Once Upon a Project (11 page)

Chapter 16

 

P
at studied the file in front of her. She'd been prosecuting the accused long enough to know when someone was holding out on her, or lying. She found that intolerable in her own witnesses. Best she find out before the defense, who would undoubtedly go for blood when they figured it out. If this witness was being evasive or outright lying, that usually meant they were protecting someone—or that they'd committed the crime themselves.

The phone at her elbow rang. She reached for it absently, her eyes fixated on the spot in the file notes that differed from what the witness had actually said on the stand. It would be easy enough to check out. She'd get her assistant on it right away.

She placed a Post-it note over the text as she reached for the phone. “Patricia Maxwell.”

“Hello, Pat.”

She frowned, not recognizing the male voice on the other end of the line. A look in the window panel of her phone showed that the call came from outside the building. Judging from the warmth in the man's tone, he certainly seemed happy to hear her voice.

That notwithstanding, she had no time to play guessing games. She had a full caseload. “Hello. Who is this, please?”

“It's Andrew Keindl. From Northwestern. I hope you remember me.”

Her annoyance vanished like Noxzema skin cream left on too long. “Andy? Is it really you? What a surprise! What's it been, twenty-some years?”

“About that, yes. I read an article about you in the newspaper. I wouldn't have been sure if I had the right Patricia Maxwell, but there was your picture. It said you were an ADA. I figured I'd give it a shot and call the prosecutor's office.”

“Are you back in Chicago?” Andy, with whom she shared numerous classes during their time in law school—they were friendly rivals for the number one spot—had taken a job in L.A. after graduation. Pat remembered good-naturedly teasing Andy about wanting to get in with the movers and shakers as she bid him farewell at graduation. She hadn't seen him since.

“Yes. My firm is opening a branch here, and I decided to come back and helm it. I'm a little tired of L.A.”

His
firm, she noted, not
the
firm. She wondered if he was a partner in it. Probably, she decided. He'd been a brilliant student. And here she was, toiling away as a public servant....

“Am I calling at a bad time, Pat?”

Her eyes went to the file on her desk. “Uh . . . I am a little busy right now, actually.”

“Well, why don't you tell me if you're free for lunch this week. I'd love to see you. We can catch up. Plus, you can give me the lowdown on the judges I'll be trying cases in front of.” He chuckled.

“What's your specialty, Andy?”

“Criminal.”

“That means you and I will probably be duking it out one of these days.”

“I'll have to make sure I'm well prepared. You were sharp in law school, and I hear you've got a great conviction rate.” He paused. “Maybe we ought to make it dinner instead. We've got over twenty years to catch up on. Hard to do in an hour.”

She brought up her calendar on her computer screen. “How does Thursday look for you?”

“Thursday . . . I'm open. Six o'clock?”

“Fine. Are you familiar with the pub near the courthouse?”

“Yes, I know it. I'll see you there. And Pat—”

“Yes?”

“I'm really looking forward to it.”

 

 

She looked into her closet Wednesday evening. She was no clotheshorse, like Grace, but she believed in dressing well. While she would never tell anyone, some of her very best suits had been purchased at the Salvation Army thrift store, a habit her mother had cultivated out of necessity when Pat and her brothers were growing up. Her parents, both unskilled laborers, had difficulty supporting their three children, and her mother had started making regular trips to the thrift store to purchase used winter jackets and dress clothes as well as jeans and tops, always of high quality. They used the little money they had to buy other necessities new, like underwear, shoes, and pajamas.

Pat used to pray that no one would find out where her clothing came from. Being dressed by the Salvation Army was one of the cruelest taunts that could be leveled at a child. It meant that your family was among the poorest of the poor.

They were poor, of course, even by Dreiser standards. They didn't even own a car. But the Maxwell children were among the best-dressed in the neighborhood. They wore outfits that most working-class people could never afford. Pat knew that the practiced eye of the other mothers recognized that she and her brothers wore rich people's castoffs. Indeed, many of the women who worked as maids in swanky Gold Coast households accepted the clothing of their employer's family for themselves and their children when they were discarded or outgrown. But Cleotha Maxwell instilled in her only daughter that she should never be ashamed of wearing thrift shop duds as long as they were clean.

Pat knew she would never get rich working for the prosecutor's office. Still, she wanted to look nice in court. When Pat complained to her mother about the high cost of clothing, Cleotha suggested she check out the thrift shops. Pat went browsing and found that many wealthy women donated garments they'd grown tired of, if the quality and up-to-date styles were any indication. She bought designer outfits for a song, including handbags that were usually kept in glass cases in department stores. She remembered all the attention paid to Marcia Clark's wardrobe when she prosecuted O.J. Simpson a dozen years ago. Many of Ms. Clark's ensembles had been borrowed from L.A. fashion houses glad to have the exposure. It gave Pat a strange sense of satisfaction to know that if she ever prosecuted a case that garnered nationwide attention,
she
wouldn't need to borrow any clothes. What she had in her closet would work just fine.

Even at age forty-nine, she still guarded her secret as fiercely as KFC executives safeguarded the exact mix of the Colonel's eleven herbs and spices. Grace would be appalled if she knew the origin of Pat's wardrobe. But Pat didn't make the money Grace did. She didn't earn six figures plus a hefty bonus at year-end and stock options. And Grace had only herself to spend her money on. If Pat didn't help her parents out each month, she didn't think they'd be able to live decently. As it was, her father still worked part-time bagging groceries at a supermarket, and her mother checked out books at the library to supplement their meager Social Security checks. Pat found it painful that her parents, both past seventy, still had to work, but Moses and Cleotha Maxwell never had had much money. She wished they would retire somewhere with a lower cost of living and a milder climate—like their hometown of Wabbaseka, Arkansas—but apparently her father really meant it when he said he'd never live there again.

She also suspected that her parents wanted to be close to her, their only living offspring, and she wasn't about to move to Arkansas. Even as a child, she hated going down there.

Her mother cried the first time Pat left two hundred dollars on their kitchen table, and even her father appeared a little choked up. Pat gave them that amount every month. For their golden anniversary a few years back, she'd also paid for them to go on their first real vacation, a cruise to the east and west coasts of Mexico through the Panama Canal. She and Grace sailed on the same ship—no way could Pat send her parents, inexperienced travelers, on such a complex trip alone. Both her parents marveled at the abundance of food on board, at the number of black passengers who could afford to take the expensive trip, and at how many of the ship's low-paid crew came from countries in Central America and Asia. Pat knew they'd expected to see fewer black passengers and more black crew.

It did Pat's heart good to see her parents have such a wonderful time. After dinner they danced like newlyweds, and on the formal dress nights her mother put on her new dresses, and her father looked quite dapper in the tux he'd bought from a rental shop on Cottage Grove Avenue that had gone out of business and sold its inventory at deep discounts.

In order for Pat to look good and still enjoy life—and to prepare for her own retirement, since she had no devoted children to help
her
out—she had to economize somewhere. If she didn't, she would have had to pass on that Mediterranean cruise she was taking with Grace and two other women in July. They'd planned it two years ago. Pat needed that much lead time to pay for it because of the money she gave her parents.

She decided on her brown wool suit, but instead of pairing it with a typical button-down tailored top, she chose an especially pretty high-necked yellow chiffon blouse. She hadn't seen Andy in over twenty years, but even now she still felt a faint undercurrent of competition, which had been the nature of their relationship. She'd been annoyed back in '83 when he'd received more associate offers than she, convinced that racism as well as sexism lay behind the discrepancy. He might have been ahead of her in class, but only by a hair.

Pat had felt slighted, even though she'd never wanted to be in private practice. She wanted to prosecute the drug dealers and gang members who had gotten her brother Clarence hooked on heroin and her brother Melvin shot on the street.

She remembered how Andy had said “my firm.” He hadn't accentuated the first word, but he'd sounded pretty proprietary just the same. A successful criminal attorney would probably dress the part with gold cuff links, Johnston & Murphy wing- tips, the whole nine yards.

She wasn't about to show up in an ill-fitting suit and scuffed shoes.

Grace called Pat's office Thursday after lunch. “Want to have dinner after work? Someplace farther from the courthouse. I don't want to run into Judge Tubby.”

“I doubt Judge Arterbridge will pester you now that you've turned him down, but sorry, I can't meet you. I've already made plans.”

“Okay. I guess I'll stop by Quiznos's and pick up a salad. Have fun!”

“Thanks. Are you busy this weekend?”

“I've got a date.”

“With Eric?”

“Yes.”

Pat wasn't surprised. It had been far too long between dates for Grace. Still, she had to ask. “Where's he taking you?”

“To the movies.” Grace sighed. “I know it's not like seeing Anita Baker at the Chicago Theater or having dinner at Brazzaz, but it's what he offered, Pat. Don't think it was my idea.”

“I'll say. Do you think you'll get anything else to eat besides popcorn?” Pat smiled in amusement. She couldn't imagine Grace going on a date that didn't include a meal.

“At least I'm getting out of the house. It's not like I expect a lifetime commitment to come out of this.”

“So Eric is just a diversion.”

“Yes. Harmless and temporary.”

Pat sighed. “There's nothing wrong with a guy like Eric. But he's not for you, Grace. I know you. You're not going to be happy with a man who can't afford to take you to the places you're used to going, the places you can afford to go yourself. And as soon as he picks you up and sees your place, he'll know you're out of his league.” She didn't understand why Grace would even want to date a man when there was no future in it. It wasn't fair to the man, or to Grace, either.

“Listen, Pat, I haven't been asked out in over six months. I can't afford to be choosy anymore. Being choosy doesn't keep my bed warm at night. I plan on being nice and warm come Saturday night. And that's more than
you
can say.”

Chapter 17

A
t five-fifteen Pat went into the ladies' room for a last check of her appearance, giving herself plenty of time to make any repairs. Sure enough, a few strands of hair just wouldn't lay right, regardless of how much she brushed. She plugged in the curling iron she kept in her desk. That would take care of it.

As she carefully wound the troublesome golden strands around the quarter-inch barrel, she wondered if Elyse had a weave. Her hair looked so thick and lustrous at the luncheon. Damn it, it seemed like her own hair got thinner every week. She probably needed to stop coloring it, or she'd end up bald.

But she didn't want to walk around with gray laced in her hair, like Susan. Okay, so there wasn't anything wrong with the way Susan looked. Pat wasn't a catty person, but she couldn't help noticing that she and Grace looked younger than their two friends. She knew how hard Grace worked at staying young looking, but she really didn't do anything special herself, just a few lackluster bends here and there and salad for dinner two or three times a week. She wondered if there was any connection to looking younger and not being married.

No, she decided, that was silly. Elyse looked a little more matronly because she was overweight, and Susan because she didn't hide her gray. Their faces looked as young as hers. Marital status had nothing to do with it. She carefully combed her hair over any sparse spots and left the restroom.

Had Andy changed much? she wondered. He'd been so handsome as a young man, with hair black as a moonless night and blue eyes a person could get lost in. She'd never told anyone, but she had had more than a little bit of a crush on him.

Pat didn't share her parents' strong beliefs against interracial dating. She knew their feelings stemmed from the lynching of her Uncle Jacob when he'd been just seventeen, back in her parents' hometown in Arkansas. With tensions already running high after the then-recent Brown ruling outlawing segregated schools, a white girl accused him of fathering her baby, and no one would listen when Jacob insisted he had nothing to do with it. It had been a nightmare for her family, and the crime remained unsolved on the books, although everyone in town knew of at least one man who'd been connected to the crime. The identity of the baby's father had never been revealed. Her father couldn't bear to continue living there after his beloved baby brother was killed. He married her mother, and the young couple made their way to Chicago.

Pat could understand how her father felt, but she'd never even known her Uncle Jacob. His murder occurred three years before her birth. Nor had she ever lived in Arkansas, although she and her brothers used to take the Greyhound every summer to spend two weeks with their grandparents and cousins. While they enjoyed running in open fields and walking to the neighborhood store for ice-cold Cokes, life there was too small-townish for them. Their cousins and the other kids seemed so . . . well, country, like a bunch of hicks. They didn't have the latest records, and they talked funny, saying “thang” for thing, “valya” for value, and “yella” for yellow. Pat and her brothers were always glad to return to the city life of the projects when the two weeks ended.

She decided to arrive a few minutes late, feeling it would be more appropriate for Andy to wait for her than for her to wait for him.

 

 

All thoughts of Wabbaseka and the murder of her uncle years ago vanished when she caught sight of the black-haired man waiting for her at the bar. She took a deep breath. Andy at nearly fifty looked ten times better than the Andy she remembered from half a lifetime ago. The long hair that had grazed his shoulders back in the day had been replaced by a more conservative haircut that looked like it could use a trim. The hair at his temples had turned gray. And his eyes were blue as ink.

He slid off the bar stool and smiled at her. “Pat. I'd know you anywhere. You look fabulous.”

“So do you.” He held his arms outstretched, and she happily walked into them. A pulse began beating in her throat as warm lips connected with her cheek. God help her, even after all this time, she still felt that gravitation toward him.

They separated after a prolonged friendly embrace, and she climbed on the bar stool next to him and ordered a mai tai. She looked at the handsome man sitting next to her. His hair looked as thick as it had been during their days at Northwestern. Somehow she'd known he hadn't gone bald. His blue eyes twinkled. He'd filled out since law school, but he wasn't overweight by any stretch. The man looked good enough to suck on.

Oops. Wrong word. It conjured up a highly inappropriate, if certainly not unpleasant, image. Probably just a Freudian slip. She hadn't had sex in a year and a half . . . and she now found it extremely difficult to keep her thighs still.

She'd better say something before he thought she'd gone mute. She swallowed as lightly as her carnal thoughts would allow. “Tell me what made you decide to come back to Chicago, Andy,” she suggested.

He took a sip of his drink, an amber-colored liquid she guessed was Scotch. “A couple of things. For one, I've always been afraid of earthquakes.”

She grinned. “After all that time out there you think The Big One is about to hit?”

“Don't knock it. I spent two weeks in Chicago a couple of years ago when all these so-called psychics were predicting a big quake in May.” He chuckled. “But there are other considerations. My parents are getting up in age. They still keep their house here, even though they spend their winters on South Padre Island. I'd like to be closer. And most important of all, my ex-wife remarried and moved to Buffalo Grove.”

She arched a waxed eyebrow. He wanted to return to Chicago to be close to his
ex-wife?
What was
that
about?

Andy chuckled. “I guess that didn't sound right. Let me clarify. My daughters mostly live with her. We share custody, but it's hard to do when one parent lives in Illinois and the other in California.”

“How old are your daughters?”

“Fourteen and seventeen, and both beautiful. They're the lights of my life.” He looked at her curiously. “I guess you use your maiden name for professional purposes only.”

She shrugged. “I use it for everything, and always have. It's always been my name.”

“You've never been married?”

The surprise in his eyes made her feel a little embarrassed. The “Most Popular” girl in her high school class who went on to become one of the brightest students in both college and law school had been unable to get a husband. “No.” She looked him in the eye and proceeded to lie like a sleeping dog. “I guess you can say I've never met my Mr. Right.”

“Mr. Keindl, your table is ready.”

They both turned to face the black-vested waiter, who bowed slightly. “If you'll just follow me.”

“Of course.” Andy stepped down and held Pat's elbow as she moved her hanging feet to the floor, careful not to get her three-inch heels caught in the metal footrest.

On unsteady feet Pat followed the waiter. Andy was still devastatingly attractive. And better yet, he was
available
.

Her spirits lifted like an airplane at takeoff.

 

 

Their dinner lasted for two and a half hours and included much laughter and two more mai tais. “I'm wondering if I should put you in a cab,” Andy remarked as he slipped a credit card in the check holder, gesturing for her to put away her wallet. “This is on me. And I don't mind telling you this has been more fun than I've had in a while.”

“I enjoyed it, too. We'll have to do it again.”

“Seriously, Pat, are you able to drive? You seem to be buzzed.”

“Oh, I'm fine.”

“It'll take you at least fifteen minutes to get to South Shore. Maybe I should follow you, make sure you get in safely.”

“I don't drive to work, Andy. The traffic is unbearable, plus the parking is too expensive. I take the bus.”

“Why didn't you say so? I'm not about to let you get on a bus at this hour. I'll drive you home.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” she heard herself saying. Her inner voice immediately began screaming at her. What was she letting herself in for, allowing him to bring her home? He was good-looking, and she was horny.

It had all the makings of a long-held dream come true.