Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

Craft: “Do what you want. Come on, Rachel, let’s confer out in the hall.”

Madden: “I am suspending this deposition based on improper conduct by the plaintiff’s counsel, and I intend to file a motion to ask the court to intervene and instruct the plaintiff’s lawyer to allow me to conduct this deposition as I’m allowed under our rules of civil procedure, without improper coaching and interruptions.”

The blank table, the white wall stayed on-screen for another ten seconds, and then it went dark.

She understood why the defense lawyer was pissed off: he was on a roll, he’d gotten the plaintiff in a corner and wanted to keep her there. And the plaintiff’s lawyer, Glenda Craft, had in fact been coaching the witness. In her objection to Madden’s question, about what Rachel wore that night at Madrigal, she’d all but supplied Rachel’s answer. On the other hand, she shouldn’t have interrupted the deposition, taking a break while a question was pending and meeting with her client. You didn’t do that.

Juliana figured she’d wait for the plaintiff’s lawyer to submit her opposition, and then she’d make a ruling quickly, which meant within the week.

She ejected the disk and packed up her files. She had a meeting at Jake’s school to get to. Her regular life went on.

Duncan picked her up outside the courthouse for the conference with Jake’s math teacher. They’d decided to go together.

She got in, said, “Hi.” Wary.

Duncan said, “Hi.” Same.

They avoided each other’s eyes. Juliana watched the road.

Duncan’s 2014 Prius was littered with coffee cups and empty Diet Coke cans. The cans rattled around, sliding front to back and side to side as he drove. For a long time, she listened to the uneven clatter. Once again she was distracted by that obsessive part of her brain that kept cycling. She kept seeing the dead body of Matías Sanchez. The man with the shaved head and the steel-rim glasses: Greaves, and his terrifying threats. Trooper Markowski and — what was his name, she’d forgotten. What would happen to that video that Matías had shown her, the blackmail video?

“Doing okay?” Duncan said.

“I’m okay,” she said. She was grateful he asked about her.

“Do we have a strategy here?”

“I don’t even know what’s going on with Jake in math. Did he tell you? He wouldn’t tell me. He said he didn’t know how he’s doing.”

“Oh, he knows.”

“Does he?”

“I’m sure. But he won’t tell me either.”

“Wild guess: not so good.”

A long silence passed. She started thinking again about the police and what they wanted. She hated being this scattered and willed herself to think about Jake and his damned math class. “Has he been doing his homework?” she asked.

“I assume so. He goes upstairs to his room and puts on his headphones and taps away at the keyboard. Sometimes I hear him talking on the phone.”

Another long silence.

Then she said, “He hasn’t stopped vaping, has he?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t smell pot, but you wouldn’t, with a vape pen, right?”

“That’s right.”

Another pause.

“So our son is vaping to take the edge off, and lo and behold, he’s flunking math. I guess that’s taking the edge off, all right.”

Duncan rolled his eyes.

Sometimes, she thought, Duncan acted more like his son’s pal than his father. But he was a warm and loving father, and that was the most important thing. He was born and bred to it: he came from a big and loving Italian family, where (at least as she imagined it) there was always a pot of marinara bubbling on the stove. He and his brothers and sisters bickered constantly but always came through for one another.

The Espositos could not have been more different from the Brodys. Her mother practically mainlined her martinis after work every night. Her father was what today you’d call emotionally unavailable. He was an articulate man, a brilliant teacher, but he rarely spoke at home except to complain about the administration at the school where he taught. A general fug of disappointment always surrounded him. He was always working on his novel, which no one ever saw. It was never published, and as far as Juliana knew, it was never completed. All he’d say about it was that it was “literary.” He was recessive, a shrinking violet: always removed, always distracted. He was barely even there. He emerged from his shell only to grouse about something. Follow his rules and leave him alone.

Her mother only drank at home, never at work, or so she insisted. But she drank a lot at home. To the extent that dinner would usually burn in the oven. Twice she’d almost burned down the house. It got so bad that Juliana started making dinner. Then, since her mother always slept late, Juliana had to start making Calvin’s lunches every morning. She remembered putting in those little red boxes of raisins for him instead of the fun-size Kit Kat bars left over from Halloween, being the responsible mom-type figure; she also remembered Calvin’s howls of protest. There were plenty of times when she wanted to go into a sulk, to throw a fit, to act like a kid. To be a moody adolescent. But that felt like a luxury she couldn’t afford. That they couldn’t afford.

Everything in the Brody house went unsaid; everything was distant and swaddled in batting. She’d grown used to the silences.

She’d looked at her parents’ lives and thought: I want no part of that. Her dad, desperately unhappy and unloved in his job. Her mom, living in a world of pretend. And then if you rebelled against them, like Calvin, you got yourself killed.

So it was Duncan’s family-centric warmth that had really attracted her to him, even more than his brown eyes and his long lashes and his perfect butt. More than his passion, his intellectual stubbornness. In a way, it came down to how much he loved his mother.

Jake’s math teacher, Mr. Wertheim, was a clumsy, overweight man in his late twenties with thick glasses and an inability to look you in the face. Juliana had forgotten what his first name was. He was just Mr. Wertheim. He opened the door to the classroom with a surprised look that implied that he’d forgotten they were coming. The classroom was otherwise empty. They sat in chairs with tablet arm desks, facing one another. Mr. Wertheim cleared his throat and looked down at the desktop. He wore a green tartan plaid shirt. His big belly barely fit behind the desk. He traced a figure eight on the desk with his index finger and cleared his throat and said, “Um, I think Jake is a really smart kid with a lot of potential, but he’s failing math.”

“Failing?” Juliana said.

“The last three tests he’s gotten an F. And he hasn’t turned in the last six homework assignments.”

Juliana looked at Duncan, who looked rattled. “What can he do about it?” Duncan said, ever the optimist.

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. I’ve offered to stay after school to work with him, but he has yet to take me up on it. I figured he’d have time after school since he’s quit the soccer team.”

As they left the classroom, Juliana said, “He quit soccer?”

“I’m stunned. Jesus.”

“Wow. So what’s he doing after school every day?”

He was silent for a beat. “Not his math homework, clearly.” He laughed painfully.

They walked for a while in silence. Outside the building they said hi to Jake’s history teacher, Ms. Howland. Juliana wondered whether he was flunking history too. She looked at her watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early to pick him up. From whatever he’s doing. You want to wait with me?”

“I do. Thanks.”

They sat on the wooden bench outside the main entrance, where kids waited for their parents.