David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

As I greet the others in the circle-a couple of politicians and a big fund-raiser from downstate-I catch the governor saying something in confidence to Harland. Harland pats one of the pols on the back, and says, “Let’s give these two some privacy.”

Suddenly, it’s the governor and me, and I wish I had another martini.

“How are things, Lang?” I ask him.

“Always a circus, Paul. Always a circus.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “And you, my friend?”

“Oh, you know me, Governor. I always travel the speed limit.”

A wide smile spreads across the tanned face. This guy, I’m reasonably sure, will be president someday. “I was sorry to hear,” he says, growing more somber.

“Probably for the best” I’m trying to convince both of us, and wondering if I answered too quickly. But there’s no sense in denying it. Someone had to say something.

“Not in my opinion, it’s not. But who listens to me? I’m just the governor:” He makes another grand show, a beaming face. ”I don’t think she’s coming, by the way.”

“Out saving the world.” I answer instinctively, hopefully with no trace of bitterness. That’s two people now, Lightner and the governor, who think that she’s the reason I’m here.

“That’s our Shelly,” he agrees.

No, I want to say. That’s your Shelly. Not mine anymore.

“You know, I wasn’t kidding.” He bows his head forward slightly, as if in consultation with me. His eyes move about the room stealthily, then return to me. “You just have to say the word. You had an impressive run as a prosecutor, you put away Terry Burgos, you’ve made your money in the private sector-Harland over there doesn’t pass gas without asking you first-it’s time to finish your legacy in a robe.”

He’s mentioned it to me before, more than once, but in this context it feels like pity. A consolation prize. Sorry my daughter dumped you. Wanna be a federal judge?

“Not my style,” I say.

“Think about it, then.” A typical answer from someone with so much power. No means Maybe later. He can’t appoint anyone to the federal bench; only the president can. But the president’s a Republican, and so is Trotter, so the courtesy rule is that he gets to make the call for the federal judges in this state. “I’m tired of putting people on the bench who I owe. It would be nice, for a change, to make someone a judge because they’re the best qualified.”

I smile at him, like I appreciate the vote of confidence but the answer is still no.

“Not your style,” he says.

“I’d have to be fair, Governor.”

He likes that one, pats my shoulder so hard I actually lose my balance. “Yes, that would be an occupational hazard. You’d have to be fair.” He laughs and takes my hand. “Thanks for coming, Paul. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Nice to see you, Governor,” I say, as he’s already calling out, in a hearty voice, to the next adoring group.

I grab another martini from the bar and have to stop myself from draining it. I say hello to a lawyer whom I should recognize but don’t. He starts talking about some class action and I finally place him, just as I see her.

So she’s here after all.

Standing in a circle of two men and a woman. The woman runs a consulting firm. The two men are lawyers, ogling Shelly as she talks to them. It’s not really her thing, this schmoozing. I’ve never seen her in a black satin gown, the V neckline highlighting her long neck and tight shoulders.

I take a deep breath, like a razor cutting through my chest.

She’s hitting them up for money for her legal clinic. Perfect place to do it, especially when she’s the daughter of the guest of honor. She makes a joke and puts a hand on one of the men’s arm, and it’s like a fist to my throat. She turns her head and her eyes catch mine, and suddenly I realize that I’m standing still, alone, simply staring at her.

I raise a glass to her and do something with my mouth that I hope resembles a smile. She squints at me, her face working itself into a pleasant expression, as she maintains the conversation with her company. She has the poise to control her reaction but I know what she’s thinking. I’m the fly in the soup.

Not the right time in my life, she’d said. Like it was nothing personal. Like she was all booked up.

I turn back to the bartender, feeling mean and angry. I order another drink, even as I feel the weight on my tongue. I better pace myself.

“Hi, Paul.”

I turn around and there she is. I stifle the instinct to reach for her. It feels so natural to do so. It was easier when she was twenty yards away.

“Working the crowd?” I say.

“Like everyone else.” She has a glass of orange juice, which I assume is not spiked with anything interesting. Shelly is a workout freak, a kickboxer, marathon runner, self-defense instructor. She’s almost a foot shorter than me but she could flatten me in two seconds.

She looks different with the makeup, hairdo, pearls, and gown, and I find myself offended. She’s not allowed to change.

“So how’ve you been?” she asks me.

I start for the easy line- Never better, something like that-but there’s always been something about Shelly that brings out raw sentiment. Plus, I’ve had too much liquor to be diplomatic.

She nods, like she understands my dilemma. “I see you’re representing Senator Almundo in the Public Trust indictments.”

“Yeah, and how ‘bout this weather?” I put my drink down by the bar. Small talk. She might as well be sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me.

She appraises me, and I don’t like what she’s seeing. I can’t decide what reaction I want from her. I don’t want this. Not pity. I want to shake her up, watch her struggle.

But that’s not Shelly. One of the sweetest, most generous people I know, devotes herself to helping children in legal jams, but she spent most of her life nursing wounds and became an expert in façades. No show, no tell.

“You’re making this awkward,” she informs me.

“You’re right. I wish I could say it’s great to see you.” I step closer to her. “I don’t want to talk to you like this. If you want to really talk to me-any time. You have my number.”

She smiles, just a bit, and I go find Lightner. He’s talking to a guy who works for the state police, but he’s more than ready to head out.

“Did you find her?” he asks me.

“I wasn’t looking for her.”

Lightner hits my arm. “Have it your way, Riley. Can we get that steak now?”

DETECTIVE MICHAEL McDERMOTT navigates the Chevy onto Carnival Drive, where an entire neighborhood has turned out on this mild evening, mingling in groups outside their homes. A blue truck is parked in the driveway, with COUNTY ATTORNEY TECHNICAL UNIT stenciled on the side.

The call came in at two minutes to five-two minutes before McDermott and his partner, Stoletti, were off for the night. Carnival Drive is on the near north side, close to the neighboring suburbs, and, more important, only one block within the jurisdiction of his squad.

Two minutes, one block, and McDermott would be home by now, eating dinner with his daughter, Grace. Life is a game of inches.

“I’m getting nostalgic over here.” Detective Ricki Stoletti bends a stick of gum in her mouth as they pull up. Stoletti has been his partner over three years now, since her transfer from the Major Crimes Unit, a multijurisdictional squad in the northern suburbs.

She could have griped at the last-minute call, could have begged off the assignment. Grabbing a homicide costs at least three hours, up front. Mr. Frederick Ciancio has just ruined both of their evenings.