Garden of Lies (67 page)

“Any hobbies? You know, like bird-watching or, say, photography?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at her incredulously.

Okay,
she thought,
dumb of me to ask.
But charity work, maybe. Selling raffles for muscular

dystrophy, or reading books to the blind. That would impress a jury.

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Krupnik, what do you do with your free time?”

“I study the Talmud.” This time he didn’t hesitate. “I read the Torah, the Five Books of Moses.

I go to shul.” His tone was one of innocent arrogance. Was there anything else of any real

importance? it asked.

Rose was getting worried.
If I don’t think of something else,
she despaired,
the jury
will
start

believing he’s got a pair of horns under that hat.

But what?

Then she remembered. A case she’d read about years ago. A black man on trial for rape. And

in a courtroom packed with black faces, the victim, a white woman, had not been able to pick out

the defendant.

“I have an idea,” Rose said, growing excited. “It’s a long shot, but it could work.”

[411] “Yeah? So?”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Tyler?” she asked. “The last time you were actually face

to face with him?”

Krupnik thought a moment, his brows drawn together. “Last October, it was. In court. Since

then, only through the lawyers.”

Rose smiled.
Better and better,
she thought.

“Mr. Krupnik, how many of your friends and acquaintances do you think you could gather

together for the trial? I’ll need at least twenty-five, more if possible.”

Krupnik stared at her, mystified. Then she told him of her plan, and a smile transformed his

pale, solemn face, giving it the soft radiance of a burning candle.

“Alevai,”
he exclaimed softly. “I’ll get them, sure. A hundred if you like. More, even.”

Ten days later, Rose stood on the steps of State Supreme Court in Foley Square and watched a

private yellow bus pull up. Forty or so men in long black coats, black hats, black beards, and

dangling forelocks filed out.

When the Hasidim had all seated themselves quietly in the courtroom, Rose addressed the

bench. “Your Honor, I have a rather unusual request. In lieu of an opening statement, I’d like to

call upon Mr. Tyler.”

Judge Henry, a black man with a snow-white Afro, frowned, and Rose’s heart sank. If he

refused ...

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific, Miss Santini. What exactly do you have in mind?”

“I’d like to have Mr. Tyler identify my client, Mr. Krupnik.”

There was a stir, and when Rose looked over she saw the bored-looking jurors straightening,

coming alive. Good. Now, please, if only it worked.

The judge nodded, and she saw that he, too, was intrigued. Sure, who wouldn’t prefer a bit of

theater to one more barrage of words? Only the plaintiff, stiff and red-faced as he mounted the

stand, looked outraged. He also looked as if he might have tossed back a few shots of eighty

proof before showing up here.

“Mr. Tyler,” she said coolly, “can you identify the man who attacked you on the evening of

October the twenty-first? Is he in this courtroom?”

[412] “Well, of course I can,” he said. He pointed a stubby finger at the bearded black-garbed

man seated at the defense counsel’s table.

“Will you please stand up, Mr. Krupnik?” Rose called out.

There was a hushed moment as all eyes turned to the man seated serenely at the counsel table.

Then Rose watched as, from the crowded spectators’ bench two rows behind, Shimon Krupnik

rose, slowly, majestically, the curls bobbing at his ears giving the scene an unexpected touch of

whimsy. He broke into a grin.

Rose felt a surge of triumph. And she thought:
If only Brian could have been here. Seen this.

Better than any of those card tricks I used to show him when we were kids.

Ten minutes later, after her opponent’s harangue and the judge’s grinning dismissal, she was

making her way to the back of the courtroom, feeling ten feet tall, a queen bestowing blessings,

smiling at a cluster of Hasidim who nodded in appreciation as she passed, not minding for once

the jostling of the courthouse hangers-on crowding the doorway.

Then she glimpsed a silver-haired man stepping forward, taking her elbow, steering her

through the tall paneled door as he opened it for her.

Pausing in the corridor outside to thank him, she saw that he was older than she would have

guessed from his firm touch. Over sixty. But still handsome, virile, in a darkly foreign way. His

suit looked expensive, though he carried his jacket slung over one shoulder, and the sleeves of his

crisp white shirt rolled up, showing thick forearms matted with dark hair.

What was remarkable, she thought, was the way he was staring at her.
Studying
her almost, as

if she were a painting in a museum, or a rare form of wildlife.

Abruptly, startling her, he’d grasped her hand in a firm, warm clasp.

“May I congratulate you, Miss Santini.” His voice was deep, and carried a faint accent she

couldn’t place. “That was quite a performance. I was most impressed.”

“Thank you,” she said and laughed. “It was a gamble. I could just as easily have ended up

looking like the world’s biggest fool.”

“No.” He shook his head, smiling. “Never that.”

[413] Why was he
staring
at her like that? He was making her nervous.

“I don’t believe I know you,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

“Nikos Alexandras,” he introduced himself.

“Have we met before? I’m afraid I don’t recall ...”

A look of sadness that was almost pain crossed his face, and he said, “I wish it were so ... but,

no.” Then, with a ghost of a smile, he added, “Good-bye, Rose. And good luck. I hope we will

meet again.”

It didn’t strike her until she was outside, descending the wide stone steps of the courthouse.
He

called me Rose. Strange. How did he know my first name?

The puzzle glanced like a skipping stone across the surface of her mind, then sank.

As Rose hurried along the crowded sidewalk, scanning the late afternoon frenzy of Centre

Street for a taxi with its overhead light on, she thought of the evening ahead.

A good bottle of wine, dinner with Max. Why not make it a celebration? Wear that white silk

jersey I bought at Bloomingdale’s last week. And flowers. Heavenly smelling lilacs for every

room.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed three men turn to stare as she dashed for the taxi that

had swerved over to the curb twenty yards ahead. Flinging her briefcase into the back seat and

climbing in after it, she smiled, thinking how she’d changed. Not so long ago she would have

thought those men were staring because something was wrong with her, a stain on her skirt, a run

in her stocking. Now she knew it was because they found her attractive.

And for the first time, she
felt
attractive. Even pretty. Last night after dinner she and Max had

listened to some old Glenn Miller records they’d bought at a flea market last Sunday. Then Max

showed her how to do the Lindy, his broad hands clasping her firmly about the waist, spinning

her, dipping her, finally tumbling her onto the sofa, sweaty, hot, out of breath, giggling like a

teenager. Rose couldn’t think when she’d last had so much fun, or felt so happy. How natural

then, this morning when she went to her closet to pick out what to wear, that she should push

aside the businesslike, earth-colored suits she usually wore, and choose something bright,

feminine, this pretty paisley skirt and pale blue silk blouse.

Rose gave the driver her address, and settled back, trying to [414] find a comfortable spot on

the caved-in seat. She couldn’t wait to get home.

“Moo-shu pork.” Rose passed Max a carton, then peered into another. “And I can’t even begin

to guess what’s in this one. Looks like what was left of poor Mrs. Lindquist’s cat after the

garbage truck ran over it.”

“Pressed duck,” Max replied. “It was on special.” He pulled a bottle from the bag. “This too. I

thought we should celebrate a little.”

Rose peered at the label. “Perrier-Jouet! Oh, Max, even
I
know how expensive that is. You

shouldn’t have.”

“A bonus. For today.” He wrapped the bottle in a dishtowel, and began easing out the cork. “I

don’t think that P. T. Barnum could have done you one better.”

Rose felt a flush of warmth, and thought,
I want him to be proud of me. I owe him so much.

She watched him pull the cork free with a discreet pop, and pour foaming champagne into two

long-stemmed glasses. He’d just come from the shower, face rosy, hair damp, curling over the

back of his collar like a kid’s. Bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a pair of soft, faded jeans.

He looked leaner, younger somehow, and not just because he’d lost weight. It was ... as if he’d

gotten brighter somehow. Like all the lights being switched on in a room that had been half-lit.

She wondered suddenly if that was how other women must see him. Vital, handsome, sexy.

She felt a prick of envy at the thought of Max kissing some beautiful, sexy client—say, a woman

coming in for a divorce.

And soon he’ll be leaving,
she thought.

She didn’t want him to go, Rose realized with a rush of sadness. The apartment would seem so

empty without him. She’d miss evenings like this one, fixing dinner, discussing the day over a

glass of wine. They had a routine, like a married couple in some ways. Taking the subway to

work together, and sometimes home, too. But if one worked late, the other got dinner. She took a

shower in the morning. He took his at night. They even took turns with the laundry.

Everything a couple did, except go to bed together.

[415] Last night, dancing with Max, feeling deliriously warm and sexy in his arms, she’d

thought briefly,
Why not?
They were friends, they liked each other. And it had been so long ... so

very long. Wasn’t this the Age of Aquarius, Free Love, no-strings-attached sex?

But going to bed with Max would risk ruining her one wonderful friendship. And for what?

Any day now Max would be moving out, meeting other women, maybe even falling in love.

And I’ll be here still, dreaming about Brian, lonelier than ever. No. Leave it alone. Better this

way.

Rose took a sip from the foaming glass Max thrust in her hand. “Mmm. Nice.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“What? The champagne or winning the dismissal?”

“Champagne. Knowing you, I’ll bet you skipped lunch.”

“Too excited to eat, I guess. Anyway, I promise not to be a cheap drunk. I couldn’t. Not at a

dollar a sip.”

He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to all your future victories, may they be many and ...

oh, shit, excuse me, the duck. I stuck it under the broiler to heat it up.” Smoke curled up from the

corners of the oven, and Rose smelled something that reminded her unpleasantly of the refineries

along the Jersey Turnpike. Max lunged for it, wrenched the door open, and yanked out a pan

containing the charred remains of their pressed duck. He stared down at it mournfully.

“Never mind,” Rose said. “I wasn’t hungry anyway. I’ll be more than satisfied with the moo-

shu.”

Rose drank her wine, and poured herself another one. A pleasant glow was seeping through

her, as if warm bathwater were circulating in her veins instead of blood. Her head felt very light,

and she seemed to be moving in slow motion, an eternity elapsing between the time she reached

for her glass and her fingers closed about its sticky stem.

Okay, so I’m a little drunk. But it’s nice. Can’t remember the last time I got high. Years and

years. Brian and I? Yes. Up on the roof. That jug of Red Mountain. Well, here’s to you, Brian,

and the lady you’re drinking with now. ...

A sharp pain, like a sliver of glass, wedged itself into her heart, and her throat constricted as

she was swallowing. Bubbles rushed up her nose, bringing tears to her eyes.

Rose gasped and began coughing uncontrollably. Max thumped [416] her on the back. Finally

it was over. She looked up at him, saw the concern in his face, and suddenly she was winding her

arms about him, pressing her cheek to the solid warmth of his bare chest.

“If you were trying to get me drunk, it worked,” she muttered. “Promise me one thing. If I pass

out, will you put me to bed?”

“Sure. What are friends for?”

His hand came to rest on the top of her head, lightly, smoothing over the curve of her skull.

Rose shivered, feeling the brush of his fingers through her hair, along the back of her neck. Nice.

So nice to be touched ...

Abruptly, Max pulled away. He moved over to the sink, and cranked the water on. Rose

watched it shoot up in a dirty geyser as it hit the blackened pan the duck had been in, splattering

the countertop with greasy droplets.

“Max?” she called.

Something was wrong. He was moving in a tight, jerky way, as if he were angry. The muscles

in his shoulders bunched up. Then he turned, and she saw. Heat crawled into her cheeks. She felt

stupid, clumsy.

Max wanted her.

Of course. He hadn’t been with a woman ... at least not that she knew of ... for months. How

could she have been so thoughtless? Slopping around mornings in her pajamas. Hardly stopping