Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (33 page)

____

F
RIDAY NIGHT
. L
INCOLN
Road, barred to traffic, is jammed with bodies. The restaurants are full, and the shops and the coffee bars and nightclubs.
Candles flicker on outdoor tables. There are languages I don’t recognize. Gay men holding hands. Long-legged girls in hot
pants. Purebred dogs on leashes. Street musicians with their guitar cases open for tips. A woman on roller skates bumps my
shoulder as she veers around me. The heat of bodies presses in on me as I wait at Meridian for the light to change. A white
limo floats by. South Beach smells of the ocean, of incense, of money and power.

I have been thinking about personal-injury law. My chances of getting into a top firm are, let’s face it, pretty remote, but
I can rent a space and build my own practice. I don’t want rich clients. They’re a pain in the ass. I’d rather work for normal
people. They trust me, and I relate well to them. I could be making half a million dollars a year by the time I’m forty. I’d
have a family. Jack Porter gave good advice about not settling for just any woman. But I haven’t dated since I got here. I’m
an ordinary guy, average build, short brown hair, brown eyes. On the surface, nothing special. Sad fact: women like a man
with cash in his pocket and a nice car. They judge you on those terms. Tell a woman you’re a lawyer, or even in law school,
and her eyes light up.

The nightclubs are all glitter and noise, and inside them I see the beautiful girls leaning on the men. Some of them are prostitutes,
no doubt. How much would a woman cost? It would have to depend on what you want from her. I could get cash on my mother’s
ATM card. She never checks the balance. Could I do that? No. I am, as Rita said, a decent guy.

My aimless stroll takes me to Ocean Drive and over to Washington Avenue, the crowds even more dense here. With no breeze the
heat is stifling. I go into a bar to cool off, have a beer, and watch the people. When I come out, a light rain is falling.
What time is it? Late. Up the street I notice a tall, well-built man with a blond woman hanging off his arm. The way he walks,
a swagger, reminds me of someone. Is that Jack Porter? The girl laughs, her mouth wide open, her hair swinging across her
bare shoulders. She’s pretty. And she’s drunk. Then I recognize her: she works at the firm. She was the girl in the library.
Ashley, Courtney, Traci, I can’t remember.

Trust Jack Porter to pick her up. If it is him. I’m not sure. They vanish among the crowd, then appear again walking toward
Drexel, and I follow. The man has his arm around her. She stumbles, and her laughter echoes off the dark buildings. This area
is almost deserted. It’s late, and the clubs are closing. They turn the corner, and I catch up in time to see their shadows
slide into the alley behind a row of closed stores.

The rain has turned to mist, shining on the pavement, dripping off the heavy foliage. I stand beneath an awning where the
light can’t reach me and listen. Voices murmur. The girl laughs again. There is nothing for a while, then she says, “Don’t!
Stop it!” Then I hear some grunting noises, a thud. More thuds. And then nothing. Nothing. My heart feels like a rope is around
it, twisting, squeezing. Sweat runs down my back, my sides. I am frozen.

Footsteps move quickly away.

Stiffly, slowly, I force myself into the alley. The girl is lying on the cracked, filthy asphalt. Bare legs are sprawled,
a shoe is off, and palms turn upward like pale flowers. Her hair is over her face. I wait for her to breathe, but her chest
doesn’t move. I lean closer and see the marks on her neck.

Stumbling, I catch myself, then run out the other end of the alley looking for him, but he’s gone. I fumble open my cell phone
to call for help, then slam it shut. They can trace my number, and they will ask me why I was in the alley. What would I say?
I was following an associate from my law firm?

I find a pay phone and call 911, using a false name. And then I blend into the crowd and watch as the police cars and an ambulance
scream past. I shield my eyes against the pulsing lights.

____

O
N
M
ONDAY EVERYONE
is talking about her. Courtney Benson. That was her name. Courtney. The other girls at the firm are in shock, or crying,
or blaming her for being careless. Her friends went home, she wanted to keep partying. Nobody at the club saw her leave with
anyone. The police have no clues, no witnesses, nothing.

My insides are twisted. I can’t think what to do. Should I accuse a man I have come to like and admire? A man I didn’t see
clearly? Who would believe me?

____

E
RIKA
M
ULLOY LOOKS
at her watch. “It’s nine fifteen, Mr. Kemble.”

“Sorry. There was a line for the printer. I worked on the documents all weekend.”

“I should give you a medal?” She uses the nail on her fore- finger to flip through the report. “This earns a C-minus, but
we’re on the meter. It will have to do.”

It’s perfect. She knows it’s perfect, she just wants to torture me for some irrational purpose that I can’t comprehend. She
points to a stack of banker’s boxes by her door. “This came in response to our amended demand for discovery. I need the review
completed by Wednesday. Flag the relevant sections. Color-coded, please.”

“Wednesday. What time?”

“Nine o’clock. You have a problem with that?”

“No, ma’am.”

She waves me out. “Chop-chop.”

I want to hide in the storeroom and lean against the wall with the lights off. Instead, I get a cart and wheel the boxes down
to 14, take a turn past the library, and then another turn until I get to Jack Porter’s office. He has a view of the ocean.
Law books are open on his desk. His cuffs are rolled up. He wears a Rolex, what else? His hands and arms show no marks of
a struggle. He raises his eyes and looks at me, and a sudden chill makes my chest quiver.

He twirls his gold pen. “What can I do for you, Kemble?”

I reach for a plausible excuse to be here. “Erika. You’re pretty tight with her. Could you give me some advice how to stop
her from wanting to strangle me?” I chuckle to cover my bad choice of words.

Jack Porter glances past me to make sure no one is in the corridor. “I’ll tell you what the bitch needs.” His hand drops behind
the desk and he pretends to grab his crotch. “A piece of this.” He grins. “Hey, man, lighten up.”

I back out of his office and flee with the boxes of documents. I veer into the men’s room and lock myself in a stall. How
could Jack Porter make jokes? Like he doesn’t care that one of our own was murdered over the weekend. But why should he care?
He probably didn’t even know who she was. If he had killed her, it would show. Unless he’s a sociopath. The hiring committee
would have picked up on that, wouldn’t they? Unless they’re all sociopaths, a concept that does not seem totally irrational.

To calm my nerves I walk two laps of the entire law firm, going up and down the circular stairs that connect the main lobby
on 15 with the library on 14 and the partners’ meeting room on 16. On the way to the Pits I stop by the break room for a soda.
I drop my quarters in the machine. Robert is wiping down the coffee spills on the counter.

“Hey, Warren.”

“What’s up, Robert?” My hands shake getting the can open.

“Not much.” He squints at me. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.” I take a gulp of cola. “That Jack Porter. What an asshole.”

“Who?”

“The new associate. Jack Porter. He was just hired. Harvard.”

Robert nods. “Right. Why do you hate him?”

“I don’t
hate
him, I just…” And I realize that there is
nothing
I can say about Jack Porter. In this law firm there is nothing unusual about him. “Harvard. La-de-da. I go to Ohio Southern
College of Law. Ever hear of it? I’ll be lucky to get a job with the Bumfuck, Arkansas, public defender’s office making thirty
grand a year.”

“That’s okay, Warren. You’ll be a good lawyer, I know you will, because you care.”

I toss the can in the trash and wheel the boxes of documents to my desk in the Pits.

Missing lunch, I work all day on Erika’s fricking document review. It is mindless. It is excruciating. It is worth $300 per
hour to somebody, and the clients, like sheep, believe it. I keep my head down and put yellow or orange or blue sticky flags
on the pages.

Around six o’clock, Mike comes back from a meeting, and he and Denise start talking about Louis Penniman. I scoot over so
I can see around my computer monitor.

“What did you say?”

Mike rocks back in his chair. “You didn’t hear about it? Penniman’s retiring.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And guess who’s going to be our new managing partner.” Denise swings her immense tote bag over her shoulder and unfolds her
sunglasses.

“Who?” we say in unison.

“Erika Mulloy.”

“Oh fucking A.” Mike drops his face into his hands. “Just shoot me now.”

Denise frowns at him. “Erika is a strong and capable woman. Does that bother you?”

“No, Denise. It does not. What bothers me is, she wants to reduce payroll. That could mean you.”

“No, Michael. You’re wrong. She’s looking to merge with another law firm. We have a bunch of empty offices on this floor.
She won’t cut back.”

“We’re top-heavy with partners. I think Erika will try to get rid of some of the less profitable divisions, like probate.”

They argue pointlessly, and I return to my desk in the corner. I am breathless. I can’t talk to Rita. She hates me now. I
can’t talk to Jack Porter. He would laugh at my petty problems. I push a stack of documents out of the way and leave the Pits.
I take the elevator up to 16 and walk straight to Penniman’s office.

He tells me it’s not entirely true. He’s not leaving, just switching to counsel status and a smaller office. “I’m sixty-five
years old. I’ve had two heart bypasses, and I want to spend some time traveling with my wife and playing golf before I check
out.”

“Erika’s going to fire me.”

“Nonsense. There’s too much work right now. But you go back to school in January, don’t you? The minute you graduate, I want
you to come see me, all right?”

I go back to the Pits and call Mom to let her know I’ll be working late. I work on the documents until early morning, until
the words blur on the page and the muscles in my neck are on fire. She will have this report
before
Wednesday.

____

T
UESDAY EVENING A
shape appears through the security screen on the front door. The louvers rattle. “Hello-o-o?”

“I’ll get it, Ma.”

Mrs. Perlstein holds a casserole dish with a glass lid. She looks into the living room, trying to see around me. “I brought
Georgette some chicken noodle soup. It’s still warm.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Perlstein. She’s napping right now.” I take the dish. “I’m sure she’ll like it.”

“Well. I’ll come back some other time. Tell her I asked about her.”

“I will. And Mrs. P.? Mom said to thank you for the cake you brought last week.”

In her room my mother is working a crossword puzzle. Her glasses reflect the black-and-white squares. The TV is tuned to Animal
Planet. Tigers of Nepal.

“Look. Mrs. Perlstein brought over some chicken soup.”

“Jew food.”

“Don’t talk like that. Aren’t you hungry?”

“You were late getting home. I ate leftovers.”

I take the soup into the kitchen and pour it down the drain. I open the freezer and pull out a meatloaf-and-mashed-potatoes
dinner. Seven minutes. The numbers on the microwave count backward.

The phone rings. It’s my sister, Diane. “How’s Ma? I’ve called five times in the last week. She never picks up.”

I don’t tell her the truth: that our mother doesn’t want to talk to her. I say, “She sleeps a lot. But don’t worry. She’s
fine.”

“She’s fine. Great. She’s still pissed off that I didn’t come down for her operation, but I
couldn’t
. The kids, Steve, my fucking job—”

“I know, Diane. I know.”

“This is ridiculous. Put her on, Warren. I want to talk to her
now
.”

“Okay. Hang on.” I walk down the hall to our mother’s room and open the door. Cold air rushes out. I shout so Diane can hear
me. “Ma, it’s Diane on the phone.”

She pencils in a word on her crossword puzzle. “I’m not here. I’m shopping at Neiman Marcus.”

I go back to the kitchen. “Sorry, Diane. She’s in one of her moods. She said to tell you she went shopping.”

My sister sighs. “She’s so stubborn. I thought this, you know, brush-with-death thing might have made her aware.”

“Afraid not.”

“What are your plans? I guess you’re not going back to school next month.”

“I can’t. I have Mother to think about.”

“Do I hear blame in your tone?”

“No, Diane. You’ve done all you can. I appreciate the check you sent, by the way. I don’t mind being here. I didn’t visit
her much after I started law school, so I’m making up for it now.”

This seems to cheer her up. What Diane doesn’t want is for me to say she has to fly down to Miami, or pay for a nursing home,
or cram her kids into one bedroom to make room for our mother in her house, God forbid. She wishes me well and signs off.

I look in on Mother. She’s dozing again. I turn the TV down and leave her a note:
Ma, I’m at the office
.

____

I
T’S NEARLY TWO
o’clock in the morning when I type the last keystroke on the report. Eighty-six pages come off the printer. I bind them into
a folder and put the folder into a big envelope with Erika’s name on the front. I turn out the lights, go downstairs, and
wave at the security guard in the lobby.

I plan to drop the envelope on her doorstep. I’ve looked up her address, a house in Coral Gables near the University of Miami,
whose law school I could not get into in a million years.

Banyan trees arch over the quiet streets and block the streetlights. There is no traffic at this hour. I am not sure which
house is hers, exactly, so I park in the law school lot and walk. There are only a few other cars there, students working
late in the library. As I get to the end of the lot, I see a black Porsche parked in the shadows under some trees. I notice
the sticker for the parking garage in our building. It’s Jack Porter’s car. That’s odd. He lives on the Beach.