All Rise

by Rosemarie Aquilina

  “If you go to the SEC right now—”

  “Hold up Aussie-Down-Under.” Hunter pawed a bagel like a hockey puck. “I thought you lawyer types were cautious and confidential?”

  Sebastian coffeed down his bite. “We don’t operate in porky. Legal process works best in every country when everyone operates with clean hands and absolute truth.” He focused on me.

  Sebastian’s damn accent and Australian slang messed with me every time. When I added gorgeous looks, law talk, shots of coffee and hairspray, erotica trumped my common sense. Both men studied me. I jumped in. “You’re right; we keep our cards hidden inside the cashmere, but there’s the right time and the wrong time to give information.” I eyed one man and the other. “We need to strategically determine what information we release when and to whom. And we need to start with the SEC.”

  “If we bring in the SEC and the Feds,” Sebastian said, “jurisdiction may be lost.”

  “You’re dating Aussie-the-Obvious.” Hunter smirked. “And you know he’s right about sharing information.”

  I blinked. I was trying to recall what he was saying. Damn. This nest of testosterone was causing me to lose focus.

  “So, do you, agree?” Hunter looked frustrated. “You, having served as a—”

  “It’s my duty to inform the SEC. Not anyone else’s. Mine,” I said. “I need all my actions to show my innocence.”

  “The detectives may suppose you planted the newspaper, like they did with the calendars,” Hunter said. “That you are trying to send them in the wrong direction by making it look like you’re being set up, when in fact you’re the murderer.”

  “Ridiculous.” I ran my hands through my hair to keep from punching something or someone. I needed calming hairspray.

  “We all have a duty,” Sebastian said.

  I bit my thumb knuckle. “So far I haven’t done anything wrong. But I may run out of time. And, if I start hoarding evidence—”

  “Even with speculative tidbits, they can revoke your bond.” Sebastian suddenly looked all lawyer. “If the court gets new evidence, or evidence shows up that leads them to conclude you are a target, a tether and high bond won’t keep you out of jail. You’ll be behind bars for your protection.”

  Piercing panic caused sweat to bead in uncharted body parts. Hell, I’d just talked myself into being too scared to function. So much for my plan to come clean with the SEC. I reminded myself I was in control, and I’d rethink that plan and put it on hold.

  “We need these detectives on your side.” Sebastian stuck up his pointer finger. “Let’s verify the information and make it easy for those blokes.”

  “Now that the Crocodile agrees—” Hunter turned his full attention to me. “Toots, make a list, where the number twelve attaches itself to you, no matter how remote.”

  Sebastian obviously approved. “Good oil, mate.” He turned toward me. “Start with asbestos cases—civil and criminal. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll expand the list to include other money cases like banks or insurance cases.”

  “When Donnettelli shifted the asbestos cases from his docket to mine, and there were a few hundred of them, mostly old, but a few new ones, he cherry-picked cases he wanted from my docket,” I said.

  “Could there be twelve solely related to one type of case or issue?” Hunter asked.

  Sebastian placed his napkin on his plate and asked me, “Did you check?”

  “Could be.” I shrugged. It was worth checking, but even if I found twelve cases on the same issue, how could that necessitate twelve bank accounts? What I really wanted to do was question everyone who’d entered the Courthouse the day Donnettelli died. Police could get a report and share it with Sebastian.

  Hunter was fixed on agreeing with Sebastian. They’d oddly bonded somewhere among coffee, insults, muffins, yellow highlighter, and me. I needed another undercover trip.

  “Look,” I said. “We’ve already said that—based on alibis—nobody could have killed Donnettelli.”

  They both agreed, but in a patronizing way that made me want to kick them.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Invoking Judge voice. “Assume all the alibis are hokum.”

  “Hokum?” This from both men at once.

  I nodded. “Hokum. Malarkey. Shit.”

  “Ah. Hokum.”

  “So the guys weren’t at the poker party—”

  “We can’t imagine away the newspaper article breaking up the brawl and showing them being arrested.” Sebastian was trying to sound gentle. “Things we can challenge include star-witness Stella, maybe time of death—”

  “There’s really nothing else to work with, Toots. The bastard’s dead. You’re the only one with motive and without an alibi.”

  I’ve heard the expression “I saw red,” but I’d never experienced it before, and I wasn’t liking it now.

  Sebastian quickly stood and nudged the galumphnik next to him. “Hunter and I will work the Donnettelli angle.”

  I stood. “Noted.” I snatched my cup and the last egg croissant and made for the secret door into the salon. Meeting with these guys was as stressful as a judges’ meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Time to work my magic on my friend Laurel. At my station, I wished I could order an infusion of revival chemicals before I began to work. I promised myself that every pump of my stylist chair would include pumping clients for information. Every move I made had to count. Laurel had information or access to it, and I was thankful she was willing to snoop and share the wealth.

  “About time,” Laurel called from the reception area.

  Seeing her brought feelings of being home, and hearing her voice calmed me like a drug.

  Laurel (in her usual designer dress and dark nylons) was from old money. While in court, I’d made sure my robe was floor-length to cover my jeans and cowboy boots, but her robes were cut three inches below the knee. At sixty, she was still beautiful. I’d heard talk that attorneys took nylon bets while they waited for her: was she wearing plain, fishnets, lace, or back seam.

  She hugged me. “I need a new look.”

  “I need answers,” I whispered and released her. “Follow me.”

  I seated Laurel in my stylist chair and prepped her as we absorbed the light-rock music streaming in above the hum of blow dryers and scents of ammonia and candy-apple shampoo.

  About half the staff was in, so what Laurel and I did and said would likely go unnoticed.

  Dinkie-Do stood at his station and peacefully added highlights and lowlights to his client’s hair, while entertaining her with stories of New York’s nightlife. Carlye wasn’t at her station, so for the moment, peace reigned in their part of the stylist world. Margo’s headphones sound-secluded her while she stacked towels. Trisha answered phones, and for the first time since we’d opened, she was too busy to give me a good-morning, Judge shout-out.

  From under the nylon cape, Laurel slid out her extra-large oversized bag, unzipped it, and pulled out something. Her brown eyes were wider than normal. “For you.”

  I intercepted the flat, wrapped package. Red, white, and blue starred-and-striped paper tied in a turquoise ribbon. “It’s not my birthday.” It didn’t look like Laurel’s choice of wrapping paper. “From you?”

  Laurel lifted her chin and lowered it. “Palene and I have missed you. Something to ponder now that you have time and questions.”

  The emphasis on questions was my answer. She was here to help. I secured the package in the cupboard at my station. “I am working the biggest puzzle of my life.” I stepped behind her chair and connected with her via the mirror. “What are you thinking hair-wise?”

  She ran her hands through her hair, as if seeing it in a new way. “Every year on Michael’s birthday, I surprise him with a new woman. Well, this year it’s a double surprise. It’s not his birthday. He thinks he�
�s too smart for me to pull one over on him. Humph.”

  I rotated the chair, so we were face-to-face. “Still volumizing your hair with orange-juice cans?” I pulled out a few hair clips along with my client notebook. “We’ll shock your husband.”

  Laurel fanned her face with her hand. “I’m a not-so-old southern girl, who knows what she likes. Michael better like what you do, or one of us will be sleeping in a big empty room in your big house.”

  Just that moment Dinkie-Do strolled by with a bowl of color. “Do we have us another roomie?”

  Laurel couldn’t croon toward Dinkie-Do fast enough. “Why haven’t we met?” Wide-eyed, she goggled as if she’d just unwrapped a Christmas and birthday present all in one.

  Oh boy. “Just girl talk.” I motioned toward his client. “Mrs. Ashton’s calling for you.”

  But Dinkie-Do focused on Laurel. “Honey, I’ve got to get this color on the beauty at my station, but when you’re finished, we’ll talk about a Dinkie-Do makeover—my treat.” He scurried away, swaggering in his slim black jeans. He wore magenta socks, and a vintage tie poked out from under the protective smock.

  “You can’t miss the bench. This is too much fun.” Laurel folded her arms. She expected a response.

  “I’ll enjoy it after I dispose of Donnettelli’s revenge.” I combed through her hair.

  Laurel reached up and patted my hand. “You were a wonderful, thoughtful Judge. It’s a good closed chapter. The murder chapter will close, too.” She looked around the room and motioned me closer. “You’ve been such a good friend to me,” she began. Then motioned me still closer.

  I bent down, and Laurel whispered, “The Courthouse is eerily quiet.”

  With a little privacy, Laurel would talk. “Hint?”

  Her eyes focused up and slightly over toward my cupboard, where I’d put the package.

  “Thanks.” Tonight, would be interesting. I debated whether I should open the package alone or include the Thunder Twins. I protruded my lips toward one side and waited. Face motion helped me think.

  Laurel whispered, “Donnettelli’s sidekick, Peter Dune—”

  “Clown-about-town and Law Clerk—”

  Laurel raised a hand as if swearing. She was serious. “The same. Only redeeming value is that he writes damn good legal briefs.” She sat back. “But the twerp’s been following me. Palene, too. We’ve stayed away from you out of fear someone would plant evidence on us, maybe kill us.” Her voice trailed.

  I was pretty sure no one ever said twerp in this century. I plunged in. “You don’t think he killed Donnettelli? I happen to know that beady-eyed/scowl look he puts on is just a mask. The freckle-faced boy sends half his paycheck to his elderly parents. He was the surprise for his mom’s 52nd birthday.” I removed my fingers from Laurel’s hair and walked around to face her again. “But he might know something.”

  Laurel blinked toward the wrapped package in the cabinet. “I never liked waiting through the twelve days of Christmas.”

  Twelve? I waited for her to say more. But she didn’t. Seemed interested in her nails and the tips of her shoes. She wasn’t going to explain. So I returned to her hair while the sting of the word twelve whitened my roots. Had she said that on purpose? Was she trying to tell me something else?

  I turned fully intent on asking her directly but was stopped by a from-behind hug attack—unnamed arms wrapped around me; an unnamed short person clung to my backside.

  “Judge, I had to see you.” It was a youngish voice.

  I wasn’t happy being the huggee, and I didn’t recognize the voice of the hugger. But when she released me, I turned around and recalled the angelic face. Purple-spiky-hair girl with the exasperated mother. A former defendant, who’d had Easter-egg-colored hair and pierced everything.

  Now, a combination purse-diaper bag hung from her shoulder. Beside her was a stroller with a sleeping auburn-headed girl. “Oh my, you look gorgeous.”

  “It’s my daughter’s second birthday. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t still have her. And I had to show you and say, ‘thank you,’” she said. “I got early release from probation and started college classes, where I also earned my high-school diploma.”

  “Congratulations.” I was genuinely elated.

  “That’s not all.” She lowered her voice and inched closer to me. “I work for a bank. I pay my mom rent and day care. No new piercings, and I don’t use the ones I have except for my earrings. I’m even getting my own place.”

  I motioned, and we walked to my station while she told me about her work, her apartment, and her future plans. Then she handed me an envelope. “I read about you. I might get in trouble for this,” she whispered. She didn’t blink until I grabbed the envelope. “I don’t care. That is how much what you did for me means to me, especially allowing me to earn a non-public record.”

  “You did all the hard work. I just steered you a little.”

  She bent over her daughter and wiped the sweaty bangs out of her eyes.

  I ripped the envelope open and unfolded a bank statement. Donnettelli’s bank statement. Three accounts totaling just under two-million dollars. That wasn’t including what was in his retirement accounts. Damn. I slid it back inside the envelope. “How did you get this? You could get fired for this.”

  Unconcerned, she shook her head at me. “I got to thinking about how you told me you were a Judge and taught law school. You work hard to earn money. And I got to wondering how that Donnettelli Judge had so much. It didn’t fit,” she said.

  “You’re brilliant. You graduate college and add on to that brilliance. I’ll keep watching as you make your mark in the world.” I refused to give her a lecture on employee theft. I wished I could give her a raise.

  She hugged me again, and I reached into my back pocket, grabbed the bills I had, and snuck them into the pocket of the diaper bag. Damn. I felt like I was paying for stolen information.

  Chapter Thirty

  Three hours later, a ten-year-younger version of Cybill Shepherd emerged from my chair and entered the wild world of Dinkie-Do.

  An hour after that, Cybill Shepherd wished she was Laurel Briggs. Laurel pulled out her bankbook, bubbled like a schoolgirl, and patted a large bill into Dinkie-Do’s palm.

  When she grabbed a stack of his business cards and promised to spread the word, his pupils enlarged. I worried what exactly might accidently pop out of Laurel’s mouth.

  I wanted to believe her arrival, friendship, and gift were omens she’d turn out to be my inside-Courthouse informant, but her blurting that twelve at me had me wondering.

  After she left, a river of clients kept me stylist-busy and information-dry until mid-afternoon, when Hunter phoned and said Stella usually dined at LaVerne’s between five and seven, but don’t bet on it, and he couldn’t get over there tonight. But soon.

  Trisha appeared and announced that Judge Donnettelli’s Law Clerk Peter Dune had come in to support me and she thought I’d squeeze him in. Without waiting for a response, Trisha pointed Peter toward my chair and trotted back to the reception desk.

  “I heard your free-haircut offer on the radio.” Peter eased into my chair and swiveled to face me, and he grinned from his GQ hairline to his chin. The grin seemed to be a whole-body thing.

  My cringing body wanted to backflip away from his meticulous, but masculine presence, and my thinking switched to Black-Widow-Spider mode. My empathetic-mom side reminded me Donnettelli’s staff were not Donnettelli, and I should be flattered Peter thought enough of me to trust me with his oh-so-perfect hair. Looked as if it hadn’t been cut in two whole weeks.

  “Judge, it’s cool to see you leave the bench and start your own business. And you manage to outshine even trumped-up murder charges.”

  “Call me Nicoletta. It’s good to see you again.” Hoping God wouldn’t strike me with a bolt of liar’s lightning, I gestured to g
et Peter to face the mirror. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Well, I was sorry for Peter—just not for the absence of Donnettelli. I busied myself scrutinizing his hair. “You did good work for him as his Law Clerk.” I wanted to shout out: you must have something to tell me, but I restrained myself.

  “Judge Donnettelli was an ass in the Courthouse,” Peter said. “But away from it, he had a human side. He liked to laugh. Still, that didn’t make up for his cruelty on the job. Actually, this haircut’s on him.”

  I stepped back. “How’s that?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of Visa gift cards. “He was never good at gift-giving, actually gift-buying.” Peter laughed. “Visa cards. His choice of the perfect gift.” He showed me one. “I thought spending them here would brighten your day.” He set one on my counter. “Poetic justice.”

  His words felt right. Peter had always gone out of his way to make people smile. I explained what cut I’d like to see on him, and Peter agreed. Talking, draping him, and washing his hair gave me time to formulate questions. Tact was going to be my challenge.

  “My last day, Judge Donnettelli and I had a sort of weird elevator ride. On my way to the parking garage, we ended up together on the judges’ elevator. I thought he was headed there too, but he exited on the second floor. I watched before the elevator door closed and saw you standing a few feet away. At that time I figured you were waiting for him—but before he reached you, you turned back and handed something to Judge Haddes. Do you recall what you gave her?”

  Peter shrugged under the cape. “Nothing. She was the one waiting for Judge Donnettelli. He’d told me to meet him at the elevator bank. When he saw her, his mood turned sour, so I told him I’d meet him in his Chambers.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought I saw you hand her something. Maybe you shook Judge Haddes’ hand.” I tried to press for answers without making it feel like an interrogation.

  Peter reddened. “You wouldn’t know this, Judge, but Judge Haddes likes bodily contact and initiates it directly or accidently, if you know what I mean. She’ll use about any situation to get close, to touch.” He fake-shuddered all over. He wouldn’t look at me, but I didn’t think it was because he was lying. If it was, he was really good at it.