Steve Martini - Undue Influence

The waiter is on us. Something to drink?

‘A glass of white wine,’ she says.

A dozen choices, she picks Gewürztraminer.

I order a liter. I will ply her with wine.

I called her yesterday and asked if she could meet me for lunch, a couple of items I wanted to discuss, perhaps renew old acquaintances. I have a more specific agenda, but I kept it to myself. She was busy for lunch, so tonight we do dinner. It is business, and I am still feeling married, a daughter at home who expects me before the witching hour of her bedtime, at nine. I would lack the confidence to ask this woman on a date. Still Dana has the grace to make this look social.

In law school she had a boyfriend, four years ahead of me, a prophet who’d already crossed over into the land of milk and honey, a lawyer with all the accoutrements, Porsche Carrera, and a condo at the Point. While it turned out later to be an exercise in futility, he’d given her a ring with a stone the size of a glass doorknob. It was our semester of ‘Equity,’ and to this day the thousand maxims born of the ancient law of chancery are a mystery to me. I spent my time, like a dozen other guys, dazed by the kaleidoscope of the colors radiating from the prisms on her finger, and dreaming at my desk.

‘You look spectacular,’ I tell her.

She blushes just a little.

Men are funny. Do a thousand trials, some silver-toned Cicero on the jaded edge in front of a jury, and a woman in a caftan, dressed for adventure, can steal your tongue.

‘I’m sure we both look better than we did the last time,’ she says. She’s talking about the street out in front of Jack’s house the night of the murder.

‘I love this place. Have you been here before?’

‘A few times,’ I tell her. ‘You?’

‘Once or twice.’

No doubt on the arm of sterner stuff than this.

The waiter arrives and pours our wine.

‘Lately I see your name in every newspaper,’ she says.

‘Mostly taken in vain,’ I tell her. ‘It’s hard to turn an arraignment into disaster. But it seems we managed.’

She laughs a little. ‘Morgan has a positive talent for other people’s disasters.’

‘You know Cassidy?’

She nods.

‘We belong to the same club,’ she says.

‘Ah.’ I’m a thousand expressions, all of them bad.

She has both hands on the stem of her wineglass, holding it just off her lips, the pose of meditation.

‘And no, it is not “bitches anonymous.” ’ She’s smiling at me.

‘Hey — did I say it?’ But she can smell my thoughts.

‘Not in so many words.’

‘Am I that transparent?’

‘Window to your soul,’ she tells me. ‘Though on the subject of Morgan it’s not difficult to read the mind of another lawyer who’s crossed her path. She has been known to play the ball out of bounds,’ she says.

‘Where were you last week, before the arraignment?’

‘Hey, she’s not all bad. Has some good points.’

‘I guess I haven’t seen that side.’

‘She does people without discrimination. In terms of gender,’ she says. ‘Half the women lawyers in Queen’s Bench, the club we belong to,’ she says, ‘won’t talk to her. Fortunately I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Morgan’s free kicks. So I guess we’re still friends.’

‘You sound like an admirer.’

‘In my own way. It’s a tough world out there.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You should try it in a skirt and heels sometime.’

‘Somehow I don’t think it would help,’ I tell her.

She smiles, little laugh lines forming around the eyes.

‘We do lunch once a week,’ she says. She’s talking about Cassidy. ‘Maybe I can put in a word.’

‘Not on my account,’ I tell her. I have known people like this before. To those on a crusade, efforts to influence are often taken the wrong way.

‘Maybe you just haven’t seen her softer side.’

‘Not so I noticed.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ she says. The smile on her face tells me this is a fruitless gesture. Idle chatter over lunch is not going to get Cassidy to ease off on multiple murder. Maybe with some other deputy DA, if the victims were homeless vagrants and the press weren’t in attendance. But with Cassidy the juices of obsession run fast and furious, like a white-water ride down the Colorado.

‘This is really an excellent wine,’ she says.

I agree. The Gewürz is going down smooth. Something to give you that light liquid buzz, jelly in the stomach and knees when you go to rise.

‘So what’s this thing you wanted to talk about?’ she says. ‘I suspect you did not call me simply for a session of Morgan-bashing.’

‘No. Not that it hasn’t been fun,’ I tell her.

She smiles again. ‘I’ll tell her you said that.’ She winks at me over her glass.

‘I wanted to talk to you about the Merlows. George and Kathy,’ I say.

A blank stare, searching her mind, like maybe the Merlows are players in some coffee ad on the tube.

‘You remember?’ I say. ‘The young couple out in front of Jack Vega’s house the night of the murder?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she says. The light of recognition.

‘I thought you might know where they moved.’

Head slowly shaking. ‘No. I didn’t know they had.’

‘Small neighborhood, little cul-de-sacs backing up onto each other. I thought maybe you might have talked to them,’ I say.

‘No, can’t say that I have. The east side is full of strangers. People who commute but never talk. Fact is, I’d never met them before that night. And haven’t seen them since. When did they move?’

‘Soon after the murder. Like maybe the next day,’ I say.

‘And you’re thinking this is highly coincidental?’ She’s a smirk across the table from me. I can tell what she’s thinking. The desperate defense attorney grasping at straws.

‘A little strange,’ I say, ‘that they didn’t mention it.’

‘You’re thinking maybe they saw something? Or at least hoping?’ She is now a full smile. The prosecutor as cynic.

She hasn’t seen Jack’s bathroom window.

I make a face, a concession that it’s a long shot, but unwilling to convert her to a laugh.

‘Good luck,’ she says. Then, all serious. ‘If I knew I would tell you. Are you sure they’ve moved?’

‘The house is empty. There’s a for-sale sign.’

‘It does sound like they’ve moved,’ she says. ‘Listed with a realtor?’

I nod.

‘Well, there you are. I’d talk to the realtor. They must know something.’

‘We’re checking. I just thought maybe if you knew them you could save me some time.’

‘If I could,’ she says. ‘But the fact is they wandered up and introduced themselves that night. First time we ever met.’ She shrugs her shoulders, like wish I could help, but can’t. ‘You’re in a box on this case, aren’t you?’

‘A firefight,’ I tell her, ‘and I’m low on ammunition.’

‘Gotta be tough,’ she says. ‘Is it correct what I hear, that she is family?’

She’s followed the case closer than I thought.

‘My wife’s sister.’

She sips her wine and nods like she understands.

‘There are children, I hear.’

‘Two. Teenagers.’

She’s shaking her head. ‘That is awful. Hard on them.’

‘Tell me about it.’ I sneak a look at my watch. Not carefully enough.

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ she says.

‘Oh, no. My daughter,’ I say. ‘I told her I’d be home in time to say goodnight. But I have plenty of time.’

‘Oh.’ She softens, little crinkles around the mouth.

‘How old is she?’

‘Seven,’ I say. ‘Going on twenty. The price we pay for living in the global village. MTV and the loss of innocence,’ I tell her.