Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

“Barney’s the one I worry about,” Bob said quietly. Barney Haskell was Jimmy Weeks’ chief accountant and codefendant in the current case. They both knew intense pressure was being put on him to turn government witness in exchange for a plea bargain.

Anthony Bartlett nodded. “Agreed.”

“And for more than one reason,” Bob continued. I told you about the accident in New York? And that Robin was treated by a plastic surgeon?”

“Yes. How is she doing?”

“She’ll be all right, thank goodness. But I didn’t tell you the doctor’s name. It’s Charles Smith.”

“Charles Smith.” Anthony Bartlett frowned as he considered the name. Then his eyebrows rose and he sat bolt upright. “Not the one who…?”

“Exactly,” Bob told him. “And my ex-wife, the assistant prosecutor, is taking our daughter on regular visits to him. Knowing Kerry, it’s only a matter of time before she makes the connection.”

“Oh my God,” Bartlett said miserably.

The Bergen County prosecutor’s office was located on the second floor in the west wing of the courthouse. It housed thirty-five assistant prosecutors, seventy investigators and twenty-five secretaries, as well as Franklin Green, the prosecutor.

Despite the constantly heavy workload and the serious, often macabre, nature of the business, an air of camaraderie existed within the office. Kerry loved working there. She regularly received enticing offers from law firms, asking her to come work with them, but despite the financial temptations, she had elected to stay put and now had worked her way up to the position of trial chief. In the process she had earned herself a reputation as a smart, tough and scrupulous lawyer.

Two judges who had reached the mandatory retirement age of seventy had just vacated the bench, and now there were two openings. In his capacity as a state senator, Jonathan Hoover had submitted Kerry’s name for one of the seats. She did not admit even to herself how much she wanted it. The big law firms offered much more money, but a judgeship represented the kind of achievement that no money could compete with.

Kerry thought of the possible appointment this morning as she punched in the code for the lock of the outside door and, at the click, shoved the door open. Waving to the switchboard operator, she walked at a quick pace to the office set aside for the trial chief.

By the standards of the windowless cubbyholes assigned to the new assistants, her office was reasonably sized. The surface of the worn wooden desk was so completely covered with stacks of files that its condition hardly mattered. The straight-backed chairs did not match, but were serviceable. The top drawer of the file had to be yanked vigorously to get it open, but that was only a minor irritation to Kerry.

The office had cross ventilation, windows that provided both light and air. She had personalized the space with thriving green plants that edged the windowsills, and with framed pictures that Robin had taken. The effect was that of functional comfort, and Kerry was perfectly content to have it as her office.

The morning had brought the first frost of the season, prompting Kerry to grab her Burberry as she left her house. Now she hung up the coat with care. She had bought it at a sale and intended it to have a long life.

She shook off the final vestiges of last night’s troubling dream as she sat at her desk. The business at hand was the trial that would be resuming in an hour.

The murdered supervisor had two teenage sons whom she had been raising alone. Who was going to take care of them now? Suppose something happened to me, Kerry thought. Where would Robin go? Surely not to her father; she would not be happy, nor welcome, in his new household. But Kerry also couldn’t picture her mother and her stepfather, both now over seventy and living in Colorado, raising a ten-year-old. Pray God I stay around at least till Robin is grown, she thought as she turned her attention to the file in front of her.

At ten of nine, her phone rang. It was Frank Green, the prosecutor. “Kerry, I know you’re on your way to court, but stop by for just a minute.”

“Of course.” And it can only be a minute, she thought. Frank knows that Judge Kafka has a fit when he’s kept waiting.

She found Prosecutor Frank Green seated behind his desk. Craggy-faced with shrewd eyes, at fifty-two he’d kept the hard physique that had made him a college football star. His smile was warm but seemed odd, she thought. Did he have his teeth bonded? she wondered. If so, he’s smart. They do look good, and they’ll photograph well when he’s nominated in June.

There was no question that Green was already preparing for the gubernatorial campaign. The media coverage accorded his office was building, and the attention he was paying to his wardrobe was obvious to everyone. An editorial had said that since the present governor had served so well for two terms and Green was his handpicked successor, it seemed very likely that he would be chosen to lead the state.

After that editorial appeared, Green became known to his staff as “Our Leader.”

Kerry admired his legal skills and efficiency. He ran a tight, solid ship. Her reservation about him was that several times in these ten years he had let an assistant who had made an honest mistake hang out to dry. Green’s first loyalty was to himself.

She knew her possible nomination for a judgeship had increased her stature in his eyes. “Looks like the two of us will be going on to greater things,” he had told her in a rare burst of exuberance and camaraderie.

Now he said, “Come in, Kerry. I just wanted to hear personally from you about how Robin is doing. When I learned that you had asked the judge to recess the trial yesterday, I was concerned.”

She briefly told him about the checkup, reassuring him that all was under control.

“Robin was with her father at the time of the accident, wasn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes. Bob was driving.”

“Your ex may be running out of luck. I don’t think he’s going to get Weeks off this time. The word is they’re going to nail him, and I hope they do. He’s a crook and maybe worse.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “I’m glad Robin’s coming along okay, and I know you are on top of things. You’re cross-examining the defendant today, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Knowing you, I’m almost sorry for him. Good luck.”

It was almost two weeks later, and Kerry was still basking in the satisfaction of the now concluded trial. She had gotten her murder conviction. At least the sons of the murdered woman would not have to grow up knowing that their mother’s killer would be walking the streets in five or six years. That would have happened if the jury had fallen for the manslaughter defense. Murder carried a mandatory thirty-year sentence, without parole.

Now, once again seated in the reception area of Dr. Smith’s office, she opened her ever-present briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. This was Robin’s second checkup and should be fairly routine, so she could relax. Besides, she was anxious to read the latest about the Jimmy Weeks trial.

As Frank Green had predicted, the consensus was that it would not go well for the defendant. Previous investigations for bribery, inside trading and money laundering had been dropped for lack of sufficient evidence. But this time the prosecutor was said to have an airtight case. If it ever actually got started, that is. The jury selection had been going on for several weeks, and there seemed to be no end in sight. It no doubt makes Bartlett and Kinellen happy, she thought, to have all these billable hours piling up.