had always prepared, but I filled it in myself, and slipped it under his door, and he still didn’t pay. I didn’t know what to do, so I called Sam and met him.” She nodded. “It had to be Monday.”
Her eyes widened. “Why are you asking all these questions? Is something wrong?”
I smiled reassuringly. “No. I’m just wondering about Sam’s last days.”
“Betty told me how close you and he were.” She perched a pair of wire-rim glasses on her nose and regarded me shrewdly. “She thinks you walk on water.”
“I prefer to swim in water, but thanks for the compliment,” I said. “Agnes, you saw Sam just two days before he died. Tell me, did he seem distraught or upset?”
She nudged her chair back, reflecting. “No…he was in good spirits. He could be a tad moody now and then, you know. I saw him mid-morning and he seemed almost jovial.”
“As you look back now, does anything seem a bit strange?”
She blinked thoughtfully, mouth puckered. “We chatted about family a bit, and then we got down to business. I got the impression his time was limited, and he wanted to hear my little problem out as quickly as he could.”
“I see. Agnes, if I need to talk to you again, can I get your number?”
“I’ll give it to you now. Do you have a paper and pencil?”
Usually I’d enter a new number into my phone but I wanted to observe her dexterity. I found the necessary implements in my purse. She wrote her name and number easily, without arthritis or other difficulty. I wondered at her age, and made a mental note to ask Betty. Just then two or three others of the widow’s entourage came to keep Agnes company, affording me a graceful exit.
Many of the guests had departed, but the dessert table was still full of cake, chocolate candies, and other delights. The person in line ahead of me offered a plate from the stack. I accepted it with mumbled thanks. When he wouldn’t let go of the plate, I tugged at it. Griffen Bartley grinned back at me. His copper red hair wanted to jut out in every direction but had been disabled by a stylist. “Howzit goin’, counselor?”
“I haven’t had a chance to pass on my condolences. I’m sorry about your uncle, Griffen.”
“My friends call me Griff.” His breeziness faded. “From what I hear you two were quite a team. Condolences back at you.”
His eyes were an amazing shade of blue flecked with green. I nodded, mesmerized.
“Will you miss him?”
He ran a strong looking hand through his barely-tamed hair. “Sam’s the reason I went to law school. Harry…do you know his son Harry?”
“Sure.”
“He’s my cousin. We’re only eight months apart. When we were small, Sam would talk about how the law was this great tool for righting wrongs and exposing liars.”
“You make that sound vaguely ridiculous.”
“Let’s just say Sam had a talent for exaggeration.”
Using a cake knife, I served a walnut brownie onto the plate and gave it back to him. “Maybe what you call ‘exaggeration’ others call ‘advocacy.’ Did you ever catch one of his final arguments? He’d take the facts we wanted the jury to believe and connect the dots until it was seamless. The jury would follow him anywhere, like he was the Pied Piper.”
“Yeah, but where was he leading them? I don’t mean any disrespect, but Sam was all about winning, forget the victim.” He picke
d up a fork, cut off a corner of the brownie, and offered it to me. “How about something sweet?”
Kelly shrugged into her coat near the entrance. I wanted to continue the conversation with Griffen, but Kelly and Kevin and I had planned to return to their house after the luncheon and go through Sam’s file.
“Some other time, Griff. My ride’s leaving.”
I took two steps, then turned back. “By the way, it is all about winning.”
I hurried to meet Kelly at the door. Once there I gave the room a final survey. Al Tite was leaning against a far wall, his gaze sliding between Bartley and me, a thoughtful look on his face. I could see, even at this distance, the stick of a Tootsie Pop protruding from his mouth, gyrating like a cha-cha dancer.
CHAPTER TEN
Sam’s huge Righetti file listed like a wrecked ship on the floor of Kelly and Kevin’s den. “So, we’re looking for any hint that Brenda was unfaithful.”
“And any information that would make Sam a target.” My glance shifted from the file to Kevin.
“You really know how to have fun.”
We each grabbed a brown accordion file and settled down in silence. Kelly was picking up the kids and would be back in a while.
I examined witness folders: Cheryl Daniels, the baby-sitter who discovered the gun at Righetti’s house; friends of our client who testified that she never bore a grudge against Gordon Haskins after her child died on the operating table. Others testified about her abhorrence of guns: though she had little money to spare, Ellen regularly contributed to handgun control organizations.
Paging through the police reports and summaries of testimony brought back the synergy, the magic, of working with Sam. So often one of us would dream up a “what if” scenario; we’d spin it back and forth and build on the provable facts till we came up with a plausible explanation or ingenious justification that might exculpate our client. The process was too much fun to be called work.
“What are you smiling about?” Kevin asked.
“Memories.”