The Missing Piece (13 page)

At one o'clock, he began butt duty. The sky was clear, the breeze light, the temperature warm for mid-October. He swept the portico clean and thought he might finish early enough to catch Jessima at her supply closet. But the good weather had drawn many smokers out from the shelter of the portico, and the steps were a mess with butts wedged in the angles of the risers and stuck in the joints between the slabs. So much for catching Jessima for a quickie.

*   *   *

“Nice protest,” Bernadette said to Linda as they reached the bottom of the courthouse steps. “While I write the decision, you take the heat.”

They both laughed; the pool of court attorneys was an open secret within the legal community. Still, no one ever would admit that any specific court attorney wrote any specific decision for any specific judge.

Linda had inveigled her friend into a lunch date by promising they would be back inside the courthouse within an hour. Chinatown would have been the closest, fastest choice, but Linda could not face Chinese food after this morning's nausea, so she steered Bernadette to a small Indian joint on a side street west of Broadway.

“I've never seen you order so bland,” Bernadette said after the waiter set their food in front of them.

“Just not in a spicy mood today,” said Linda. She tore a corner off a piece of naan, dipped it in her saag paneer, and took a bite. The food hit her stomach without incident.

“Now that we're here,” said Bernadette, “do you want to tell me the real reason you were so hot to have lunch today?”

“You're my friend. Can't I want to have lunch with a friend?”

“Don't be disingenuous.”

“All right, then,” said Linda. “True confessions?”

“True confessions,” said Bernadette.

They locked pinkies and then pulled them apart.

“The Roman silver case is back,” said Linda.

“Really? It's been how long? Three years?”

“Almost exactly. The Appellate Division issued its decision this morning on those rulings that Hungary and Croatia appealed after the mistrial. It also remanded the case for trial.”

“Who's getting it?” said Bernadette.

Linda grinned.

“No,” said Bernadette.

“Yes,” said Linda.

“How did that happen?”

“Sharon called me in last week. Told me the decision was imminent and that I should handle the trial because of my familiarity with the issues, et cetera.”

“Like that ever matters,” said Bernadette.

“It does this time. Everyone wants this over and done with.” Linda speared a piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. “Plus, I really believe I'm the best judge to handle it.”

“And?” said Bernadette, offering her pinkie. Linda reluctantly locked hers and pulled.

“And I confess I do want the chance to make up for the mess Judge Johnstone made of the first trial.”

“That mess was not all his fault.”

“I'm not talking about the … you know.”

“I know,” said Bernadette. “But I am. Aren't you worried about handling this case after what happened? Even a little?”

“There's always a little worry somewhere in your head after something like that,” said Linda. “But I tell myself that whatever was going to happen already happened. What does worry me is taking the bench with my idiot law clerk to guide me.”

Bernadette leaned back in her chair and leveled her gaze at Linda.

“I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me,” said Bernadette.

Linda lifted her pinkie. Bernadette hooked hers and then tried to pull away, but Linda would not let go.

“This is the truest of true confessions,” she said.

“I can see that,” said Bernadette.

“I mean it. I'm going to tell you something that no one else knows,” said Linda. “It needs to stay that way.”

“I get you,” said Bernadette.

Linda held fast. “Do you?”

“Unless you're going to hold my pinkie forever. Then I'll reconsider.”

Linda let go.

“I'm going to leave the bench,” she said.

“What?” said Bernadette. “Why?”

“‘With what I most enjoy contented least.'”

“What the hell's that?”

“Shakespeare. A line from one of his sonnets. I just don't feel I'm in the right place, and if you're not in the right place you can't enjoy what should make you happy.”

“So what's so bad?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on,” said Linda. “I guess being a judge isn't what I thought it would be.”

“Another complaint about judicial pay?” said Bernadette.

“The pay isn't the issue. With what Hugh brings home, my salary is pocket change. The respect is there, too, though I don't feel I command the same respect as Judge Johnstone.”

“You need to stick around longer than two years for that.”

“You're right. Maybe it's just impatience. Maybe it's the suspicion I'm missing out on something.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” said Linda. “But having this means that I can't have that. Whatever that is.”

“Kids?” said Bernadette.

“No,” said Linda. “Maybe.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No. Definitely not.” Linda lifted her pinkie, but Bernadette didn't take it. “Look, this has been something on my mind for a while. Like background noise that I hear only when it's quiet. At night, you know. But it's crystallized now that I have the case. It can be my exit music. My last hurrah.”

“Sure was for Judge Johnstone.”

“Not in the same way,” said Linda.

Bernadette leaned back, tossed in her napkin.

“But I was not kidding when I said I can't rely on Mark,” said Linda. “I want you to work the trial with me.”

“I'm not your personal court attorney. I work for other judges, too.”

“It won't be wire to wire and it won't be every day. You know how trials go. There will be dead time when the lawyers have other commitments.”

“I'll think about it,” said Bernadette. “That's all I can say for now.”

“Thanks,” said Linda. “That's all I can ask.”

“Tell me, are you planning this exit to avoid firing Mark?”

“Not at all,” said Linda. “I've actually been helping him connect with some firms.”

“Any prospects?”

“Not yet.”

“Don't you think he'd want to be in the courtroom for this trial so he could make a connection with one of those lawyers?” said Bernadette.

A laugh burst from Linda's mouth.

“He wouldn't have a snowball's chance with any of them,” she said.

*   *   *

Back in chambers after lunch, Linda settled into her chair and opened a can of seltzer. Mark had piled several motion folders on her desk, and she looked forward to a quiet afternoon of reading, editing, and more likely rewriting his decision drafts.

Jessima appeared in the doorway with a dustrag in her hand and a can of furniture polish in the pocket of her smock. She came in every other afternoon to dust the shelves and furniture, and Linda, pleasantly surprised by the quality of Mark's first decision draft, waved her inside and promptly forgot about her.

Linda read a second decision draft and found that one surprisingly good, too. Had Mark been dogging it these last two years? Had he come to understand the message behind all her painstaking edits? Or had he, with time running out, suddenly decided to apply himself in a campaign to convince her to keep him beyond the end of his contract?

After reading the third decision draft, she pressed the intercom button. Mark appeared in the doorway.

“Come get these, please,” said Linda.

He walked slowly to her desk and picked up the three files. He didn't even glance at the decisions, which were clipped to the outside of the motion folders. He never did.

“Good work,” said Linda.

“Uh, thanks, Judge.”

“Very good work, in fact.”

He shifted the folders from one hand to the other and tucked them under his arm. In the corner, Jessima sprayed furniture polish and wiped the top of an end table.

“Could you get something for me?” said Linda. “Middle file cabinet, bottom drawer. There's a Redweld way in the back.”

Mark slowly left the office. He disappeared momentarily to drop the folders on his desk, then crouched at the file cabinet, which was visible through the doorway. He dug out the Redweld, then carried it back.

“This is about the Roman silver trial?” he said. “I never saw this before.”

“No reason you would,” said Linda. “No reason for me to think about it before today.”

“Copies of old court papers?”

“Mostly. Some other stuff, too. Time to get myself reacquainted with this.”

“If you need me to do anything, just let me know,” said Mark.

“Sure. Thanks,” said Linda, trying not to sound dismissive.

*   *   *

Ivan finished with butt duty just before two o'clock. He dropped off the broom and dustpan at the head custodian's office, then rushed up the stairs to the fifth floor. As he reached the last angle of the hexagon, he heard the distinctive sound of Jessima's door closing. The idea that she had just returned to her supply closet excited him. He reached the door and knocked, but a moment passed and he knew that the sound must have been her leaving. He shoved off in pursuit with the sudden brainstorm of inviting Jessima to dinner at his apartment tonight. The quickies in the supply closet were great; just thinking about them, sometimes just passing Jessima's door, could make him hard. But he wanted to make love to her in his own bed, wanted to wake up next to her in the morning and do it all over again.

The idea propelled him down the elevator, through the rotunda, and up along the mag lines until he finally caught a glimpse of Jessima pushing through the revolving door and onto the portico. She must be looking for me, he thought, and felt a stir.

Ivan reached the top of the steps just as Jessima reached the sidewalk. She had angled sharply to the right, passing close to the corner of the stone pier that jutted out from the portico. Below the pier, the steps extended to their greatest width before reaching the sidewalk. Out on the sidewalk, standing in a tree well that now lacked a tree, was a man with long dreadlocks and a gray suit. His hand closed on her elbow.

Ivan stopped dead on the steps, then drifted toward the edge of the pier for cover as Jessima and the man settled on a bench in the small park beside the courthouse. The man touched her knee.

Jessima slapped Damien's hand away from her leg, then twisted her entire body to look up at the steps. She had felt someone watching, but she saw only the usual faceless crowd rushing up as lunch hour died and the many courtrooms within the huge courthouse opened for their afternoon sessions. She saw no one she recognized, no one she knew, no one who would care that she was talking to Damien. She was his most dependable contact in the upper reaches of the courthouse, picking up scraps of information as she moved unobtrusively from chambers to chambers, dusting, wiping, sweeping, peeling out the plastic liners from the trash cans. There was much to be learned from the garbage of the ruling class, and at 60 Centre Street the judges were the ruling class.

“The Roman silver case is back,” she said.

Damien cocked his head toward her in a way that sharpened the scar on his cheek. “Who has it?”

“Conover,” said Jessima.

Damien stroked his chin. Despite the grime on his knuckles, his fingernails were perfectly manicured.

“Goddam,” he said.

 

CHAPTER 15

They lived in a fifth-floor walk-up, and on his treatment days Matyas could make it only to the fourth floor before his head began to pound and his legs began to tremble. Andreas carried him the rest of the way. He would crouch, and Matyas would lie on his back and hug him tight around the neck. Andreas would straighten up and lock his forearms under Matyas's thighs. Only when they were inside the apartment did Andreas deposit Matyas into the chair where he would spend the rest of the day alternately slugging bottles of water and bottles of Gatorade to replenish the fluids the chemo squeezed out of his body in long, exhausting runs.

The call came while Matyas lolled weakly in the chair. Andreas took the phone into the hallway. He was back five minutes later.

“That was Luis,” he said.

Matyas stirred, then settled back and closed his eyes. If he recognized the name, he gave no sign, which was disconcerting since Matyas had been the one to contact Luis, cultivate him, and ultimately pump him for information.

“Luis,” Andreas repeated.

“I know.” Matyas groaned. His eyes popped open and he pitched forward as if seized by pain. But the spasm passed, and he settled back again.

“What did he want?” he said.

“It's back.”

“The trial?”

“Yes,” said Andreas.

“Did he say anything else? Give you any details?”

“Only that there will be a conference tomorrow. The lawyers and the judge. He will tell us more afterward.”

Matyas struggled to sit up, then let gravity drag him down again. He reached toward the small table, his hand groping blindly. Andreas steadied his wrist and guided the water bottle into his hand. Matyas lifted it to his lips. Always slight, always sharp, Matyas was now a husk of what he had been, his mind slowly darkening. He sucked the water like a baby, then let Andreas take the bottle from his hand.

“I will,” he said, “be ready.”

He turned sideways and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

McQueen found Gary's apartment quiet except for the rattle of dice. In a corner of the living room, a fan swept back and forth, its white noise dampening the street racket from down below. Ursula sat on the couch, Gary in his battle chair with the coffee table between them. They were playing backgammon.