Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

Then he released her hand and her eyes and was gone.

She watched his receding figure as he strode toward the exit. He wore black, low-cut boots. His long, loose cloth coat tapered down from his shoulders, falling cape-like behind him.

Annandale, Virginia

Tuesday, September 2, 11:35 a.m.

The slow procession of cars, led by the hearse and the black limos bearing the family members, rolled down the narrow, meandering lane through the cemetery. It pulled up and stopped beside a broad, open-sided tent. Not far away, beneath a stand of several weeping willows, a pile of rich brown earth amid the gray headstones marked Arthur Copeland’s final resting place.

Annie parked the Accord she’d taken from the motor pool, then walked across the spongy grass to the tent. Wooden folding chairs awaited the party, as did the minister. She remained just outside the tent. It was a beautiful early fall day-temperature in the seventies, light breeze, not a cloud in the sky. Birds twittered somewhere off in the trees.

She thought about the church service. The Copelands were not religious, but Arthur’s siblings had converted from Judaism to Christianity, so for their sake Susie had allowed the service to be held at a local Methodist church. It had been a difficult hour. The fact that Arthur died by his own hand was not easy to square with church teachings. But the pastor did his best to skirt that issue and focus instead on all the good he had done for so many people during his short life.

The pallbearers removed the casket from the hearse and wheeled it to the front of the tent. There were about forty people here, mostly family. She was surprised to see Grant Garrett standing off by himself, on the other side of the tent. She had no idea that he knew the Copelands that well.

The burial service was brief, about ten minutes. The custom at this cemetery was not to lower the casket into the grave while the family was present; instead, it would remain under the tent with the cemetery workers, for burial a little later. After the pastor gave his final blessing, Susie stood first, approached the casket, kissed it, and left a red rose on top. Then she left. The rest of the family filed by silently, touching the casket as they passed, many crying softly.

Annie caught up with her a few moments later, as she neared her limo. “How are you managing, girlfriend?”

“Okay, I guess. For now.”

“Do you want to ride with your family, or would you like me to give you a lift?”

“That’s a great idea. I need to get away from them for a few minutes.”

They got in Annie’s car, then followed the line of cars to leave. The lane continued a little farther into the cemetery, then curled around and doubled back on itself toward the exit.

As they drew abreast of the tent, Susie gazed for the last time at her husband’s casket.

“Annie-who’s that?”

She slowed the car. She had time only for a brief glimpse.

A dark-haired man in a gray suit stood beneath the tent, his back toward them. His hand rested on Arthur Copeland’s casket.

“I’m not sure.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Friday, September 5, 9:45 a.m.

“ Maaooww. ”

“Not now.”

“Maaaaaoooow.”

“Let me finish this.”

“Mrrraaaaaaoooooow.”

Hunter sighed, folded the newspaper and tossed it aside on his small dining table. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” He took another sip of coffee from an oversized brown ceramic mug.

Luna was strutting back and forth across the kitchen entranceway like a furry black-and-white sentry. Then she stopped to glare at him impatiently.

He got up, cinched tight the belt on his white terrycloth bathrobe, and padded in his bare feet past her into the kitchen. She pranced after him eagerly, her tail standing straight up like a wobbly periscope. He pulled off the lid of a large tin can he kept on the floor beside the refrigerator. The fishy scent assaulted his nostrils. He grabbed a handful of the dry food and dumped it into her empty metal dish.

“There. Crunchies.”

She sniffed the contents, then looked up at him expectantly. The black patch of fur over one eye made her look like a feline pirate.

“Maaaaoow.”

He sighed again and bent to pet her. At that, she happily plunged her face into the brown spirals and stars. His petting elicited a combination of contented purring, crunching, and snuffling noises.

“Okay. You’ve eaten. I’ve pet you. Now let me alone.”

He returned to his coffee and the morning Inquirer and finished reading his article. To his inner ear, as he thought of it, his writing sounded different in newsprint than on the computer screen.

“All right. Listen up and tell me what you think of this:

“ What happened in the Copeland case is not rare. Today, eighty to ninety percent of all convictions stem from pre-trial guilty pleas, invariably to reduced charges, negotiated between prosecutors and defense attorneys, and rubber-stamped by judges. These cynical maneuvers let criminals evade the full penalties of their crimes; permit lazy prosecutors to enhance their political careers by boasting of high ‘conviction rates’; let defense attorneys quickly handle a large number of clients (and collect a large number of fees) without having to prepare for trial; and help harried judges clear clogged court calendars and jammed jails.

“ In short, plea-bargaining is the triumph of expediency over justice. Everyone leaves the courtroom smiling-except for crime victims like Susanne and Arthur Copeland. Ignored by all during the proceedings, they can only look on in shocked disbelief. And too often, at the end of their day in court, they discover that they have been mugged again. ”

He lowered the paper, looked at the cat.

In the kitchen entranceway, Luna raised her front paw and started to lick it.

“Once again you fail to appreciate the nuances of literary craftsmanship.”

He poured himself another mug of coffee from his four-cup pot and took it into the bathroom. While he showered, he thought of Arthur Copeland’s funeral.

He dressed and stepped out onto his bedroom balcony. It overlooked the courtyard pool area inside the apartment complex. Because it was past Labor Day, it was deserted down there now. A green tarp covered the pool. White plastic reclining chairs were folded up against the walls. He glanced at the sky. Overcast. The weather guy had said today’s outlook was uncertain.

For sure.

He came back in, closed the sliding glass door, went into his small den. Removed the false front below the bottom shelf of his wooden bookcase, reached in, and extracted a small pile of file folders. He tossed them onto his computer desk and slid into his swivel chair.

The first three files were copies of the ones Wonk had obtained. He spread them apart.

Bracey. Valenti. Wulfe.

He rocked back, closed his eyes, and could still see their faces.

You can still walk away, you know.

He remembered the faces of Susanne and Arthur Copeland.

He opened his eyes. Saw his reflection in the blank gray of his computer screen.

No. You can’t.

You’ve never been able to walk away.

He moved the three folders aside and opened another. It contained over a dozen sheets, each listing a name and related biographical data. He studied them for a while, then pulled out five.

Something touched his leg. The cat had followed him into the den and now was stropping back and forth across his shins.

He reached down, picked her up, put her on his lap. Started to scratch her head.

“So, what do you say, Luna?”

She purred and closed her eyes while he rocked and scratched.

“It would be a huge step for us, you know. If we do this, there will be no turning back. Ever.”