Steve Martini - The Judge

Lenore smiles and nods as we pass a group of people. I suspect that she thinks I know some of these. What Lenore doesn’t realize is that they are all looking at her. She reaches out to squeeze a hand, another woman lawyer she knows from some club.

I glance over at the governor and the circle that has surrounded him. With so many people sucking up to kiss his ass at one time we should have a low-pressure trough over the city any second.

Through all of this, people talking in each ear at once, the governor has both hands plunged into his suit pants pockets like a hard rock miner looking for a nugget he has misplaced.

“Is that a Republican thing?” asks Lenore.

“What?”

“Playing with himself,” she says.

“Maybe you’d like an introduction?” I ask her.

She laughs. “You know him?”

“No.”

“Then what am I doing with you?” she says.

“I’m the only one you know with an invitation.”

“That can easily be remedied,” she tells me, and drops my hand.

I call her a harlot.

She calls it networking.

We wander toward the throng holding forth near a long table in the dining room. This is set with immense ice carvings and hors d’oeuvres, prawns on a silver platter, a guy pouring champagne, a dozen different labels at the other end. All of this is no doubt offered for the cause by the wine and spirits lobby, something to sweeten political dispositions.

There are members of the state senate and assembly, and congressmen I have seen only on the tube. Some guy, as I pass, is talking about the President’s chief of staff, as if he lived with him. There are more names being dropped here than paratroopers on D-Day, enough bullshit to fertilize Kew Gardens for a decade.

I peruse the table through a gap in the bodies.

“Caviar.” I give Lenore a wink. “I told you it would be worth it.”

She turns up her nose, and says something about eating the unborn of another species. “I hope you brought your rubber pockets.”

“Baggies,” I say. “They’re easier to organize.”

As I am edging a shoulder in the opening, working my way toward the cracker basket, I see a mass of bodies moving this way. Like dust after a herd of horses, this can mean only one thing. By the time I come out with my cracker, some fish eggs dripping from one corner, the governor’s cheery face is steaming slowly in this direction. His hands are still thrust in his pockets, and Lenore has a silly smile. Somewhere she has found a glass of champagne. I get a handle on her arm like a rudder, and I’m about to steer her in another direction.

“I didn’t know you were supporters.” It’s a voice I’ve been hearing in my sleep for a week, always uttering the same mantra: I object .

When I turn I am staring into the face of Coleman Kline.

“Did you buy a table?” He’s gauging my commitment.

“Here with a friend,” I tell him.

“I can see that. Lenore.”

She ignores him.

It would be impolite, an insult, not to shake Kline’s hand. So after I do it, for the second time in my presence in two weeks, Lenore declines. Lady’s privilege, she hugs her little black bag with both hands.

“It’s a very interesting Chinese wall you’ve erected.” Kline is all smiles. “I mean the two of you,” he says.

I can feel Lenore flinch as he says this. No doubt he suspects whatever Lenore knows from his office now passes as pillow talk.

Kline has a woman on his arm, a little older than he.

“It’s a good thing Radovich took precautions to protect all the confidences,” he says.

“Maybe you’d like him to vacuum my mind?” says Lenore.

“Now there’s a thought,” says Kline.

“Why don’t you introduce us to your mother?” says Lenore.

This straightens the smile from his lips.

“My wife, Sandra.” He gives Lenore a look that is truly unkind, though Mrs. Kline does not seem particularly offended.

I have seen pictures of her on the society page. For Sandra Kline this is a second marriage. Widowed, she inherited a fortune in almond groves and rice land north of the city, up along the river. She now bankrolls Kline’s ambitions, and in this spends lavishly. Word is that he is looking seriously at the race for state attorney general next year.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” says Lenore. “Some people have a hard time remembering names. I can never guess ages.”

Sandra Kline gives her husband a plaintive look, a non-combatant caught in the cross fire. Some in the crowd are beginning to push in, shades of a childhood fight inside a chanting circle.

“This is Lenore Goya,” says Kline.

“Oh.” The way Sandra Kline says this, it is clear they have exchanged words about Lenore, something unpleasant.

“How long have you been married?” Lenore asks Kline.

“Two years,” he says.

“Have you been enjoying it?” she asks Sandra.

“Immensely,” says the woman.

“And your previous marriage, how long?”

Lenore’s trying to figure out how old she is, but I pinch her arm.

“Ow. That hurts.”

“Sorry.”

Some guy comes up behind Sandra Kline and whispers in her ear. It seems an audience with the governor is in the offing. “He wants to thank the planning committee,” says the man. “If you have a moment.”

“Why don’t we get a drink,” I tell Lenore. Opportunity for an exit before things turn truly ugly.

“Why don’t you be a darling, get a glass and bring it back to me,” she tells me. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Kline. We have so much to discuss. Besides, the governor’s coming.”

“Right. We’ll just stay here,” I tell her.

“And who are you?” says Sandra.

“Paul Madriani,” I tell her.

Kline apologizes for not introducing me.

“Mr. Madriani. My husband has told me so much about you.”

“I can imagine,” I tell her.

She assures me that all of it was very good, which leaves those listening to wonder what it was that Kline told his wife about Lenore.

“He thinks you’re a very good lawyer,” she tells me.

“That’s not what he told the judge in court yesterday,” says Lenore.

Sandra Kline laughs nervously, unsure what’s going to come from Lenore next.

“Maybe Paul should call you in the case as a character witness,” Lenore tells her.

“A good lawyer is what he said,” says Sandra. “And Coleman would know.”

“Why? Is someone giving him lessons?” says Lenore. Then she laughs, almost giddy.

Kline is a shade of green I have not seen since I puked over the side of a friend’s boat a year ago.

At the moment he has his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “My biggest fan,” he calls her. “If I could only clone her for jury duty,” he says.

“That would be a neat trick,” says Lenore. “Now tell me, what does your husband say about me?” She does a ditzy smile like Carol Channing, only from behind a champagne glass. Then, while she is waiting, Lenore reaches over and plucks a large shrimp from the platter, dipping it in the bowl of bloodred cocktail sauce.

Sandra handles this better than one might expect. Her money and class showing. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to excuse myself. The governor is waiting.”

“Oh, bring him over,” says Lenore. “I’d love to meet him.”

Right, as soon as Sandra gets through introducing him to Typhoid Mary.

She almost curtsies as she pulls away. If Kline doesn’t make it in politics, his wife has a future in diplomacy. She leaves and seems to take half the crowd with her, to a palpable sigh of disappointment.

“So are you giving him pointers tonight on how to antagonize me?” Kline is looking at me, but asking Lenore.