Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"The woman I talked to, the one whose daughter is Judith Bartholow. She's the one who left the rocks at the cemetery. Was she in your group?"

Claire nodded. "Her name then was Brenda Roth. She was married to Frank Roth at the time. They eventually divorced."

"He was one of the pallbearers, right?"

"Yes he was," Claire answered. "And he was your father's best friend until your father and Brenda…well, until they…"

"Had an affair," Mason said, completing the sentence. "I thought it might be something like that. So, my father was unfaithful to my mother. I imagine that was a big deal in the sixties, especially in a group like that. Everyone reciting the Ten Commandments all the time," he said, the words coming in a rush.

"Don't you dare trivialize your faith," she snapped. "You don't know anything about it!"

"Because you never taught me!" he said.

"I didn't teach you but I didn't teach you to be a lawyer either. You learned that on your own. Quit using me as an excuse!"

Mason rose, walked to his refrigerator, and popped the cap on a bottle of beer.

Claire said, "I'll take one if you've got another."

Mason brought it to her, both of them drinking in silence, Mason sitting in the chair next to the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I was out of line. It just seems like it had to be more than a simple affair to have ended the way it did."

"There's no such thing as a simple affair," she said. "Nothing that begins with betrayal is simple or ends well."

"What happened?" Mason asked.

Claire set her bottle down on the table in front of the sofa. "Brenda said that she tried to break off the affair but your father wouldn't. She says they fought and that he raped her. Your father's lawyer told him he was going to be arrested and charged with rape and that he should turn himself in to avoid the embarrassment of being taken away in handcuffs. He agreed to turn himself in the next morning."

"The accident happened the night before he was supposed to turn himself in?" Mason asked. Claire nodded in reply. "That's why the police said it was intentional?"

"There was more. Brenda said that your father called her and begged her to drop the charges. She said he was hysterical, yelling that he'd kill himself."

Mason slumped in his chair. Claire's words rang off him like hammer blows. "Was it true?" he asked. "Did my father rape that woman?"

Claire looked at him with anguished eyes, her face mottling with bursts of red. "I don't know."

Mason bolted out of his chair. "How could you not know? Didn't you ask him? Didn't you ask his lawyer?"

"I was his lawyer," she said. "And I did ask him and he denied it."

Mason circled around the office, stopping behind the chair, gripping it with both hands. "You didn't believe him, did you?"

"I was his sister. I knew him better than anyone. He admitted the affair. He said that he was the one who wanted to end it, not her. He admitted they fought, but he denied the rest."

"What about the woman? How soon after did she report it? Did she go to the hospital? Was there evidence of rape?"

"She told the police a month later. There was no physical evidence."

"Then she's a liar!" Mason said. "She said he raped her to get back at him!"

Claire said nothing, letting Mason wrestle with it as a lawyer and a son the way she had wrestled with it as a lawyer and a sister. Mason stared out his window, looking for answers in the traffic on Broadway, turning back to his aunt. He threw a dart so hard at the wall that the shaft shattered.

"How could Frank Roth have been a pallbearer for my father after what happened?" Claire didn't answer, Mason finding his own answer. "He didn't believe her either. Two people died because of an accusation that could never have been proved."

"Two people died. Our group of friends fell apart and I never went back to the synagogue."

"And the woman," Mason said, unable to speak her name, "leaves stones on their grave so she won't forget them! If that's not an admission of guilt, I don't know what is."

"But guilty of what?" Claire said. "If I was certain, perhaps I would have told you sooner."

"The accident happened forty years ago today. Why was she out there two weeks ago?"

"It was your parents' yahrzeit. The anniversary of their deaths on the Jewish calendar."

Mason came back to the sofa, taking his aunt's hands in his, shaking his head. "It's just like Ryan's Kowalczyk's case. He told the truth and still ended up dead."

Josh Seeley won the primary. It was close, the networks not calling the winner until early Wednesday morning. Mason watched the returns until it was over, flipping between the cable and broadcast networks, hoping to catch live reports from the hotel ballroom in St. Louis where Seeley and his supporters had gathered to await the results.

He was channel surfing in the hopes that he wouldn't catch a glimpse of Abby. While the talking heads dissected exit polls, he played out his fantasy that she had left the campaign to come back to him-that she would ring his doorbell any minute, throw her arms around him, and whisper for better and for worse in his ear. He could practically feel her touch and taste her skin against his.

Since Sunday, he'd reached for his phone more than once to call her, stopping each time. She'd left him a voice message at home on Monday, picking a time she knew he wouldn't be there. She said that she was glad that he and Claire were okay and that she was sorry he wasn't home when she called. She said she would try again but things were crazy and not to miss her too much. He replayed the message just to hear her voice.

When Seeley finally appeared for his victory speech, Abby was on his left, Seeley's wife to his right. Seeley held both their hands, raising them high in victory, then turned to embrace each of them. Seeley's wife was more than gracious when he hugged Abby hard enough to lift her off the stage. The camera captured Abby's exhausted exhilaration. He did miss her-too much.

He waited an hour for things to calm down before calling her on her cell phone. It rang five times before she answered.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Lou? Is that you?" she shouted over the din of celebration.

"I saw you on TV," he shouted back. "You look great."

"Hang on a sec," she said. "Let me get somewhere quiet." He paced as he waited. "Are you still there?" she finally asked.

"Never left," he said.

"It's three o'clock in the morning, for God's sake," she said.

"You know how these election returns are. Once you start watching, you're hooked."

"You didn't have to call," she told him. "You could have waited."

"Not me. I wanted to talk to you, not leave a message."

He heard Abby catch her breath. "I called. You weren't home."

"I'm never home on Monday. Especially after I almost get killed on Sunday."

"Is that why you called? To tell me that I shouldn't have ducked you. I'm sorry if that upset you."

"I think that's called an apology with a tail."

"Don't do this, Lou. Please."

"You're right. It's your big night. I'm sorry. No tail." Neither of them spoke for a moment, though Mason thought he heard Abby crying softly. What's next for the campaign?" he finally asked, hoping to salvage something from the conversation.

Abby took a deep breath. "Washington. We leave in the morning to meet with the national campaign people. They think Josh can win in November and they're going to put a lot of money into the election."

"I guess you'll be living out of a suitcase for a while."

"Maybe longer," she said. "Josh wants me in Washington if he wins."

Mason thought about the way Seeley had embraced Abby. "I don't blame him."

"I've got to get back," she said. "I'll be in and out of town. I'll call you. We can have dinner."