Death of a Prince

by Susan P. Baker

  Her thoughts wandered to Stuart. She could understand his being upset at having his name mentioned at the examining trial, but she wished he’d try to see her side of the issue. At least she would try to be somewhat kindly about it. Another criminal defense attorney probably wouldn’t. She hoped it wouldn’t be detrimental to their relationship, but she couldn’t let him dictate how she practiced law. She couldn’t go easy on him. This wasn’t a Spencer Tracy/Katherine Hepburn movie. This was real life. And she was obligated to do whatever it took to defend her client within the bounds of the law.

  Her mobile phone rang again.

  “Mom, what are you doing?”

  “Hello, honey. Working on the Parker case. What are you doing?”

  “Calling you.” Melinda giggled. Fourteen-year-olds still did that occasionally.

  “All right, you. Is your suitcase packed? Are you ready for me to pick you up later?”

  “Mommy,” it was her little-girl voice. “Susie is having a slumber party. It’s her birthday. ”

  “Oh.” Sandra tried not to sound disappointed. “So you’d like to go?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Well, of course I care. But I understand. I’ll call Grandma and tell her not to fix dinner.”

  “Thanks, Mommy.”

  “You’re welcome. How’s everything going? What have you been up to lately?”

  “They made me an assistant camp counselor the last half of the summer at camp. That means I’ll get to go for free. I just have to look out for the little kids. Isn’t that cool?”

  “So you’ll be a big shot at Camp Chillingham. What about Amy and Jennifer?”

  “Jen is an assistant counselor, too. Amy didn’t want to do it, but she’ll be there when we are.”

  “So I guess you’ll be too busy for your old mom.”

  “Mommy . . . if you’d let me come live with you—”

  “We’re not going to discuss that right now. You know how I feel about kids moving back and forth between their parents’ homes every few years.”

  “I know, but I’ve lived with Daddy for ten years and I’d just like to spend my last four with you.”

  “I’ll think about it. You have a good time at Susie’s tonight. What did you get her?”

  “A CD. You wouldn’t recognize the group.”

  Sandra sighed. “You’re probably right. Do you think your dad would let you come next weekend instead?”

  “I’ll ask him. I love you, Mommy.”

  Sandra had difficulty swallowing. “Love you, too. Call me later in the week and let me know what he says.”

  “Okay. Bye.” Melinda hung up.

  After the call, Sandra couldn’t concentrate on the examining trial. She went down to The Strand for a late lunch and then spent the remainder of the afternoon clearing her desk of other odds and ends.

  She had a divorce and custody case between a biracial couple coming up. She needed to research appellate opinions to see what restrictions the higher courts had made. Her opponent was likely to attempt to play the race card. Sandra wanted to be ready for him. She also had a juvenile transfer hearing on the following Friday. The D.A. wanted to try the kid as an adult for robbery. There was a lot of work ahead of her that week.

  Late Saturday afternoon, Sandra phoned Stuart at his office. One of the associates said that Stuart hadn’t been in all day. It wasn’t as if he’d been expecting to hear from her, since she’d told him she’d be with Melinda. She just thought he would be there, since he’d said he would. Seemed like over the last few months he was there on Saturdays less and less. She wondered where he was during those times and what he was doing.

  Sandra got no answer at his home or on his mobile either. Her curiosity was really aroused. Okay, her interest was piqued. Perhaps she even felt a bit jealous. Her ambiguous feelings would have to be taken out, laid on the table, and examined soon. She knew what he wanted. She just didn’t know what she wanted. Except she had hoped they could meet for dinner that evening and put things right. At least put them the way they had been the day before.

  Since she couldn’t locate Stuart, she decided to go for a run. Her shoulders ached. She needed a stress reliever. Her body needed some attention. She would try him back on Sunday afternoon for Sunday night. Surely he would have cooled off by then.

  A bit later, as Sandra ran east on the seawall, the wind gusted between the condominiums and whipped her hair to the south, then seemed to make a U-turn and fly back across the waves’ whitecaps and blow it the other way. The sun slid down behind her. The tourists and the locals continued to perform their nightly rituals: bicycling, jogging, blading, walking, and bouncing in the waves. That night she was one of them.

  Perspiration clustered on her forehead like polyps. Her ragged breathing evidenced that she’d let her daily routine lapse. She couldn’t blame Stuart or her work. She had gotten lazy; that was all there was to it. She had done some swimming, but swimming laps did not substitute for jogging miles.

  A pain in her side caused her to slow to a walk as she turned back toward her condo. It would take a lot of work to get back up to snuff, but she would be back pounding the pavement the next morning and would continue day after day until she could go the distance.

  Upon arriving back at her apartment, Sandra guzzled several glasses of water, slung her clothes into a pile in the bathroom, and checked the answering machine. The light blinked three times. Hitting the play button, she perched on a barstool. The first one was a high-pitched muffled voice, unintelligible. Then she heard a mumble in a low, obviously disguised voice, “Forget defending Parker’s kid if you know what’s good for you.” There was a metallic tapping or clicking in the background while the person spoke. It sounded vaguely familiar. Other than the one sentence, they said nothing else and hung up. The third caller was apparently the same as the second but spoke in a high voice, “You get her off and you’re dead meat.” The tapping noise had grown fainter. Sandra would have laughed at how ridiculous the calls were if they’d been directed at someone else. She popped out the tape and threw it into a drawer, replacing it with a fresh one.

  As Sandra climbed into the shower and soaped up, she remembered some of the nasty phone calls she’d gotten when working as an assistant district attorney. At first it was scary, but no one ever followed through on them, so she quit worrying. She knew that defense lawyers often received hate mail and threats if they were defending a high-profile defendant. Rarely did it lead to anything. The most dangerous cases lately seemed to be family law, not criminal. The outraged citizen might threaten, but it was just a way to release frustration. In family law cases, the irate husband vented by killing his wife or her lawyer or shooting up a courthouse. In criminal law, it would take a really stupid client to threaten his own lawyer, much less harm her. Not that most of them weren’t stupid or crazy. They just needed their attorney to be around to defend them.

  She put on silk pajamas, a light robe, fixed a sandwich and some iced tea, and went out on the balcony where she could watch the traffic and the surf. Lingering on the balcony and watching the young people down below, she grew melancholy. Girls with their long hair flowing behind them as they sat next to their boyfriends in their convertibles. Couples walking hand-in-hand or bicycling or sitting on the edge of the seawall, staring out to sea. There she was, alone on a Saturday night. Her youth gone. No significant other. Nothing to look forward to. Lord, she was starting to sound like Lizzie. Hearing a distant ringing, Sandra realized it was her condo telephone and felt almost grateful for the distraction.

  She had no idea how many rings she’d missed. “Hello,” she hollered unintentionally as she grabbed it.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Erma yelled back.

  “Oh, hi, Mother. Out and about. The Strand, jogging. Sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. I was on the balcony. Are you okay? What are you hollering for?”

  “Because you are. I’ve got news for you, if you want to come over.”

  That was
the last thing on her mind. Television, chocolate ice cream, a beer, and sleep were the first four. Going over to her mother’s didn’t even come in fifth. “I’m already dressed for bed: got my makeup off, my pajamas on, and everything. Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “Yes, it can wait. What did you do this evening?”

  “I told you.”

  “No. This evening. Did you go out to dinner?”

  Sandra suddenly remembered their previous plans. “Oh, hell, Erma. I’m sorry. I completely forgot to call you and tell you that Mel decided to spend the night with a friend. I apologize. Kitty’s defense has atrophied my brain. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble about dinner.” The line was silent for a moment. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “That’s all right,” she said in a muffled voice.

  That didn’t sound like her mother. Before Phillip died, she’d have been cussing her a blue streak. Now she sounded like some little old blue-hair feeling sorry for herself.

  “What did you fix?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Sandra . . . but if you must know, vegetable lasagna, salad, garlic bread, iced tea, and spumoni for dessert.”

  “No soup?”

  “Screw you.”

  “That’s more like it. You sound like I feel.”

  “Not worth a shit, you mean?”

  “Yeah. I was just feeling sorry for myself, too, wondering what kind of spatter I’d make if I jumped off the balcony.”

  “Aren’t there azalea bushes along that walkway down there? They’d mess up any real good stain. You’d probably land on your head and make a gray-and-red blob.”

  “Guess I’ll wait until I have a better location. Listen, Erma, forgive me for forgetting you. I’ll make it up as soon as this case is over, I promise.”

  “You little shit, you’ll make it up to me by coming over for lunch tomorrow. I saved everything and I can damn well warm it up. Pick up your brat on the way over.”

  It was a good thing Erma couldn’t see her. Sandra rolled her eyes and prayed that something would happen before tomorrow noon. Nothing sounded worse than day-old salad and reheated lasagna. The top layer of noodles would have nothing on cardboard. “Yes, ma’am,” Sandra replied as if responding to her drill sergeant.

  “I’m not accepting any excuses from either of you two girls. Besides, I want to hear all your plans for the examining trial. Be here at noon and don’t be late.” She hung up before Sandra could reply.

  Sandra hit the switch hook and punched in Stuart’s number. She got his answering machine. She hung up and dialed his mobile phone. Voice mail. Later, as she dug out the last few scoops of the chocolate fudge ice cream, she wondered if Stuart was paying her back for being so inattentive to him the last few weeks. Or he could be playing hard to get. Worse yet, there could be another woman. They had never agreed not to date others. Worst case scenario, he could be working. Taking her bowl and the beer over to the sofa, Sandra flipped channels in search of the perfect classic movie as she mused over her relationship with Stuart.

  She awoke on the sofa, later, her hand dangling in the bowl on the floor, slobber oozing down the side of her cheek, and a crick in her neck, so she turned off the TV and went to bed. Shortly after seven on Sunday, Sandra awoke again, this time to the ringing of the telephone. Rolling over, she dragged it into the bed with her. “Hello.”

  A voice so high pitched and phony that a shooting pain spiked her left eye as each word was spoken said, “You comprende my message last night, bitch?”

  Now that pissed her off. Not his/her calling her a bitch, but the pain in her head. She hadn’t done anything to deserve that kind of suffering. It was the same feeling she used to get when she would drink a twelve-pack of Schlitz malt liquor when she had been married to her first husband. “Fuck you, asshole,” she muttered before she let the receiver slip back into place.

  Snuggling under the sheet and comforter, Sandra tried to relax her neck and the back of her head in hopes that the pain he/she’d inflicted on her wasn’t the precursor of a bad headache. She hadn’t had one in a long time and just couldn’t get one now. No time. She had to be able to function, to think on her feet. The examining trial was the following day. Even if she was prepared already, she couldn’t spend Monday recovering from the weak, sick feeling with which they always left her.

  The phone rang again. She felt her shoulders stiffen. Two little balls were forming in the back of her neck at the beginning of her hairline. Picking up the receiver, she said, “What is it?”

  “Listen, bitch. You hang up on me again and I’m coming over there and beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of you.” This time, the lower voice. He was doing her a favor and didn’t even know it. Okay, she’d play along.

  “You and whose commando team, jerk-off?”

  “You better listen good. You’re going to call your client right now and tell her to get another lawyer, you hear? ’Cause if you don’t, your mama’s going to feel some pain.”

  There was something familiar in the cadence of his voice. The background tapping that she’d heard the night before was missing, but the tone, his choice of words—it would come to her. She needed to keep him on the line.

  “Who is this? Is this Edgar Saul? Are you so afraid that I’ll make a fool of you that you’re trying to scare me off the case? Come on, Edgar. You ought to know me better than that.”

  “No, this ain’t no goddamned Edgar Saul. Now you just shut up and listen.”

  There was a clicking on the line. Call waiting. How was that for timing? “Hey, I’ve got someone on the other line. Do you mind?” Without waiting for a response, she tapped the switch hook. “Hello?”

  “Sandra?” It was Stuart.

  “Stu. I’ve got this weirdo on the other line. Can I call you back? I don’t want to lose him. I’m trying to figure out who he is.”

  “What do you mean a weirdo? What’s he saying?”

  “You know, the usual. Let me call you back, okay? Where are you?”

  “At seven-ten in the morning? At home. Where else would I be?”

  “You don’t have to be so terse. Call you back in a minute.” She hit the switch hook. “You still there, fella?”

  “Listen, Salinsky, you got twenty-four hours to do what I said or else.”

  “Okay, so this isn’t Edgar. Is it one of the other assistants? You guys—” She laughed.

  “No. Now shut the fuck up and hear what I got to say. I’m getting mad.”

  To which she failed to respond with other than a cursory, “Uh-huh.”

  “You get off the case and stay off or else.”

  “Why don’t you come over right now and we’ll have this thing out, okay? I don’t have time for this. I’ve got an examining trial to prepare for.”

  “Listen, lady—”

  “Kiss my ass, jerk-off.” She hung up. By then she had to pee big time, so she did that, and then she dialed Erma’s number. Sandra knew Erma would still be asleep, but just to be on the safe side she wanted her to know that she was the brunt of some threats again.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Mom. Good morning. It’s your favorite daughter. Did you sleep well?”

  “What now? Just what the hell could make you call in the middle of the night again?”

  “It’s after seven, and I know it’s probably a false alarm, but you should know some asshole is calling me and using your name in vain.”

  “Goddamnit. What’s this one going to do to me?”

  “Inflict some pain. That’s about as specific as he’s gotten so far.”

  “Guess I’ll get my .45 out of the drawer.”

  “The twelve-gauge still next to the door?”

  “Yup. So can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Yes, Mother dear.”

  “See you at lunch. No, I didn’t forget.”

  Stuart must have been sitting on top of the phone. He picked it up on the first ring. “Yes.”

  “It’s me. I got tired of the jerk. So what’
s going on?”

  “Been missing you. Wondering if we could get together later today. Brunch at the Saltwater Grill?”

  He knew the Saltwater Grill was one of her favorites. Brunch there turned her into a piglet. “Can’t. Got to go to Erma’s with the kid.” She wanted very badly to mention that she’d been unable to track him down the evening before, but she didn’t. It might be sending him mixed signals.

  “Oh. Well, call me when you get back.”

  She hung up. The phone rang again immediately.

  “You’re pissing me off, bitch,” the high-pitched voice hollered.

  The muscles in her neck felt like they’d been wrung out like an old washrag. “Hold on,” she said, “if you’re going to keep calling like this, I’ve got to have something hot to drink.” Sandra put the phone down and walked to the kitchen, rinsed out the kettle, filled it with fresh water, and banged it onto the stove. After turning on the burner, she pulled a cup from the cabinet, a spoon from the drawer, dropped a teabag into the cup, and then picked up the kitchen phone. “You still there?”

  “Goddamn you for a bitch!” he/she shrieked into the phone.

  “I’m going to stop playing with you, if you can’t be any more pleasant than that.”

  The phone went dead in her ear. She figured that was it for him/her. She was correct. She didn’t hear from the mysterious caller the rest of the morning.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After she took a late morning dip in the pool, Sandra phoned her “brat” and got her brat’s father, Jack Cartwright. He was an accountant, a really nice man, and boring as hell. She made arrangements to pick up Melinda for lunch.

  Jack and Connie lived in a two-story brick house on the south side of Offat’s Bayou, about two miles from Sandra’s condo. The subdivision had been developed in the late 1950s to early 1960s as people moved from the crowded East End of the island, before the big move at saving historical homes.

  Jack seemed fine until she went into his house. When she knocked on the door, he asked her in, which was not all that unusual, even though it always made her a little uncomfortable to see furniture that she had bought inside a house that used to be hers, albeit decorated differently. As a rule, though, they got along fine. All hard feelings were in the distant past.