Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“But the poor man had been drugged out of his mind, ” I say, voice rising. “He’d been beaten by experts. He thinks they bored into his skull with a power drill and cut out part of his brain! ”

“Nevertheless,” Naomi says, exuding patience, “everything we’ve learned about Randall Shane indicates that saving children is at the core of what keeps him alive. Even damaged, having survived the cruelest form of torture, he believes at the very center of his being that the boy survives. Further, we have established that he refuses to accept truly hopeless cases because he understands that peering into the abyss of endless grief is, for him, particularly dangerous. Therefore his certainty about the child is based on something solid, something real, some knowledge he has about the case that we’ve not yet been able to discern, and which he has not yet been able to communicate.”

“But you just said-”

“I know what I said,” she says, cutting me off. “And I know what Shane said. Forget the odds. Forget logic. This isn’t a quantum calculation. This is human hope, a form of energy that doesn’t conform to rules, or laws of nature.”

“So you’re saying, assume the boy is alive and go from there.”

She nods. “Trust Shane. Avoid the abyss.”

Dane finally shows up just before dinner, looking all flushed and claiming she can’t stay for the meal (main course: broiled filet of wahoo) much to her regret. Not that she actually seems to be experiencing regret. Quite the opposite. It seems there’s this newbie attorney who just started working for the Middlesex District Attorney’s Office, and she and Dane think they have a lot in common, a possibility that simply has to be explored over an intimate dinner at Aujourd’hui, scheduled to begin in less than an hour, and Dane still needs to shower and change.

“We’re not even a little bit interested in your social life,” Naomi says, speaking for herself alone. “If you’ve left Shane unattended and are deigning to make a pit stop here, you must have something to relate. Please do so.”

You’ve probably guessed as much, but Naomi hates last-minute dinner cancellations. She’s also not keen on Dane’s self-acknowledged promiscuity, although she’s never said so, not in so many words. But it’s out there, her disapproval, and remains an interesting point of contention between two extremely willful and confident people.

Hands on her petite hips, Dane gives Naomi a look. “My, my,” she says. “I’ll bet your ancestors came over on the Mayflower . Being such Puritans.”

“I think you mean Pilgrims.”

“I know what I said. Puritans, the stuffy, stuck-up, disapproving kind who probably had sex fully clothed, if at all.”

“So you’re here to discuss sex?” Naomi says, ignoring the taunt.

“I came to discuss the arrangement I just finalized with Tommy Costello. You know, the D.A. who has been threatening to have Randall Shane thrown in a cell with actual criminals?”

“Fine,” says Naomi with a small smile. “You’re forgiven for skipping dinner, okay? Please give us the details. Alice will take notes.”

Dane plops into one of the little decorative chairs that line the hallway-chairs much too narrow for the average human derriere-and gives us the gist of it.

“It’s a big profile case, founder of QuantaGate murdered in his own home, so naturally Tommy wants to make the most of it. In case you didn’t know, he’s planning a run for governor. Anyhow, we’ve been fencing over this-he’s all parry and no thrust, is Tommy Boy-and he finally came around to seeing it my way. Our way. That there’s a possibility it will all blow up in his face-the whole covert security angle, Shane being framed and so on-and that he therefore needs to be careful, which means not sticking Randall Shane, a certified hero, into the Middlesex County holding cells without bail. How would it look, if he eventually is proven innocent, if the man who saved untold numbers of children gets stuck with a shiv by some low-life child molester, which they happen to have a surfeit of at the moment, at the Middlesex, awaiting trial? Disaster, right? So he signed off, did Tommy. Randall Shane remains under the care of his doctors, in a very comfy room at MG-we agreed on the little suite with the fireplace, the one reserved for VIPs-and we’ll agree to post a bond in case he attempts to escape. In addition Shane will have access to his full legal team, which means anyone I care to designate, including investigators, which means everybody. So how’s that for a good deal? Deserving of a night on the town to celebrate or what?”

“Well done,” Naomi says. “What kind of bond?”

“Nothing special.” Dane pauses. “A million bucks.”

“The fee on a million-dollar bond is a hundred grand, nonrefundable. You agreed to that?”

A firm headshake. “No, I did not. This isn’t a bail bond because he isn’t being bailed, and therefore the normal fees do not apply. This is a kind of surety bond.”

“What kind, specifically?”

“The kind between three parties-Shane, us and the County of Middlesex. We’re the surety party and therefore no bondsman is involved. It only kicks in if Shane escapes custody.”

“You’re telling me that as the surety party we’d be responsible for the entire bond. One million dollars.”

Dane shrugs. “That was the deal. I took it. Is there a problem?”

“You might have called,” Naomi points out, with all the warmth of an iceberg eyeing up a passing cruise ship.

“It just happened within the last fifteen minutes!” Dane says, clearly exasperated. “I repeat, is there a problem? Because I already signed off, and if we need to rescind I’ll have to call Tommy, like, right now.”

“You signed in your capacity as legal representative of the corporate entity that funds this enterprise?”

Dane nods. “Yup, I did.”

“That should be okay,” Naomi says, relenting. “You’ll regret missing the wahoo.”

Dane pops up from the chair, grinning. “I have no intention of missing the ‘wahoo!’ part. It’ll just come later, after dessert, and maybe a little cognac. If I get lucky, that-”

“Your business,” Naomi interjects, primly.

Flashing me a conspiratorial grin, Dane makes a dash for the door.

Elena Walch “Beyond The Clouds” (Alto Adige, Italy) Fresh Goat Cheese, Merriman Farms Satsuma Plum Compote New Peas amp; New Potatoes Broiled Wahoo Filet with Wasabi Sauce Strawberry Surprise Chateau Climens Barsac

At the appointed hour, 7:00 p.m. precisely, having donned a lovely pair of silver wire earrings, Naomi reappears, accompanied by this evening’s guest, a slight, distracted-looking young man with myopic, bespectacled eyes, distinctly watery with either a lack of sleep or from the effects of allergies, or both. The guest has long shoulder-length hair, and is dressed perfunctorily in an ill-fitting suit that could have come from the back rack of the local Goodwill and probably did, quite recently. Clean enough-the suit-but a little long in the leg, so that the trouser cuffs bunch over what are obviously a pair of worn but comfortable sneakers.

Sneakers! At one of Mrs. Beasley’s formal dinners. The very idea makes me giddy.

“Allow me to present Sherman Elliot,” Naomi says, leading him to his seat at the table. “Mr. Elliot is, or was, one of Professor Keener’s graduate students.”

She looks around the table, as if to discourage any possible comment or reaction to the guest’s lack of sartorial elegance. It should be noted that for the first month or so in residence, Teddy exhibited a similar resistance to donning proper dinner attire, refusing to knot his tie and so on, and once appeared in shorts and sandals. Only once. Any sort of hairstyle is deemed acceptable at the Nantz table, as are facial tattoos and piercings, but house rules require jacket and tie for males, evening dress for females and what Naomi calls “dress-up shoes” for both genders. My guess is, she somehow wrestled Elliot into a hastily obtained suit, but failed to persuade him to relinquish the sneakers.