Mittman, Stephanie (5 page)

A
look passed between the two men, years melting away until they both were boys
again. And then it was gone.

Ash
studied the marquetry floor, his hands pushed down deep into the pockets of his
pants.

"It'll
be all right," Cabot said softly, in that same smooth voice with which
he'd comforted Charlotte when her grandmother had died and left her all alone
in the world at seventeen. The voice he used for pitiful clients facing death
sentences, and reluctant witnesses who had information he needed them to
reveal. "It only looks so bleak because we haven't had a chance to present
our defense yet."

Ash
nodded soberly. "Right. And what's the worst I could get, after all?"

Charlotte
and Cabot exchanged looks, Cabot leaving it for her to say. If she complained
about it later he'd no doubt tell her it was part of a lawyer's job, informing
his client about the risks and options. And so it was. Still, she couldn't
bring herself to be quite honest and truthful with her husband's brother, and
so she answered, "With Cabot defending you?" and tried to leave it at
that.

Ash's
clear brown eyes met hers. "That bad?" he asked.

She
nodded. "Arson alone can be as much as fourteen years. Brent'll go for the
maximum on each count, I'm sure."

The
air rushed out of him and he sat heavily in the wooden chair at the defense
table, his hands hanging limply at his sides. "All together?" he
asked, summoning up resources she was forced to admire. "How much all
together?"

Cabot
rolled up close to his brother, pushing at a chair in his way, signaling Arthur
to back off just a bit. "Have I ever let you down?" he asked. "I
haven't saved your hide over and over again to let it rot in some jail
now."

Charlotte
stood where she was, not sure Cabot was even aware of her presence and not
wanting to be noticed. Emotion was a stranger to her husband's way of life, and
she felt him fighting now to rid himself of it.

"I'm
the best damn lawyer in the East Bay," Cabot said, his voice filling the
empty chamber. "No matter what Alfred Cohen thinks. The best. Maybe even
in San Francisco too. I'll get you off, Ashford, without serving a day."

"You
got some kind of magic wand tucked back there somewhere?" Ash asked, his
hand on Cabot's shoulder as he tried to peer behind him.

"I'll
take care of it," Cabot answered. "You know I will. There's just one
thing I'd like to know—as your brother, not your lawyer. For curiosity's
sake."

Ash
nodded, his tall body leaning forward as if he was poised and ready to tell him
anything.

Cabot
looked around the courtroom, making sure they were alone. He seemed surprised
to see Charlotte there, but made no move to exclude her. "Well," he
said, one eyebrow raised in question, "did you do it?"

They
could still hear the peacock squawking even after they'd all rushed into the
front hall and Cabot's brother had slammed the door behind them. Somehow the
bird, intended to show the Stanfords and the Lathams that the Whittiers had as
much money and taste as their neighbors, had gotten his function confused with
that of a guard dog. And as if his awful catlike calls and charges against pure
strangers weren't bad enough, he had developed a distinct dislike for Cabot and
was bent on biting the hand that fed him.

"Incogitant
bird," Cabot said. "He's lucky I don't roast him and serve him in his
own feathers!"

"Cabot!"
Charlotte wasn't any fonder of the peacock than her husband. Still, she did
understand the difference between a pet and a meal. "Maybe he was just
trying to protect the house from a stranger." She gestured at Ashford, who
came around so rarely that Charlotte didn't think even the staff would
recognize him.

Cabot
examined his sleeve. "That gormless pile of feathers ate another button!
Arthur, I want that bird confined to a pen when I'm out and about. I
want—"

"Can
we just forget the ridiculous bird?" Ashford asked, pulling at the tie
around his neck as though it were a noose.

"Bother
you to think of something being confined?" Cabot asked callously while he
handed his hat to Arthur and told him to let Maria know they would be in his
office awaiting tea.

"Of
course it bothers me," Ash said, removing the tie and shoving it into his
pocket. "But not as much as your little question did. That you could even
think I would set a building on fire,
our
building, no less. I willingly
admit I've been stupid, maybe even reckless from time to time, but you must
know I've never willfully, knowingly, gone out and—"

"Of
course you haven't." Kathryn Whittier's smooth, even voice welcomed them
home as warmly as open arms. She came into the dark wood-paneled front hall
slowly, leaning heavily on her ivory cane. On the far side of sixty now, the
years had clearly taken their toll on Kathryn's body, but had been kind to her
face. A thick mass of silvery hair done up in the latest style surrounded fine
features and soft gray eyes. She eased herself down into the softly cushioned
chair that Charlotte had suggested be left in the hall for her. "How did
it go in court?"

Cabot's
tight little shake of his head warned Charlotte not to reveal too much. Before
she could carefully frame her words, Kathryn waved the question away and looked
beyond them for her younger son.

"Mother."
Ash said the word with reverence, coming out from the shadows of the dark hall
to kneel by Kathryn, taking both her hands in his as he looked her over from
head to toe. "Why, you haven't changed a bit! As beautiful and young as
ever," he said while a slight grimace touched the corner of his mouth.

"Don't
put him on the stand if he's got to lie about anything," Kathryn said to
Cabot. "It's not his forte."

"I
don't have to lie," Ash said, standing to his full height and maybe then
some, as the lines of his face hardened again. "Despite what my brother
might think."

"Oh,
Cabot," Kathryn said with a heavy sigh, "why are they all mad at you
this time?"

Cabot's
innocent look was priceless. Charlotte had been there, had watched him do away
with three dead people and question his brother's honesty to boot, and still,
if she were sitting in the jury box and staring at that face, she'd be fooled
into thinking her husband guiltless. How many cases had he won on that face of
his?

Still,
the thought of those children, burned beyond recognition, wouldn't let her be.
"He obliterated three lives," she told Kathryn. "Negated their
very existence, transformed them from victims into criminals themselves."
She turned to Cabot. "You cheapen the value of life itself when you do that."

"Oh,
Charlotte. There you go climbing on that high horse of yours. Would they be any
less dead if I'd let the murder charge stand? Or would it just have left us
explaining to Mother why her baby was crossing his hands behind his head in the
Alameda County Jail and facing the prospect of a noose around his neck?"
Cabot dusted an imaginary piece of lint from his lap as he gave her time to
accept his logic. Irrefutable, as always.

"But
it was offensive," she said finally. "It offended me as an officer of
the court, as a servant of justice."

"No,"
Cabot argued, "it offended you as a woman. As a lawyer you know it was a
brilliant legal maneuver. And in court, as I've told you time and again, you
are a lawyer, not a woman."

"Is
that like a vagrant and not a person?" Ash bent over to yank at the laces
of the boots he'd probably had on since the previous morning. "Or an
arsonist who's innocent?"

"In
a lawyer's portfolio, Charlotte, there is no room for emotion. When you read
for the law you learn to deal in crime, precedent, and punishment. If you're
looking for sentiment, I suggest you read a romantic novel," Cabot said
with disdain, then signaled Arthur to wheel him into the offices at the front
of the house. "If you'll excuse me," he said, gesturing toward the
files he held in his lap, "I've work to get done."

"You
don't
like sentiment in the courtroom?" Charlotte called after his back, nearly
laughing at the irony. "What was that about me crying this morning?"

His
hand came up and stopped Arthur's progress. He leaned over the arm of his chair
to get a better look at her. "Indeed. What were those tears,
Charlotte?"

She
shook her head at him. "Nothing. A cinder in my eye. From those damned
fans." Guiltily she looked at Kathryn. "Sony."

"Charlotte,
you sound more like a man every day," Kathryn said. "The next thing
we know, Cabot will have you puffing on cigars and swilling brandy."

"I
just might," Cabot responded. "Don't think for a second that every
decision in the law is made in a courtroom. It's in the back rooms where the
real work is done, and if Charlotte wants to ever progress beyond dog bites and
landlord-tenant disputes, she's going to have to get into those dens of
iniquity and leave her sensibilities outside."

"It
doesn't seem as if you've left her any sensibilities." Cabot's brother
looked up from his boots to examine her slowly from head to toe. From his
grimace it appeared that he was not impressed with her court clothes.

"Any
is
more than she needs," Cabot answered. "Crying in court! Really,
Charlotte! Leaving me to turn your little soft spot for children around and
throw it back at the DA...."

"For
heaven's sake, Cabot," Ashford said, finally managing to spring his
swollen feet from his oxford ties. "She's a woman. She's got tender
feelings."

While
he spoke, he motioned toward her squawking alligator valise as if it contained
the proof of her maternal instincts. As if just because she was reluctant to
let a living creature die, she had some innate need to mother it.

"I'm
a lawyer," Charlotte told her brother-in-law. One brother was nearly as
bad as the other! She snatched up her Gladstone and headed for the stairwell.
"A lawyer, Mr. Whittier," she repeated. "Not a twit."

Of
course, pressed to the wall, she would have had to admit that there was a
certain amount of dignity lost as she carefully carried up the stairs a legal
case full of angrily chirping bird.

"Where
are you off to?" Kathryn called after her. In her voice was that slight
quiver which was usually reserved for discussions with Cabot.

"My
study," Charlotte said, for want of a better name for the bright room in
the cupola of the house. The room where, because the elevator only went as far
as the second floor, her secrets were safely hidden from Cabot.

"You
mean the high room?" Kathryn asked. Charlotte stopped in her tracks
without answering and waited for her to continue.

Finally,
when there was no further word from her mother-in-law, Charlotte took another
step.

"Is
that where you mean?"

When
Charlotte had married Cabot she had taken great pains to assure the older woman
that she had no interest in taking over the running of Kathryn's house.
Becoming a lawyer would take all the energy and attention she could give it. As
far as Charlotte, and everyone else, was concerned, Kathryn was the lady of the
house. Charlotte had even gone as far as to make sure Kathryn had no objection
when, after just a few months of marriage, she moved certain of her belongings
into the high room and her plants to the rooftop surrounding it.

And
it had been fine until now. It inconvenienced no one and gave Charlotte a place
where she could be... well, just Charlotte.

"Of
course that's where I mean," she answered, anxious to get the little
chickadee fed without missing any further discussion of Ashford's case.
"Why?"

"Well,
dear," Kathryn hedged, "I do realize that the house is yours now,
yours and Cabot's, that is, and you are certainly free to make whatever
arrangements you wish. But considering the boys' tendency to argue..."

This
last she said as if the two men were still quite young, as if it were before
the accident, and she was worried about them getting into a scuffle around her
antique urns.

What
she meant was that if Ash's room was on the same floor as Cabot's, it could
prove an embarrassment to the latter.

It
was something Charlotte should probably have thought of herself. But then
hadn't Cabot spent two years before their marriage and the five years since
drumming that feminine sensitivity out of her, all so that she could be the
second best lawyer in all of Oakland?

Of
course, it didn't take a woman to notice the details. Cabot didn't miss a
trick, a nuance, a hint, of anything in his household or his cases. She, on the
other hand, was as likely to miss a trolley going through the parlor as the subtle
problems that accompanied her husband's condition. And if Kathryn thought it
best, well, she certainly knew her sons better than Charlotte.

"You'd
like to put Ashford in the high room?" She tried to keep the
disappointment from her voice. After all, she still had her bedroom, her
office, the back porch—a hundred places on the grounds to find solitude when
she still needed it. It was just that the high room was
hers.
Hers
alone.