Authors: Lisa Scottoline
Moment of Truth (48 page)
“It’s sports, they’re crazy about sports,” Jack said, standing up and eyeing the hotel entrance. He could barely see inside the restaurant. Paige was hostessing the shower, for the baby’s adoptive mother. “Seems stupid they don’t let men into these things, still.”
“Nah, who wants to go? Not me.” Lou stood up, too, and let the binoculars hang at his neck. “I’d rather sit out here and tell dirty jokes.”
“Agreed,” Jack said, with a smile. He watched the hotel entrance, and Judy came out first, her height helping him identify her even across the street. She would be wanting her puppy back, and he would happily off-load it. Raising a daughter, especially belatedly, was enough for him. He’d spent the last few months trying to undo his past mistakes with Paige. “You see my kid yet?”
“There.” Lou pointed as Paige appeared. Her new haircut, a shiny red wedge, was a bright spot in the sunlight. Her arms were full of baby gifts, which she was loading into the couple’s minivan. The baby was at home with his adoptive father, a teacher. Jack’s heart warmed at the thought. Paige had grown up so much in the past few months and with counseling had taken the hardest step of her life. She’d decided the most responsible thing she could do as a mother was to offer her baby to a couple who could love and raise him. Jack hadn’t disagreed with a word.
“There’s Mary!” Lou said, with a smile, and Jack looked over.
Mary had managed to abscond with not one, not two, but with five centerpieces of roses, daisies, freesia, and even an orchid or two. She moved with the bouquets like the most petite float in the Mummers Parade. Jack smiled. “Why do women take centerpieces?”
“Because they can,” Lou said, and they both laughed.
They call publishing companies “houses,” and I have only recently come to understand why. I have written seven novels, including this one, for the same publishing house, HarperCollins, and it has come to feel like home to me. Not because I can finally find it in New York (though that helps) but because of the caring people who reside within, and I owe them all a huge debt of gratitude.
Thank you so much to Jane Friedman, President and CEO, who has imbued the house with her warmth, grace, and wisdom, and has mothered me from the day we first met. Thank you so much to Cathy Hemming, who took the time not only to improve this manuscript, but has even come—slinging a backpack of manuscripts—to one of my signings. Heartfelt thanks, as always, to Carolyn Marino, my editor, who is completely invaluable for her expertise, taste, and friendship. If you like my books, it’s because of her. If you hate them, it’s when I didn’t listen. And to her wonderful aide-de-camp, Erica Johanson.
It takes a village to raise an author. Deep thanks to my wonderful agent, Molly Friedrich, who is the truest sort of intellectual. She loves books without pretense and cares about them with passion. I am forever grateful to be one of her charges, and she is the most fun mom an author could ask for. Thanks, too, to Paul Cirone, for his advice, help, and insanely good looks.
I need help with the facts, too, though when I get them wrong the blame is on me. For this book I turned first to Commissioner John Timoney of the Philadelphia Police Department, who let me follow him around for a day. Commissioner Timoney is rightfully a hero in my city, and I consider the good cops in this book a thank-you to him and to all of those who serve and protect. Thanks to Lieutenant Martin O’Donnell and the officers of the Civilian Police Academy; my baseball cap is off to you.
Thanks, too, to Art Mee of the District Attorney’s office, for his good-humored advice and sartorial splendor, and to Glenn Gilman, public defender extraordinaire. For estates advice I turn to the expert, Robert Freedman of Dechert, Price & Rhoads. There is none better, nor more generous with his time and expertise.
Thank you to the wonderful Rebecca Bain, of Nashville Public Radio, for a thoughtful discussion of the concept of memory. A wonderful book on the subject is Schama’s
Landscape and Memory
.
Personal thanks and all my love to my family: my husband Peter, daughter Kiki, and stepdaughters Sarah and Elizabeth. And to return briefly to the importance of mothers, my deepest thanks go to the best one of all. Mine.
Thanks, Ma.
Enter the world of Lisa Scottoline.
Don’t miss any of her mesmerizing thrillers!
Excerpt from
EVERYWHERE THAT MARY WENT
by Lisa Scottoline
“All rise! All persons having business before this Honorable Judge of the United States District Court are admonished to draw near and be heard!” trumpets the courtroom deputy.
Instantly, sports pages vanish into briefcases and legal briefs are tossed atop the stock quotes. Three rows of pricey lawyers leap to their wingtips and come to attention before a vacant mahogany dais. Never before has a piece of furniture commanded such respect.
“The District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania is now in session! God save the United States and this honorable court!” The deputy casts an eye in the direction of the dais and pauses significantly. “The Honorable William A. Bitterman, presiding.”
Judge Bitterman sweeps onto the dais on cue and stands behind his desk like a stout regent surveying his serfdom. His eyes, mere slits sunk deep into too-solid flesh, scan the courtroom from on high. I can read his mind: Everything is in order. The counsel tables gleam. The marble floor sparkles. The air-conditioning freezes the blood of lesser life forms. And speaking of same, the lawyers wait and wait.
“You won’t mind the delay, counsel,” the judge says indifferently, sinking into a soft leather throne. “After all, waiting is billable too.”
An uncertain chuckle circulates among the crowd in the back of the courtroom. None of us defense lawyers likes to admit it, but we will bill the time—we have to bill it to someone and it might as well be you. The plaintiffs’ bar doesn’t sweat it. A contingency fee has more cushion than an air bag.
“Well, well, well,” the judge mutters, without explanation, as he skims the motion papers on his desk. Judge Bitterman might have been handsome in a former life, but his enormous weight has pushed his features to the upper third of his face, leaving beneath a chin as bulbous as a bullfrog’s. Rumor has it he gained the weight when his wife left him years ago, but there’s no excuse for his temperament, which is congenitally lousy. Because of it my best friend, Judy Carrier, calls him Bitter Man.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” I say, taking my seat at counsel table. I try to sound perky and bright, and not at all how I feel, which is nervous and fearful. I’m wearing my navy-blue Man Suit; it’s perfect for that special occasion when a girl wants to look like a man, like in court or at the auto mechanic’s. The reason I’m nervous is that this oral argument is only my second—the partners in my law firm hog the arguments for themselves. They expect associates to learn how to argue by watching them do it. Which is like saying you can learn to ride a bike by watching other people ride them.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” says opposing counsel, Bennie Starankovic. Starankovic blinks a lot and wears a bad suit. I feel a twinge of guilt for what I’m about to say about him in open court—that he’s too incompetent to represent our client’s employees in a class action for age discrimination. If I win this motion, the class action will evaporate, our client’s liability will plunge from megabucks to chump change, and its aged ex-employees will end up living on Social Security and 9-Lives. Defense lawyers consider this a victory.
Excerpt from
FINAL APPEAL
by Lisa Scottoline
At times like this I realize I’m too old to be starting over, working with law clerks. I own pantyhose with more mileage than these kids, and better judgment. For example, two of the clerks, Ben Safer and Artie Weiss, are bickering as we speak; never mind that they’re making a scene in an otherwise quiet appellate courtroom, in front of the most expensive members of the Philadelphia bar.
“No arguing in the courtroom,” I tell them, in the same tone I use on my six-year-old. Not that it works with her either.
“He started it, Grace,” Ben says in a firm stage whisper, standing before the bank of leather chairs against the wall. “He told me he’d save me a seat and he didn’t. Now there’s no seats left.”
“Will you move, geek? You’re blocking my sun,” Artie says, not bothering to look up from the sports page. He rarely overexerts himself; he’s sauntered through life to date, relying on his golden-boy good looks, native intelligence, and uncanny jump shot. He throws one strong leg over the other and turns the page, confident he’ll win this argument even if it runs into overtime. Artie, in short, is a winner.
But so is Ben in his own way; he was number two at Chicago Law School, meat grinder of the Midwest. “You told me you’d save me a seat, Weiss,” he says, “so you owe me one. Yours. Get up.”
“Eat me,” Artie says, loud enough to distract the lawyers conferring at the counsel table like a bouquet of bald spots. They’d give him a dirty look if he were anyone else, but because he works for the chief judge they flash capped smiles; you never know which clerk’s got your case on his desk.
“Get up. Now, Weiss.”
“Separate, you two,” I say. “Ben, go sit in the back. Argument’s going to start any minute.”
“Out of the question. I won’t sit in public seating. He said he’d save me a seat, he owes me a seat.”
“It’s not a contract, Ben,” I advise him. For free.
“I understand that. But he should be the one who moves, not me.” He straightens the knot on his tie, already at tourniquet tension; between the squeeze on his neck and the one on his sphincter, the kid’s twisted shut at both ends like a skinny piece of saltwater taffy. “I have a case being argued.”
“So do I, jizzbag,” Artie says, flipping the page.
I like Artie, but the problem with the Artie Weisses of the world is they have no limits. “Artie, did you tell him you’d save him a seat?”
“Why would I do that? Then I’d have to sit next to him.” He gives Ben the finger behind the tent of newspaper.
I draw the line. “Artie, put your finger away.”
“Ooooh, spank me, Grace. Spank me hard. Pull my wittle pants down and throw me over your gorgeous knees.”
“You couldn’t handle it, big guy.”
“Try me.” He leans over with a broad grin.
“I mean it, Artie. You’re on notice.” He doesn’t know I haven’t had sex since my marriage ended three years ago. Nobody’s in the market for a single mother, even a decent-looking one with improved brown hair, authentic blue eyes, and a body that’s staying the course, at least as we speak.
“Come on, sugar,” Artie says, nuzzling my shoulder. “Live the dream.”
“Cut it out.”
“You read the book, now see the movie.”
I turn toward Ben to avoid laughing; it’s not good to laugh when you’re setting limits. “Ben, you know he’s not going to move. The judges will be out any minute. Go find a seat in the back.”
Excerpt from
RUNNING FROM THE LAW
by Lisa Scottoline
Any good poker player will tell you the secret to a winning bluff is believing it yourself. I know this, so by the time I cross-examined the last witness, I believed. I was in deep, albeit fraudulent, mourning. Now all I had to do was convince the jury.
“Would you examine this document for me, sir?” I said, my voice hoarse with fake grief. I did the bereavement shuffle to the witness stand and handed an exhibit to Frankie Costello, a lump of a plant manager with a pencil-thin mustache.
“You want I should read it?” Costello asked.
No, I want you should make a paper airplane. “Yes, read it, please.”
Costello bent over the document, and I snuck a glance at the jury through my imaginary black veil. A few returned my gaze with mounting sympathy. The trial had been postponed last week because of the death of counsel’s mother, but the jury wasn’t told which lawyer’s mother had died. It was defense counsel’s mother who’d just passed on, not mine, but don’t split hairs, okay? You hand me an ace, I’m gonna use it.
“I’m done,” Costello said, after the first page.
“Please examine the attachments, sir.”
“Attachments?” he asked, cranky as a student on the vocational track.
“Yes, sir.” I leaned heavily on the burled edge of the witness stand and looked down with a mournful sigh. I was wearing black all over: black suit, black pumps, black hair pulled back with a black grosgrain ribbon. My eyes were raccoony, too, but from weeks of lost sleep over this trial, which had been slipping through my manicured fingers until somebody choked on her last chicken bone.
“Give me a minute,” Costello said, tracing a graph with a stubby finger.
“Take all the time you need, sir.”
He labored over the chart as the courtroom fell silent. The only sound was the death rattle of an ancient air conditioner that proved no match for a Philadelphia summer. It strained to cool the large Victorian courtroom, one of the most ornate in City Hall. The courtroom was surrounded by rose marble wain-scotting and its high ceiling was painted robin’s-egg blue with gold crown molding. A mahogany rail contained the jury, and I stole another glance at them. The old woman and the pregnant mother in the front row were with me all the way. But I couldn’t read the grim-faced engineer who’d been peering at me all morning. Was he sympathetic or suspicious?