Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  As he leafed through them, he pulled out the important ones and discarded the others. Suddenly he raised his eyebrows. There was a request to call Kerry McGrath. She had left two numbers, her office and her home. What’s that about? he wondered. He didn’t have any cases pending in Bergen County, her area of jurisdiction.

  Over the years he had met Kerry at bar association dinners, and he knew she was up for a judgeship, but he didn’t really know her. The call intrigued him. It was too late to get her at the office. He decided he would try her now, at home.

  * * *

  “I’ll get it,” Robin called, as the phone rang.

  It’s probably for you, anyhow, Kerry thought as she tested the spaghetti. I thought telephonitis didn’t set in until the teen years, she mused. Then she heard Robin yelling for her to pick up.

  She hurried across the kitchen to the wall phone. An unfamiliar voice said, “Kerry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Geoff Dorso here.”

  It had been an impulse to leave the message for him. Afterwards, Kerry was uneasy about having done it. If Frank Green heard that she was contacting Skip Reardon’s attorney, she knew he would not be so gentle as he had been earlier. But the die was cast.

  “Geoff, this is probably not relevant, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. Spit it out, she told herself. “Geoff, my daughter had an accident recently and was treated by Dr. Charles Smith—”

  “Charles Smith,” Dorso interrupted, “Suzanne Reardon’s father!”

  “Yes. That’s the point. There is something bizarre going on with him.” Now it was easier to open up. She told him about the two women who resembled Suzanne.

  “You mean Smith is actually giving them his daughter’s face?” Dorso exclaimed. “What the hell is that about?”

  “That’s what troubles me. I’m taking Robin to another plastic surgeon on Saturday. I intend to ask him about the surgical implications of reproducing a face. I’m also going to try to talk to Dr. Smith, but it occurred to me that if I could read the entire trial transcript beforehand, I’d have a better handle on him. I know I can get one through the office, it’s in the warehouse somewhere, but that could take time and I don’t want it getting around that I’m looking for it.”

  “I’ll have a copy in your hands tomorrow,” Dorso promised. “I’ll send it to your office.”

  “No, better send it to me here. I’ll give you the address.”

  “I’d like to bring it up myself and talk to you. Would tomorrow night about six or six-thirty be all right? I won’t stay more than half an hour, I promise.”

  “I guess that would be okay.”

  “See you then. And thanks, Kerry.” The phone clicked.

  Kerry looked at the receiver. What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. She hadn’t missed the excitement in Dorso’s voice. I shouldn’t have used the word “bizarre,” she thought. I’ve started something I may not be able to finish.

  A sound from the stove made her whirl around. Boiling water from the spaghetti pot had overflowed and was running down the sides onto the gas jets. Without looking, she knew that the al dente pasta had been transformed into a glutinous mess.

  18

  Dr. Charles Smith did not have office hours on Wednesday afternoon. It was a time usually reserved for surgical procedures or hospital follow-up visits. Today, however, Dr. Smith had cleared his calendar completely. As he drove down East Sixty-eighth Street, toward the brownstone where the public relations firm Barbara Tompkins worked for was located, his eyes widened at his good luck. There was a parking spot open across from the entrance of her building; he would be able to sit there and watch for her to leave.

  When she finally did appear in the doorway, he smiled involuntarily. She looked lovely, he decided. As he had suggested, she wore her hair full and loose around her face; the best style, he had told her, to frame her new features. She was wearing a fitted red jacket, black calf-length skirt and granny shoes. From a distance she looked smart and successful. He knew every detail of how she looked up close.

  As she hailed a cab, he turned on the ignition of his twelve-year-old black Mercedes and began to follow. Even though Park Avenue was bumper-to-bumper as was usual in the rush hour, keeping up with the taxi was not a problem.

  They drove south, the cab finally stopping at The Four Seasons on East Fifty-second. Barbara must be meeting someone for a drink there, he thought. The bar would be crowded now. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to slip in undetected.

  Shaking his head, he decided to drive home instead. The glimpse of her had been enough. Almost too much, actually. For a moment he had really believed that she was Suzanne. Now he just wanted to be alone. A sob rose in his throat. As the traffic inched slowly downtown, he repeated over and over, “I’m sorry, Suzanne. I’m sorry, Suzanne.”

  Thursday, October 26th

  19

  If Jonathan Hoover happened to be in Hackensack, he usually tried to persuade Kerry to join him for a quick lunch. “How many bowls of cafeteria soup can any human being eat?” was his kidding question to her.

  Today, over a hamburger at Solari’s, the restaurant around the corner from the courthouse, Kerry filled him in on the Suzanne Reardon look-alikes and her conversation with Geoff Dorso. She also told him of her boss’s less than favorable reaction to her suggestion that she might look into the old murder case.

  Jonathan was deeply concerned. “Kerry, I don’t remember much about that case except that I thought there wasn’t any question of the husband’s guilt. Whatever, I think you should stay out of it, especially considering Frank Green’s involvement—very public as I remember—in securing the conviction. Look at the realities here. Governor Marshall is still a young man. He’s served two terms and can’t run for a consecutive third, but he loves his job. He wants Frank Green to take his place. Between us, they’ve got a deal. Green is to be governor for four years, then he gets to run for the senate with Marshall’s support.”

  “And Marshall moves back into Drumthwacket.”

  “Exactly. He loves living in the governor’s mansion. As of now it’s a foregone conclusion that Green will get the nomination. He looks good, he sounds good. He’s got a great track record, the Reardon case being an important part of it. And by a remarkable coincidence, he’s actually smart. He intends to stick to the way Marshall’s been running the state. But if anything upsets the apple cart, he’s beatable in the primary. There are a couple of other would-be candidates panting for the nomination.”

  “Jonathan, I was talking about simply looking into things enough to see if the chief witness in a murder case had a serious problem that might have tainted his testimony. I mean, fathers grieve when their daughters die, but Dr. Smith has gone far beyond grief.”

  “Kerry, Frank Green made his name by prosecuting that case. It’s what got him the media attention he needed. When Dukakis ran for president, a big factor in his defeat was the commercial that suggested he released a killer who then went on a crime spree. Do you know what the media would do if it were suggested that Green sent an innocent man to prison for the rest of his life?”

  “Jonathan, you’re getting way ahead of me. I’m not going in with that supposition. I just feel that Smith has a big problem, and it may have affected his testimony. He was the prosecution’s main witness, and if he lied, it really casts doubt in my mind as to whether Reardon is guilty.”

  The waiter was standing over them, holding a coffeepot. “More coffee, Senator?” he asked.

  Jonathan nodded. Kerry waved her hand over her cup. “I’m fine.”

  Jonathan suddenly smiled. “Kerry, do you remember when you were house-sitting for us and thought the landscaper hadn’t put as many shrubs and bushes in as he had in the design?”

  Kerry looked uncomfortable. “I remember.”

  “That last day you went around, counted all of them, thought you’d proven your point, dressed him down in front of his crew. Right?”

  Kerry looked down at her co
ffee. “Uh-huh.”

  “You tell me what happened.”

  “He wasn’t satisfied with the way some of the bushes looked, called you and Grace in Florida, then took them out, intending to replace them.”

  “What else?”

  “He was Grace’s cousin’s husband.”

  “See what I mean?” His eyes had a twinkle. Then his expression became serious. “Kerry, if you embarrass Frank Green and put his nomination in jeopardy, chances are you can kiss your judgeship good-bye. Your name will be buried in a pile on Governor Marshall’s desk, and I’ll be quietly asked to submit another candidate for the vacancy.” He paused, then took Kerry’s hand. “Give this lots of thought before you do anything. I know you’ll make the right decision.”

  20

  Promptly at six-thirty that evening the chiming of the doorbell sent Robin racing to greet Geoff Dorso. Kerry had told her he was coming and that they would be going over a case for half an hour or so. Robin had decided to eat early and promised to finish her homework in her room while Kerry was busy. In exchange she was getting an unaccustomed weeknight hour of television.

  She inspected Dorso with benevolence and ushered him into the family room. “My mother will be right down,” she announced. “I’m Robin.”

  “I’m Geoff Dorso. How does the other guy look?” Geoff asked. With a smile he indicated the still-vivid marks on her face.

  Robin grinned. “I flattened him. Actually it was a fender bender with some flying glass.”

  “It looks as though it’s healing fine.”

  “Dr. Smith, the plastic surgeon, says it is. Mom says you know him. I think he’s creepy.”

  “Robin!” Kerry had just come downstairs.

  “From the mouths of babes,” Dorso said, smiling. “Kerry, it’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, Geoff.” I hope I mean it, Kerry thought as her gaze fell on the bulging briefcase under Dorso’s arm. “Robin . . .”

  “I know. Homework,” Robin agreed cheerfully. “I’m not the neatest person in the world,” she explained to Dorso. “My last report card had ‘improvement needed’ checked above ‘home assignments.’ ”

  “Also, ‘uses time well’ had a check above it,” Kerry reminded her.

  “That’s because when I finish an assignment in school, I forget sometimes and start to talk to one of my friends. Okay.” With a wave of her hand, Robin headed for the staircase.

  Geoff Dorso smiled after her. “Nice kid, Kerry, and she’s a knockout. In another five or six years you’ll have to barricade the door.”

  “A scary prospect. Geoff, coffee, a drink, a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks. I promised not to take too much of your time.” He laid his briefcase on the coffee table. “Do you want to go over this in here?”

  “Sure.” She sat next to him on the couch as he took out two thick volumes of bound paper. “The trial transcript,” he said, “one thousand pages of it. If you really want to understand what went on, I would suggest you read it carefully. Frankly, from start to finish, I’m ashamed of the defense we mounted. I know Skip had to take the stand, but he wasn’t properly prepared. The state’s witnesses weren’t vigorously questioned. And we only called two character witnesses for Skip when we should have called twenty.”

  “Why was it handled that way?” Kerry asked.

  “I was the most junior counsel, having just been hired by Farrell and Strauss. Farrell had been a good defense lawyer once upon a time, no doubt about that. But when Skip Reardon hired him, he was well past his prime and pretty much burned out. He just wasn’t interested in another murder case. I really think Skip would have been better off with a much less experienced attorney who had some fire in his gut.”

  “Couldn’t you have filled the gap?”

  “No, not really. I was just out of law school and didn’t have much to say about anything. I had very little participation in the trial at all. I was basically a gofer for Farrell. As inexperienced as I was, though, it was obvious to me that the trial was handled badly.”

  “And Frank Green tore him apart on cross-examination.”

  “As you read, he got Skip to admit that he and Suzanne had quarreled that morning, that he’d spoken to his accountant to find out what a divorce would cost, that he’d gone back to the house at six and again quarreled with Suzanne. The coroner estimated time of death to be between six and eight o’clock, so Skip could, by his own testimony, be placed at the scene of the crime at the possible time of the murder.”

  “From the account I read. Skip Reardon claimed he went back to his office, had a couple of drinks and fell asleep. That’s pretty thin,” Kerry commented.

  “It’s thin but it’s true. Skip had established a very successful business, mostly building quality homes, although recently he had expanded into shopping malls. Most of his time was spent in the office, taking care of the business end, but he loved to put on work clothes and spend the day with a crew. That’s what he’d done that day, before coming back to work at the office. The guy was tired.”

  He opened the first volume. “I’ve flagged Smith’s testimony as well as Skip’s. The crux of the matter is that we are certain that there was someone else involved, and we have reason to believe it was another man. In fact, Skip was convinced that Suzanne was involved with another man, perhaps even with more than one. What precipitated the second quarrel, the one that occurred when he went home at six o’clock, was that he found her arranging a bunch of red roses—sweetheart roses, I think the press called them—that he had not sent her. The prosecution maintained that he went into a rage, strangled her, then threw the roses over her body. He, of course, swears that he didn’t, that when he left, Suzanne was still blithely puttering with the flowers.”

  “Did anyone check the local florists to see if an order for the roses had been placed with one of them? If Skip didn’t carry them home, somebody delivered them.”

  “Farrell did at least do that. There wasn’t a florist in Bergen County who wasn’t checked. Nothing turned up.”

  “I see.”

  Geoff stood up. “Kerry, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I want you to read this transcript carefully. I want you to pay particular attention to Dr. Smith’s testimony. Then I’d like you to consider letting me be with you when you talk to Dr. Smith about his practice of giving other women his daughter’s face.”

  She walked with Geoff to the door. “I’ll call you in the next few days,” she promised.

  At the door, he paused, then turned back to Kerry. “There’s one more thing I wish you’d do. Come down with me to Trenton State Prison. Talk to Skip yourself. On my grandmother’s grave, I swear you’ll hear the ring of truth when that poor guy tells you his story.”

  21

  In Trenton State Prison, Skip Reardon lay on the bunk of his cell, watching the six-thirty news. Dinnertime had come and gone with its dreary menu. As had become more and more the case, he was restless and irritable. After ten years in this place, he had managed for the most part to set himself on a middle course. In the beginning he had fluctuated between wild hope when an appeal was pending and crashing despair when it was rejected.

  Now his usual state of mind was weary resignation. He knew that Geoff Dorso would never stop trying to find new grounds for an appeal, but the climate of the country was changing. On the news there were more and more reports criticizing the fact that repeated appeals from convicted criminals were tying up the courts, reports that inevitably concluded that there had to be a cutoff. If Geoff could not find grounds for an appeal, one that would actually win Skip his freedom, then that meant another twenty years in this place.

  In his most despondent moments, Skip allowed himself to think back over the years before the murder, and to realize just how crazy he had been. He and Beth had practically been engaged. And then at Beth’s urging he had gone alone to a party her sister and her surgeon husband were giving. At the last minute, Beth had come down with a bug, but she hadn’t wanted
him to miss out on the fun.

  Yeah, fun. Skip thought ironically, remembering that night. Suzanne and her father had been there. Even now he could not forget how she looked the first time he saw her. He knew immediately she meant trouble, but like a fool he fell for her anyway.

  Impatiently, Skip got up from the bunk, switched off the television and looked at the trial transcript on the shelf over the toilet. He felt as though he could recite it by heart. That’s where it belongs, over the toilet, he thought bitterly. For all the good it’s ever going to do me, I should tear it up and flush it.

  He stretched. He used to keep his body in shape through a combination of hard work on the job site and a regular gym regimen. Now he rigidly performed a series of push-ups and sit-ups every night. The small plastic mirror attached to the wall showed his red hair streaked with gray, his face, once ruddy from outdoor work, now a pasty prison pallor.

  The daydream he allowed himself was that by some miracle he was free to go back to building houses. The oppressive confinement and constant noise in this place had given him visions of middle-class homes that would be sufficiently insulated to insure privacy, that would be filled with windows to let in the outdoors. He had loose-leaf books filled with designs.

  Whenever Beth came to see him, something he had tried to discourage of late, he would show the latest ones to her, and they would talk about them as though he really would one day be able to go back to the job he had loved, building homes.

  Only now he had to wonder, what would the world be like, and what would people be living in when he finally got out of this terrible place?

  22

  Kerry could tell it was going to be another late night. She had started reading the transcript immediately after Geoff left and resumed after Robin went to bed.

  At nine-thirty, Grace Hoover phoned. “Jonathan’s out at a meeting. I’m propped up in bed and felt like chatting. Is this a good time for you?”