“I don’t know her, Miss Pershing. Take her number. I’ll get back to her when I can.”
“All right. I’ll be back at my desk if you need anything.” She turns to go.
“Miss Pershing, the Harts, remember?”
Her hand flutters to her mouth. “Oh, my. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”
“No problem. Just take them to the conference room and tell them I’ll be there.”
“You mean, stall them. Like Jessica Fletcher.” She winks at me.
“Jessica who?”
“Jessica Fletcher, on Murder, She Wrote. She’s a sleuth!” Miss Pershing’s eyes light up.
“You got it. Like Jessica Fletcher.”
“Right-o.”
“In fact, I have a favor to ask you. Something I need to have done while I’m in the dep. The kind of favor a sleuth would like.”
“Now this is my cup of tea,” she says, brightening.
“Get a district court subpoena from my form files. Then call up the Accident Investigation Division — they’re a part of the Philadelphia police. Don’t tell them who you are. Get some information about who’s in charge of their records on open investigations for fatal accidents. Put that name on two of the subpoenas. My guess is that it’s the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, but I’m not sure. Just don’t tell them why.”
“Got it,” she says, with another wink, and hobbles off.
I return to the file and read the notation again. 5/10 CON OUT/FS 1.0 NSW. If NSW is Ned’s father, does that explain why the deposition notice is missing? Did he tamper with the file to make me look bad in comparison to Ned? Is Ned’s father the note writer? The killer?
I slap the file closed and tuck it under my arm. I head up the stairs slowly enough to give Miss Pershing time to get the Harts out of the reception area. My parents must have been worried sick. I wonder if they got hold of Angie and how much she told them. It had to be the whole story for them to come here. They’ve only been to Stalling once, when I was first hired. My father got lost on the way to the bathroom.
The Harts are gone when I reach the reception area. A CEO type, his lawyer, and his lawyer’s bag carrier are engaged in a whispered confab at one end of a glass coffee table, leaning over slick copies of Forbes, Time, and Town and Country. At the other end of the table is the redoubtable team of Vita and Matthew DiNunzio. They sit together in their heavy car coats, a worsted mountain of concerned parenthood, slumping badly in the soft whiter-than-white sectional furniture. I know what my mother is thinking: This sofa, it cost a fortune, and it has no support.
“Maria!” shouts my father, with joy. He stands up, arms outstretched. “Maria! Doll!”
Every head in the place turns. The CEO and his lawyer break off their expensive conversation. The bag carrier stifles a laugh. Two young associates, running by with files, look back curiously. Stalling’s veteran receptionist, Mrs. Littleton of the purple hair, just beams. I wonder if she’s invited to coffee too.
I cross to greet my parents before my father shouts again. “Ma. Pop. Are you guys okay?”
They reach for me and envelop me in their scratchy coats. They smell like home, a closed-up odor of marinara and mothballs. It’s crazy, all hell is breaking loose in my life, but I’m happy to see them. I hope Angie didn’t tell them everything. I don’t know how much more they can take, particularly my father.
“Maria, what happened? Where were you?” says my mother, half moaning. Her pancake makeup looks extra heavy, which signifies that she’s come downtown. “We were so worried!”
“We called Angie,” my father chimes in. “She said you went to see her. Are you in trouble, honey?”
The CEO leans closer to his lawyer and continues his conversation. The bag carrier has nothing to do but watch us, which he does. I don’t like the way he looks at my parents, with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. What’s the matter? I want to say. You never seen Italians before?
“Pop, I’m not in trouble. Everything’s—”
“What?” He nudges my mother, agitated. “What did she say, Vita?”
“She said she’s not in trouble, but I don’t believe her,” my mother shouts. “Look at her eyes, Matty. Look at her eyes.” She grabs for my chin, but I intercept her deftly, having had some practice with this.
I look over her shoulder at the smirking lawyer. “Come with me. Let’s get out of here.” I take her by one hand and him by the other and walk them out of the reception area. We gather in front of one of the conference rooms, away from the elevator bank. I stand very close to my father, so I don’t have to yell too loudly. “Listen to me. Everything is fine. I am fine.”
“Then why did you go see Angie?” my mother asks, blinking defiantly behind her thick glasses.
“What did Angie say?”
“Hah! You think I was born yesterday? You tell me why you went, then I tell you what she said.”
“What?” asks my father.
I hug him close and talk directly into his ear. “I went to see Angie. I was worried about something, but now it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry if I made you worry.”
“Angie said you were lonely.”
“That’s right, Pop. I was lonely. I was worried about her, missing her. Everything’s okay now. But I have to get back to work. I have a deposition. I have to go take it.”
“You givin’ us the bum’s rush?”
“I have to, Pop. I can’t help it.”
“Something’s wrong, Matty. I can see it in the child’s eyes. Ever since she was little, she can’t hide her eyes.” My mother trembles, agitated.
I touch her shoulder. “Ma. I promise you, I’m fine. If my eyes look funny, it’s because I’m about to lose my job.” I press the button to get them an elevator.
“No. We’re not leaving until this is settled.”
“What, Vita?”
“We’re not leaving until my daughter tells me what is going on. And that’s final!”
My father winces. “Veet, she has to do her job.”
I nod. “Right. Pop’s right. I have to do my job.” The elevator arrives. I step inside and press the HOLD button. “Ma, please. I have to work. I have to go, they’re waiting for me. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sorry I upset you, I really am.”
My father shuffles into the elevator, but my mother merely folds her arms. It’s easier to move the Mummers up Broad Street than it is to move my mother one inch. Especially when she folds her arms like that.
The elevator starts to buzz loudly. The noise reverberates in the elevator. Even my father covers his ears.
“Ma, please.”
“Vita, please.”
She wags a finger at me, her knuckle as knobby as the knot on an oak tree. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Ma, I’m fine.”
The elevator buzzes madly.
She takes two reluctant steps into the elevator. I release the button and the buzzing stops abruptly. “Don’t worry, Ma. I love you both.” I jump out of the elevator.
“We love you,” says my father. The doors close on my mother’s scowl.
When I turn around, the bag carrier is standing alone in the elevator bank. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a smirk I would love to smack off.
“You look familiar to me,” he says casually. “Did you go to Harvard?”
“No. I’m too stupid.” I start to walk past him, but he touches my arm.
“You look like somebody I knew on law review there, in 1986. I was editor in chief that year.”
“Editor in chief, huh?”
“Editor in chief.”
I lean in close to him. “Let me tell you something. I saw the way you carried that bag, and I must say I’ve never seen a man carry a bag as well as you did. In fact, it takes an editor in chief to carry a bag that well.” I chuck him one in the padded shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”
I take off and head for the stairs.
Fucking back. It’s getting to be fun.
>
I run up the stairs to the conference room, mentally switching gears on the way. I have a job to do. I have to ask Hart every question I can think of, and I have only this one shot before trial. I have to find out everything he has to support his case so I can get a defense ready. And I have to find out what the hell is going on with Ned’s father and my files.
I slip inside the conference room. It smells of fresh coffee and virgin legal pads. Pete’s already there, setting up his stenography machine. He gives me a professional nonpartisan-type nod. We both know this is bullshit. He’s my reporter and it will be my record. He’ll make me sound like Clarence Darrow before he’s done, with none of the uhs, hums, and ers that I come out with in real life.
The Harts stand together at the coffee tray. I reach for Hank’s hand. “Hello, Hank.”
“Hi, Mary,” Hank says. “I assumed the dep would be here, since you replaced Masterson as defense counsel.” He looks like an English schoolboy in a plaid bow tie, which is slightly askew.
“Right. I should have called you, but I was out yesterday.”
“I know, I tried to confirm.”
“I’m sorry. By the way, when did you get the Notice of Deposition? I don’t seem to have a copy in my pleadings index.”
He thinks a minute. “We got it when Masterson filed the answer, I think. No, we got it with the other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
“You know, the discovery. Interrogatories and document requests. We answered them two weeks ago. You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”
“No, actually. Maybe they got lost when the file was transferred to us.” Discovery. Of course, the written questions that Hart would have to answer and the papers he’d have to produce. Without those papers, I’m crippled for today. “Hank, would you mind if I borrowed your copy of the discovery for the deposition?”
“Not at all.” He sets his shiny briefcase on the table and opens it up. Anybody else would have denied having the documents and exploited my disadvantage, but Hank hands me a thick packet of paper. Candy from a baby. I’m almost too ashamed to take it. Almost.
“Thanks, Hank.”
“The documents we produced are on the bottom,” he says helpfully.
“Great.” I take the papers, but there’s too much to read now. I’ll do it over the lunch break, and wing it this morning. But why are the papers missing from the file in the first place? Who did this to me? “Who handled this case at Masterson, Hank? I forget. Was it—”
“Nathaniel Waters,” booms a deep voice, speaking for the first time. It’s Hart the Elder. “They pulled out their big gun.”
NSW is Ned’s father. Jesus H. Christ.
“Mary, this is my father, Henry Hart,” Hank says.
“Hello, Mr. Hart.” I extend a hand, but he ignores it. I withdraw it quickly, as Hank looks uncomfortably at me. Hart the Elder won’t even meet my eye and yanks a chair out from under the table. He’s an attractive man, tanned and trim. There’s almost no gray in his hair; I wonder if he dyes it. It would be consistent, for he seems vain, in a European-tailored suit and a light pink shirt. I can see why he was an executive at Harbison’s and can also imagine him being rude to employees, because he’s breathing fire at me.
Two hours later, it’s a full-fledged conflagration, and I’ve taken Saint Joan’s place at the stake. I started out with only the most reasonable questions, mainly about his early years at Harbison’s, but Hart fought me on each one. His son never objected. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Mr. Hart, has anyone from Harbison’s ever made a statement to you regarding your age?”
“Mrs. DiNunzio, you know full well they have.”
“The purpose of this deposition is to find out your version of the facts, Mr. Hart. Now please answer the question.”
“My version? It’s the truth.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this is your chance to tell your side of the story. Why don’t you do so?”
“It’s not a story.”
I grit my teeth. “Mr. Benesante, would you please read back the question?”
Pete picks up the tape and translates its machine-made abbreviations to Hart. “Mr. Hart, has anyone from Harbison’s ever made a statement to you regarding your age?”
“Do you understand the question, Mr. Hart?” I ask.
“English is my mother tongue, Mrs. DiNunzio.”
“Then answer it, please.”
“Yes, they have.”
“How many such statements have been made to you, sir?”
“Three.”
“Do you remember when the first such statement was made?”
“Sure. It’s a day that will live in infamy, if I have any say in the matter.”
“When was the statement made?”
“February seventh, 1990.”
“Who made the statement?”
“Frank Stapleton.”
“Would that be Franklin Stapleton, the chief executive officer of Harbison’s?”
“None other.”
“Was there anyone else present when he made this statement?”
“You think they’re dumb enough to have a witness there?”
“I take it your answer is no, Mr. Hart?”
“You take it right, Mrs. DiNunzio.”
I sip some ice-cold coffee. “Where was the statement made?”
“In Frank’s office.”
“Do you recall the statement, Mr. Hart?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“What was the statement, Mr. Hart?”
“Mr. Stapleton said to me, ‘Henry, face it. You’re not getting any younger, and it’s time for you to retire. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, you know.’”
Pow! It’s a fireball.
Soon it blazes out of control. Hart goes on to testify with certainty about the two other statements, each one referring to his age as it relates to his employment. Clearly unlawful, and each statement was made by Stapleton himself, so it’s directly chargeable to Harbison’s. Pow! Pow!
“Mr. Hart, do you have any documents regarding these alleged statements by Mr. Stapleton?”
“I most certainly do.”
Pow!
“What might those documents be?”
“They might be notes.”
“Have you brought them to this deposition?”
“Yes. My son gave them to you already.”
“They’re the ones at the bottom of the pile, Mary,” Hank says.
“Excuse me a minute.” I flip through the pages until I reach a set of documents on Harbison’s letterhead. They’re neatly typed and laser-printed, in capital letters. I pull them out and hold them up. “Are these the ones, Hank?”
Hank squints across the conference table. “Yes. That’s them.”
“Bear with me a minute, gentlemen.” I arrange my face into a mask of scholarly calm as I read the notes. Frolicking across the top of each page is a conga line of ecstatic nuts and bolts, ending in the tagline HARBISON’S THE HARDWARE PEOPLE. On each page are verbatim accounts of Hart’s conversations with Stapleton, which appear to have been made right after the conversations.
God help me.
The notes will be admissible at trial. They’ll prove the truth of every word Hart says. The jury will rise up like an avenging angel. They’ll take millions from Harbison’s; it’ll be the biggest age discrimination verdict in Pennsylvania history. Kaboom! The conflagration explodes into a city-wide five-alarmer. And the flames, crackling in my ears, are eating me alive.
Pete cracks his knuckles loudly. “Can we break for lunch now, Mary? My fingers are killing me.”
“Sure.”
“An hour okay?”
“Fine.”
The Harts leave with Pete, who gives me a quick smile before he goes. He’s never asked for a break before. I’ve had him on deps with no break all day. He was trying to save me. He knew I was tumbling into the inferno.
He’s Catholic too.
28
> I plunge my hot face into a golden basin of cool water in the ladies’ room, half expecting to hear a hissing sound. Then I towel off and head back to the conference room to read over Hart’s notes. They’re bad, but I decide not to think about how very bad they are. I have to find out more about them and find out anything else he has. Fuck back, in overdrive.
I’m almost finished reading the stack of documents, which luckily contain no more surprises, when the telephone rings. It’s Miss Pershing. “Miss DiNunzio, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I have this Lu Ann on the line again. She’s very anxious to talk to you. She says it’s about Mr. Hart’s deposition.”
Who can this be? I take the call. “This is Mary DiNunzio.”
“You’re the lawyer for Harbison’s, aren’t you, miss?” says a young woman. She sounds upset. “Because I heard you’re a lady lawyer, and I heard Henry’s getting his deposition today.”
“I represent the company, Lu Ann. Do you work for Harbison’s?”
“Let me just ask you is the judge there?”
“There’s no judge at a deposition, Lu Ann.”
“Who’s there? The jury?” Her voice grows tremulous. I can’t place her flat accent. Maybe it’s from Kensington, a working-class section of the city.
“No. Just relax, I think you’re confused. A deposition is between—”
“Did he say anything about me? ‘Cause if he does, you tell them I said it’s not true! If my Kevin hears it, if anybody on that jury says anything, or it gets in the newspapers, he’ll beat the shit out of me! Me and my kids both! So you just tell him that! If he loves me, you tell him to shut the fuck up!” The phone goes dead.
Stunned, I hang up the receiver. My conversation with Lu Ann is over, but my conversation with the devil is just beginning. I didn’t think I believed in the devil, but I can’t ignore the fact that I hear his hot whisper at my ear in the stillness of Conference Room C, on Lust.
So Hart’s been playing hide the kielbasa with a Polish girl from Kensington. Let the jury in on that, Mare, and you win.
I can’t. It wouldn’t even be admissible.