Past Due (30 page)

“Did your husband know?”

“What happens here is private. That was our agreement from the start. I rented this studio before I ever met Jackson. This has always been a room of my own. So no, he has never been up here, has never known what has gone on here.”

“Never?”

“Once, and not again. What happens here is completely separate from my marriage.”

“Did anyone else know about you and Tommy?”

“I told no one. Tommy promised to tell no one too. In fact, I insisted he give me all the photographic prints that showed my face. No one was ever to know that we were together. Only one other man might have found out.”

“Who?”

“Some ruffian, some bearded motorcycle maniac. He came up here one afternoon looking for Tommy, banging on the door. Yelling. Said he had followed Tommy. Said he had to talk. Called him a bastard. We stayed silent, didn’t let him in no matter how long
he banged. When he stopped, I watched through the window as he left the building. He looked up, spied me staring down at him.”

“Lonnie.”

“I never knew his name.”

“He told your husband.”

“He didn’t know me, didn’t know who I was.”

“Don’t be a fool. And the bed only came into the studio after Tommy?”

“Yes.”

“So there were others.”

“I don’t go chasing. They simply appear. If I wait long enough the world appears. As did you. And sex is merely a tool, Victor. Like a chisel cutting through opaque stone. It is a method of exploration, nothing more.”

“I’m sure that gives your husband great comfort as he lies alone in his bed at night.”

“My husband has his own ambitions to keep him warm.”

“How did it finish between you and Tommy?”

“I ended it.”

“Why?”

“He wanted us to be together. He told me so. It was quite charming, and at first I was almost willing. He painted such a romantic picture and he could be very convincing. But I knew it would be wrong for me. I loved my husband and I suppose I was more interested in exploring my being than in being with Tommy.”

“He took it well?”

“I don’t know. Once I decided, I didn’t see him again before he disappeared. Now if you don’t mind, Victor, I have work to do.”

“You going to write up our little moment?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “It is not often I am face-to-face with such a perfect example of an emotionally stilted coward.”

I let loose a burst of laughter. I couldn’t help myself, I laughed and shook my head and headed toward her door. “Maybe you’re right. I cheerfully admit to being both emotionally stilted and a coward. But not today.”

“You’ll find them for me, won’t you?” she said.

“Your precious notebooks.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have enough here to keep you busy?”

“The work continues. I am distilling a life, my life. Those months are precious, crucial, defining.”

“Who killed Joey Parma?”

“Who is Joey Parma?”

“A loser of no apparent worth.”

“Then why would I be concerned with him?”

“You wouldn’t,” I said. “If I find your precious notebooks I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Victor.”

“Today it wasn’t so much cowardice as good taste.”

“With that tie, Victor? I hardly think so.”

I laughed again as I closed the door behind me. Just then I felt like a cockroach in Teflon boots, climbing to freedom out of a sticky mess of a web even as the spider, with all her venom, looked on with helpless contempt.

But I didn’t worry much about Alura Straczynski anymore. I had lost the fantasy of the pictures but I had gained another piece of the puzzle. She had brought me one step closer, so close I could feel the answer to it all coming upon me. I needed only to dot one more
i,
cross one more
t,
and the word “guilty” would be writ large upon the forehead of the man who had set up Tommy Greeley’s death.

“A
LL RISE
.”

Those damn words again. I should have been on my guard, but what could I have to fear here, in the Criminal Courts Building, standing before the august Philadelphia Court of Common Pleas?

Dour Clerk Templeton did the whole “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” thing as Judge Wellman stepped into the courtroom. That word never failed to crack me up, Oyez. Like two old crones discussing their ailments.
You think you have oyez? You don’t know from oyez. Vayzmir, I have oyez.
I must have been finding it so amusing, and my work that day so routine, because it was only later that I registered the clerk’s hard stare or the judge’s dark countenance as he ascended to the bench.

“What do we have?” said the judge.

“Your Honor, we’re here today for the sentencing of Rashard Porter,” I said, as I put my hand on Rashard’s shoulder. I had him dressed in gray pants, green crewneck sweater, blue oxford shirt. He looked as if he had walked off the set of
Ozzie and Harriet,
if black men had ever been allowed on the set of
Ozzie and Harriet.

“Go ahead,” said the judge.

“If you remember, Mr. Porter pled guilty to a drug misdemeanor, simple possession. Because of his prior record you asked for a presentencing report. Mr. Porter has taken three blood tests since
the plea and all have turned up negative. He has cooperated fully with the presentencing officer and in that time has continued his fine attendance at his place of employment. If I may, I’d like to pass up to Your Honor a letter from Janice Hull, his supervisor at work, calling Mr. Porter an exemplary employee.”

“Have you seen this letter, Miss Carter?”

“Yes, Judge. No objection.”

I gave the letter to Clerk Templeton and continued.

“I also have another letter for Your Honor. I am pleased to announce that Rashard Porter has been accepted into the upcoming class at the Philadelphia College of Art. Mr. Porter is a fine artist who is hoping to make a career in the world of art and design. This is his acceptance letter from Dean Sandhurst, along with the terms of his financial aid.”

“Have you seen this letter too, Miss Carter?”

“Yes, Judge. Again no objection.”

“And you’ve checked that it’s legitimate?”

“I spoke with Dean Sandhurst just yesterday. She was very impressed with the defendant’s portfolio and his potential.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Porter has pled guilty and admitted his mistake,” I said. “He has lived up to all the expectations of this court since his plea. He understands the rare nature of the opportunity that has opened up for him at PCA and intends to make the most of it. He has pledged to continue to work diligently, Your Honor, and his mother is here to say that she will be sure to make him live up to that pledge. In short, Mr. Porter is a perfect candidate for probation, Your Honor, and that is what we are asking for here. We have no objection to having his continued enrollment at PCA be an element of that probation. This is a young man who has turned his life around and earned this opportunity. We ask the Court to allow him to pursue it.”

“Miss Carter?”

“We have no objection to probation under the terms outlined by Mr. Carl.”

“That’s all you have to say, Miss Carter?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Porter. What about you? You are entitled to speak for yourself.”

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he said softly.

“Speak up,” barked Clerk Templeton.

“I know I made a mistake,” said Rashard, “and I won’t do it again, I promise. My mum’s here and I promised her too. I’m sorry I let her down. All she’s done for me, I can’t let her down again. I’m going to do my best at that art school, Judge. I never expected there was a college for drawing, but I’m excited at the chance. That’s all.”

I took hold of Rashard’s arm, gave a squeeze to let him know he had done well.

“Yes, okay, I guess I have what I need,” said the judge, and I was certain he did. It was why my pleading was muted, no reason to go overboard on the verbiage here. For Judge Wellman, this was not a difficult decision, not, in fact, a decision at all. The ADA and the defense had agreed on a course of action, the presentencing report had concurred, Rashard’s acceptance by PCA had sealed the deal. This was a kid with a chance and no judge in the courthouse would take that away from him. I could have maybe even gotten the sentence suspended, without probation, but I thought it might be profitable for Rashard to have a probation officer reviewing his performance at school, just to be sure, and ADA Carter had been insistent.

The judge looked down at the letters in his hand, looked up at the ceiling, then at me with a troubling expression. It wasn’t that he wasn’t smiling, judges don’t smile at sentencings, but there was something else there. Was I just imagining it, or was he looking at me as if I were the man in the dock?

For a moment he conferred with Clerk Templeton, who was giving me the eye as she spoke, and the judge nodded. And then he began.

“I’m not as impressed as you, Mr. Carl, by Mr. Porter’s good behavior between his plea and his sentencing. He is not a fool, he knew what he had to do to have a chance here today. He goes to work on time and has you wile his acceptance into PCA, but all that does not obviate the facts in this case. Mr. Porter was in a stolen car. He had a significant amount of marihuana on the front seat of that car.”

“He pled to a single misdemeanor,” I said.

“I am allowed to look at the totality of circumstances.”

“The only crime relevant here is simple possession.”

“And he has a number of serious priors which trouble me greatly.”

“That is why we asked for—”

“I’ve heard enough from you, Mr. Carl. It is my turn. Is there no one in this courtroom thinking of the law-abiding citizens of this city. Driving around in a stolen car, high on a schedule-one substance. Miss Carter, you should be ashamed, going along with Mr. Carl’s recommendation. Mr. Porter was in jail once, he obviously didn’t learn his lesson. I believe he needs a longer time to think it over.”

“Your Honor, this—”

“Quiet, Counselor. You have done your client no favors during these proceedings. Your whole strategy was to attack the police here, to smear as racist an officer simply doing his job, an officer, I might add, of the same race as the defendant. I do not wish to paint your client with the foul brush you have used before this court but your actions leave me little choice. Mr. Porter, you have some lessons to learn. One, stay away from stolen cars. Two, stay away from illegal drugs. Three, stay away from lawyers like Mr. Carl.”

“This is uncalled for—”

“Shut up, Mr. Carl. Mr. Porter is hereby sentenced to one year incarceration, no part of that to be suspended.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard right.”

“Judge.”

“Quiet, Mr. Carl.”

“That is an entirely inappropriate sentence for—”

“He was found with an ounce and a quarter, Mr. Carl. That takes him out of the personal-use category.”

“By five grams, Your Honor? An extra eleven months for five grams? That’s outrageous.”

“No, sir,” he bellowed, his face swollen near to bursting, “it is you who are outrageous. One more word from you and I’ll find you in contempt.”

I stared in disbelief at Judge Wellman, his face dark with an inexplicable anger, his hands shaking on the bench. Rashard was
standing next to me, looking at me, wondering what had just happened to him. From behind I heard a “Dear Lord,” coming from Mrs. Porter. Clerk Templeton was staring me with victory in her eyes. I looked around and tried to understand. A year? Rashard was going to jail for a year? What the hell was going on? This was wrong, dead wrong. Judges get it wrong, that is another of the three immutable laws of the legal profession, but this judge wasn’t getting it wrong for the usual reasons, out of ignorance or sloth or plain prejudice. No, this judge was getting it wrong simply because I was on the side of the right. Here was my final proof that the law had turned against me, but not only me. The law had also turned against anyone in any way connected to me, and it was moving with an unimaginable fury.

“You want to find me in contempt, Judge,” I said. “Don’t bother looking too hard, I’m there already.”

“Five hundred dollars, Mr. Carl. Anything else to say?”

“He got to you too, didn’t he?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“You’re just a tool for that bastard.”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“Go to hell.”

“Two thousand. Another word from you and you go to jail.”

I was about to loose a stream of invective but I stopped. It would feel grand, but it wouldn’t do any good, it wouldn’t help my client. There was only one place I could go to help my client now, and jail wasn’t it.

“Step back, Mr. Porter,” said the judge. “Bailiff, please escort Mr. Porter out of the courtroom.”

As the bailiff started to take hold of Rashard, I put my arm around his shoulder. “This won’t stand,” I said to him softly. “I’ll get you out.”

“Mr. Carl…” said Rashard. The promise of his future was leaking out of his eyes along with his tears of incomprehension. He had trusted me and now there was this.

“Rashard,” I said. “Listen to me. This has nothing to do with you. I’ll get you out soon, I promise.”

The bailiff appeared, holding out his handcuffs.

I gave Rashard a smile and a nod and told him not to do anything to make it worse. Then I started packing up my briefcase.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

I didn’t answer, I finished putting my papers in the briefcase, closed it with a click, turned to ADA Carter.

“This isn’t right,” I said to her.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said.

“I do,” I said. “And it isn’t right.”

“Going somewhere, Mr. Carl?” said the judge again, this time as I was walking down the aisle toward the door. “We’re not finished here,” he called after me.

I stopped, turned. “Oh yes, we are,” I said. “Now crawl back to your hole and get that bastard on the phone and tell him I’m on my way.”

A
FTER SCOWLING AT
the security camera and being buzzed through the security doors, I barged into the justice’s reception area loaded for bear. The closest thing I found was Curtis Lobban, the justice’s clerk. He was waiting for me, standing tall and broad, his suit black, his shirt white, his muted tie tied tight. His huge hands, empty of files or books, hung ready at his sides. He stood there before me like the personification of somber power and I stopped my barging at the very sight of him.

“These chambers, they are off limits to the public,” he said, his deep voice soft and yet all the more menacing for its tone.

“I’m not here as a member of the public,” I said.

“But that’s all you are,” he said. “A insignificant man without a scintilla of importance. You are not welcome here. You will leave one way or the other. One way is preferable to you, I suppose, but as to me, I don’t care. Just so you leave.”

The justice’s secretary was away from her desk, there was no one waiting in the waiting room. It was Curtis who had buzzed me through and now it was just me and him, and him took a step forward.

“You’re going to throw me out bodily?”

“If I must.”

“You and what army?”

He looked at me, big somber Curtis Lobban, he looked at my pencil neck, my flagpole arms, my fists like pale undersized fish. “Do everyone a favor, Mr. Carl, especially yourself. Go on away home and leave us be.”

“Who are you talking for?”

“All of us, the justice, Mrs. Straczynski, my own wife.”

“Your wife?”

His fists clenched. “Don’t think I don’t know about the man you sent around to spy on us.”

“I didn’t send anyone to spy on your wife.”

“She is ill. You have disturbed her delicate equilibrium. This whole affair has left her distraught. Go away, Mr. Carl, leave us alone. Leave us in peace.”

“I’m here to see the justice, Curtis.”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“He’ll see me.”

“No, he won’t. And you know how I know? Because I am his file clerk. He does nothing without my say so. If a file is pushed to the top of the list, action is taken immediately, a decision is made, an opinion is written, an appeal denied or granted. Life moves on either way because I said it should. And if a file is shuffled to the bottom of the pile, or is somehow for some reason mysteriously misplaced, then it is as if time itself has stopped its course. There is no yes, there is no no, there is nothing. And all the world waits. You see, Mr. Carl, I keep the files, create the schedule, man the doors. I decide who comes in and who stays out.”

“So you’re the gatekeeper of justice, is that it? The gray ferry-man with glowing eyes?”

“Yes, that it is, exactly. You know who got it for me, this job? The Mrs.”

“Alura?”

“She is something of a saint.”

“She’s a spider.”

“Maybe that too. But you only know that part of her, not the other part.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing. Go away, Mr. Carl. Go away and stay away
and maybe things will take care of themselves. But know this,” he hissed, “you are trespassing and you’ve had your warning.”

There it was, that same voice, the exact same words. He had hid his accent that night in the vestibule, but I could still tell.
You are not welcome here,
he had said.
You are trespassing,
he had said. And the word “scintilla,” a legal term that rolled so easily off his tongue, sort of like the rules of adverse possession had rolled so easily off his tongue when his foot was on my face.

“So it was you,” I said, “along with your buddy O’Brien.”

“If you persist, I’ll have you arrested.”

“You can do better than that, Curtis,” I said. “You already had me arrested, in Traffic Court, and still, here I am. I’ve been beaten, thrown in jail, cited for contempt, and now my client has ended up totally screwed by some Common Pleas hack. So what’s next? What’s your boss going to do to me now? Revoke my citizenship? Have me deported to Lithuania? What?”

“You do not understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“He is an important man.”

“No, he’s not. He’s a speck of dirt in the public eye.”

His eyes opened wide, a smile appeared. “So, this is political after all.”

“No, Curtis. It’s not political, it’s personal.”

I started for the library.

He took a step in the same direction.

I stopped.

He stopped.

Then I was off, tearing to the entrance to the library, throwing open the door, sprinting toward the big oaken table, Curtis following close by my heels. A law clerk was sitting at the big table, looking up from her book, her jaw dropping at the sight of me rushing in and Curtis Lobban rushing after me.

When I reached the table I tossed an empty chair behind me. I heard a smack, something falling, a grunt, a curse.

The law clerk stood up and said something snooty. I tossed her chair too.

When I reached the end of the room, I flung open the justice’s
door. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a document. The justice looked up just as Curtis Lobban reached me and flung his thick arm around my neck.

“Mr. Carl,” said the justice as Curtis lifted me off the ground. “I didn’t know you had an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible grunt.

“No appointment?” he said. “I suppose that explains Curtis’s handling of the matter.”

I let out an unintelligible bray.

“A grip like that, you know, can be fatal. There have been cases. You really should have made an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible bleat.

“I’ll hold him for the police,” said Curtis, starting to drag me away even as I flailed at his arm.

“No, let him go. Men like Mr. Carl are like the weather. You have no choice but to suffer through them until a strong enough wind comes to blow them away.”

Curtis tightened his grip. My eyes bulged.

“Let him go,” said the justice.

Curtis released me. I landed on two shaky legs and lurched this way and that, trying to catch my breath and my balance, staggering around like a drunken Groucho Marx.

“You can leave us, Curtis.”

“But Mr. Justice, he—”

“It will be fine, Curtis. I think I can handle Mr. Carl myself.”

Curtis Lobban glared at me for a moment and then spun around and left, heading to some far off room. The justice went back to his paperwork. I collapsed into one of the chairs before his ornate desk and rubbed my neck. It wasn’t long before one of the lines on the phone lit. The justice turned his head to the lit line, then raised his eyes to see that I had seen it too.

“He’s calling your wife,” I said.

“Most likely,” he said, just as the white cat leaped atop his desk. “She makes it a practice of being kept informed of my business.”

“And you’re kept informed of hers?”

“As much as I care to,” he said, scratching the cat’s back, “which
isn’t much. You don’t have an appointment. I don’t see lawyers without appointments.”

“I came about Rashard Porter,” I said.

“Porter?” said the justice. “Rashard Porter? I don’t recognize the name.”

“He’s a client. He was sentenced this afternoon to a year in prison for a crime that warranted probation at worst.”

“And you’ve come to see me about a case? How wonderfully improper. An ex-parte discussion with a sitting Supreme Court justice about an ongoing criminal case.” The cat curled to sitting on the corner of the desk, the justice went back to his paperwork. “I suppose the Bar Association will have something to say about this.”

“The DA and the presentencing officer in Mr. Porter’s case all agreed that probation was the proper sentence. He’s a kid with a future. He was accepted into art school. Everything was set until the judge turned around and slammed him with a year.”

“Then it appears you have grounds for your appeal. But until it reaches my level there is nothing I can do, and now, because of this meeting, I would have to recuse myself in any event. Is that all you came in here for, to ruin your career? Because trust me, Mr. Carl, when the Bar Association gets through with you, it will be ruined.”

“He was sentenced to a year because I was his lawyer, and because the word is out that I am to get screwed at every turn.”

“Really? That is troubling—for you. And who put out the word?”

“Don’t play the ignorant puss with me.”

“Oh, Mr. Carl. You’ve become paranoid.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re not out to get me. After our first meeting you chewed out the District Attorney and I got hauled into the DA’s office and had my ass chewed out in turn. And right after that you ordered the sheriff to stop helping my collection action against Derek Manley. Then you had my name incorrectly placed on a bench warrant from Lackawanna County that ended up sending me to jail. And now you unjustly screwed my client, Rashard Porter, to the wall.”

“I did all this.”

“Of course you did.” Pause. “Didn’t you?”

It wasn’t any denial that caused my doubt, it was the evident pain on his face. As I went through the litany of indignities recently heaped upon me by the law, he seemed more and more in agony, as if a kidney stone was starting to move slowly and painfully through his system. And even as he spoke, it was as if the stone continued to move, push, chew its way through.

“Have you learned anything new about Tommy Greeley’s disappearance?” he said.

“Worried?”

“Curious. About a lost friend.”

“I’ve learned that just before his disappearance he was cheating on his girlfriend.”

“Cheating on Sylvia?”

“That’s right. With two different women, both married.”

“Tommy was ever the dog, wasn’t he?”

“One was a woman named Chelsea. Her husband, Lonnie, was pretty steamed about it. Did you ever meet him? Lonnie Chambers?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Owns a motorcycle shop in Queens Village.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“And the other woman he was sleeping with was your wife.”

The justice winced, but not from shock. He twisted around as if in utter pain, as if the kidney stone was continuing to grind its way. The white cat stood up, stared at me for a moment, then stepped over to rub its cheek on the back of the justice’s neck.

“Where did you hear that?” the justice said.

“She told me.”

“Of course she did.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Justice?”

“I think you should go.”

“My client. Rashard Porter.”

“Who was the judge?”

“Wellman.”

“Common Pleas?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“I want more than a look.”

“We all want more than we can have. Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

He turned around to face me, grimaced, pushed the cat off his desk even as he dismissed me with a wave. The cat stalked off. I waited for a bit and then stood, walked toward the entrance. But before I reached the door I stopped and turned around.

“Did you know about Tommy and your wife?”

“Does it matter?” he said without looking up.

“Yes, it does.”

“I don’t intrude on my wife’s affairs.”

“But maybe they intruded on their own. Lonnie Chambers. He came to you, didn’t he?”

“I said I didn’t recognize the name.”

“Then we’ll have to see if he recognizes yours.”

“Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

I stayed there for a moment more, watching him try to work. His head was down, his pen was moving, but the pain was still there, the stone was still working its brutal way through his system, and I sensed just then that it had been working its way through his system for many many years.

“Why do you stay with her?” I said.

He looked up, puzzled for a moment at the question, and then nodded his head. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Carl?” he said.

“No.”

“Well, then, here’s some advice from an old married man. Don’t ever presume to understand what is happening between a husband and a wife. Nothing in this world appears more transparent, and yet is more inscrutable, than someone else’s marriage.”