Untitled (26 page)

  "God," he whispered. "No."

  He pulled away from Jessica, and put himself back into his pants. She grabbed at him, but he kept her away. She looked hurt like a child, her eyes filled with passion and need.

  "What?" she asked. "Did I do something?" She was breathing hard. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "I can't," Marshall said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this."

  Jessica took a step away from him. "Marshall, I need you," she said. "Please, don't leave me like this."

  "No," he said with conviction, more for himself than her.

  Jessica suddenly turned, embarrassed. For a moment, they just stood across from each other, silent. Marshall prayed that she wouldn't come after him again. He didn't know if he could resist a second time. Then Jessica moved to the door. Marshall stopped her before she could leave.

  "Don't you run out on me," he said. "We should talk about this."

  "Why? You don't want me." She was getting misty.

  "Yes, I do," said Marshall. "I do, but . . . my marriage is weak right now, hell, it's probably over, but I can't walk away from it—even for someone like you." Marshall was close to her. He wanted to touch her, but he didn't trust himself.

  "I don't really want to take something that's not mine," said Jessica. "I just—I just thought you wanted to be taken."

  "Maybe I did. I'm sorry."

  Jessica wiped her eyes. "So, what am I supposed to do with my feelings, Marshall?"

  "Give them to someone who can be with you," he said.

  She looked up at him, and he was struck by her beauty. For a second, he wanted her again, but he knew the moment was lost now, his reason, his sanity was back.

  "Good-bye, Marshall," said Jessica. Then she looked away, and walked out the door. Suddenly, she stopped. She took a step back into the room. Marshall thought that she was going to come at him again, then his heart nearly leapt from his body as Chemin walked through the door.

  He was beyond shock. This was hell, he thought. Any moment the Devil would rise from the floor on a fiery mound, and proclaim ownership of his immortal soul. He wanted to disappear, shrink to the size of an atom and fly away. It was a foolish thought, but only embracing the impossible allowed him to react to the situation he was now in.

  Jessica fixed her clothes nervously. Marshall's brain

quickly processed what his wife was seeing. Her husband and an attractive young girl half undressed in his office late at night. He suddenly thought of the phone calls he had not returned and the fact that the guards all knew Chemin and had probably let her in.

  "Chemin—" he said. "Look, nothing happened—"

  Chemin took a step toward Jessica, raising her fist. Jessica didn't move, staring right into Chemin's face. This shocked Marshall and seemed to surprise Chemin, who nonetheless seemed ready to bash the young girl's head in. And Jessica was ready to take the hit, ready to pay for what she had done.

  Chemin stopped and lowered her arm. She raised her finger to the young girl, her hand shaking with rage.

  "Get your lucky ass out," she said.

  Jessica moved around Chemin, and walked out of the room almost defiantly. She was a surprising woman, he thought, foolish, but strong. Suddenly, Jessica stopped in the doorway, and Marshall thought she would turn and say something that would cause Chemin to pounce on her. He saw himself pulling them apart, handfuls of hair being ripped from the other's head. But Jessica didn't say a word. She kept walking, her heels clicking on the floor and trailing off like plaintive tapping.

  Chemin turned her attention to Marshall. He fixed his clothes, tucked in his shirt, and straightened his tie, as if this would purge his sin. For a moment she just looked at him, stared at him as if she could slay him with her glare.

  "Was it good?" she asked. Her face was contorted, and her eyes had a sad, hurt look that he'd never seen and hoped never to see again.

  "Chemin, I got weak, but we didn't do anything," he said. He heard his own voice, and even to him, it sounded pathetic.

  "Answer me, you motherfucker. W
as it good?
"

  "Don't swear at me."

  "Don't swear?" she said incredulously. "How about I go out and fuck some guy in
my
office. Is that permissible in a marriage?"

  "What damned marriage, Chemin?" he snapped. He re gretted the words as soon as he had said them, but it was too late to take them back. He'd opened the box.

  "So, I see. You were justified, you had needs. My wife doesn't understand me," she said in a whiny voice. "People work out their problems, Marshall. They don't go and screw the secretary when things get tough!"

  "We—nothing happened. Look, Chemin—"

  "Please don't say my name," she said. "I don't like the way it sounds out of your mouth right now."

  "I can't win this. So, go on, curse me, do whatever you want. I don't care anymore." He walked back to his desk and turned his back on her.

  "Always the attorney, aren't you? Give up and pleabargain the unwinnable case. What do you want, five to ten years of yelling with time off for good behavior? Well, fuck that. I saw you, and I demand to know what happened.
Was
she good, dammit!"
It was classic Chemin, attacking with humor to make it sting all the more.

  "I'm not having this conversation with you. Nothing happened."

  Chemin laughed. "You are so transparent. You can't say you didn't have sex with her, can you? So, what did you do, Marshall? How far did it go before I came in?"

  "Can we just talk about our problem? How about us?—"

  "Did you suck her titties?"

  "Aw, Jesus."

  "Did you lick her? Did she go down on you? How much of nothing happened, you sorry bastard?"

  "Okay, fine, you want to be nasty, then yes, I wanted to fuck her," said Marshall. "Like any man I thought that some gratuitous sex would make me feel better, that if I just went through something human, I could forget that I've failed with you. But it didn't work. I couldn't do it because I'm stuck with feeling that our relationship is the center of my fucking life, that I need you, and I can't let that go."

  There was silence for a moment. Chemin looked at him and her eyes seemed twice as big as they were, as if she were looking right into him, searching for something. Then she dropped her coat to the floor. She was dressed in a navy business suit. She took off her jacket, kicked off her shoes, and started to unbutton her blouse.

  "What are you doing?" asked Marshall.

  "I want you to fuck me," she said.

  "What? What the hell—"

  "You say you didn't screw that girl, you say I mean so much to you. Then fine. I want you to fuck me and give me a baby, right now."

  Her blouse was open, and she took it off. He tried not to notice her breasts, but it was impossible. Once again she had managed to subdue his mind with her moxie.

  "Don't do this, Chemin, this is crazy."

  "No, it's justice. You owe this to me. The one thing I want most in the world, you don't want to give me. You betrayed me tonight with that woman. If you want to make it right, then pull off your pants and let's get down to business."

  She started on her skirt. Marshall went to her and stopped her. He didn't know how to feel. He was angry at her actions, and yet there was a perverse logic to it.

  "Chemin, this is not going to happen," he said.

  "If you had sex with that girl, I'd appreciate it if you washed off your dick before you fuck me."

  "I'm not going to—" He couldn't even say the word. It was a vulgar enough term, but Chemin's actions and intent had made it sound downright evil.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were filling with tears. Her hand trembled inside of his. He was reminded of the first time he saw her, and how there was a power about her, an energy, that took his breath away. It was still there, he thought, after all their time together and their awful recent troubles, she was still exceptional.

  "This is what it means to be a woman," she said. "Like you're naked and begging for the world to have mercy on you. All I want is to be beautiful, and have my man appreciate me, but it always comes down to taking shit, settling for shit, or watching your shit slip away. Well, this is where it stops for me, Marshall. I think far too much of myself to live this way. I'm too good a woman to take this from you. So either you fuck me, or you can't have me anymore."

  Marshall released her. He stood there, not knowing what to do. Her intellect was awesome, and he thought at that moment that she would have made a great lawyer. She'd used his indiscretion to bargain for life itself, and in the process, she'd humiliated him and reduced the act of sex, his manhood, to a mere commodity.

  If he did what she wanted, then he'd be her prisoner for the rest of his life. If he didn't, he'd lose her and gain admission to the Club of Losers who could not handle the simple act of love. He stood on the crossroads of his own life and looked in both directions. This was the moment he'd dreaded since they'd started to have trouble. He'd thought many times of what he would give to save his marriage. And after all of this turmoil, he still did not know the answer.

  "No," he said. "I can't."

  "That's what I thought," she said.

  Chemin laughed bitterly as she dressed. She walked past him to the door. Without looking back, she said: "Call your lawyer." Then, she walked out of his life.

T
here is no federal government. The United States is just that, a group of sovereign states joined by common cause. In a sense, the federal government is the glue that holds them together. It is like a shadow, a thing that is constant, but seldom noticed.

These thoughts always filled Marshall's head when he argued a case. He needed to keep the jurisdiction in perspective. The federal government was a heightened authority of each state it sat in. Its power was awesome, and he needed to know that it was always with him.

  Marshall rose to argue Rashad's motion to suppress the DNA evidence. The courtroom was clear of media and any gallery. Langworthy didn't feel that this matter should be open to the public and run the risk of tainting potential jurors. So only the lawyers were allowed in this day. Marshall and his team crowded one another at a table. He didn't want to have Roberta and Walter sit behind him as they had on previous occasions. They were in trial mode now, and the team had to be seen as one. Rashad and Leslie sat on the other side of the courtroom, looking calm and sure of themselves. Mbutu didn't look so good. He was flushed, and his eyes were pink, as if irritated. He was sick, but Marshall didn't know from what.

  Marshall struggled to keep his mind on the case as they waited. Chemin had not been in the house for two days, and he didn't know where she was. He'd called everyone she knew. He was sure her friends were lying to him, but he couldn't be a hundred percent certain. She hadn't even come into work. This was how lawyers had nervous breakdowns, he thought. When your life and emotions are pulled apart in different directions, something has to snap.

  "Look alive," said Ryder. "The judge is coming in."

  Marshall nodded to Bob Ryder, who seemed to be very concerned about him. Roberta and Walter had both separately asked him if he was okay. He'd given positive responses, but he was sure that the look on his face betrayed the statements.

  Langworthy entered the court carrying books and papers. He sat down and began to shuffle them, looking for something.

  Rashad's argument was that the PCR test was not accurate enough to be admissible. That one in a hundred was prejudicial but not probative of any salient fact in the case. Rashad had cited the cases from California that had successfully challenged PCR testing.

  "I've read the motion and response," said Langworthy. "I don't think I need to hear any argument."

  "I would like to say something," said Rashad.

  Langworthy looked upset at this statement. "Very well," he said. "Proceed."

  "Although the cases are not on point for exclusion, we feel that the time has come to invalidate PCR as admissible evidence. The sample was small, one single hair, Your Honor. And the chance that the test is wrong is one in a hundred. That isn't sufficient to risk the life of a man."

  Langworthy looked at Marshall.

  "Mr. Rashad is asking the court to take an unprecedented action," said Marshall. "While PCR is not as accurate as the RFLP test, it is nonetheless accepted as a definitive analysis. The defendant doesn't cite any cases because none are on point for his request. There is precedent to challenge the test, but there is nothing that says it should be invalidated."

  Marshall sat down. Langworthy started his decision when Roberta tapped Marshall on the shoulder.

  "The prejudice," she said.

"What?" said Marshall.

  "Prejudice," said Roberta. "In their motion. The balance of probity versus prejudice is his basic argument."

  "Your Honor," said Marshall. "Please excuse me, but I'd like one of my team to add to the government's response." Marshall had blown it. He was not prepared to finish the matter and hoped Roberta would bail him out.

  "Okay," said Langworthy. "But next time, please be more organized, Counselor."

  "Sorry, Your Honor," said Marshall.

  Roberta was shocked and obviously afraid. Marshall smiled to reassure her and urged her on. She got up and went to the podium. She was not a good public speaker, but evidence was her strong suit. She cleared her throat and gripped the side of the podium so hard that Marshall could see her knuckles whiten.

  "Very simply, Your Honor," she began, "we'd like to note that in addition to the arguments already heard, any prejudice to the defendant brought by the PCR test is minimal and doesn't begin to outweigh the probative value of the evidence. The test is highly regarded and has been accepted in thousands of cases throughout the country. It has been used to convict, as well as exonerate, defendants in criminal cases. In short, it is a standard that has been tested and proven vital to the process of justice."