Julia looked back at David, the two of them naked, covered only by a light blanket as they lay on a rug covering the outside patio of David’s downtown Detroit penthouse.
“I’m not afraid. I just try to steer clear of anything that can kill me. Most sane people feel the same way.”
“How do you feel about family?” David asked. “You never talk about your own.”
“It’s a long story, and not a very good one.”
“If you want to remain a woman of mystery, I’ll let you play that role, at least for a while longer. But my dad would like to meet you. He’s finally talking to me again after his so-called painful recovery over my disappointing choice to work for the public defender’s office instead of joining his Sunday golf partner’s private practice. The guy makes huge bucks by representing the mob. I told my dad I’d rather be poor than a sellout.”
“That’s good you’ve reunited with your dad.”
“Well, under one condition. I have to pay him back for all my education, considering he footed the bill and I chose to be a lowly public defender.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. And you accepted that? He should be proud of you.”
“Life doesn’t work that way, especially if you come from money. So you’ll go to dinner? My dad has a new wife. I haven’t met her yet and I could use some support from the cavalry, and what a very attractive cavalry it is.”
“There’s something I need to tell you first. It might make you rethink your invitation.”
“What’s the matter? Why won’t you look at me?”
“I’m pregnant. I thought we were being careful. I’m sorry. I realize we’ve only been together for six months, but I can’t give the baby up. I understand if you want to walk away.”
David pulled Julia as close as he could and kissed her as a boom of thunder rang out in the near distance.
“Hot damn. Julia Gooden, you’re full of surprises.”)
A profound hollowness settles in her chest, and the strong and comforting speech Julia had recited over and over in her head vanishes as she speaks from the heart.
“It’s me, babe. I’m sorry I left you in the courthouse. You told me to go, and I did it for the boys,” Julia says, and steadies her voice. “You did really well getting through the surgery. You don’t give up, understand? Despite what’s happened between us, the separation, the fighting, we put it behind us and I need you. Logan and Will need you too. Now listen, this is really important. You concentrate on getting better. That’s your job. I promise I’ll take care of the boys. But I know you, and you’d want me to take care of something else. Nick Rossi bombed the courthouse to take out your witness. I need to make sure justice happens for you and everyone else who got hurt. I’m going after Rossi. I know that’s what you were trying to do. You’d tell me to be careful, and I will, but you wouldn’t tell me no. I won’t let Rossi get away with this.”
Julia reaches into her purse; pulls out a framed picture of David, the boys, and herself, all tanned and happy at the lakeshore the summer before; and places it on her husband’s bedside stand.
She notices a cardboard box containing David’s belongings on a stand next to the bed, including his clothing he had carefully selected for big day one of the trial. Julia inspects the items in the box: David’s cell phone, wallet, blue suit coat and dress pants, white button-down shirt and gold tie with the gold stripes she picked for him just hours earlier. Each item of clothing has been sliced down the center in an uneven crease, except for the tie, as the emergency room team obviously cut David out of his clothes when he arrived at the ER. Julia tucks the box under her arm as Dr. Whitcomb pokes his head inside the door.
“Ms. Gooden, I’m afraid it’s time to leave.”
Julia leans in close to David and whispers in his ear, “I love you. Fight with all you’ve got.”
Julia pulls away and convinces herself she can see David’s index finger raise just slightly, as if he were saying, “Damn right, Gooden.”
* * *
Jim Bartello sweats before he makes the phone call, sweats even more than he did when the cops were sniffing around when he was still head of security at the MGM Grand. The cops never found enough evidence to directly link him to Nick Rossi, but it was enough to get him fired from his $75,000-a-year job by the general manager of the hotel.
Bartello spent his entire adult life around people who made bets, and he beat his own odds on not getting taken down in the Rossi bust. Bartello thought he’d won the cherry prize when Rossi’s big dog, Enzo Costas, promised that he and Rossi would take care of Bartello for his loyal services. But his new services became much more than he expected and seemed to have no expiration date.
Bartello wipes the sweat from his palms across his gray vinyl tracksuit and reaches for his cell phone.
He can hear his heart thumping loudly in his ears as the phone begins to ring.
“Mister Jim,” Enzo answers, his voice as deep and throaty as a Sunday morning evangelist preacher’s.
“Mr. Costas, I don’t know what happened. I did exactly what you told me. I hired the guy. He’s the best sniper in the Midwest. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
“But he never fired a shot, is that right? Someone beat him to it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Bartello says as perspiration begins to drip down the back of his fat neck.
“That’s what we pay you for. To figure things out so nothing like this happens. This bombing had many casualties. Nick’s lawyer will try to get him out of this, but if he can’t, our boss may be tied to this bombing. The charges will be much worse than what he is currently facing.”
“I know. Christ, I know.”
“What have you been able to find out about the bomber?”
“The bomb was purchased at the Packard Plant. I know that much. The bodies of two young dudes were found outside the building around the time of the sale. That’s what my source said.”
“You know who they were working for?”
“I don’t know. I’m tracking them.”
Bartello endures a minute of silence on the other end of the phone.
“Tracking them. That is not acceptable.”
“I know. I’m close. I won’t let you down. Right now, I think they were just contract kids for hire.”
Bartello’s body is completely wet with sweat as if he just ran ten miles in his tracksuit.
“And who hired them?”
“I don’t know yet. But as I said, I’m real close.”
“Tomorrow. You give me answers by tomorrow. Understand?”
Twenty-four hours. Bartello figures he can get to his hiding place by then.
CHAPTER 9
The sun begins its slow and glorious rise in Julia’s rearview mirror as she pulls into her driveway. She stares out at the house she and David bought eight years ago, just before Logan was born. She can picture David walking around the backyard assessing the property on the day they first saw the house and how wonderfully foolish he looked in his suit coat and tie as he took a spin on the tire swing underneath the stately maple tree that still stands guard out back.
Julia rests her head against the steering wheel and tries to come up with strong and soothing words to say to the boys when they wake up. She wishes she could consult with David, always the calm one while she was the overreactor, about the right thing to tell them, but she accepts the fact she’s alone on this one.
Julia looks up at her front porch. Perched on the ledge right outside the kitchen window is a blackbird. It stares back at her for a long minute and then soars high into the early morning air until it disappears into the thick nest of trees in the back of her property. She recalls the blackbird that waited by her broken-down car in the parking garage right before the bombing, and Julia realizes her stroke of extreme luck, because she would have most likely been at ground zero of the courthouse waiting for Logan if her car had started.
Inside, her house still smells warm and welcoming f
rom a fire that Helen must have made for the boys the night before. She slips off her white trench coat, now tattered and filthy from the previous day, and tries to move silently through her quiet house. Helen lies ramrod straight on the living room couch, asleep with her shoes still on.
Julia gets halfway across the living room when Helen shoots up into a sitting position.
“I’m so sorry to wake you,” Julia whispers.
“It’s okay. The boys slept through the night. How is your David?” Helen says, and pats the empty seat next to her on the couch.
“He made it through surgery, but we’re just waiting to see how and if he comes out of it.”
Helen touches Julia’s hand with her own weathered one, deeply creased and speckled with prominent brown sunspots.
“I prayed for David and your family all night. Such a good man to have a tragedy like this bestowed upon him. Do the police know who did this bombing?”
“No. Not yet. But I know the man whom David was prosecuting is responsible. The police don’t have any evidence to convict him of the bombing, though, and he may go free. I have to find a way to prove he did it.”
“Bez potrzeby wymówka, gotowe oskar enie,” Helen says in her native Polish tongue.
“What does that mean?” Julia asks.
“A guilty conscience needs no accuser. People who know they have done wrong will reveal their guilt in what they say or how they act.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You go get a shower now. It will make you feel better. Maybe a little rest, too.”
“Thank you, Helen, for all you’ve done. You should go home. I’m sure Mr. Jankowski would like you back.”
“No. I will stay with you as long as you need, until David comes home. Alek brought me a suitcase from home last night, so I am fine. You go now.”
“I’m not going to sleep, but a shower sounds really nice.”
Julia creeps quietly down the hallway and peeks in on Will, his blond hair, just like David’s, shining like brilliant gold against his red Mr. Incredible pajama top. She lingers for a minute, watching his chest move up and down slowly, and then heads to Logan’s room. She peers inside and feels a stab of worry when she discovers his bed empty.
Julia hurries to her own room and finds Logan asleep on David’s side of the bed. Next to his head is David’s Harvard Law T-shirt, thin after much wear through the years, but David refuses to part with it.
Julia stands over her oldest son and resists an urge to hug him against her chest and tell him everything is going to be all right. She turns toward her bathroom when a voice calls her back.
“Mom. Where were you?”
Julia sits down on the edge of the bed next to Logan and wraps her arms tightly around her little boy. Logan’s eyes are bloodshot and look swollen as if he has been crying.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was at the hospital all night. I told you when I called that Helen would be looking after you and Will until I got home, remember?”
“But you didn’t tell me you’d be gone all night.”
“Understood. It won’t happen again.”
“You didn’t tell me the truth. You said Dad got just a little hurt in an accident but that he was going to be all right,” Logan says, looking wounded and small, tucked inside the king-size down comforter.
“Why do you think that’s not the truth?”
“Because Sarah told me.”
“Sarah from your class? Did she come over here?” Julia asks, her voice beginning to elevate several notches.
“No, she called when we were eating dinner and Helen gave me the phone. Sarah said there was a big bomb that went off at the courthouse and it killed a whole bunch of people and that Dad was hurt really bad. Sarah said her parents were watching the news and she saw Dad’s picture on the TV.”
She fights back an urge to call Sarah’s parents, realizing the conversation would only upset Logan more.
“I wasn’t lying to you. I just didn’t want you to worry until your dad got to be treated by a doctor. Yes, there was a bomb that went off in the courthouse. Someone very bad did it, and it hurt a lot of people. Your dad was at the courthouse doing his job when the bomb went off, and yes, he did get injured. He had surgery, and his doctor told me it went really well. So right now we just have to be positive and give him lots of love so he’ll continue to get better. Can you do that?”
“Yes. When do I get to see him?”
“I’d like you to wait until he’s feeling better.”
“I want to see him now.”
Julia exhales and tries to figure out how she is going to handle this without making Logan any more anxious or upset than he already is.
“Okay. You can go with me later this morning. But your dad may still be sleeping. And he may look different than what you’re used to. He got some bruises and his face is swollen, sort of like when you fall down and hurt yourself, and it takes a few days to heal. Just remember, he may look a little different right now, but he’s still the same person inside who loves you very much.”
“I don’t care what he looks like. He’s still my dad.”
Julia smiles for the first time in the past twenty-four hours.
“You’re my good boy,” Julia says. “Do you want me to lie down with you for a little while?”
“No. I’m going to go back to my room and make Dad a card.”
“I have to go to my job for a few minutes to pick something up, but I’ll be right back. Fifteen minutes in and out. I swear.”
“Sure, Mom,” Logan answers, his tone betraying the reassurance of the words.
Logan retreats down the hall to his room, and Julia makes an internal vow that she will make it up to Logan later. She quickly showers and changes her clothes from the morning before, settling without thought on a pair of black jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, and boots.
She grabs her laptop case and heads to the kitchen, where Helen is poised over the stove with a spatula.
“I’ve got to go to the paper for a minute,” Julia explains. “I left a flash drive there with information on the Rossi case I need to pick up.”
“You go to work at a time like this when your husband is in the hospital?”
“There’s information David would want me to get that I left on my desk. It’s important to the case,” Julia says. “Forty-five minutes is all I need, if that. Keep Logan and Will away from the TV and computer today. I don’t want Logan to find out anything more about the courthouse attack.”
* * *
Julia can sense the buzz of adrenaline as she walks through the newsroom, the same electric jolt she has felt so many times before when she was covering a huge, breaking story that was going to go national. Julia knows her editors will be pulling all hands on deck to cover the bombing, even bringing in the sports desk for support. Not that any of the reporters would care. Everyone in the newsroom will want a piece of it. And right now, most likely a piece of her.
Despite the frenetic activity around her, there’s a collective pause as Julia makes her way to her desk. She doesn’t have to work too hard to realize what her colleagues are thinking: first, shock that she’s actually in the newsroom, followed by a quick flash of pity and compassion, and then finally the dominant high of unexpected opportunity that supersedes everything else. Julia is no longer covering the story. She is the story, and every reporter is going to vie to land an exclusive interview with her before Margie makes her pick.
Julia pulls the flash drive she came for out of her desk drawer and stares at it, knowing she should just put it in her pocket and leave. But she can’t help herself. She plugs the drive into her computer and clicks on the Nick Rossi file. Julia goes to a folder that contains images believed to be of his cruel handiwork against those who crossed him in business deals. The first photo is of hustler Dwayne Brown, whose body was found dumped on a bench near the Ambassador Bridge. Brown’s neck had been severed down to expose the bone, a picture the paper’s photographer took
but was too graphic to run. Julia clicks on the final image, a family portrait of Rossi. Next to him is a stunningly beautiful woman with raven hair. A little girl, maybe two, wearing a white silk petticoat dress, sits on the woman’s lap. The child is a dead ringer for Rossi. Julia reads the image’s caption, Nicholas Rossi with wife, Isabella, and daughter Christina, and then the accompanying story.
Daughter of Suspected Detroit Criminal Killed in Mall Shooting
By Conan Knox (Associated Press)
(DETROIT)—The two-year-old daughter of suspected Detroit criminal Nicholas Rossi was killed, along with her nanny, Beth Young, during a holiday shopping excursion to a retail center in Rochester Hills. The child, Christina Rossi, and Young, were both shot point blank as they exited their vehicle in a parking garage. While the shooters remain at large, police believe the victims were killed as a direct hit by rivals of Rossi’s criminal operation.
Julia’s hatred for Rossi ebbs ever so slightly as she knows nothing like that should ever happen to a child. Julia closes out of the file and ignores the sixteen new e-mail messages from fellow reporters that have popped across her screen since she sat down. E-mails work sometimes when trying to elicit a response from a potential source, but the old-school reporters know they have to work harder.
“Hey, Julia. Geez, are you okay? I was going to call you to see how you and David were doing, but I didn’t want to seem intrusive,” Joe Phillips, the city of Detroit beat reporter, says, as he leans just slightly over Julia’s computer. Phillips is stocky, balding, and over fifty. As one of the veterans and, more important, one of the highest-paid reporters left in the newsroom, Phillips knows he has to hustle to make sure it’s known he’s still an asset when the next round of layoffs inevitably occurs.
“I’m all right. I’m just in here for a second before I go back to the hospital.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I heard David was still in critical condition. What’s the prognosis? We’re all praying he’s going to come out of this okay,” Phillips says.
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