Where Nobody Dies (14 page)

“So that's why you go to his office?”

He nodded, suddenly shamefaced. “Hell, you think I like spreading creosote, throwing eggs? A man my age, he should be in Florida, warm in the sun, not freezing his ass off and making a fool out of himself. Oh, yeah,” he said, giving me a shrewd glance over the top of his coffee cup. “I know I'm a fool to think Lessek cares whether I'm picketing his place or not. Even the eggs don't really bother him. He's got the dough—he just buys another suit, that's all.”

Abe Schine looked down at his cracked red hands. “A man should have dignity when he gets to my age. But that Lessek—” His voice broke and the tears began to fall. “He stole my business, he stole my pension I had ready for my old age, and he stole my dignity. I got nothin' left, nothin'.”

11

As I watched Dawn twisting her lips, gnawing at them like a small animal trying to free itself from a trap, I had a strong sense of déjà vu. We had come full circle, Dawn and I, back to Family Court, back to the issue of her custody.

There the similarity to the last court appearance ended. Where Linda had sat, artificially prim and childlike, Marcy now projected her power image—black pin-striped suit, royal blue blouse, discreet gold jewelry. She was impeccable, not a hair out of place, as complacent as a spring breeze. She radiated confidence, ignoring her rival with an ostentation that bordered on contempt, as though afraid simple politeness would put her one down in the power game.

I was conscious of a sinking feeling. Marcy was too sure of herself, too utterly certain that there could be no contest between her and Ma Ritchie for Dawn's custody. While I was all for the power of positive thinking among my clients, I had the feeling Marcy had taken Dr. Peale's advice a bit too literally. Just because Brad's mother was a silly woman didn't mean she could be discounted. Viola Ritchie was a grandmother—a gray-haired, churchgoing, cookies-and-milk grandma—and that was more likely than a Ralph Lauren blouse to impress a Family Court judge. It was Norman Rockwell versus crabmeat quiche, and I doubted Bettinger was a quiche man.

We started with a homily on Linda's tragic death. Heads were appropriately bowed. Then Judge Bettinger assured Mrs. Ritchie that her son's arrest for the murder would in no way prejudice her application for custody. The fact that Ma Ritchie failed to leap to her son's defense was a tribute to her lawyer, who had clearly coached his client.

When Bettinger asked me for an update on Dawn's living situation, I described in glowing detail her bedroom in Marcy's East Side co-op. I told him that although Dawn was continuing in her old school for the present, Marcy was looking into private schools. Let Ma Ritchie top that, I thought with satisfaction.

She did. Private rooms, she implied with a sniff, were a dime a dozen. Dawn could have one in Bensonhurst with her. As for private schools, St. Anselm's had been good enough for Brad and was right across the street. The clincher was that she had already talked to her boss at the supermarket about cutting down her hours at the checkout counter so she could be home when Dawn came in from school. Milk, I thought ruefully, and cookies.

I sighed inwardly as Bettinger turned to Marcy and asked how many hours a week she put in at her office. It was the question I'd been dreading. In retrospect, my midnight session with Linda now seemed like child's play, a mere rehearsal for dealing with her sister. Marcy cocked her head to one side and then, as though trying to impress the company president, replied with a shrug, “Oh, somewhere between sixty and seventy-five, I guess.” She smiled a power smile. “You can't run your own business,” she explained patiently, “on forty hours a week.”

I groaned inwardly, hoping my dismay didn't show on my face. I felt the way I had when poor crazy Juanita Flumer had jumped up in the middle of her child abuse hearing and announced to the judge in ringing Old Testament tones that she intended to follow Abraham's example and sacrifice her children to the Lord. End of hearing. Today's disaster, while hardly that conclusive, was bad enough.

“Well, what did you expect me to do?” Marcy challenged, hands on her hips. “Lie?” We were outside the courtroom but not quite out of earshot of Ma Ritchie's lawyer, whose expression was a mixture of triumph and sympathy.

“Keep your voice down,” I muttered. “And if you really have to work that much, maybe you should reconsider this whole thing. Not only won't it wash with the court,” I pointed out, “but it's not fair to Dawn.” Dawn's visit to the ladies' room made plain speaking possible.

Marcy's jaw clamped shut. I tried another approach. “Look,” I suggested, “why not think of this as a public-relations campaign?”

My client looked startled but receptive. I pressed my luck. “You've got a selling job to do in there,” I pointed out, waving a hand at the closed courtroom doors. “You've got to sell Marcy Sheldon as the best possible guardian for Dawn. You're not going to do it by stressing how hard you work. It's the wrong pitch for this particular market.”

Marcy liked it. I could tell by the relaxed lines of her thin face, the receptive gleam in her brown eyes. I had struck the right note. I only hoped my words would pay off in more than a superficial change in strategy.

I turned to see Dawn coming down the corridor. As she reached her grandmother, Mrs. Ritchie held out her arms for a hug. Dawn hesitated a moment, then allowed herself to be enfolded into the embrace. For a moment, she seemed to disappear into Mrs. Ritchie's voluminous wool coat.

Watching, I wondered, not for the first time, how the winner-take-all adversary system could in fairness be applied to Family Court. Much as I felt Dawn needed her aunt's stable, realistic support for her career goals, it seemed to me there ought to be room for milk and cookies too.

Marcy hadn't noticed the exchange. Busily writing in a leather-bound notebook, she seemed wholly absorbed. I reminded her of the adjourned date, then I brought up another item that was on my mind. I'd done some thinking since my visit to Todd Lessek. I was still convinced he was one of Linda's blackmail victims, but I had to admit I didn't know what he'd done. One thing I did know was that Linda, the real-estate professional, would never have made the mistake I'd made, thinking Lessek bribed his way into city funds he was entitled to as of right. Conclusion: Somewhere there was a second envelope of blackmail material, and it contained the real goods on Lessek. I wanted it. I wanted to be able to go back to that flashcube penthouse of his and confront him with something that wouldn't make him laugh, something he'd have to take seriously.

“Marcy,” I began, “did Linda ever give you any papers to keep for her? A manila envelope, maybe?”

“You mean,” she asked, a frown appearing on her well-made-up features, “something to do with the estate? Insurance policies?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” I said with truth, if not candor, “I just think there's something that ought to be with her other papers but isn't. I thought of you,” I went on, a little lamely, “because it's something she wouldn't have trusted to just anyone.”

“Then she wouldn't have trusted me,” came the decisive reply. If the reflection hurt, she didn't show it. “She wasn't a truster, Linda. Especially of other women.”

I nodded; I'd seen that myself when I'd offered to store her valuables in my safe after her first break-in. She hadn't said in so many words that she thought I'd snoop, but I sensed her suspicion when she declined the offer.

“Was there anybody she might have trusted?” I asked. It was a long shot, but there was no one else for me to ask. If I came up empty with Marcy, it was dead-end city.

The answer was a long time coming. Marcy seemed distracted, focused on something else. I got the impression the answer had been clear to her all along, but that she didn't want to admit it.

“Harry,” she said at last, distaste in her voice. “Linda's father. Mine too, but Linda was Daddy's girl. Linda worshiped him—God knows why. He's never been anything but a—” she broke off, biting her lip. “She might have given something to him.”

“Do you think you could ask him about it?” I tried to suppress the eagerness I felt. The dead end had opened up unexpected pathways. “That is, if you see him.”

“I really don't like to ask him for anything,” Marcy said, but then she relented. “I take Dawn to see him sometimes. I could mention it.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering how I was going to tell Marcy the truth about her sister's “insurance policies.”

It was only noon; I decided on a quick foray across Adams Street to the Supreme Court. My chances of getting my case called were not large, but I could check in with the clerks and reassure my clients. I was zipping up my down coat when a social worker I knew slightly ran up to me. She was out of breath, but looked triumphant.

“You're still here!” she said brightly. “Thank goodness; we need you in Part 7 right away.”

I frowned. “I don't have anything in that part.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said, almost grabbing my sleeve in her eagerness to keep me in the building, “but there's a case the judge would like to assign you to, and she asked me to see if I could find you.” She fixed me with warm brown eyes that pleaded like a puppy's. Her short hair was honey-blond, and her voice had a sprightly touch of the South. I'd seen her in court before, but where? And who was sitting in Part 7?

I put two and two together and came up with Glenda Shute. Why else would the social worker say “the judge” instead of using a name? Usually when a judge calls in a favor, it's because he or she has done something for you along the way, but that wasn't the kind of arithmetic Glenda Shute understood. She knew damned well I wasn't about to come running at the sound of her name.

“Are you sure,” I asked warily, “that Judge Shute asked for me, Miss—”

“Dechter,” the social worker replied, putting out a friendly hand. She had a good handshake. “Mickey Dechter.”

I frowned. “I remember now,” I said, “the Morrissey case. The PINS petition. You backed me up when I told Shute the mother only wanted the kid declared a ‘person in need of supervision' because the common-law husband didn't want the kid around anymore.”

She nodded, a conspiratorial grin flashing across her face. “You and the judge sure went at it.”

“And now, having had second thoughts, Judge Shute wants to call me into her courtroom to apologize?”

“Not exactly—”

“Has she run out of court officers to do her personal errands?” I asked. I was beginning to get into this. “Does she want me to pick her kids up at school for her?”

I got a wry smile and a shake of the head.

“Then why
does
Ralph Shute's princess daughter want me in her courtroom?”

Mickey Dechter hung her head. “She doesn't,” the social worker confessed. “I do. All the judge needs is a woman lawyer for this respondent who insists on being represented by a woman. But I think the mother needs more than that. I think she needs somebody who'll really do a job for her, not just get on the railroad.”

“What kind of a case are we talking about?” I was afraid I already knew the answer to that, and I was right.

“Permanent neglect,” came the reply. “The child welfare agency wants to put her five kids up for adoption, and they're trying to terminate her rights.”

“Sounds delightful,” I said without enthusiasm. “I'm supposed to become the fifth lawyer she fires? I'm supposed to let myself be jerked round by Glenda, the wicked witch of Brooklyn? I'm supposed to voluntarily get myself up to my ass in social workers? No offense,” I added. But even as I spoke, my down coat was unzipping itself and my knit hat was shoving itself into a pocket and I was following the social worker through the labyrinth of hallways to Part 7.

My better judgment was right. I regretted my rash act as soon as I saw my client. Arnette Pearson wore at least ten political buttons, each proclaiming a more militant proposition than the last. She also wore the belligerent expression of someone who's been fighting so many systems for so long, she has trouble distinguishing friend from foe. Or maybe everyone was a foe until they proved themselves otherwise. Which meant that was my first job—to demonstrate to my own client that I was on her side.

It was a pleasure. I decided, out of the many ways I could accomplish this, to do it by picking a fight with the judge. It was two birds with one stone—show Arnette I was with her all the way, and show Glenda I wasn't here to do her any favors.

When I'd won my minor point, I stepped outside to talk to my new client. Judge Shute had grudgingly granted me a ten-minute recess, but I knew her well enough to know that she'd be on the phone politicking for a good twenty.

“Hey, you were all right in there,” Arnette Pearson said, in a tone that sounded rough-edged. It could have been a whiskey voice or a heroin voice, but her eyes were full of judgment. She was weighing and measuring; so far I was all right, but her wary stance told me I was still on probation.

She was small but solid. Her voice was deep, her words articulate, her face a weathered black mask. She wore what appeared to be a karate outfit, all in black, and her hair was arranged in the shoulder-length dreadlock style made popular by Whoopi Goldberg. She was a scary sight, and I bet Glenda Shute had already decided in one glance that she was no fit mother for her five kids.

“Tell me about your kids,” I began conversationally. Her quick frown told me she wasn't up for a chat. I switched to business. “How did they get into foster care in the first place?”

“It was my mother's fault,” Arnette replied defensively. “I left the kids with her for a while so I could get myself together, you dig. So I could think about my options, whether to go to school or get me a gig or what. When I came back, they was gone.” She shook her head, her wild-looking hair bobbing as though it had a life of its own.