Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

Judy stops spinning and grins, gaps on display. “God, I’m dizzy.” She holds her forehead. “Miss Pershing, I want to thank you for putting up with us, especially Mary. She can be so difficult when she’s under pressure.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t found that to be the case.” She smiles warmly.

“Thank you, Miss P.”

“I noticed you didn’t send out the…messages we discussed.” Miss Pershing looks nervously in Judy’s direction.

“It’s all right, Miss Pershing. Judy knows about the subpoenas.”

She seems disappointed. “Oh. Well. Why didn’t you mail them? Was something wrong with the way I filled them out?”

“No, they were fine, but I’m going to wait on them.”

“Well then,” Miss Pershing says. “Nighty-night, girls.”

“Nighty-night,” I say.

Judy’s eyes widen comically. “Nighty-night?”

“Say nighty-night to Miss Pershing, Judy.”

But Judy’s in hysterics, and Miss Pershing is long gone.

Before we leave for the reception on Avarice, we go to the locker room to freshen up. Judy offers me my clothes back, but I decline. I’m starting to like her artsy smock, and even my own bralessness. It makes me feel looser, freer. I splash water on my face to bring me back to life. Holy water, I think crazily. “Look, Jude, I’m reborn.”

“You’re not reborn, you’re exhausted.” She taps the soap dispenser. “You’ve been up for two days, kid. Remember your call to Lombardo? That was yesterday morning.”

I rinse my face with warm water. I think of Lombardo, then Berkowitz, and finally Ned. My heart turns bitter. “You know, you were right. It was Ned who sent the notes. I can’t believe it, but I think he killed Brent. And maybe even Mike.” I twist off the taps with a sigh.

Judy looks surprised. “How do you know?”

“I got another note. A love note, this time. It has to be from him. It came in the interoffice mail.” I bury my face in a nubby hand towel. Maybe I’ll never come out.

“Stay with me tonight. Kurt’s at the studio.”

I throw the towel at the hamper. It misses, but I don’t bother to retrieve it. “Thanks, but I don’t need to. I’m safe now. No more subpoenas, no more lawsuit. I’ll call Lombardo after the reception and have him question Ned.”

“What if you can’t find Lombardo? You’re not going home.”

“Alice hasn’t eaten in days. She’ll starve.”

“So what’s your point?”

We finish up, and take the elevator to Avarice. Roger Wilco greets us when we get off and waves us grandly into Conference Room A. I hardly recognize it; it’s been transformed. A string quartet plays Vivaldi in a corner. Lights glow softly on dimmer switches I never knew existed, and tuxedoed waiters pass through the crowd. The horse-shoe table, covered with a pristine linen tablecloth, is laden with silver trays of jumbo shrimp, fresh fruit, and crudités. It looks like an expense account version of the Last Supper.

“Christ Almighty,” I say, under my breath.

“They’re just men,” Judy whispers.

But the men are another story. The room reeks of their power. The apostles on the Rules Committee are here, along with a full complement of judges from the district court. I spot Chief Judge Helfer with Einstein, being fawned over by Golden Rod and a flotilla of Stalling alligators. The Honorable Jacob A. Vanek, who practically made the law in my field, yuks it up with Berkowitz and the Honorable John T. Shales, who’s rumored to be the next choice for the Supremes. The Honorable Mark C. Grossman and the Honorable Al Martinez, newly appointed from the counties, talk earnestly with Martin, who listens and listens. Bitter Man hovers over the jumbo shrimp like a blimp at the Superbowl.

“I have a job to do,” Judy says, and edges into the crowd.

I float over to the bar and watch Judy mingle with Einstein and Golden Rod. She’s perfect for the job, which is to collect affidavits for the Shit from Shinola Brief. Our main argument is that the jurors’ note-taking contributed to their confusion about the evidence and caused a defective verdict. The record supports the argument; the jurors returned from their deliberations six times with questions from their notes. There’re no cases to support our argument, but that’s where the affidavits come in. That’s the beauty part.

I watch Judy as she strikes up a conversation with Einstein, wherein she’ll get him to tell her what a lousy idea it is for jurors to take notes. Then she’ll speak to as many other judges as she can, parlaying Einstein’s opinion into a consensus. Later, we’ll write affidavits saying that the consensus is that jurors should not be permitted to take notes, and we’ll file the affidavits with the brief. They’re not a part of the trial record, but the Third Circuit isn’t afraid to make new law. If it disapproves of note-taking by jurors, as the intellects like Einstein do, it’ll find a way to give Mitsuko a new trial. And Judy her job back.

I raise my champagne in a silent toast to the Shit from Shinola Brief and then to Martin, who’ll file it because his back is to the wall. I take deep gulps from the fizzy drink, toasting Judy and Berkowitz. The champagne is gone too soon. I grab another from a passing waiter. It goes straight to my head. I feel dizzy and happy. I ask the bartender for a third and drink a toast to Ned, whom I loved and lost, then to Brent and to my beloved Mike. I begin to understand the expression “feeling no pain.”

“Don’t drink that too fast now,” says the young bartender, handing me a refill. Even though his face is blurry, I see that he’s a parking valet from the basement garage, disguised in a tux.

“You can’t fool me, I know who you really are. Anthony from the garage, right?”

He laughs. “I can’t fool you, Miss Dee.”

“Doing double-duty, huh?”

“I got a choice, Miss Dee. I can look at pretty ladies or I can park a bunch of big cars. It’s a no-brainer.”

“We’re traveling incognito, Anthony.”

“In what, Miss Dee?”

Suddenly, there’s a deep voice beside me, murmuring almost in my ear. I look over and it’s Golden Rod, glass in hand. He looks blurry too, even though he’s standing very close. “What did you say, Judge Gold…Van Houten?” Hearing the sloppiness of my own words, I set down my glass.

“I said, that’s a very nice dress.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s a peasant dress, isn’t it? Did you get it in Mexico, or someplace else more exciting than Philadelphia?”

“There is no place more exciting than Philadelphia, Judge.”

He laughs and traces the gathered edge of the dress with an index finger. “I like the embroidery at the top.”

Dumbly, I watch his finger touch my chest, just above my bare breasts. “You shouldn’t do that. I’m Mike’s wife, and I’m not wearing a bra,” I blurt out.

Golden Rod looks stunned. Simultaneously, I realize that I’m too drunk to be here. I look around the room for Judy, but it’s out of kilter. All I see are cockeyed three-piece suits. I mumble a good-bye to the startled judge and make my way to the door.

But my escape route is blocked. Bitter Man’s standing right in front of the door, talking to Jameson. The mountain talking to the molehill. I walk as steadily as I can toward them. “Excuse me,” I say slowly. It’s an effort to talk. My head is spinning.

“Miz DiNunzio,” says Bitter Man. He holds a plate with a mound of shrimp carcasses on the side. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Jameson tips forward on his toes. “You shouldn’t be, Judge Bitterman. Mary’s our star. Her rise in the past year has been positively meteoric.” His voice is full of undisguised jealousy. He must be drunker than I am.