Joel Goldman - Final judgment

They didn’t talk about anything that threatened the fragile balance of a perfect day. She didn’t ask about his practice, what cases he was working on, or whether anyone had swung or shot at him. He assumed that she knew about Avery Fish from reading the Kansas City Star, as keeping up from a distance was part of her job; but since she didn’t ask, he didn’t offer. He didn’t ask about her relationship with Seeley, whether she had renewed the lease on her Kansas City apartment, or whether she wanted to get married as long as she was in town for a week.

Standing on the narrow bridge, they ran out of safe topics. He put his arm around her and she leaned in to him.

“Nice day,” he said.

“The nicest in a long time.”

“There aren’t many days like this during the winter.”

“Or ever.”

“So…”

“So,” she said, spinning away. “Let’s not ruin it. Okay?”

Mason dropped Abby at her apartment and drove home, remembering as he pulled into the driveway that he’d forgotten his two o’clock meeting with Vince Bongiovanni and Carol Hill. He called Bongiovanni’s cell phone, leaving a lame message that something unexpected had come up and asking him to reschedule again. He left his cell phone number and told Bongiovanni to call as soon as possible. That was better than saying he’d spent the day thinking with his little head instead of his big head, though he imagined Bongiovanni would be more sympathetic to the truth than to his apology.

He had less than a week to find a way out of the wilderness Judge Carter had thrown him into, and blowing off a chance to meet with a critical witness was not the way to do it. That he had forgotten the appointment was either a measure of the hold Abby had on him or a sad commentary on his hormonal weakness.

His phone rang as he finished his second shower of the day. He stumbled into his bedroom, dripping and wearing a towel. He stubbed his toe against the dresser next to his bed and was cursing as he picked up the phone.

“Damn!”

“Such a warm greeting,” Claire Mason said. “Much better than saying hello. I’ll have to try it next time I want to impress someone.”

Claire was his mentor and his conscience. She had raised him, shaped him, and kicked him in the ass when he needed it. Nearly his height, big boned, and strong, she had always been up to that task. She had an earthy sense of humor and was as devoted to him as he was to her.

Mason sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his throbbing toe. “Sorry.”

“Are you sorry that you didn’t return my call from yesterday inviting you to dinner on Sunday or that you swore in my ear? Or are you just sorry in general?”

“All three, but I’m sorrier that I jammed my toe into the dresser as I was answering the phone.”

“Apology accepted. If it’s broken, tape it to the toe next to it. In the future, try wearing shoes or watching where you are going. Either one will work. Are you coming to dinner?”

“Sorry. I’m having dinner with a client.”

“Two apologies in one conversation. You’re getting soft. I hope the client is a nice Jewish girl.”

“He’s an old Jewish man if that counts for anything.”

“Avery Fish?”

“The same.” Approximately twenty thousand Jews lived in Kansas City, far too many for everyone to know everyone else, but few enough that it didn’t take long to find someone who did. “You know him?”

Claire didn’t ask Mason about his cases, understanding the boundaries of client confidentiality. If he asked for her advice, she offered it. Though Fish’s case had received a lot of press, she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“He’s an interesting guy. In a lot of ways, he’s the opposite of you.”

“Really? How so?”

“He goes to the synagogue every day, keeps kosher, and doesn’t work on the Sabbath-all those things you don’t have time for. But he’s a crook. You spend every waking moment trying to heal the world but wouldn’t make a collect call to God even if He’d accept the charges.”

“If that’s how I have to be compared to Avery Fish, I’ll gladly accept that comparison.”

“I gather you haven’t missed him all these years. Why not?”

“He’s not to be trusted and doesn’t deserve you as his lawyer. Let’s leave it at that. I’d rather you were having dinner with a nice Jewish girl.”

“That’s tonight. Abby is in town.”

“Good. Try not to screw it up this time.”

The Westin Hotel was part of the Crown Center complex stretching from Twenty-seventh Street north to Pershing, filling the blocks between Main Street on the west and McGee on the east. Crown Center had been the brainchild of Hallmark Cards, one of Kansas City’s homegrown success stories. The company headquarters were already there so it had made perfect sense to develop the surrounding area into an office, hotel, and retail center. It was a solid pocket of commerce between downtown and the Country Club Plaza. The nearby Union Station and the lofts and art galleries of the Crossroads District provided eclectic neighbors.

The hotel was massive and upscale, geared to conventions and other large gatherings. Its signature feature was a three-story indoor waterfall cascading through a faux rainforest. The Missouri Republican Party had booked four adjoining ballrooms on the third floor for its Lincoln Day lovefest. The undulating perimeter of the expansive foyer outside the ballrooms overlooked the indoor Amazon. Escalators rose from the lobby to the ballrooms, cross-cutting the tropical landscape.

It was still early when Mason and Abby arrived ahead of the guests and dignitaries. Her counterparts on the staffs of the state Republican Party and the other elected officials scurried about tending to last-minute details. Servers dressed in white waist-cut formal jackets stood in a half-moon circle listening to final instructions from their supervisors. In a far corner, a Dixieland band tuned up.

Abby looked elegant in a shimmering black dress woven with flecks of silver. She pushed back the three-quarter-length sleeves.

“Duty calls. I’ll catch up to you in a bit,” she said and power walked toward a cluster of her compatriots.

Half a dozen bars had been assembled along the outskirts of the foyer. Three long tables dressed in patriotic bunting were aligned end-to-tend in front of the ballrooms. A team of attractive young women, evenly divided between blondes and brunettes, all possessing brightly bleached teeth, sparkling eyes, and distracting cleavage, waited behind the tables ready to dispense name tags that included the guests’ names, company affiliations, political offices, or other designations of their station in life.

Mason checked the name tags beginning with the letter M, not surprised when he didn’t find one with his name on it. Abby hadn’t invited him until earlier that day and he was glad she wasn’t so confident that she had ordered a name tag for him. He declined the offer of a Magic Marker and a blank tag, preferring anonymity.

He peeked into the ballrooms. Tables for ten were crammed together. Doing a quick count, he estimated there would be close to a thousand people. Satisfied it was a crowd he could easily get lost in, he found a bartender with a ready smile who twisted the cap off a bottle of beer like he was glad to do it. Mason parked himself within an arm’s reach of his new best friend, gripped the icy bottle, and took a measured sip. It was going to be a long night.

The foyer gradually filled until it was a sea of men in black tuxes and women wearing designer gowns, the air filled with no-contact kisses and firm handshakes. Conversation buzzed around Mason, punctuated by laughs too loud for the jokes being told but perfect for the money being contributed. Such were the privileges of membership in the club.