Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  “You know that’s bullshit: No woman brings on her own rape,” Rosie said. “You still get flashbacks? Ever scared?”

  Summer held up her house keys, jangled them. Five just to get in her front door.

  Rosie licked the rim of her glass. “Any word on the search for Sonia?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s looking anymore. I put up some more flyers last weekend, but no one’s called.”

  Rosie fished an inhaler out of her purse and puffed, holding the vapor in her lungs. After exhaling, she started another cigarette.

  “I can’t believe you,” Summer said.

  “I refuse to let asthma alter my life one bit. Almost everyone I grew up with has an inhaler. The air pollution in the barrio or some other bullshit environmental factor.” Rosie swilled the rest of her martini. “I’m more worried about our drinking.”

  “You ever think about chucking the whole thing? You know, quitting?”

  “Every fucking day; but then I ask myself, How many people can say the government pays them to fuck with it? The corporate world isn’t for me. Uptight Ivy grads would only assume I was an affirmative action case. Besides, I like life closer to the ground. You?”

  “Lately, all I seem to think about is opting out. Running away to somewhere far away from here.”

  “The judges, D.A.s, politicians, they all want you to feel that way. Attrition is their best friend. You quit, you’d just be giving in to them. Besides, running won’t solve anything. You still have to face your problems in the mirror.”

  Summer wasn’t convinced. Sonia had run away. Maybe she wasn’t dead. Maybe she had found happiness. Maybe Summer could, too.

  Rosie flicked ashes on her plate. “Promise you’ll call me before quitting. Give me a chance to talk you out of it.”

  Summer didn’t tell Rosie she had already phoned Eddie Brockton, but he was out of town for a couple of days. Summer hadn’t left a message. “It’s a deal.”

  “What do you think of Gundy getting it?”

  Summer swirled her martini, then sipped. “Are any of us sorry he’s dead?”

  “Who do you think did it?” Rosie asked. “I’m still banking on Marsalis.”

  “If it was, they’ll never get him. He’ll concoct an airtight alibi, use phone records to prove he was at home at the time of the murder.”

  “Are you saying he can alter phone company records?”

  Summer held her empty glass up to the light and smiled.

  “Shit.” Rosie took another drag. “You know what I hated most about Gundy? He was always staring at my tits and ass. I used to dread riding the elevator alone with him. The last time I saw him, he’d just resigned from Sex Crimes and signed on to the Gang Task Force. He told me the first thing he was going to do was investigate my relationship with The Latin Brothers. I told him the only contact I had with the old gang was as their court-appointed attorney. Know what he did?”

  Summer waited.

  “Pinched my ass.”

  Touched by Rosie’s confidence, Summer said, “Gundy hit on me from day one. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I finally told him if he didn’t cease and desist I’d file charges.”

  Rosie’s eyes grew. The secrets women kept from one another. “I never knew you were going through it, too! What happened after that?”

  “He turned off the little charm he had and made my life hell. I’m sure he sent me sex pics in the mail, the heads of the women cut out.”

  “Seriously? I heard he was going to make a run for the Senate. Thank God the wicked hick está muerte.”

  Summer picked up the glasses and weaved into the kitchen. Through a window she could see lights skimming off the ocean, a ship pulling away from shore, and wondered where it was heading. She lived alone, surrounded by wood and windows. No boyfriend. No cat, no dog. No plants. Because nothing survived for long in her world. She suddenly felt the prick of her isolation and wondered if she wasn’t, like Sonia, trying to make herself disappear.

  She shook two more martinis: gin, straight up, very cold, very dry, pickled tomatoes instead of olives, and overflowed both glasses. Summer tried to calculate how much gin she would have to drink before the depression would lift. A quarter of a bottle left: not enough.

  She balanced the glasses on a plate and carried them to the living room. Rosie was scanning Summer’s bookcase. Summer thought about telling her: Soon you’ll have to carry on without me.

  The telephone buzzed and Summer steadied herself. “Hi.”

  “It’s Jon.”

  Summer was careful not to slur. “Just the man I wanted to talk to.” She paused, searching for the best way to tell him. But not in front of Rosie.

  Levi’s voice crackled over the phone line. “Turn on Channel Six.”

  Summer fumbled for the remote and zapped the set. Policemen were chasing a woman, running wildly, who then slipped through a fence. The picture was grainy.

  Summer tried to sober up enough to digest what was happening.

  “What’s this?” Rosie asked, crouching in front of the TV.

  Summer turned up the sound. A local news anchor was saying, “…police were searching the home and dojo of feminist martial artist Stephanie Killington, known by the initials SK, when she bolted. This was captured on video by a bystander with a cell phone. Police caught up to SK at the old Willoughby Warehouse, where a party was in progress.”

  Summer moved closer to the set, watching as the scene shifted to the building’s interior. A crush of twenty-somethings, their minds swelled by ecstasy and cocaine, were dancing and making out in various states of dress and undress. A rave. When SK tore through—the police hurtling after—pandemonium ensued.

  “A-fuckin’-mazin’,” Levi said, bringing Summer back to the phone. “I go out to dinner and a movie with the wife and kids, come home, turn on the tube, and this is what I see. They’ve been replaying it as an exclusive.”

  “When did this happen?” Summer asked.

  “About six hours ago.”

  “Give yourself up, girl,” Rosie called to the TV. “You’re just making it worse.”

  Levi said, “Is that Rosie?”

  “Yes.” Summer whispered, “Oh my god. Motive.”

  “The strongest motive,” Levi said. “Revenge.”

  The TV flickered. SK was cornered. A dozen cops, wary of her martial arts skills, trained their weapons on her, but didn’t move in until she was face-down. They cuffed her and led her away. Then a commercial break. Rosie used the remote to sift for more news.

  “I’ve been told she’s going to need a free attorney, so I’m putting you on your first murder case,” Levi said. “Reward for winning that video-rape case.”

  Summer felt a chill. “SK? I… I can’t do it.”

  Rosie put down the remote. “Who’s on the phone?”

  “Jon.”

  “You’ve been bugging me for a murder case for months,” Levi said. “Now you’re going to bail on me?”

  “I’ve decided… been thinking.” This wasn’t going like she’d imagined it would.

  Rosie crowded her. “SK? He wants you to defend SK?”

  “It’s funny,” Levi said. “You used to pester me for felony cases, wanting to advance your career. Then you were like, ‘No more felony cases, Jon, I got too many as is, but when you’re ready to give me a murder case, dot dot dot.’ So here I am offering you the juiciest murder case we’ve had in years, and you’re turning it down? The local press is all over this. She’s a feminist, a lot of Haze County folk detest her, and I need the best P.D. I’ve got on the case. And facts being facts, it’s important that it be a woman. Take the case. You owe me.”

  “He wants you to defend SK?” Rosie tugged at Summer’s elbow.

  Summer nodded until she was dizzy.

  “Holy shit,” Rosie said.

  Being around Gundy in the afterworld was more than Summer had bargained for. “I know I owe you—”

  “The arraignment’s tomorrow,” Levi interrupted.
>
  Summer trapped the phone between her neck and shoulder.

  “Court Nine, one o’clock,” Levi added. “Be prepared for a media circus.”

  Summer sighed. “OK, OK.”

  She could hear Levi yawn. “That’s a load off my mind. Meet me—”

  “Tomorrow, nine, one, circus, I’ll be there.”

  Summer hung up.

  * * *

  Summer had left Rosie passed out on her couch and was outside, gulping night air and trying to clear her head. She was walking along the beach in front of her home, the sand cold and itchy on her feet, wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt. She looked to the horizon, a charcoal canvas striated with clouds. Her mouth was puffy and dry. Summer could feel the edge of a headache. She cursed Rosie and whoever invented gin.

  She walked to the surf’s lip and let the water wash over her feet. She moved forward, toward the clouds speeding across the horizon, toward the light in the distance, the ship.

  SK, she thought. She was going to be defending SK. Even before having met her, Summer was reeling under the pressure. She didn’t know if she was up to the challenge. She should have stood up to Jon, turned him down. She didn’t know if she could cope with all this.

  A wave kicked at her knees. She continued treading toward that ship’s light. She thought about booking passage, taking it to wherever it was going, to places covered in rainforest flora and fauna, to dark continents and mysterious cultures, to any place she could feel safe, as far away from here as possible.

  The water lapped at her chest. Her t-shirt was heavy on her shoulders.

  Summer was overwhelmed by sadness. Not just because her whole life had been turned upside down by Gundy. She was alone. Wib, her father, had died of a heart attack four years before, weeks after Summer graduated from law school—the last time she ever saw her parents together. He and Sonia had separated a couple of years before that, Wib moving to a desert condo while Sonia kept the house. Sonia was the one who’d found Wib’s body, two days a corpse. He had died alone.

  After that, Sonia began a descent into madness. She refused to go outside or let anyone in. After a lifetime of primping and pandering to her looks, she stopped taking care of herself. All of a sudden, Summer found herself in the role of parent, the child taking care of the adult.

  She could hear her mother’s plaintive wails. It was my fault. I should have never left him. If I had been there, I could have called the paramedics.

  Shhh, Summer would say. The doctor says there was nothing you could have done, even if you had been there.

  I abandoned him. I’m to blame.

  After years of wishing that her mother would accept responsibility for something, anything, Summer had found herself trying to convince her that she wasn’t responsible.

  Eight months ago, when Sonia found out she had incurable melanoma, Summer noticed that a calmness had settled over her mother. She disappeared days later. Summer hadn’t seen or heard from her since.

  Summer looked out at the ship one last time, then dove deep under the water until her ears popped.

  When she felt her lungs were about to burst, she bobbed up to the surface, greedily sucking in air, choosing life.

  She swam to shore.

  After changing into a dry tank top and gym shorts, Summer lay on the floor, gazing at her ceiling. Three a.m. had slipped into four. Rosie was still curled up on her couch, snoring softly.

  Summer was startled by the phone. Rosie shifted but didn’t wake.

  She picked up. “Jon?”

  “No.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Your favorite client.”

  Summer shut her eyes. She wished that when she opened them, this wouldn’t be happening. “I’m not your attorney anymore.”

  “Nevertheless, congratulations. You escaped the conspiracy. This time.”

  Marsalis had tracked down her unlisted number. Hanging up would accomplish nothing; she had to play this out. “What conspiracy?”

  “Raines charging you with aiding and abetting.”

  “How did you—” she cut herself off. “So you read the papers.”

  “Did Bragg include ‘Vee have vays ov making you talk’ in his article?”

  Summer swallowed hard.

  Marsalis continued. “Cruz will get his sweetheart deal, as promised. But the D.A. will swear Levi to secrecy, keep it out of the press. And Levi will agree.”

  His predictions were the product of craft, logic, and surveillance. Summer figured Marsalis had gained access to the hearing’s transcript by cracking the courthouse computer network. As for the rest, that was just a matter of connecting the dots. In fact, Summer had arrived at much the same conclusions.

  But she decided to test the waters. “How do you know?”

  “Like I know everything. Like I know all about Sonia—where she is and what she did. Like I know everything about you, things you don’t even know.”

  Summer’s heart pounded. “Where is my mother?”

  “First, this important information from our sponsor. Turn on your television. You won’t be sorry.”

  Summer knew she would be but picked up the remote anyway. “What channel?”

  Marsalis chuckled softly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Summer clicked on the set and Rosie appeared. She was in deep sleep but in real time, her hand cupped under her breast, her thumb in her mouth. The picture peeled away to reveal Summer, clenching the remote. The camera zoomed in and her face haunted the whole screen.

  She placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at herself staring at herself.

  Chapter 6

  As far as Summer was concerned, arraignment court was one big fat Freudian id. Angiers’s courtroom was chock-a-block with the usual post-weekend crime crush, the air stale and used up, recycled though hundreds of lungs. Mothers, girlfriends, and brothers (rarely fathers in this age of single-parent households) cried over the perps detained in the cage. Crime-chasing lawyers, their ties loose around their necks, swept the room and the hallway outside, looking for anybody with a grand salted away.

  While Angiers heard a case at one end of the courtroom, Summer stood at the other, her back grilled against the arraignment cage, facing the local news media—cameramen, photographers, TV and print reporters—all angling for a shot of SK, who, along with five dozen other prisoners, was cuffed inside.

  There was a continuous clamor from inside the cage, obscenities directed at the bailiffs and at SK, the lone woman, who kept her eyes shut, either in silent prayer, Summer thought, or trying to maintain composure.

  A Channel Six camerawoman juked left then right, but Summer blocked her shot. The woman didn’t dare step out of the press box. Angiers had already warned the swarm: no questions, no missteps, or they would all be booted.

  Where the hell was Levi? Summer needed another body. She saw Rosie, racing from client to client, most of whom she had never met—they were merely names at this point, files, allegations—and caught her eye. But Rosie ignored her. Summer gave a mental shrug.

  “Looking good, Summer,” Eddie Brockton, one of the lawyers shagging clients, called over to her. “You always did have more bounce to the ounce.”

  Summer imagined throwing up in her mouth. There went her fantasy of moving to a private law firm. She couldn’t believe she had been so desperate to escape her life that she’d considered working for him.

  Brockton was a one-time D.A. poster boy who’d been axed when cocaine assumed more importance in his life than his career. One night, after Summer had just started work as a public defender and Brockton still worked for the D.A., Summer went out with him and downed too many margaritas, an escapade she since regretted. Not sex, since that hadn’t happened. Just the drunken closeness and the sober avoidance that followed.

  Brockton swaggered closer. “Free tonight?”

  Summer yawned. “Sure, Brockton, after I visit my shrink, refill my Prozac prescription, and slit my wrists.”

  Brockton la
ughed. “Ooh. Bitchy women make me hard.” He peered through the bars at SK. “But don’t you think you should save it for the prosecution?”

  Summer pretended to ignore him until she spotted Levi pushing through the unruly media. Brockton said, “Later,” winked, and wandered off.

  “Where were you?” Summer asked.

  “Sorry. I overslept,” Levi whispered, cramming his shoulder against hers. “My daughter was up all night with the flu. Didn’t you get my text?”

  Summer lied. “I forgot my phone,” she said. Actually she had left it home to prevent Marsalis from tracking her. “I’m just glad you’re here. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep the hounds at bay.”

  “Do you mean that guy you were talking to—or the press?” came a tart drawl from behind.

  Summer turned to see SK eyeballing her. She was wearing a tank top that displayed freckled, muscular arms. Her hair, rust-colored and dirty, hung to her nape. “Let them take their video. I want everyone to see this.”

  “I would strongly advise against that,” Levi said. “People see this on the six o’clock news, it’ll stick in their minds. Could taint a jury pool, plus damage public perception.”

  “Who the hell are you?” SK asked. “My lawyer?”

  “She is,” Levi pointed to Summer. “I’m her boss.”

  “Public defenders?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re fired.”

  It took Summer a few seconds to realize SK wasn’t kidding.

  Levi shrugged and, reluctantly, slid to the side. Then, media delirium: popping flashes, the whir of advancing cameras, the press hollering questions.

  From across the room there was the urgent thwack of a gavel. Angiers hustled over from the bench. “Bailiffs! Get this horde out of here. Now!”