“Is he gay?”
“He’s Italian.”
“Mutually exclusive.”
Cate laughed, feeling her body relax into the soft chair. But it was a puzzle. How did Russo know it was her? Then she realized something. “Wait a minute. He doesn’t know it’s me. Rather, he does, but he can’t prove it.”
“To who?”
“Oh no.” The answer struck Cate like a blow. “Hear me out. First Russo comes over and softens me up with his sob story. Then he surprises me with the tape and Partridge’s criminal record. Then he tells me things that I know are on the tape, like that he saw me throw the money.”
“Okay.”
“Then he confronts me with the porny part of the tape, knowing I won’t watch it with him there. He knew the tape wouldn’t show me, so he was tricking me with the fact of the tape itself. He wanted to scare me into admitting it was me. It’s Cross-Examination 101, isn’t it?” Cate straightened up, convinced. “He even said as much to me, at the door. He said, ‘Admit it. It was you.’”
“But so what if you admit it? He goes and tells somebody?”
Cate drew the only conclusion possible. “He must have been wearing a wire.”
Gina yelped. “Yo, that’s evil.”
“But smart. I bet he wired himself. He needed me to say it was me, on tape. Why? To prove it to his friend, his old partner, the detective on the Simone murder. Nesbitt.”
“I get it! He finds this juicy videotape in the motel, plugs it into the VCR and sees you, then he runs over to his old partner, whatever his name is—”
“Nesbitt. He tells Nesbitt it’s me on the tape, but Nesbitt watches it and isn’t buying it.”
“Inattentive blindness strikes again. His brain won’t let him see you because you’re not supposed to be there.”
“Ta-da!” Cate smiled. “Thank God that supposedly normal people can be in denial.”
“So Russo has to prove it to Nesbitt.” Gina paused. “But you think Nesbitt would tell him to wear a wire?”
“Hell, no. Nesbitt seemed like a straight arrow to me. I don’t think he’d sanction Russo threading a federal judge with a porn tape. To what end? I think Russo is losing it. He’s on his own.”
“So what are you gonna do? Tell Nesbitt?”
“No. Right now, I have deniability. It’s not me on that tape.” Cate flushed, embarrassed. “The last thing I want is them knowing about, well, you know. My dates. I started lying and I have to stick with it. And please don’t tell me about tangled webs.”
“I wouldn’t.” Gina’s tone warmed. “I feel terrible for you.”
“My own fault.” Cate shook her head. “And you know what? This morning I told Nesbitt that I went home after my date last night. He must have been surprised when his pal came up with the greatest-hits tape.”
“You’re still in the clear. Maybe he’ll think that was your date.”
“Or he’ll pretend he does for political purposes. There’s no margin in knowing dumb secrets about a federal judge.”
“Right. I’d let it lie. It’s bad enough you have this Russo gunning for you.”
“If I were the bitch he thinks I am, I’d get him fired. I’ll tell you one thing, he’d better not show up in my courtroom again.” Then Cate heard herself. My courtroom? She never thought she’d say that. If that was the silver lining to this cloud, it wasn’t silver enough.
“Russo can’t do anything to you, Cate. You’re not crooked, so he can’t prove that you are.”
“But he can make my life miserable. And it looks like he’s about to.”
“We won’t let him.”
“Right!” Cate said, cheering up.
“So meanwhile, did you say two dozen roses?”
Cate laughed. “Uh, yeah. Is that important right now?”
“You’re damn right it is. You wanna talk about what you’re going to do about The Tiffany Guy?”
“I already know,” Cate answered, and told her.
CHAPTER 15
Cate checked her watch: 1:32 a.m. Argh. She was sitting in front of her computer, working in her home office. She couldn’t sleep after Russo’s visit and she had work to do. Books on built-in shelves wrapped around the cozy study on two sides, mostly novels she couldn’t bring herself to give away, and a low, metal file cabinet sat against the far wall, containing pleadings and forms accumulated during practice. None of those forms would help her tonight.
A porcelain mug of tea grew cold on her left and multicolored M&M’s lay scattered to her right. Stacks of printed cases covered her desk, but she’d read them so many times in the past week she’d practically memorized them. She’d felt too paranoid to turn on the lights in the office, so the room was completely dark except for the square of monitor light that shone on the front of her body, illuminating a face scrubbed clean of makeup, a red cashmere bathrobe, and a high ponytail that made her feel too much the rookie for the task at hand.
Cate wrote, Marz premises this argument on his view that Pennsylvania should disregard the well-established precedent of definiteness
She skimmed the line and shook her head. It still wasn’t right. It had to be perfect. It felt so strange, issuing an opinion after Simone’s murder, but it was the court’s obligation. She deleted the sentence and wrote another.
Plaintiff premises this argument on his view that Pennsylvania should disregard the well-established precedent of definiteness
She paused, her hands on the keyboard. She’d been given a rough draft of the opinion by Emily, but it needed work, and in any event, Cate wanted every line of this opinion to be completely her own. She knew the press and her colleagues on the court would parse every sentence. She had to prove herself rock-solid on the law, especially because it had cost a man his life.
The precedent of definiteness of contract is well-established in Pennsylvania law and
It had hurt Cate to read the transcripts and to remember Marz on the stand. And Russo. But it had to get done, and the sooner, the better, so the press could quote from an opinion and get the facts right. Her stomach rumbled, but she hadn’t felt like eating, except for the M&M’s, which were medicinal.
Pennsylvania courts have always insisted that a contract be definite in its terms, especially where, as here,
Cate fussed with the sentence, trying to keep Russo and Simone in the back of her mind, in their proper compartment. But nobody was staying put in her head tonight, least of all Graham. She had called him after she hung up with Gina, but he wasn’t home, so she’d left him a message thanking him for the flowers and asking him to call her, no matter how late he got in.
It’s easier to avoid commitment than to sit around and wait for a man to call back.
Cate was kicking herself. She checked the clock again: 1:35. Graham must be in by now, right? Unless he had a date. And if he had a date, he should be home by now. Unless he was sleeping with someone. How many frigging bracelets did the man give out?
I hate Graham Liss. Unless he e-mailed me, which counts.
Cate brightened. She hadn’t thought of e-mail. It was late, and maybe he didn’t want to call and wake her. She moved the mouse to minimize the draft opinion and clicked onto Outlook Express for her e-mail, skimming the list of senders: The New York Times Direct, the Ritz-Carlton Reservations, Astrologers, USAToday.com, and the Benjamin Franklin Society. No e-mail from Graham.
Cate didn’t get it. He was the one with the full-court press. He was the one who called all day and sent the stupid flowers. He’d better have a good excuse for not calling, like a car accident. If he didn’t have an accident, she could run him over. She clicked to minimize Outlook, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to keep checking the little white envelope like an obsessive-compulsive, so she went into Options and checked the box that said, “Play sound when new messages arrive.” Then she minimized Outlook and got back to work.
It is axiomatic in Pennsylvania law that contracts must be
Cate kept going, fina
lly producing a reasonably respectable discussion of contract law, writing and rewriting as she went, fueled by M&M’s and her drive to perfect the opinion. At some point, she realized that the process of writing was proving cathartic, and as it got later and later, and the world grew ever more still, she forgot about Graham, Simone, and even Russo, and worked efficiently and well, realizing that her truest reader wasn’t the press or even her colleagues on the court. She was writing for Marz, wherever he was, in order to explain to him, somehow, some way, as best as she could, that there was a good reason that he lost his dream in her courtroom. That there was a principle, which applied to him and all of us, and abided for all time. The principle embodied the law.
Cate typed the last line. For all of the foregoing reasons, the Court grants defendant’s motion for Judgment as a Matter of Law Under Rule 50 and Judgment in favor of defendant and defendant company is hereby entered. SO ORDERED.
Ping! Cate jumped, startled. It took her a minute to identify the sound. Outlook Express. She had gotten an e-mail. Graham! She checked the clock. 3:12 a.m. About time he got home. She minimized the final opinion and opened Outlook, where a single name sat at the bottom of the sender list, in boldface.
Not Graham Liss. PhillyNewsDirect. Another news service. She was about to click away when the subject line of the e-mail caught her eye.
TODAY’S HEADLINES:
LAWYER FOUND DEAD, A SUICIDE
Cate clicked on the e-mail. It opened instantly, and she read with horror:
Former Assistant District Attorney Richard Marz, of Philadelphia, was found dead in a car at approximately 2:01 a.m. this morning, the victim of an apparent suicide, by gunshot. The car, a blue Subaru sedan, was found in a remote section of Fairmount Park by students from Temple University, during a late-night hazing ceremony. Police had been seeking Marz in connection with the shooting death on Tuesday night of Hollywood television producer Arthur Simone, creator of the hit show
[email protected]. Marz had unsuccessfully sued Simone for breach of contract in connection with the show, and lost his claim for damages in federal court.
At the time of his death, Marz was found in possession of a .22-caliber pistol, also reportedly the type of weapon used in Simone’s murder. Police had no comment, though a press conference will be held today at 10:00 a.m.
Cate’s mouth went dry. She leaned back in her chair, stunned. She read the story over and over, until she could finally make herself believe it was true.
Then she put her head down on her keyboard and cried.
CHAPTER 16
“Sorry, Judge,” Val said, rising at her desk as Cate entered chambers.
“Me, too, thanks.” Cate came in, set down her briefcase and purse, and shed her coat. It was a bright winter morning, and the rising sun beamed through the window opposite the reception area, belying her mood. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. After she’d gotten the e-mail alert, she’d taken calls from Chief Judge Sherman and Val, both telling her what she already knew. She hung her coat on the rack by the door while the law clerks filtered in and collected around Val’s desk.
Cate turned to the clerks, their faces unusually somber. “Hey, guys. Guess you heard the news.”
“This is so awful, Judge.” Emily’s black top and long black skirt seemed appropriate. Beside her, Sam had dressed in his casual sweater and khakis, which somehow bugged Cate.
“Not cool,” Sam said, and Cate turned on him.
“Sam, honestly. A man killed himself. Another man is murdered. That’s more than ‘not cool.’ ‘Not cool’ doesn’t even begin to cover what that is.” Cate felt her nerves unraveling like a suspension cable. “Horrible works. Tragic will do just fine. But ‘not cool’? ‘Not cool’ ain’t even close!”
Sam flushed with embarrassment, plain on his pale skin. “Sorry.”
“I am, too.” Cate felt blood pounding in her temples. “I’m sorry you have so little empathy for another human being. He had a wife, whom you saw in court. He had a mother, too. Can’t you feel that loss, Sam? Don’t you have any respect?”
Sam looked down.
“Damn it!” Cate added for emphasis, which was when she realized the only way she could get control was to leave. She turned to go back into her office just as the intercom buzzer sounded, and they all looked at the security monitor, on the file cabinets next to Val’s desk. Its gray screen showed a man in a dark suit standing at the intercom in the common hallway, and Cate recognized him, surprised.
“Detective Nesbitt, here to see Judge Fante,” he said over the intercom, and Val looked over.
“Judge, okay to buzz him in?”
“Of course,” Cate answered, ignoring the silent law clerks.
“Come in, Detective,” Val said into the intercom, hitting the button to open the door to the secured half of the floor. She turned to hand Cate her messages. “All the usual suspects, the Inquirer again and a bunch of other reporters.”
“No comment,” Cate said, and took the messages.
Five minutes later, she was sitting catty-corner to Nesbitt at her worktable, both of them behind hot coffee in Styrofoam cups. “Where’s your partner, Roots?” she asked.
“He’s back at base, getting ready for the press conference.” Nesbitt sipped his coffee, one hand against his tie, so as not to spill coffee on his camera-ready blue print tie and dark navy wool suit. His thick hair stood up at attention, and he smelled pleasantly of spicy after-shave. “This is an unofficial visit, Judge.”
“Oh, really?” Cate tried not to think of the last time she’d heard words like that, only last night, from a different detective. My coming here sure isn’t procedure. She shooed the words away. She wasn’t going to tell Nesbitt about Russo unless he already knew about it. It was a dicey game, and she sipped her coffee, hot and sweet, gathering the strength to play.
“I spoke with Chief Judge Sherman about the Marz suicide. I presumed he called you at home.”
“Yes.”
“Obviously, you won’t have to worry about Marz anymore.”
“I guess not.” Cate thought of the opinion she’d finished last night, too late. Would it have changed Marz’s mind? If only she’d gotten to it sooner. “It’s a terrible shame.”
“Sure is. Anyway, we’ll be clearing the Simone case. We’re going to announce it at the press conference. Marz shot himself with the same gun he used on Simone. The ballistics tests verified it. So, bottom line, he killed Simone and then killed himself. It fits with some information we got from his wife, too. Depression and all.”
“How’s his wife?” Cate took another sip of coffee, then set her cup down on the conference table.
“As well as can be expected.” Nesbitt shifted in his seat. “But there’s something else I wanted to discuss with you, Judge. I’d like to keep this confidential. I’m here as a professional courtesy to you, now that the Simone case will be officially cleared.”
Russo. “I understand.”
“Let me begin at the beginning. You got the Simone case when you first became a judge, right?”
“Yes, a little over six months ago.”
“Jury selection started, what, about a month ago?”
“Right, about then, yes. It took a long time to pick this jury because everyone had seen the TV show.” Cate didn’t get it. “Why do you ask?”
“When we caught the Simone murder, we went to his hotel suite that night, as part of the investigation. He was staying at the Four Seasons during the trial. He had a huge suite. We liked Marz for the doer, that is, we suspected him because of what had happened in court and because of the videotape. Also he’d taken off. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to look around Simone’s hotel room and see what we could find out.”
Cate nodded, unsure where Russo fit in.
“I guess I was being a little nosy, because Simone was a Hollywood guy and all. I mean if you had a chance to peek in Steven Spielberg’s medicine chest, wouldn’t you?”
“No doub
t.” Cate found herself liking Nesbitt. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had a nice, straightforward way about him.
“So I looked around on Simone’s desk and there were the usual items, a laptop, a PalmPilot, a coupla cell phones—he had five of ’em.” Nesbitt paused, pursing his lips. “He didn’t have a lot of business papers around except files from the lawsuit. We confiscated them, which is procedure, and I logged them in at the evidence room.”
“Okay.”
“I did see some loose papers in a fancy folder. The folder was leather and it had a yellow pad inside and a clipboard. Well, inside the folder was a record of your personal whereabouts, starting from about six months ago.”
“My personal whereabouts?” Cate didn’t understand.
“I found a record, a chronological record of everything you did, for about six months, up to now. From the looks of it, Simone was having you followed for some reason. Everywhere you went. To court, home, or well, out.”
Cate’s mouth went dry. “That’s impossible.”
“I thought you might say that, so I made a copy of the papers.” Nesbitt reached inside his jacket pocket, withdrew a packet of papers that had been folded in two, and handed them to Cate, who opened them up and read the first page:
September 7—Judge leaves work at 5:15 p.m. Drives to 263 Meadowbrook Lane, at 6:34 p.m. Leaves at 10:16 p.m. Drives home at 11:30 p.m.
Meadowbrook Lane? That’s Gina’s house! Cate read on.
September 8—Judge leaves work at 7:06 p.m. Goes to Warwick Hotel, 1822 Locust Street at 8:09 p.m. Keynote Speaker at Reception for Trial Lawyers of Philadelphia. Leaves hotel at 11:02 p.m. Arrives Mike’s Bar, 1003 Locust Street at 11:37 p.m. Leaves bar with unidentified man at 11:57 p.m. Goes to Holiday Inn with same man at 12:10 a.m. Leaves Holiday Inn at 1:35 a.m., alone. Goes home at 2:05 a.m.
Cate remembered that night. That speech. That man.
September 29—Judge leaves work at 6:23 p.m. Drives to Roosevelt Blvd Conference Center and receives award from woman lawyers association. Leaves Conference Center, 9:07 p.m. Arrives Mack’s Shack, 1030 Cottman Avenue at 10:02 p.m. Leaves with unidentified man at 10:32. Drives to…