Black Leather

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “I don’t think you understand the impossibility of my situation,” she said. “Most of the time I’m trying not to explode. Most of the time I’m taking it just one minute at a time, telling myself that if I can keep my brains from splattering all over the wall behind my desk, I’ll be doing all right.”

  “It’s that bad?” Joseph wanted to touch her, but he kept his distance. She needed to vent, and she needed space in order to do that.

  “Worse. I’m trying to defend my sister against two capital crimes. I have to fight her every step of the way because she has it in her head that I did it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not funny. I’m having to fight the State of California. The DA has some stupid trick up his sleeve, and I have no idea what it is, but I’m going to have his ass if he withholds evidence. I’ll have him fucking disbarred.” She took a deep breath, another sip of wine and then continued, her voice lower, as if talking about it actually was expelling her anger.

  “One of my aides is on maternity leave; two of the others are screwing each other and thereby effectively worthless. I’ve got this damned inquiry hanging over my head, and the judicial investigator is delving into areas that are none of his business, and I can’t see where they’re going with all this stuff. They’re looking at my checking account records!” She waved her hands in a gesture of futility.

  This goosed Joseph’s guilt. The investigator was on her because of what he had told them. The pictures he had given them. The credit card records he had provided them.

  Would he feel better if he confessed?

  She took a deep breath, then looked up at him.

  Joseph thought she had the face of an angel, even though her face was oily, even though her hair was messy, or maybe because of those things.

  “And then there’s you,” she said, and sighed.

  “Want me to go away?”

  “I have no idea what I want to do with you,” she said, and her words rang with the truth. “I feel as though I need you right now, but how fair is that to you if I find out that I don’t need you when all of this is over?”

  “I’m a big boy,” he said.

  “You’re my sister’s husband, for Christ’s sake. How fair is this to her?”

  Joseph had no response for that. He sat quietly, waiting for her torment to cease, for her to come to a conclusion, for the ceiling to cave in, something. He just waited.

  She drank her wine, finished it, dropped the empty glass softly to the carpeted floor.

  “Mexico,” she said.

  He grinned. It would all work out. She’d get Cynthia out of jail, gain her appointment, and they’d go to Mexico. Together. Just the two of them.

  In Mexico, she would become his.

  He believed that if Irene killed Warren Begay, there was a reason for it. Something went wrong. She didn’t kill any of the others—that was clearly not her pattern—and she wasn’t going to kill him.

  At this point, that was the most important thing to him.

  He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Mexico,” he said. “Right answer.”

  Chapter 27

  Owen Crowell paced back and forth in front of Walter Rogers’ desk. He knew he was exhibiting all the wrong things with regard to a case: he was way too personally involved, he was emotional, he was angry.

  All those things were unprofessional, and as a result, he was in danger of being taken off the case.

  Every now and then he looked up at Walter, who steepled his hands as he relaxed in his chair, and Owen knew that Walter was evaluating his performance every step of the way. Owen’s job might be secure in the District Attorney’s office, but it wasn’t necessarily secure on this case.

  This case. This damned case. He’d even begun to dream of Irene Nottingham sitting up there in her black robe, only instead of a gavel, she banged a meat cleaver.

  Owen’s case against Cynthia had been a damned good one until Joseph Schneider got involved. Joseph added an ingredient that Owen didn’t want and didn’t like.

  And couldn’t ignore.

  “Their blood types are even the same,” he said to Walter. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Take it easy,” Walter said. “This case is going to last a while. I don’t want you having a stroke in the middle of it.”

  Owen sat down and ran his hands through his hair. He leaned forward and looked at Walter, his body still but tense.

  “So what you’re telling me,” Walter said, his tired voice the same steady pace that it had been in every word Owen had ever heard him speak, “is that every teensy particle of evidence you have against Cynthia Schneider, you could also have against Irene Nottingham.”

  “Plane tickets. Clothes. Wigs. Witnesses. Boyfriends. History. Blood type. Vaginal fluids were blood type A Positive, which fits both of them. We’re still waiting for the DNA tests, but Cynthia doesn’t deny fucking the guy.” He paused, feeling defeat. “One of them even married a guy who thinks he was married to her sister.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Owen jumped up again, unable to contain himself. “It’s weird, Walter.”

  “Did they do it together? Was this tag-team murder?”

  This stopped him. Owen turned and looked at his boss, and realized with a thump that it was this outside-the-nine-dots thinking that made Walter the DA, and he wondered when he would gain enough experience in this business to develop that type of mind.

  “I would hate like hell to think that someone capable of doing something like this will one day sit in Judge Harcort’s seat and hear my cases.”

  “One day soon,” Walter said. When that day came, Walter would retire, it was obvious on his face.

  “Shit.” Owen collapsed in the chair again, defeated. “We can’t prosecute. We just don’t have any evidence. We don’t have any evidence at all that is exclusive to Cynthia Schneider.”

  “Cheer up, Owen.” Walter said.

  “She’s going to walk. Whoever did this to Warren and his brother is going to walk.”

  “That’s the business we’re in.”

  “And Irene Nottingham will get a bench appointment.”

  “Envious?”

  Yeah, he was envious. Of course he was envious. But he didn’t want Walter to know it, and he resented the fact that Walter even suspected it. “No, not envious. Sick to fucking death.” Owen stood up and headed for the door.

  “Owen.”

  He stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned around. He knew he was scowling, and he couldn’t help himself.

  “Let’s not show our hand just yet. Let’s wait and see if anything interesting develops.”

  Owen opened the door.

  “You know,” Walter went on in that agonizingly slow way of his, “there’s one thing about working in this office. Sometimes the guilty go free because of technicalities, because of circumstances, because of a lucky break. But the guilty ones always run through the system again. You know that. They do it again, because they got away with it once. Believe me, Owen, there’s a progression here. This is a runaway sickness, and it isn’t going to stop of its own volition. If whoever did this gets away with it this time, they’ll do it again, only they won’t get away with it again.”

  That thump in his gut again. Owen closed the door.

  “What are you saying, that we ought to just let her walk?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m not sure we have much choice, but we don’t have to let Miss Nottingham know that. Secondly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

  “It would be for her next victim.”

  “There doesn’t have to be a next victim, Owen,” Walter said. “There’s a pattern. A predictable pattern. She can be intercepted.”

  Owen sat back down. Walter was right again. Irene played her little games every time she won a case. She would do it again when she won this case. He’d just have to be vigilant. He wanted to catch her before her appointment.

  It wouldn’t do to have a judge convicted of murder and
sexual mutilations.

  His spirits picked up immediately. Walter was right. They didn’t need to show their hand. If they gave up, she wouldn’t win anything. She had to win and then they would snag her. He would snag her. They’d wait, she’d present her case, and the judge would find in her favor, because the truth was, they had diddly squat against Cynthia Schneider.

  He looked up at Walter, who was grinning at him. They read each other perfectly.

  “If you saved the governor some embarrassment, Owen,” Walter said slowly, “he would be very grateful. I would see to it.”

  “He would be grateful, wouldn’t he?”

  “Hold on to that thought,” Walter said.

  Owen stood up, feeling oddly buoyant. He went back to his desk, contemplating the strange affection he felt for Walter. He’d cut his teeth on trial law in this office, and Walter had taught him all the practical things, all the angles. And now, just before Walter retired, he was putting the finishing touches on Owen’s grooming. He was teaching Owen the fine art of politics. Owen knew that he’d soon have another boss, but Owen would be sad when Walter’s retirement day came.

  Chapter 28

  Irene had been too nervous to eat breakfast, but she knew she had to have something to throw up, so she ate a bagel and drank a pint of juice on the way to the courthouse. She hoped it would stay down, but of course it didn’t.

  She got there fifteen minutes before her judicial interview, and spent all that time puking in the women’s room.

  She tried telling herself that there was nothing to be afraid of, but the truth was, this was a lose/lose situation. If the interview went poorly, she’d be ashamed, her career and everything she had worked for would go right down the toilet she was throwing up into. She’d go home and pull the covers over her head.

  If the interview went well, she might become a judge. A very public position. A tightly restrictive job. Suffocating. She’d no longer have even an inch of latitude in either her professional or her personal life. There would be elections. And reelections. Politics. Fund raising. Making decisions that would be controversial. Overturned. Writing decisions that would be scrutinized by fierce critics. She could find herself on the editorial page of the Chronicle every other week, like Judge Colburn.

  This was the proper, appropriate career move, she knew that, and she knew she would take this step, just like she had taken all the others before it. This was a way to make a difference in the community. She’d be a tough goddamned judge.

  And if she didn’t like it, she could just walk away.

  She could just walk away. Not run for reelection.

  See? There wasn’t anything to be afraid of, not really.

  She could always quit. No permanence. No commitment that locked her in for life.

  When her stomach was empty and nothing else came up, she checked her watch, then sat gently on the edge of the toilet. She relaxed her body, closed her weepy eyes and tried to concentrate.

  “I’m not afraid,” she whispered.

  She felt her heart rate slow down, felt a tingling in her fingers and toes as the feeling came back to them. “I can do this,” she said aloud as she left the stall and approached the mirror to repair the damage.

  The damage wasn’t severe. Smeared lipstick and mascara. Easily fixed. She rinsed her mouth, smoothed the wrinkles out of her suit, clutched her black leather briefcase to her chest, looked at the ceiling and closed her eyes in momentary prayer, then went forth to meet the committee.

  Six men in suits sat around a conference table. They all stood when Irene entered the room, and she smiled and accepted this courtesy as an empowering gesture. She shook hands, smiled with genuine warmth at the men, most of whom she’d known her entire career, including Judge Colburn, then took the vacant seat. As far as Irene knew, she was the only one being seriously considered for Judge Harcort’s vacancy. The governor would appoint a successor to fill in until the next election, but this was the committee that would recommend a name to the governor.

  “Developments of late have made us nervous, counselor,” said the investigator, the only man she didn’t know. Irene nodded in acknowledgement. She felt calm and comfortable. She felt completely in control of herself. “Scandal is not something we can tolerate.”

  Here it was. Her opening. She calmly made eye contact with every man at the table. AI can assume then, that each member of your nuclear families—siblings, spouses, parents, children—all have pristine records?”

  An uncomfortable shuffle of feet and rearranging of clothing followed the rhetorical question.

  Irene flushed, not sure if they were uncomfortable because she spoke the truth about their families, or if they were uncomfortable because she had just shot herself in the foot.

  I am not afraid of these men, she said to herself, and the flush receded. “My sister is not guilty, gentlemen.” She ran her gaze around the table one more time. “And until she is proven guilty, we will all assume her innocence.” Irene couldn’t believe her own boldness. She just commanded a roomful of judges to assume Cynthia’s innocence. They were all embarrassed that she had to remind them of that constitutional fact, in the midst of their personal political aspirations.

  The interviewer cleared his throat and opened the file folder in front of him. He was changing the subject. She had won Round One. Her face flushed again, this time in pleasure, as the others sat up a little straighter in their chairs, clearly pleased that the most difficult part of this interview was behind them.

  She calmly folded her hands and placed them on the table in front of her. She could handle anything else they threw at her.

  ~~~

  Her powerful opening comment had set the tone. The rest of the interview went very well. Irene felt as though she had showed them that she was one of them, equal to the task of passing down judicial statements in conjunction with the mandates of the people and the laws of the State of California, within the conservative platform of the Governor’s administration. When she got into her car, she felt satisfied.

  She felt good, except for one tiny niggling doubt about their opening statement. It was a warning. The investigator was telling her that she better do a damned fine job of defending her sister, because if Cynthia was convicted, Irene could kiss this appointment goodbye. It was clear that Irene would not be granted the appointment until Cynthia’s case was settled.

  Irene wouldn’t be surprised to hear a grapevine rumor that someone else was being considered as their fallback position.

  It wasn’t exactly fair that Cynthia’s fate should have anything to do with Irene’s career. But it did. If Cynthia was convicted of this murder, Irene’s career path had come to a dead end. She would be looking at defense cases for the rest of her life, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and nobody really needed to know that she had been passed over for a judicial appointment, unless someone like Owen Crowell informed the media. But the citizenry paid no attention to things like that. She still had great role models, and could be one of the premiere defense attorneys in the country. It was no springboard to something greater, like the appointment would be, but she was good at what she did, and she could make a fine living at it.

  But it was still being a lawyer. Funny how she had been satisfied doing that, had been thrilled to do it, until the possibility of something greater had come along.

  Cynthia. Cynthia had moved out of Irene’s apartment, but she had moved right in on Irene’s career. Irene took a deep breath and tried, sincerely tried, not to resent her younger sister. Again. Any more.

  It was noon by the time she got to the office. She distractedly took care of a few details that needed to be done, assigned the rest to her assistants, and went home.

  She went home and agitated.

  She opened the draperies, she closed them again. She opened them, lay on the sofa, then jumped up and closed them again. She thought of going to the gym, but this type of gnawing anger couldn’t be exercised away.

  By the time Joseph
returned her call from his apartment, she was in a rage. She lost no time in grabbing her keys and driving to his place with one foot on the gas and one hand on the horn. Driving aggressively helped a little bit; speed and power took the edge off her other thoughts for a short time.

  The wine was chilled, his house comfortably dusky. Joseph sat quietly in his big leather recliner, while Irene paced back and forth, spewing her anger. She gulped her wine, then resumed pacing, wanting something, anything, to quell the burning inside her gut.

  “She’s going to screw this up for me, I know it,” she said. “I just know it. She’s tried her damnedest all her life to bring me down to her level.”

  She sat on the edge of a dining room chair, looked at Joseph enjoying his wine, wanting to be in that peaceful space with him, but she couldn’t settle there. She drained her glass, then jumped up again and resumed pacing. “She’s white trash. I’m not the least bit surprised by her actions. I’m a little bit surprised by the severity of her desperation, but I’m not at all surprised that she—” The pain on Joseph’s face caught her by surprise, caught her up short. She remembered who she was talking about, and who she was talking to. “Oh, Joseph, I’m sorry.”

  “C’mere,” he said, crooking a finger in her direction.

  She walked toward him, he grabbed one arm and swirled her around and down into his lap.

  Exactly the way Myron used to swirl Cynthia around and into his lap in the big red leather chair when they were little girls. But not Irene. Irene was too old to sit in his lap. She’d watched from the hallway door instead.

  “I’m sorry,” Irene said. “I’m talking about your wife.”

  “You give her way too much power over your life.”

  “I don’t know that I give her anything.” She takes, Irene thought. She just cruises in and takes whatever the hell she wants.

  “I know a way you can get out from under this... this shadow,” Joseph said.

  Irene snuggled down, curling up like a little girl in her daddy’s lap. She loved the feeling of it, and Joseph was big enough to allow it. He surrounded her with his arms and cradled her. She wanted to stay there forever, and never go back to a law office, never go back to court, never have to throw up in fear and agitation, never have to compete, never have to think about Cynthia again.