Jeffery Deaver: The Twelfth Card

But it was Geneva who spoke. “Mr. Cole, I feel the same way. Like, I really believe in what Frederick Douglass said. ‘People might not get all they work for in this world, but they must certainly work for all they get.’ I don’t want any easy money.”

The lawyer eyed her uncertainly. He looked down after a moment. Geneva did not. She continued, “You know, I’ve been talking to my father about Charles. I found out some things about him. Like, his grandfather was kidnapped by slavers and taken away from his family in Yorubaland and sent to Virginia. Charles’s father died when he was forty-two because his master thought it’d be cheaper to buy a new, younger slave than to treat him for pneumonia. I found out that Charles’s mother was sold to a plantation in Georgia when Charles was twelve and he never saw her again. But, you know what?” she asked calmly. “I’m not asking for a penny because of those things. No. It’s real simple. Something Charles loved was taken away from him. And I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure the thief pays for that.”

Cole murmured another apology but his legal genes wouldn’t let him abdicate his client’s cause. He glanced at Hanson then continued, “I appreciate what you’re saying and we’ll offer a settlement based on Mr. Ashberry’s actions. But as for the claim to the property? We can’t go there. We don’t even know that you have legal standing to bring the suit. What proof do you have that you’re really Charles Singleton’s descendant?”

Lincoln Rhyme eased his finger across the touchpad and steered his chair imposingly close to the table. “Isn’t it about time somebody here asked why I tagged along?”

Silence.

“I don’t get out very much, as you can imagine. So what do you think brought me all these long blocks west?”

“ Lincoln,” chided Thom.

“All right, all right, I’ll get to the point. Exhibit A.”

“What exhibit?” Cole asked.

“I’m being facetious. The letter.” He glanced at Geneva. She opened her own backpack and took out a folder. She slipped a photocopy onto the desk.

The Sanford side of the table looked it over.

“One of Singleton’s letters?” Hanson asked.

“Nice handwriting,” Rhyme observed. “That was important back then. Not like nowadays, all this typing and careless jotting…All right, sorry – no more digressions. Here’s the point: I had a colleague, fellow named Parker Kincaid, down in D.C., compare that handwriting to all the existing samples of Charles Singleton’s exemplars, including legal documents in archives down in Virginia. Parker’s former FBI – he’s the handwriting expert the experts go to when they have a questioned document. He’s executed an affidavit stating that this’s identical to the known samples of Singleton’s handwriting.”

“Okay,” Cole conceded, “it’s his letter. So?”

“Geneva,” Rhyme said, “what does Charles say?”

She nodded at the letter and recited, again from memory, “‘And yet the source of my tears – the stains you see on this paper, my darling, – are not from pain but from regret for the misery I have visited upon us.’”

“The original letter contains several stains,” Rhyme explained. “We analyzed them and found lysozyme, lipocalin and lactoferrin – proteins, if you’re interested – and assorted enzymes, lipids and metabolites. Those, and water, of course, make up human tears… By the way, did you know that the composition of tears differs significantly depending on whether they were shed in pain or because of emotion? These tears” – a nod toward the document – “were shed in emotion. I can prove that. I suspect the jury will find that fact moving too.”

Cole sighed. “You’ve run a DNA test on the stain and it matches Ms. Settle’s DNA.”

Rhyme shrugged and muttered the byword for today: “Obviously.”

Hanson looked at Cole, whose eyes slipped back and forth between the letter and his notes. The president said to Geneva, “A million dollars. I’ll write you a check right now for a million dollars, if you and your guardian sign a liability waiver.”

Goades said coolly, “Ms. Settle insists on seeking restitution in the amount of the actual damages – monies that all of Charles Singleton’s heirs will share in, not just herself.” He leveled another gaze at the bank president. “I’m sure you weren’t suggesting that your payment would be for her alone, an incentive, maybe, to neglect to inform her relatives about what happened.”

“No, no, of course not,” Hanson said quickly. “Let me talk to our board. We’ll come up with a settlement figure.”

Goades gathered up the papers and stuffed them into his knapsack. “I’m filing the complaint in two weeks. If you want to discuss voluntarily creating a trust fund for the claimants, you can call me here.” He slid a card across the desk.

When they were at the door the bank’s attorney, Cole, said, “ Geneva, wait, please. Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. Truly. It was…inappropriate. I honestly feel bad for what happened to you and to your ancestor. And I do have your interest in mind here. Just remember that a settlement would be far and away the best thing for you and your relatives. Let your lawyer tell you how tough a trial like this would be, how long it could take, how expensive.” He smiled. “Trust me. We are on your side here.”

Geneva looked him over. Her reply was: “The battles’re the same as they’ve always been. It’s just harder to recognize the enemy.” She turned and continued out the door.

The attorney clearly had no idea what she meant.

Which, Rhyme supposed, more or less proved her point.

Early Wednesday, the autumn air cold and clear as fresh ice.

Geneva had just visited her father at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and was on her way to Langston Hughes High. She’d finished the paper on Home to Harlem . It turned out not to be such a bad book (though she’d still rather have written about Octavia Butler; damn , that woman could write!) and she was pretty pleased with her report.

What was especially phat, though, was that Geneva’d written it on a word processor, one of the Toshibas in Mr. Rhyme’s lab, which Thom had showed her how to use. At school the few computers that worked were so overbooked that you couldn’t get more than fifteen minutes of time on one, let alone use it to write a whole paper. And to find facts or research all she had to do was “minimize” WordPerfect and call up the Internet. A miracle. What would’ve otherwise taken her two days to write, she finished in mere hours.

Crossing the street, she aimed for the shortcut through the school yard of PS 288 elementary school, which took a few minutes off the trip from the Eighth Avenue train station to Langston Hughes. The chain-link fence around the school yard cast a gridded shadow on the bleached-gray asphalt. The slim girl slipped easily through the gap in the gate, which had long ago been wedged open wide enough for a teenage boy and a basketball to pass through. The hour was early, the yard deserted.

She was ten feet across the grounds when she heard a voice calling from the other side of the fence.

“Girlfriend, yo!”

She stopped.

Lakeesha stood on the sidewalk, decked out in tight green stretch pants, a long orange blouse, taut over her boobs, book bag dangling, bling and braids glistening in the sun. Her face had the same somber expression as when Geneva ’d seen her last week when that wack bitch Frazier tried to kill her and her father. “Hey, girl, where’ve you been?”

Keesh looked doubtfully at the gap in the chain link; she’d never fit. “C’mon here.”