Everywhere That Mary Went. Lisa Scottoline
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don’t know what I mean. What I mean doesn’t make sense.”
“So tell me what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense.”
I look at Judy’s blue eyes, so wide-set and uncluttered. I’m reminded of how different we are. There’s a whole country between us. She’s so free and openhearted, like the West Coast, and I’m so—well, East. Burdened with my own history, dark and falling apart. “I don’t know. Forget it, Jude. It’s stupid.”
“Come on, Mary. Let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t know.”
“Try it.”
“All right.” I take another gulp of water. “It’s just that lately, like after my argument for Harbison’s, I hear this … voice. Not that I’m hearing voices, like Son of Sam or something, not like that.”
“No German shepherds,” she says with a smile.
“No. Sometimes the voice sounds like Mike, you know? Not the tone of it, I mean, but what it says. It sounds just like something he would say. Something right. Am I explaining this okay?”
“You’re doing fine.”
I take a deep breath. “You know the expression, what goes around comes around?”
She nods patiently. Her long silver earrings swing back and forth.
“Sometimes I think that the car, and now the note, are happening for a reason. And I think it’s going to get worse unless I change something. Do something different, do something better. I think Mike, or the voice—whoever, is trying to tell me that.”
She frowns deeply. “You think you did something to cause the note? And the guy in the car?”
It strikes a chord. That’s exactly how I feel. I nod yes, and am surprised to feel my chest blotching up.
“That’s crazy. You didn’t do anything, Mary. Somebody’s jealous of you. It’s not your fault.”
I feel flushed and hot. There’s no water left in my glass.
“What is this, some Italian thing? Some Mediterranean version of karma?”
“I don’t know.”
Judy looks sympathetic. “It’s nothing you did, Mary. You did not cause this. You are not responsible for it. If it doesn’t go away, which I sincerely hope it does, we’ll deal with it. We’ll figure it out together.”
Judy gives me a bone-crushing squeeze and we leave the restaurant. We decide not to walk around after lunch, and she buys us both some shoestring licorice from a candy store on the basement level. She says it’ll cheer me up, but she ends up being wrong about that.
I’m back at my desk at 1:58, wrestling with my fears and the Noone brief. After it’s finished, I send it along to the partner in charge, Timothy Jameson. I do a good job because every partner gets a vote in the partnership election, and I can’t afford to screw anything up at this point. I tally the votes for the third time today—I’m like an anorexic, counting the same few calories over and over. If Berkowitz votes for me, I might have the requisite votes right there, but there’s a faction that hates Berkowitz, and Jameson’s in it. The election will be close. My head begins to thunder.
In the afternoon, I’m in the chambers of the Honorable Morton A. Weinstein, resident genius of the district court. Judy calls him Einstein, naturally. Einstein is stoop-shouldered, with a frizzy pate of silvery hair. Steely half-moon reading glasses make him look even smarter. He’s flanked by a geeky law clerk who mousses with margarine Even the geeks want to look like Pat Riley.
We’re sitting at a chestnut-veneer conference table to discuss my new case, Hart v. Harbison’s, which, to my dismay, is a stone-cold loser. I’d spent the cab ride to the courthouse skimming the thin case file as I looked out the window for the dark car. I don’t know which worried me more. I’ve seen bad discrimination cases in my time—evidence of the shitting upon of every minority in the rainbow—but Hart is the worst. I’d settle the case instantly if it were up to me, but I have a mission. Search, destroy, and petition for costs.
To make matters worse, there’s a cherub posing as plaintiff’s counsel. He can’t be more than a year out of law school, and his face is as tender and soft as a newborn’s. His hair, a wispy strawberry blond, brings out the rosy hue of his cheeks. His briefcase is spanking new; his bow tie looks clipped on. My job is to ignore all this cutehood and yank out his nuts with the roots intact.
“Young man,” interrupts Einstein, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, Your Honor.” He blushes charmingly. “I’m new at this, I probably forgot to say it. My name is Henry Hart. Henry Hart, Junior.”
“Is the plaintiff your father, Henry?” asks Einstein.
“Yes. They call me Hank. I just got my mother to stop calling me Little Hank, if you can believe that. I have to remind her that I’m twenty-four now.” He smiles, utterly without guile.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Harbison’s did this to the child’s father? And I have to justify it?
“Twenty-four, my, my.” Einstein turns to his law clerk and chuckles. “Was I ever twenty-four, Neil?”
Neil doesn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Judge. You’re not that old.”
“No? I remember the big one. World War II. I was a navigator in the Eastern Theater. Flying B-24’s out of Italy.”
“The flying boxcars!” says Hank.
Einstein looks delighted. “How do you know about the flying boxcars?”
“My father flew a B-29 out of England.”
“Well, I’m impressed. I look forward to meeting him, even under these circumstances.” Einstein’s gaze lingers warmly on Hank’s face. “Now, is this your first pretrial conference, Hank?”
“Yes, sir.”
Einstein touches Hank’s sleeve lightly. “Well, son, it’s nothing to be afraid of. All I want to do is to hear both of you out. Maybe see if we can settle this matter.”
“Right, sir.”
“Go ahead and outline the facts for me. You needn’t rush.”
“Okay, Your Honor. Thanks.” Hank glances down at his notes. “The facts in this case are simple. My father worked at Harbison’s for thirty-two years, as long as I can remember. He’s an accountant. He started out in Harbison’s bookkeeping department.” Hank rechecks his notes. “He got promotion after promotion and a salary increase each time. He entered management in 1982. He was promoted to chief financial officer in 1988, reporting directly to the chief executive officer, Franklin Stapleton. But as soon as he turned sixty-five, Your Honor, Mr. Stapleton told him he had to retire. In clear violation of the Age Discrimination in Employment Act.” Hank glares at me accusingly.
I scribble on my legal pad to avoid his stare. I write: I hate my job. I’m moving to New Jersey to grow tomatoes in the sun.
“Go on, Hank,” says Einstein.
“Of course, my father refused. He was at the peak of his skill and experience, and he needed the income besides. So, in retaliation, Harbison’s demoted him. They stripped him of his tide, his office, and his pride, Your Honor. They busted him down to office manager of their store in the King of Prussia mall. So, after serving Harbison’s for thirty years, after reporting directly to the chief executive officer, they had him peddling eye bolts, Your Honor. In the mall.” His boyish chest heaves up and down with outrage.
The chambers are silent. I write: The beach would be nice. I could look for dimes in the sand with a metal detector.
“Well, Henry,