William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Right.” Carrie’s eyes dropped. Her blunt-cut blonde hair hung like a veil around her face. “I tried to be the support he needed. But the memory wouldn’t go away. How could I forget what he had done? How he had… violated me. My trust. And then, in the courtroom, when I heard him accused of all those horrible things…”

Ben could see where this was going. And as she had predicted-he didn’t like it.

“After I heard them accuse Ray of that atrocity, I kept saying to people, ‘Not my Ray. He couldn’t do that.’ But I had seen him lose his temper. I had seen him be… violent.”

“Carrie, I don’t want you to think I’m making light of domestic violence, but there’s a big difference between what he did to you in that parking lot and what happened to the Faulkner family.”

“I know. I know.” She clenched her hands together, pressing them against her chest. “But after that, I could never be certain. That’s why I broke it off with him, eventually. I felt like a heel. I know all our friends thought I was being faithless. Bailing out when the going got tough. But I simply couldn’t be sure. And if I couldn’t be sure-I couldn’t be with him.”

She brushed her hair back. Ben could see the pain this conversation was causing her, deeply etched in every line of her face. “I could’ve been faithful to a man on death row-I really could’ve,” she said, as if pleading her case to an imaginary court. “But not if I suspected he was guilty.”

Long after dark, Ben tossed his briefcase into its designated spot by the coffee table and collapsed onto the ratty sofa that was the centerpiece of his living room. What a day. He was bushed. All he wanted to do now was rest. And as it happened, for once, he had managed to get inside the house and make it up to his room without being confronted by tenants who couldn’t make their rent, without having Joni assault him with a host of bills and maintenance problems, without even having Giselle purr and whine and demand immediate attention. For once, they had all just left him alone.

He missed them.

A sad state of affairs, he told himself, when you’re dependent upon coworkers and fussy felines for social interaction. Hadn’t he resolved that he was going to get out, that he was going to start having a life? That he was going to be more like Christina and less like himself? Of course, he’d been swamped with this Goldman habeas work. It was as dire as a case could be-life and death in the truest sense. He had to give it his full attention, he had to work long hours.

But that was just an excuse and he knew it. Yes, this was an important case, and yes, he wanted to do everything possible to help Ray, to prevent a horrible injustice. But when had it ever been any different? He always had some big case going, some crusade that demanded his full devotion. Because when all was said and done, working long hours at the office was preferable to coming home and being… alone. Again.

He saw the telephone resting on the end table. He was staring at it, but for some reason, he had the strangest feeling that it was staring at him. That it was trying to get his attention. Beckoning to him.

What was Christina doing tonight? More than once she had suggested not too subtly that he would be welcome to join her on some engagement or another. Maybe he should call her and see what she was up to.

His hand hovered over the receiver. He had to strike the right tone, keep it casual. For starters, she had to have an escape clause. In case she was just being nice and really dreaded the thought of going somewhere with him. After all, she did see him all day, most days. She might not be that excited at the prospect of spending an evening with him as well. And he had to make it clear that this was just a fun thing, no pressure, not really like a date. I mean, it would be a date, he supposed, but not a date date. Not a, you know, big romantic deal or anything.

And the reason for that was…? He tried to think of a good answer. Because his romantic life was so booked up? No. Because he didn’t like Christina? No. So what was the problem? Well, it would certainly complicate life in the office. The two partners dating. Could make things very uncomfortable. And if it went bad, heaven forbid he should see Christina in the role of the woman scorned.

But why was he letting his brain wander down these paths? He wasn’t planning a marriage proposal, for pete’s sake. He was just talking about calling up a coworker and seeing if she wanted to go get a drink or something. It was a perfectly common office-worker-type thing to do. Utterly ordinary. They should’ve done it a long time ago.

He gripped the receiver and brought it to the side of his head. He started dialing her number…

And hung up. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. He wanted to, damn it. But he couldn’t.

He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a tall glass of chocolate milk, then sat down at the piano and started banging out whatever tune came to mind. It was a little late for this, he realized, but the nice thing about being the landlord was that there was no one to whom the other tenants could complain about you. He played some of his Janis Ian tunes, then a Harry number, then his favorites by Christine Lavin. He started “Old Fashioned Romance,” but for some reason, it was just making him sad.

He went to bed early, planning the next day’s interviews as he tucked himself in. If he was only going to do one thing in this ridiculous little life of his-work-then he’d damn well better do a good job of it.

This is so pathetic, he told himself as he eyes finally closed. Maybe I should get a dog.

A long impassioned mewling from the kitchen reopened his eyes.

Make that a male dog.

Jones tucked in his chin. “You’re joking, right?”

“No,” Ben said, “I’m not joking.”

“You’re actually going to do this?”

“It’s not that big a deal, Jones. We’re just going to work out.”

Jones remained incredulous. “You mean-you’re actually going to sweat?”

Ben zipped up the jacket of a black-and-white warm-up suit, then applied himself to his Nikes. “And why is this a problem for you?”

“You’re a lawyer. Lawyers don’t sweat. They… talk.”

Ben continued lacing. “I’ve seen lots of lawyers sweat in my time.”

Jones retreated from the doorway. “Hey, take a look at this!” he shouted down the corridor. “Ben’s going to work out!”

A moment later, Christina appeared. “As in… exercise? Physical exertion?”

Ben grabbed his gym bag. “And why is that so unbelievable?”

Jones and Christina looked at each other. “You’re not exactly renowned for your physical prowess.”

“Remember the time he tried to move the copier?” Jones said, giggling.

“You should hear Mike talk about Ben’s first kung fu lesson,” Christina replied with equal mirth.

“You know,” Ben said, passing them both, “you two are starting to annoy me.”

“I’m sorry,” Christina said. She looked at Jones. “This is really rude of us.” And then they both burst out laughing.

“I should cancel their bonuses,” Ben muttered as he left the office. If they ever got bonuses.

“I can’t believe this,” Baxter said, shifting from one edge of the passenger seat to the other. “Sheila Knight never did anything wrong in her life. Except maybe talk to you.”

“Nonetheless,” Mike insisted, hands on the steering wheel, “she’s lying. Or at the very least, holding something back.”

“She told you everything you wanted to know.”

“Or seemed to. Trust me on this, Baxter. She’s lying.”

“And you know this because…”