[Barbara Holloway 02] - The Best Defense

by Kate Wilhelm

  “Done for the day?” Frank asked as he drew near.

  “Yep. One-thirty to about this time, Tuesdays and Fridays. I want you to meet Martin Owens, the best cook in the city, and the best secretary. He keeps the coffee coming.”

  She introduced the two and then said, “See you on Friday, Martin. Thanks.”

  “Barbara, you sure you don’t want to come back later on for some supper. Good red snapper, that creole recipe you like, corn fritters …”

  “Hush. He wants to fatten me up until I’m his size,” she said. “Come on, Dad. Let’s blow.” She picked up her briefcase and handed the satchel with the computer to her father.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to fatten you up a little,” Frank muttered.

  Martin laughed and nodded.

  “Don’t you guys know svelte when you see it?” Barbara said, leading the way outside. Martin’s laughter followed them.

  “Where are you parked?” Frank asked.

  “I usually walk over,” she said. “It’s only three blocks.”

  He knew that, and he knew that two blocks beyond her house the railroad switch yards started, lined with warehouses, lumber yards, industrial buildings of various sorts. This strip north of Sixth to the river had been built early, when people still clung to the railroad and the river; those with enough money left, others moved in and stayed until they made enough money to leave, and the cycle continued. Now it had become the only real ethnically mixed neighborhood in the city, and the only reason anyone stayed on was that the cheapest housing was here. Every drug bust seemed to happen here, every knifing, street brawls—

  He banished the ugly thoughts and said, “Well, let me drive you. A couple of things I want to talk about, if you’re not busy.”

  “Free as the air,” she said, getting into the car.

  Frank stashed her things on the back seat, got in behind the wheel. “Mind a little detour first?”

  “Nope.”

  He drove in silence until she asked, “You said things to talk about? Today?”

  “Martin Owens. He’s the football player, isn’t he? Or was. He lets you use his restaurant as an office?”

  “He’s the one. I did him a little favor a few months ago. A legal matter. He’s barely making it in the restaurant, but he seems to think he owes me. Good guy.”

  “Storefront lawyer,” Frank muttered, and she turned to look out the window.

  She did not ask again what was on his mind. She knew he would get around to it in his own way, first bring it up obliquely, then change the subject, refer to it again later with more details, talk about the weather or something, and so on until it was all out. She was content to wait. When he finally got to it in detail he would pretend to assume that she was in agreement, that since they already had discussed the matter, and he had responded in advance to every possible objection she might raise, the whole issue was already settled. She doubted very much that such would be the case, but meanwhile it was a beautiful June day and she was tired. Her two days a week as a storefront lawyer were wearing.

  “God, I hate condos,” he said suddenly.

  She looked at him in surprise. “So do I, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “And apartments, too,” he added. “I’ve been looking at condos and apartments.”

  She nodded. “An investment?”

  “My accountant says I’m paying too much in taxes.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  He was driving slowly now, watching for house numbers over the top of his half-glasses. Then he stopped. They were on Twenty-first, typical of Eugene in every respect, with tall trees, low buildings, lots of greenery, lots of flowers. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding toward the house he had located.

  “I think it’s green.” Apple green, in fact, with rust-red trim.

  “Well, it could be painted. Blue or something.”

  “That house will always be green no matter how hard you try to cover it up.”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right.” He began to drive again. “There’s another one.”

  “You’re going to buy a house,” she said. “Is that it?”

  “Might as well, seeing how much I hate condos. I’ve looked at a few. You buy a condo, what do you own? A piece of someone else’s building. Want a place I can walk to the office from.”

  “You’re leaving the house at Turner’s Point?” Too late she realized she had played right into his hands again.

  “Not exactly. See, how it’s working out is that some of those old fogies get so set in their ways, they’ve got roots clear down to bedrock and nothing’s going to change them. Old Mary Manchester, for instance, thinks I’m the only one in the office who can rewrite her will every year. I had her this morning.” That explained his nice suit and tie. “It’s too damn far to drive three days a week,” he added glumly.

  “Three days? I thought you were easing yourself out of the office, getting ready to retire.”

  “I am, I am. It’s just more complicated than I thought it would be.” He had driven through the downtown section,

  where traffic had thickened into what Eugeneans thought was real congestion. Five cars at a red light meant gridlock here.

  At Fifth, instead of turning left toward her house, he made a right turn, and a block later he turned left on Pearl Street, where three of the four corners housed dozens of small shops selling everything from gourmet coffee and some of the best bread to be found to handmade wooden toys, books, natural-fiber clothes—Yuppie Heaven, they called it. He was heading for Skinner Butte Park, she thought then as he drove on. She had walked hours, miles along the river here, walking off trial tension, thinking, scheming. But he turned again, and she suddenly caught her breath. Once, years ago, he had driven up here with her and her mother, just looking. “This is where I want to live,” Barbara had said, and Frank had laughed. “The only way you can get a house in this neighborhood is by waiting for the owner to die, and all the heirs, too. Then if the real-estate agent doesn’t grab it, you might have a chance.”

  This was a tiny area, a few square blocks, but she thought of it as an oasis of sanity, serenity, stability. The houses were spacious, old-fashioned, with porches and gabled windows, lots of leaded glass, even stained-glass windows, detached garages. No two houses were similar, but they were all of a piece, well constructed with individual detail work, well maintained, beautifully landscaped, without a hint of pretentiousness.

  He stopped before a two-story house that was dove gray, with white trim. An old hemlock tree, top bowed as if in thought, shaded the front; tall rhododendrons lined a driveway, screened the yard on one side; the other side had deep bushes, some in bloom, all mature and lovely.

  “Not a bad location,” Frank said. “Park and the trail two blocks away, six blocks to the courthouse, seven to the office. Not bad. Walk to the post office, the performing arts center, even the jail. Not bad.” He glanced at her. “Well?”

  “Not much yard,” she said in a low voice.

  “Big backyard, even garden space. And a rose arbor. Let’s look inside.”

  “You just happen to have the key?”

  He didn’t answer, but pulled into the driveway and got out on his side. Slowly Barbara got out and they went inside the house that he obviously intended to buy. It was everything she knew it would be—white-oak floors, a modernized kitchen, bright living room, dining room … There were stained-glass panels in the living room windows. Upstairs were three rooms, one of them small, a child’s room perhaps, and a bath. Another bedroom and den were downstairs.

  “It’s very nice,” she said after they had looked it over. “But pretty big.”

  “Oh, well, I get claustrophobic in those little boxes they call houses. Come on, let’s go. You up for dinner?”

  “You bet. But first a shower and a glass of wine or something. Take me home.”

  He had put down earnest money, she knew as well as she knew what the rest of his little chat would be. And her answ
er? That she didn’t know yet.

  Over dinner he gossiped about the office, about what was going on in court, about a client or two. He did not mention Turner’s Point. She asked him about William Spassero.

  “Bill Spassero,” he said, thinking. “Young, too young maybe. In the public defender’s office, couple of years now. About thirty, if that much, but he seems more like twenty. A whiz kid at law school. Hot-shot attitude. Ambitious. Why?”

  “His name came up. I wondered. I feel about whiz kids the way you feel about condos.”

  He grinned, and she thought how well they understood each other. They both understood that it was time to get back to the subject at hand.

  “Let’s have some dessert,” he said, “and some of that pressed coffee they make here. It’s a real production number.”

  They watched in appreciative silence as their waiter performed; he ground the coffee at their table, brought water to a boil over a burner, measured the coffee into the glass pot, poured the not-quite-boiling water over it, and tightened the top in place carefully. Then he set a timer. Barbara laughed, and he grinned at her.

  They both had cherries jubilee, and that called f or a new table-side performance, but finally the productions ended and the cof fee was delicious, the cherries no less so. And now Frank said, “I thought maybe it would work out for me to get a house, like I said. I really did look at condos, and apartments, and even a hotel apartment, but hated the idea of all of them. A real house, that’s what I need. I’d come in on Tuesday and go to the office, like I’ve been doing, and stay over until Friday morning and head back out. Or maybe Thursday afternoon. Depends on how busy I am.”

  She nodded. “When do you sign the papers?”

  Without hesitation he said, “Monday. But it wasn’t that cut-and-dried from the start. That other house, the first one, that’s the kind of stuff they showed me when I finally said no to apartments, condos, and such. Thought you should see it first, as I did.” There wasn’t a trace of shame in his expression. “What I thought might be a good idea, Bobby, is for you to move in, too. I mean, you’d be alone most of the time, but the house wouldn’t be empty, ripe for the barbarians to sack.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, Dad.”

  “Of course.” He looked past her then and said in a low voice, “Going out there was the best thing I did after your mother died. I needed the solitude, I guess. It was good for me for a long time. Then, after you left, it was different. I kept listening for your steps, kept listening for the car to drive in. I knew you couldn’t stay, but, Bobby, God, I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, no. I didn’t mean to lay it on you, honey. It’s my problem, I know that. And I think I’ve solved it. You want a brandy?”

  What had she said at the time, just six months ago? A lifetime ago. What she had said was that she couldn’t stay, she had to move, and he had said simply, I know. And he had known, had understood. No arguments, no trying to persuade her to remain. He had understood. What she had not said was that she couldn’t look at the river; she was afraid she would sec Mike’s body being tumbled in the current; she

  was afraid she would see his body washed up on shore, tangled in the undergrowth.

  No brandy, she said firmly, and he said none for him either, and soon they left the restaurant and he drove her home.

  “Almost forgot,” he said. “We had a conference down at the office today. You’re still a member of the firm, you know.”

  “And will be as long as you’re second on the list of partners,” she said lightly.

  “Damn right. But there’s an interesting case at hand. Young playwright in town here claims one of the big studios stole his material. Maybe they did. Someone’s going to be doing some fancy traveling on this one. New York, Hollywood. Meet some pretty interesting people along the way.” He stopped at her house. “Should be an exciting case, probably won’t go to trial, but you never know.”

  She laughed. “Good night, Dad. Thanks for dinner.”

  “They pay you anything, those folks who drop in at the restaurant?”

  “Some do, some don’t. I’m okay, Dad. Don’t worry. You want to stay over?”

  “And sleep on the floor?” He didn’t hide his incredulity. “I’m at the Hilton tonight, tomorrow night.” He walked to the door with her and then left.

  Actually it was a futon, and she had grown rather fond of it. And yes, her clients paid her, when they could. Fifty dollars here, twenty there, free dinners, all the coffee she could drink. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom and surveyed it critically. Books on raw wood shelves supported by bricks that she had found in a heap in the backyard. More books in stacks on the floor. Several towels draped over a straight chair, overlapping too much to finish drying—she should put up a clothesline out back. Yesterday’s clothes on the futon, some to be laundered, some to be folded and put away. She was a pig, she had to admit, but on the other hand this house had no room to put anything. Four rooms and a bath. One closet. Period.

  She went into the small living room that held only a couch, one chair, two lamps, more shelves, more books, a

  tape player, and a special rack for cassettes. More than she needed, she told herself. She could sit in one chair at a time, read one book at a time, hear one cassette at a time. She sank down into the chair.

  He was lonely. Of course. But he had brought it all back, and she had been so sure that her grief had passed over into acceptance finally. Wrong, Barbara, she told herself mockingly. Abruptly she jerked up out of the chair and crossed the room to check the door, knowing as she did that it was locked, that this was a meaningless motion. She made herself go to the kitchen, to get a drink of water, to turn off the lights and get ready for bed, and again it was meaningless. It would be hours before she was ready for bed; the twilight of dawn might be lightening her room before she drifted into sleep. She had refused the oblivion of sleeping pills months ago. She had been afraid to give up her grief. If she didn’t feel that, what would she feel, she had wondered, and the answer had come: nothing.

  At the sink, holding a glass of water she did not want, she surveyed the kitchen: ancient electric stove that had two working burners, a table that wobbled, two straight chairs, two and a half feet of counter space, a small refrigerator that dated back to the sixties. And by the back door was the evergrowing stack of newspapers destined for recycling when she remembered to take them out. The house was dingy with age and neglect and she despised it.

  Spassero, she thought then almost in desperation. Maybe he had made the news in the last month or so. She picked up a stack of newspapers and put it on the table, prepared for a long night. She had found that if she worked, the grief receded; lately she had believed it had changed to something else, but it was there, it was there. She started to go through the papers.

  TWO

  An hour later Barbara had the papers sorted, with sections of local news on the table. She was scanning for the name Spassero, but what she found were items concerning Paula Kennerman. At first she had read the story as it appeared, then had stopped reading about it as each day brought new facts, new revelations, new horrors. The first story, from back in April, was a paragraph or two. It said only that a child had been fatally burned the previous day and her mother injured in a fire that had burned down the house at the Canby Ranch.

  The next day a more complete story had appeared. A group of women who were living at the Canby Ranch had gone out to pick chanterelles. One of the children stayed behind. When her mother, Paula Kennerman, returned to check on her, she had found the house in flames, but before she could locate her daughter, a propane tank exploded. The mother was thrown out the front door to the ground; her daughter was fatally burned in the fire. The mother was hospitalized for shock, concussion, minor burns.

  The paper went on to describe the Canby Ranch and the generosity of Grace Canby, who had turned the house over to abused women who needed a safe haven temporarily. Four
such women and their children had been living there when the fire occurred.

  The next story was a brief report on the funeral of Lori Kennerman, aged six. And the one after that was the last story about the affair that Barbara had read. Lori Kenner-

  man had not died of fire injuries. She had been hit on the side of the head and killed instantly. The fire had been an arson fire. The police were holding Paula Kennerman for questioning; psychiatric examination had been ordered. A public defender, William Spassero, had been assigned by the court to represent Mrs. Kennerman.

  It was after two when Barbara finished reading the newspapers. The usual editorials had appeared: justice must take its course; everyone deserves a fair trial; baby-killing must stop. The usual people made the usual statements. Paula’s friends and family, expressing disbelief and bewilderment; her husband, who never had touched her and was stunned by her running off, admitted that she had turned against him, had been acting funny. Concerning William Spassero she found very little; he had done the pro forma things: petitioned for a change of venue, denied; petitioned for bail, denied. And nothing else. There was a picture of him and Paula Kennerman at her arraignment. He was large, blond, baby-faced, and she looked shell-shocked. Not as plump as her sister was the only conclusion about her appearance Barbara could make—that and her lack of expression. And Spassero looked as if he should still be studying Composition 101.

  Well, what did you expect? she asked herself crossly as she restacked the papers at the back door. This time she left them closer to the threshold. If she stumbled over them a time or two, it might jar her memory enough to get rid of them.

  Even as Barbara was finally getting ready for bed, a dozen blocks away a night guard doing a routine check at Lane County Jail spotted a gleaming pool of blood beneath the bed of one of the inmates. The guard summoned help, and then taped pressure bandages to both wrists of the inmate while she waited. They took the patient to the hospital, where a doctor stitched her wrists and debated giving her a transfusion, decided against it. No one wanted to put blood into anyone these days unless it was absolutely necessary, and Kennerman was holding her own for now. They would keep her overnight for observation and reconsider a transfusion if her condition changed. At the jail, officers searched her cell; she had been alone because of the threats against her. They found the tool, a broken plastic comb that she had sharpened somehow. It had not been very efficient. She had made a number of attempts, cuts on both arms that had not gone deep enough, but she had persevered.