( 2011) Cry For Justice (16 page)

“In a strange and macabre way,” I went on. “The fact that my father’s condition was discovered more than a year before his passing gave us an opportunity we would otherwise never have had. We got to spend most of that time together.”

“You must have cared a great deal for your dad.”

“More than I realized at the time,” I admitted.

“He must have been a very special man.” She let that hang in there waiting to gauge my response, I suppose.

But what was there to gauge? Of course he was special. I really missed my father. My achievements as well as my failures were his to share, and good or bad, he didn’t judge unless I asked, of course. He always found the time for my never-ending strings of football, baseball, basketball, and lacrosse games, even the out-of-towners. And when I was accepted to attend the Military Academy at West Point, he told me he was proud of me. I felt a pang of guilt, too. I told him how sorry I was that I wouldn’t be around. I was really trying to apologize for not following in his footsteps. I just had no interest in the business. I wanted to see the world, and to contribute to it somehow. But he respected my decision. As always, he stood by my side no matter the outcome.

“He was,” I said. “I was very lucky.” It was time to change the subject. “So what about you?” I said.

She smiled. “I live in Connecticut and keep an apartment in Manhattan. I work in New York where, like any good old trust-fund baby, I run the family’s foundation, charities, and various other interests. But I visit here as much as I can. I love it here, and it’s where my mom is.”

“No siblings?”

“An older brother.” She looked away for a moment. “But like you, he wasn’t interested in the trust or the family business either. He wants to save the less fortunate. Joined Doctors Without Borders. He’s never around. Spends his time taking care of the needy in some of the remotest, most dangerous places in the world. Places no sane doctor would ever dare go. He doesn’t seem to care the more dangerous the place, the more it interests him.” Her expression changed, and her eyes acquired a certain sadness. “I worry about him.”

“I imagine you don’t hear from him often.”

“We don’t.” She shook her head. “Sometimes for months. Until recently, my mother used to worry herself to tears. She doesn’t anymore. I guess Alzheimer’s can be a blessing. It’s really frustrating, not knowing if he’s safe or injured or taken prisoner... or worse.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. It must be a similar situation to what my father endured while I was deployed in the lawless tribal lands on the Afghan-Pakistani border.”

After a moment of silence, she said, “You look like the type that would drive your family insane with worry, too.”

“Me? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied in feigned innocence.

“Don’t play coy with me!” she scolded, and crossed those shapely brown legs once again. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I took another sip of brandy before answering.

“You’re stalling,” she said, the sly grin curling her lips.

“Okay, I give up,” I admitted. “Guilty as charged.”

“So what’s your story, counselor? I bet you were one of those bad boys, the kind that raced anyone who dared to pull up next you at a red light. Trail of broken hearts everywhere.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I replied.

“Oh?” the smirk vanished.

“I was much worse.”

“How much worse?” she said in a conspiratorial tone.

“I did the racing thing, and yes, I suppose there were a few girlfriends.” She cocked an eyebrow, and I laughed.

“The bad part, at least where my father was concerned, was the time I spent in Afghanistan. I did two tours. I got injured.”

“My God, I had no idea!” She sat forward and put that lovely hand on my arm again. “How bad?”

“Not so bad the first couple of times,” I admitted. “The one that brought me home was shrapnel from a rocket attack.”

“Oh my God. What happened?”

“An ambush. Three of my guys were hurt badly.” I took a moment before continuing. “One of them was my best friend. He didn’t make it.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been very hard.”

Unwanted memories came gushing in, and a long silence ensued a silence so loud that for some time the din of lively conversation around us faded away. We had fallen into that murky, awkward silence that occurs when a conversation between the newly acquainted accidentally strays onto sensitive ground and neither party sees a ready way out of the encroaching awkwardness. Mercifully, she was the first to speak.

“Were you two were really close?”

“We roomed together, became instant friends. Went to law school together after the service. We planned on working together in New York live the life for a while. Then Nine-eleven happened, and everything changed with it. We were with the first troops to arrive in country.”

I took the last luxurious sip of brandy and put the snifter down on the travertine tabletop.

“I came home,” I went on. “He didn’t. I followed through with the plans. Even before I finished law school, his father, whom I knew well, had offered me a job with his firm. So, I accepted the offer and moved to New York. Stayed there until my dad became ill.”

The rude buzz of my cell phone interrupted. It was Sammy. I excused myself and answered. He had been able to figure out the name of Baumann’s attacker: one Hamilton M. Gage, age forty-nine, of Jacksonville. For his troubles, Mr. Gage had been sentenced on a plea deal to ten years for assault with a deadly weapon. He had served four of the ten and was currently paroled in Jacksonville, where he worked at a luxury European auto dealership as a parts assistant manager. His sister, Baumann’s apparent victim, still lived near Jacksonville.

I ended the call and looked at my watch. It was after eleven, and much as I hated to say good night to Mackenzie, I had no choice.

“You found him?” she asked.

“Not quite yet,” I said, getting up. “But we have a new lead.”

“Where?”

“Jacksonville.”

I thanked Mackenzie for her gracious hospitality and said good night to Chase Roebuck and Admiral Bond. On the long walk back to the front door, we chatted away as if neither of us wanted this encounter or the conversation to end. I wondered if we would ever meet again. Then she asked about my law practice, and this led to the subject of prenuptial agreements, marriages, and bitter divorces. She revealed that she had once been married. For a while they had a great life together, until she learned of his cheating. The illicit affairs had started long before they stood at the altar. In fact, she found out later, he had bedded one of her good friends the very morning of the wedding. When she grew suspicious of his many meetings and overseas trips, calls at odd hours, the need for multiple cell phones with an ever-changing list of numbers, she hired an investigator. The following week she filed for divorce, swore off marriage, and never looked back. Hearing those words, I couldn’t help but smile. My kind of girl.

We reached the front door, and after thanking her yet again for her kind hospitality, I started down the wide slate steps, which were glistening with moisture. A light rain had started to fall.

“Hey, counselor!”

I turned around. She stood a few feet above me, silhouetted against the soft lights of the porch, hands hugging her arms, head tilted a little to one side. “Got a business card?”

I felt myself actually grinning at the implications of her request. I fished a card from my wallet and gave it to her.

“You must have the names of a dozen lawyers in your address book,” I said. She smiled but said nothing. I wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Why add mine?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with a smile. “Something tells me you’re much different from any lawyer I know.”

“You’d be surprised,” I said. “But that still doesn’t answer my question: why would you ever need the services of someone like me? I don’t even have a staff just a one-man show. And you’re not even married.”

“You’re right: I do know plenty of lawyers. But if I’m ever faced with a real special situation, or in a tight spot, like the one that brought you to my door, I’ll know whom to call.”

Touché. She didn’t take the bait. I just hoped that if she ever did call, she wouldn’t be disappointed. I tended to look my best at night, like now; mornings, on the other hand, were not my strong suit.

“Fair enough,” I replied. “You ever need me, you know how to find me.”

“I do now,” she said, smiling in the lamplight. “Good night, Jason. It was a pleasure meeting you. Good hunting, and please give my regards to Amy.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” I said, and headed down the steps again. It was time to leave. “I’ll be sure and pass on your regards.”

“Jason!” It was her voice again. I turned. She was still on the porch.

“Let me know how it goes with Amy, will you, please?”

“Sure.” I felt myself grinning like a teenager. She had just given me an open invitation.

I started the Escalade, and the powerful growl of the six-liter engine echoed in the night. As I turned out onto the street, a big Mercedes sedan blazed by at high speed. A memory hit me, an unpleasant thought.

Nora.

I had experienced it many times and still failed to comprehend why a relationship could not exist without the complexities of contractual obligations. Why did it have to be more than just enjoying time together? Why must it be more when “more” is precisely the reason most relationships flounder? Why is that so difficult to accept? Were the romantic novels and films of old to blame? They are fictional tales, nothing but idealized make-believe renditions of life that imbues our collective subconscious with endless hyperbole, forever fomenting the unrealistic notion of marriage as a universally desirable and necessary state of adult existence. Why must society continue to promote a futile endeavor when the chances of finding true lasting bliss are less than one in ten? Even less, by some accounts. And yet, like sheep led to slaughter, people clad in their best finery still went willingly and blindly, in a delusional haze, to the altar of perennial discontent.

But I already knew the answer. Often, a woman’s perceptions and, therefore, the state of a relationship hinge precariously on a man’s timing and a woman’s chemistry. And we all know hormonal levels experience peaks and valleys that tend to keep things “interesting.” And often in a very unkind way. I was painfully aware that my timing was never right when it came to expressing anything emotionally significant, and last night I had, once again, been true to form. I saw the pain in Nora’s eyes, an image I would never forget. I felt guilt and remorse, and I also felt the pain of knowing we had reached the end of the road. I still felt a strong emotional connection to Nora. I really cared for her. But more than that I was not prepared to offer. I felt a compelling urge to hear her voice, a need to know how she was. I pulled the SUV into a parking spot and speed-dialed her number.

“Hello?” She sounded as though she had been asleep.

“Hey,” I said.

“Jason?”

“Miss me yet?” She had always liked that line before. Somewhere deep within, I prayed she still did.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. It was obvious my line had not had the intended effect.

“I’m fine. I’m checking up on you.”

“I’m fine, too.” I heard her turn on her bedside lamp. “Where are you?”

“Naples.”

“The one in Florida?”

“Yep. Leads for Amy’s ex-stepfather lead me here.”

“You think you’ll be able to help her?”

“I’m doing everything I can.”

Silence. I hate silence.

“Jason...”

“I’m still here.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, please.”

I knew what was coming, and I suddenly felt a pang of dread and the weight of the Blackberry in my hand. I knew all the possible lines that could come after such an opening, and they all led down the path of oblivion. We were as done as week-old pizza.

“Then why say it at all?”

“I’m serious, Jason.”

“So am I.”

I heard her sigh. “Please let me finish. This is very hard for me.”

And what about me? Why are notices of impending doom always harder for the deliverer? Is it not true that the party being dumped is also a human being? A being capable of human-like feelings? Feelings that are rarely spared in these situations.

I remained silent. This was her show, and she had to see it through.

“Jason, I’ve had some time to think about this. About last night, about everything... what I want for myself.”

More silence.

“And I’ve made a decision,” she declared, her voice heavy.

“Nora ”

“Jason, please! Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

“Does this mean the vacation is off?” Jason Justice, meister of the inappropriate lighthearted remark. She didn’t dignify it with a response.

Another long moment of silence followed.

“Jason,” she finally began again, “things got away from us. Things have become more… complicated, for lack of a better word. Things have changed.
I’ve
changed. You haven’t. And that’s okay. That’s what we agreed. I knew this going in.”

Another long, tense silence.

“But at least for me, our current arrangement is no longer acceptable. I want more. No, I
need
more.”

So this was it. The end of the road. There were so many things I wanted to say to her. None of it, I knew, was what she wanted to hear.

She said, “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

There wasn’t much I could say that wouldn’t make me even more of a loser, so I took it upon myself to cut to the chase and help her out.

“So does this mean we’re breaking up?”

“I’m sorry, Jason. I really am.”

“Not more than me.”

“I’ll always love you, Jason. Take good care of yourself.” And she hung up.

I glanced at the phone in my hand. It had doubled its weight in the past three minutes. So why had I called? Maybe I called her because of my annoying need to see things through. Or did I just need to hear her say it? What she said was significant. She made her feelings pretty clear. She had reached the point of no return. She had fallen in love, and therefore, for reasons beyond my Neanderthal level of comprehension, we were done and she wanted nothing else to do with me. I knew now exactly where we stood.