T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Her own words sounded feeble, unable to meet the force with which she was being assaulted. “You are Erin Brandt?”

“Of course, of course, you came seeking an enemy. As did I.” She had a slight accent, the faintest lilt to her breathless words. As though she were reading them off a score she would later sing. “That was why I came, I had to see for myself. Who have they sent to attack me?”

“I … We shouldn’t be talking.”

“So the world says, does it not?” The woman seemed both young and old, a timeless adolescent trapped in the amber of fame. “But what does your heart say? Does it chant the same incantation as mine, that we meet as sisters held too long apart?”

“How did you find me?”

“That doesn’t matter now.” Erin stepped away and began scrambling through her purse. “You must come tonight. You know of my performance, yes? Of course, why else would they have sent you.” She extracted a silver pen and tiny leather-bound notepad. “Your name, it is Kirsten, yes?”

“Kirsten Stansted.”

“So very lovely. Like an aria.” Erin tore off the page and pressed it into Kirsten’s hand. “Give that to the guard at the backstage entrance to Covent Garden. Be there by a quarter to eight. Someone will greet you and take you to a chair. They say it is sold out, but we must find you a seat somewhere, yes? Of course we must.”

The gesture was not enough. Impatiently Erin stuffed the pen and pad back into her purse, freeing her other hand to reach over and grip as well. “Tell me you will come, I beg you. Or say nothing, so that I can at least dream that beyond the lights and the orchestra, there in the dark cloud of strange faces, I will have you to sing to. You to catch my words and know their true meaning. As only a sister can.”

Then she turned and fled down the stairs and out to the street, where a uniformed chauffeur rose to hold open the door to a purple Rolls-Royce. Erin cast her a single glance, so strong in appeal Kirsten could feel the slender fingers still pressing and holding.

Kirsten turned from the entrance. The receptionist observed her with the scorn of one who wished to claim he had known this was the situation all along.

Marcus arrived at the courthouse to discover his case was listed first on Judge Sears’ overcrowded Tuesday docket. When Marcus entered the courtroom, Dale Steadman was already there in the back row. Marcus waved him forward. “I’ve asked Deacon to join us as a sort of unofficial aide. His presence might prove important.”

“Whatever you say.” Steadman wore a standard-issue gray suit and the grim expression of one entering a war not of his choosing. He pointed to where the court reporter stood by the back doorway. “Do you know him?”

“Omar Dell.”

“He seems to have a lot of information on both of us. And a lot of questions.”

“Answer him or don’t, it’s your choice. But if publicity is what your ex-wife seeks to avoid, you might want to consider him a potential ally.”

Hamper Caisse bustled into the courtroom an instant before Judge Sears. The judge seated herself and said, “The two of you step up here, please.”

When the attorneys were standing before her raised desk, she inquired of Marcus, “Are the stories in the paper true?”

“I’m afraid so, your honor.”

She showed Marcus the measured commiseration of a seated judge addressing counsel. “Charlie Hayes was as fine a man as I have ever known.”

“He was that.”

“Are you all right?”

“I had a close call, no question. I’m bruised and shaken, but otherwise fine.”

“Is there any evidence that the explosion has any bearing on this case?”

“None that I know of, your honor.”

“What about a tie-in to the recent house fire?”

“My client is seeking to institute some drastic changes at New Horizons, your honor. He personally believes there might be some executives-”

“Your honor, I must protest.” Hamper Caisse quietly raged, “Marcus is doing his best to divert the court’s attention from what the fire chief himself said on Friday, which was that Dale Steadman was falling down drunk when help arrived. And immediately following the fire he started reconstruction, thus hiding any evidence of foul play.”

Judge Sears nodded toward Marcus’ table. “Is that your client there?”

“Dale Steadman in the flesh, your honor.”

“I see your own table remains empty, Mr. Caisse.”

“As your honor well knows, my client is a world-famous opera diva. Her singing commitments hold her in Europe at this time.”

“And what is the position your own client holds at present, Marcus?”

“Chairman of the board of New Horizons, Incorporated.”

“Sounds like a mighty busy individual to me.” She made a note in her case file. “How do you wish to proceed?”

“Your honor, at this time I wish to call Ida Biggs to the stand.”

“Just a moment.” Before Judge Rachel Sears was a typical morning crush. Lawyers spilled from the courtroom’s two side offices. They spoke in muted voices with district attorneys awaiting cases. They scheduled hearings. They leaned over the waist-high partition known as the bench and huddled with clients. They snickered and gossiped among themselves. A pair of translators, one Hispanic and the other Vietnamese, whispered about upcoming cases. Two attorneys spoke in hushed tones with the court recorder, while another waited in the wings, urgently flagging for Judge Sears’ attention.

The judge raised her voice and announced, “In case you folks haven’t noticed, I’m trying a case here.”

The hubbub ground to an astonished halt. Normally a family court judge condoned such maneuverings, for otherwise the caseload would swamp them all. Cases were scheduled ten minutes apart, on the assumption that most of the day’s work would be done in this manner. The court built to a twice daily frenzy as the clock approached the midday and afternoon recesses.

“Now I want everybody who is in here to either find a seat or take their business elsewhere.” She turned to the bailiff and instructed, “Station one of your team by the rear doors. Anyone who comes in has to stay until I’ve made a ruling.”

“Yes, your honor.”

She surveyed the shocked faces and snapped, “You heard me. Grab a seat or take a hike.”

As Marcus returned to his seat, his attention was snagged by Deacon Wilbur. The old pastor was seated between the attorney’s tables and the railing. Ida and Tyrell Biggs were seated just behind him. But the pastor was paying them no mind. He was too busy blazing Hamper Caisse with a reverend’s version of the snake eye. Hamper Caisse ignored Marcus’ side of the courtroom entirely, busying himself with something he found of particular fascination within his briefcase.

Judge Sears rearranged the papers in her open file. “In regard to the case between Erin Brandt and Dale Steadman, I have before me two motions. One is from Ms. Brandt and regards a change of custody. The second is from Mr. Steadman and requests an emergency ex partae order. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“All right, Mr. Glenwood.” Judge Sears motioned with her gavel. “You may proceed.”

He rose and gestured for Ida Biggs to come forward. The woman was dressed for Sunday meeting in a pink linen dress and black enameled straw hat. She carried a purse big enough to hold a bazooka. She endured the swearing-in process with evident nerves, then seated herself with her purse clenched as a lap shield.

Marcus remained stationed by his table. “You worked as Dale Steadman’s housemaid and nanny for over a year, is that right?”

She glanced at Dale, who was intently focused upon nothing. “Yessir, that’s correct.”