Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“Let the record reflect that defense counsel is blocking my view of the witness,” Maher says sharply.

Ginny’s fingers move steadily on the black keys of her machine. Everything we say will be on the record. If you can imagine it in black-and-white type like a script, you can fabricate the reality:

“Pardon me. What did you say, Bob?”

“I said you’re obstructing my view of the witness.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Bob.”

“I can’t see him when you do that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s something about the way you’re sitting.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Move away from the witness.”

“How’s this, Bob?” I don’t move.

“Not good enough. More to the right.”

“This is silly, Bob. Let the record reflect my agreement with counsel for plaintiff that the witness can stay for only three hours today. If we spend much more time discussing my posture, we won’t be out of here until seven.”

Maher quiets with a scowl.

Nick remembers that he’s The Witness, not just-call-me-Nick.

And I sit back and meet the gaze of the lawyer outside, who’s plainly glaring at me now over theJournal. The eyes of an outraged father. Even from a distance, they seem to drill into me.

“Nick, did there come a time when you met the plaintiff, Donna Reilly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you form an impression of her at the time?”

“Objection,” I say.

“Why?” Maher demands.

“What’s the relevance of his impression of her? And the question is ambiguous. His impression of what?”

“You know full well that relevance isn’t a proper objection during deposition. Besides, if the witness thinks the question is unclear, he can say so.”

“I’m preserving my objection. And you’re right, Bob. If the witness doesn’t understand the question, he can say so.” I kick Nick in his Gucci loafer.

“I don’t understand the question,” Nick says.

Suddenly, there’s a violent movement outside the conference room. The plaintiff’s father has leapt to his feet and thrown the newspaper onto the Kirman. Holy shit. He must have seen me kick Nick’s shin, because he looks outraged. Like a football coach when the ref doesn’t call clipping.

“All right, Nick, I’ll rephrase the question,” Maher says, unaware of the scene unfolding behind him.

The lawyer rushes toward the conference room door. My mouth goes dry. What’s he going to do, report me to the Disciplinary Board? There’s not one of us who hasn’t done it-not one.

“Who’s that?” Nick asks, pointing through the glass at the charging lawyer.

Maher turns around just as the door bursts open. “Hello, sir!” He pops up but forgets to grin.

The lawyer ignores him. He’s taller than I thought, and his patrician features are limned with tiny wrinkles. Anger tinges his face. He looks too angry to report me; he looks angry enough to hit me. He struggles to maintain civility. “I’m loath to interrupt these proceedings, but I thought it an opportune time to meet the opposition. Hello, Miss DiNunzio.” He extends a large hand over the conference table.

I’m not sure if he wants to deck me or shake hands. It turns out to be something in between; he squeezes my hand like a used tube of toothpaste.

“That’s quite a grip.” I withdraw my hand.

He nods curtly. “Court tennis.”

“Right.” Whatever that is.

“You seem to be having some trouble with your chair, Miss DiNunzio. If it’s uncomfortable for you, I can have another brought in.” He smiles, but it looks like it’s held in place with a mortician’s wire.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“If you feel uncomfortable again, feel free to alert young Bob. I’m certain he’ll do whatever he can to make you more comfortable. Isn’t that right, Bob.” It’s a command, not a question. The lawyer nods at Maher, who looks confused.

“After all,” he continues, “the Masterson firm has always been a great friend to the Stalling firm, and I hear only the best about you, Miss DiNunzio. I understand you’re a very fine litigator.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re in my son’s class at Stalling, aren’t you?”

“Yourson?”

“Yes. My son. Ned Waters.”

“I’m Nathaniel Waters. You may know that I manage this firm.”

“Oh. Yes.” Not the plaintiff’s father,Ned’s father!

“I’ve seen us grow from one hundred lawyers, to one-fifty, to the full complement. I oversaw the opening of our London office. Now we’re going to be the first Philadelphia firm in Moscow. Masterson maintains a tradition of excellence, Miss DiNunzio, and of unimpeachable ethics. I’m sure Stalling does the same.” He peers at me directly, a menacing version of Ned’s green-eyed gaze.

“Of course.” No matter what he says, I know he’s kicked the Nicks of the world under the table. You don’t get where he is without some very pointy shoes. Even if they are made in England.

“Then we’re in agreement. I shan’t keep you further. It was fine to have met you. Give my regards to Ned, will you. Carry on.” He turns on his heel and strides stiffly out the door.

Maher relaxes visibly, and our eyes meet. For a brief moment, we’re cubs in the same pack. We become enemies again when Maher takes his seat and the questions begin. “Nick, let me make the question so clear even your lawyer will understand it. The first time you saw Ms. Reilly, did you form an impression of her wearing apparel?”

“Yes.”

“What was your impression?”

“I thought she dressed like a slob.”

Good for you, Nicky. I almost cheer. For the rest of the deposition, which stretches until the end of the day, I channel the anxiety created by Ned’s father into constant objections. Nick cues off me and we work as a team, with him telling his side of the story forcefully and credibly. By the end of the dep, Maher may think that Nick is a stickler about clothes, but he’ll be hard pressed to prove he discriminates against women. As we leave Masterson, I congratulate Nick, who tells me I did “a man’s job.”

I stop short. “Nick, you want some free legal advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t say stuff like that. You got away with it this time, but you might not the next. You know what I mean, Nick? What goes around, comes around.”

A hurt look crosses his neat features. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, Mary.”

“Good.”

We part company, awkwardly. I thread my way through the crowded street, slightly dazed, wondering why I’ve just insulted a major client.

It’s about time, says the voice, then disappears.

People pour out of office buildings-women with melting makeup, men with unlit cigarettes. They jolt me aside to join the human traffic on the narrow sidewalks, which flows around street vendors like corpuscles through a hardened artery. It’s the end of the workday in this weary city, and it occurs to me that I’d better let the rush-hour crowds carry me home before it gets dark, and the car appears.

I mix into the throng for safety but still find myself glancing over my shoulder a lot. I pause before the window of an electronics store and spot an answering machine. Mike hated answering machines, so we never bought one. But some creep is calling me, and Mike is gone. I go in and lay down some plastic for the lady behind the counter.

When I leave with the slim machine in a plastic bag, I expect to feel better, as if I’m doing what I can to protect myself. But I feel exactly the opposite. The purchase makes the threat all too real. I feel scared.

I walk through the square quickly, looking around at the office workers walking tiredly home. At this hour, relatively early for the super-professional crowd, we’re talking paralegals, not lawyers. Secretaries, not bosses. Almost all of them are women, the vast underclass of pink-collar workers who keep America word-processed, executive-summaried, and support-staffed. I fall in step with one of the older women. She has a sweet, rounded face and wears a hand-knit sweater. A saleswoman, I think, or a librarian’s assistant. We stop together at the edge of the square in front of the Dorchester, waiting for the traffic to give us an even break.