Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“Whatever you say, kiddo,” he said.

Then I grabbed a hotel pen and began to draft legal papers on the king-size bed. I’d never practiced family law, but then I’d never practiced criminal law either. I alleged I had reason to believe I was in danger from one Paul Harlan Hamilton, my live-in boyfriend, who had appeared drunk and disorderly at our former home. I asked the court to keep Paul two miles from the property and requested a hearing forthwith. I had the papers photocopied at the marbled front desk, and mailed and faxed a set to Paul’s office with a short note: The next time I find you in the house, I file this. With copies to your parents, the police, and the newspapers.

It was my first protection order, both as a lawyer and as a client. One for the scrapbook. And it was undoubtedly the first time the Four Seasons had served as a women’s shelter. I went back up to my room, chuckling. It was better than crying.

I flopped on the sea of bed and switched on the television. Spectravision, it said, which I guessed was a lot like Cinemascope. I muted the sound and the pictures flickered by in silence. A man and woman in jeans and sweatshirts clinked coffee mugs over a kitchen table. Dennis Hopper, still crazy after all these years, pushed Nikes. I was waiting for the eleven o’clock news, almost too sleepy to be curious about their coverage of the preliminary hearing, which seemed as if it happened ages ago.

I was still on the job, like Paul had said.

But I didn’t want to think about him now. And it turned out that I couldn’t anyway. After a fire in a Camden warehouse, Stan Julicher was the big news. His ruddy face, behind the black microphone bubbles, was animated by an almost religious zeal. Seated at a press table with him were a trio of TV feminists, angry women with no eyeliner and inmate hair.

“It’s no crime to look good, girlfriend,” I said to the TV. “No matter what Naomi Wolf says.” I clicked up the volume.

“It’s time for the citizens of this city to demand that Judge Hamilton step down,” Julicher was saying. “He is officially charged with the murder of a young woman, who may have died trying to vindicate her right to be free from sexual harassment. Yet the Honorable Fiske Hamilton sits in judgment of us.”

Christ. Julicher was pissed because he’d lost his meal ticket, and he was about to ruin Fiske.

One of the feminists said, “We, too, call for Judge Hamilton to step down from his judicial duties, at the very least until the murder charge against him is resolved. He should not sit on cases of any type, civil or criminal, until his innocence is proven beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

Of all the stupid, wrong-headed, knee-jerk reactions. “I’m not sending you girls any more money,” I said to the TV.

The third woman leaned into the microphone. “We think it is ironic indeed that Judge Hamilton could tomorrow be sitting in judgment on murder cases when he is himself charged with murder.”

I aimed the remote between her eyes. “Murder is a state crime, you idiot, and Fiske’s a federal judge. Other than that, you’re absolutely right.” I nuked her with the off button and reached for the phone to touch base with Fiske, then had second thoughts. I was too tired to give any sensible advice. He’d have to weather tonight alone, and I’d deal with it in the morning.

I felt myself drifting into sleep with the clicker still in my hand. I thought of Paul, wondering if he had left the house, but my last thought was of Tobin, in his Manayunk loft. I wondered if he was watching the news.

And I wondered if he was alone.

I felt refreshed the next morning, even though the free Inquirer outside my door served up the headline I expected:

RESIGNATION OF EMBATTLED FEDERAL JUDGE EXPECTED

I scanned the article, which rehashed the press conference, including plenty of self-righteous quotes by Julicher. Fiske, wisely, “could not be reached for comment,” and we all know where I was. The managing partner of Averback, Shore amp; Macklin, my favorite blackjack player, had managed to get in his share of hyperbole, dubbing me “one of the most prominent woman lawyers in the country.” I figured we were talking at least thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth of prominence in my new contract, but Mack couldn’t pay me enough for what this case had done to my life.

I gulped down my complimentary coffee and croissant and grabbed a shower using hotel shampoo, soap, conditioner, and moisturizer. After I had consumed everything free, I settled down to call Fiske.

“Rita, where are you?” he asked.

“In town. How are you? And don’t quote Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“You’ve seen the news.” He sounded tense.

“Of course. Want some legal advice?”

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t resign.”

“The chief judge called. He asked me to consider it for the good of the court. He wants my answer tomorrow.”

“Fine. Call him tomorrow and tell him you considered it and you’re not resigning.”

“Kate thinks I should. Lower my profile, all that.”

“Hamiltons don’t run, do they, Fiske? They don’t quit. You have a family name to uphold, don’t you?” I stopped short of explaining about general principles.

“I am innocent, goddamn it.”

Works for me. “Then do your job. Stay away from the press. Leave the rest to me.”

“You sound different, Rita.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Better. Are you making progress with the investigation?”

“I have the motorcyclist’s address, and I’m on the trail of the black Jags in the area.”

“Wonderful work!”

“And I lost some weight, too.” About a hundred and ninety pounds, name of Paul. “But it’s probably the creme rinse. Nothing like a good conditioner to give a girl some confidence. And a silky shine.”

Cam swung the noisy electric hedge trimmers in a smooth arc from his perch on the stepladder. Above him was a hot midday sun and a mercilessly clear sky. His work boots were scuffed, he wore a sweaty Banana Republic work shirt, and his fifty-dollar khakis had grass stains at the knee. Camille Lopo was the best-dressed one-armed gardener-impersonator in Wayne.

“You’re not getting tired, Cam?” I shouted, over the loud chatter of the trimmer’s greasy teeth.

“Huh?”

“You okay up there?”

“What?” he shouted back.

“You sure you’re not tired?”

He checked his watch. “Almost noon!”

Only Italians would persist in talking over a hedge trimmer. It takes more than Black amp; Decker to shut us up, even when one of us is almost deaf. “You sure you’re not tired?” I fairly screamed.

“There’s a lotta new growth! You can tell ‘cause it’s greener! Yellow-green instead of a dark green!”

“Spoken like a pro!” I yelled back, scanning the grass. I wanted to reexamine every inch of the grounds around the carriage house and Mrs. Mateer’s house, and the newly incorporated Lawns ‘R Us was the only way to do it freely, without the official eyes of the Radnor police or their crime scene logs.

“This is our third lawn, kiddo! I am a pro!”

I felt a guilty pang, making a seventy-year-old do yardwork to serve my own purposes. “I owe you, big time.”

“Baby, I’m busier than a one-armed paper-hanger.” He swung the hedge trimmer on a plane as even as a card table. Sprigs of English hedge fell to either side and landed in mounds on the grass.

“YOU SURE YOU’RE NOT-”

“ASK ME AGAIN AND I’LL CUT YOUR ARM OFF!”

The clipper went back and forth, buzzing in my ear. I was posing as Cam’s assistant, in identical outfit except for my Eagles cap, sunglasses, and Canon camera. I snapped another picture of the hedge. I wanted enlarged photos of the grounds for the jury, taken from my own uniquely distorted perspective.