Redemption (8 page)

I had replenished my fire-log supply, and as we sat in front of the fireplace that evening, I said to Liz, “I have been thinking of asking Rena Nussbaum—she sits on the State Supreme Court—to perform the wedding ceremony. I thought you might enjoy having a woman marry us. It could be a week from today, here at the apartment, just a few close friends, about ten or twelve couples, and we could have a little party, champagne and sandwiches. I'll get Zabar's to put together one of their big sandwich trays—or maybe I should have the whole thing catered. I want to have Sarah here as a guest.”

“Yes—it would be nice to have a woman marry us. I feel so odd—I don't have anyone to invite. I can't ask people to come from Boston. But, Ike, let's postpone it for another week—I feel strange about it coming so close after Sedge's death.”

“If you wish. It's only a ceremony.”

“It's more than that for me,” Liz said. “And perhaps you can find a rabbi or I can find a priest who will marry us. It would be a bit nicer than a judge—I mean for me.”

“Sure. I won't love you any less next week.”

That was Sunday.

That night, with Liz sleeping soundly, curled up against me, my own sleep would not come. Occasionally, when sleep defied me, I took a mild sleeping pill, Temazepam in the amount of twenty milligrams. I thought of taking one then, but I knew that if I moved, it would awaken Liz—so I chose to lie there quietly and be a victim of my thoughts. I was asking myself, who was Elizabeth Hopper? With all our days together, how much did I know about her? This waif—as much as I disliked the word—had entered my life out of nowhere, a woman on a bridge, measuring the distance to death; and now I had proposed marriage to her, a woman thirty years younger than I.

A few weeks ago, on a sunny Sunday afternoon when we were walking on a crowded Fifth Avenue, something happened that was so very much Elizabeth. A little boy, perhaps five years old, had been separated from his mother and stood terrified and weeping in a jungle of legs that passed him by as if he didn't exist. Without hesitating, Liz scooped him up in her arms and handed him to me. “Hold him high, Ike. You're very tall. Hold him high.” And then, “Here he is! Where's Mother?”

His panic-stricken mother appeared in a moment, shouldering her way through the crowded street, taking her child, and thanking us and blessing us.

As Sarah said after meeting Liz a few times, “What you see is what you get. There's nothing hidden inside. Those are the women who suffer most.”

Liz loved children, with the kind of deep, painful love many barren women carry. After the incident on Fifth Avenue, we had talked about it; and as much as I dreaded the thought of raising another child at my age, I found myself suggesting that when we married, we might adopt a child.

“Ike, would you? Really, would you?”

Trapped, I said something to the effect that we would have to think about it carefully beforehand.

“Of course.”

“It's not easy, Liz.”

“They have healthy children for adoption in Russia and especially in Romania. I read about it, Ike.”

“Well—I suppose we might try. I'm not young, you know—”

“Ike, you're the youngest and best man in the whole world. And I would do everything.”

And now I had decided who would perform the wedding. Finally, I slept.

Three days later, Wednesday morning, while we were having breakfast, the doorbell rang. I opened the door for two men, one tall, thin, and balding and the other younger and carrottopped. The older man introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Hull and the younger man as Detective Flannery. Both of them showed me their badges, and Hull asked whether I was Professor Isaac Goldman.

“Only emeritus,” I replied. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Can we step inside, Professor?”

“Of course. What brings you here?”

Liz was standing in the opening between the entryway and the dining room.

“I have a search warrant for your apartment.”

“What?”

“A search warrant, sir.” He handed me a folded sheaf of paper, and I opened it and saw the signature of Judge Lyman Ferguson. I knew Ferguson; I had met him several times. “You will note, Professor, that it includes your apartment as well as Mrs. Elizabeth Hopper's apartment on Ninety-sixth Street. She vacated those premises some weeks ago.”

“Why on God's earth would Lyman Ferguson sign a search warrant for my apartment? He could have called me. What is all this about?”

Liz asked them to step into the living room.

“I suppose it's the death of Mr. Hopper,” I said. “But what on earth are you looking for here?”

“Well, sir, you can make it easy for us. Do you have a gun?”

I went over to Liz and put my arm around her and said softly, “It's all right, baby.” And then to Hull, “Yes. I have a small Colt twenty-two. It's registered and I have a permit for it.”

“Would you show us where you keep it?”

I nodded. “If you'll follow me.” I led them into my bedroom, where we had an eighteenth-century highboy. At the top were four small drawers, which I never opened. They were within reach, but only by standing on my toes could I see into them. In them, I kept Lena's wedding ring, a few pieces of her jewelry, and the gun and permit. I had bought the gun more than twenty years ago, had never carried it or fired it—all of which I explained to the two detectives. Buying it was an impulse of the moment when the neighborhood around Columbia University began to change for the worse. As a matter of fact, I hated guns, having had an intimate acquaintance with them during World War II.

The drawer where I had kept the gun was empty, except for a sheet of paper, which was the permit. I took it out and handed it to Hull. “I'm sure I kept it in that drawer,” I said, “but I don't trust my memory that much. I'll try the others.”

I went through the other three drawers. They were empty. The wedding ring was gone, along with Lena's other jewelry. Liz was watching all this, her face taut and frightened.

“Well, I've been robbed. The gun is gone and my wife's jewelry with it.”

“Your wife died three years ago, Professor.” They appeared to know a lot about me. “When you put her jewelry in there, did you open the drawer where you say you kept the gun?” Hull asked.

“No. I knew where I put it. I wasn't interested in the gun.”

“Then if you were robbed, it was during the past three years?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you never reported the robbery?” Hull demanded. “You know the law.”

“Because I didn't know it had taken place,” I said.

“You're a lawyer, Professor, so I presume you know you don't have to answer any of my questions?”

“I know that, and at this point I don't intend to. Do you want to continue your search?”

“I'd like to look into those drawers.”

“Go ahead.”

Hull was tall enough to see what the drawers contained. They were empty. He pointed to a gold chain bracelet on Liz's dressing table. “Was that your wife's?”

“No, and that's the last question I intend to answer.”

“OK. We'll continue our search. We'll try not to upset things. If you and your friend would stay in the living room, it will only take about an hour.”

“Go ahead,” I agreed.

It took about an hour, as he said, and Liz and I sat and waited. She asked me what it was all about and what it meant, and all I could tell her was that it had something to do with Hopper's murder.

“But they don't think you killed him, Ike? Don't they understand that a man like you could not kill anyone? You're the kindest, most gentle man I ever knew, and anyway, we were together all night Friday when he was killed. We had dinner together and we slept together. So how could you have anything to do with a murder that took place—when was it? What time?”

“Sometime after the office closed, as much as I know. The
Times
said they discovered him after midnight. No, darling—there's no way they can incriminate me, and I'm not worried about it. It's a police procedure, and they have to do it by the book.”

“But it makes no sense.”

“A lot of things make no sense.”

“I have to call the store. I'll be late for work.”

“Call them. Use the phone in the kitchen. You might as well tell them that you won't be in today. Tell them you're ill.”

Liz made the call, and then came back and told me that it was so hard to speak that they immediately believed her. “I hate to lie. You know I came to New York because I had been promised a job at Marymount, and I still had hopes that it might come through in September. They like me at the store, and I never told them I might quit in September. But, with all this happening—it will be in the papers, won't it, Ike?”

“It has nothing to do with you or your character.”

“Will we still have the wedding next week?”

“We certainly will. The whole thing is ridiculous.”

But it was not ridiculous when they finished their search—evidently finding what they were looking for. Flannery had a lipstick in his hand, and he showed it to Liz. “Is this yours?”

“We found it in the smaller bedroom. Do you have another?” Hull said.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I carry one in my bag.”

“The same?” He looked at the lipstick closely. “Devlon Autumn?”

“Yes.”

“Would you show me your purse?”

Liz looked at me, and I nodded. Her purse was in the entryway. She went for it, then handed it to Flannery.

“Would you take out the lipstick?”

“Hold on,” I said to Liz.

“If you will look at the search warrant,” Hull said, “you will see that it includes the apartment and all contents.”

“Give it to him,” I said to her. “It makes no difference.”

She opened her purse, found the lipstick, and handed it to Flannery, who put both lipsticks in a plastic bag.

“Would you stand up, please, Mrs. Hopper,” Hull said.

“Why?” I demanded, standing myself now, angry and frustrated. “What in hell has this got to do with her?”

“Please stand up, Mrs. Hopper,” he repeated.

Liz rose facing him.

“Elizabeth Hopper,” he said, “I am arresting you for the murder of William Sedgwick Hopper. I am going to read you your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand this?”

FOUR

T
HE
K
ITCHEN

O
N
S
ATURDAY
, J
UNE
8, 1996, we had our first strategy meeting: myself, Sarah Morton, and Liz—who had by now recovered sufficiently from her initial shock and horror to talk about the situation objectively.

Michael Rudge, one of the shining lights among the DA's four-hundred-and-some assistant district attorneys, had been assigned to cover the case, which was already notorious and destined to become a darling of the media. Rudge was a law-and-order man out of Harvard Law, and there was talk that he hoped to become the next DA. With him would be another assistant DA, Helen Slater, who, according to my records, had taken classes with me some nine years ago. I hardly remembered her. Mike Rudge, thoroughly and desperately a conviction DA, was about fifty, which is old for an assistant DA.

My agreement to be Liz's lawyer was nothing I would have suggested on my own. I succumbed to her pleading and tears after trying to explain to her the vast difference between a professor of contract law and a criminal lawyer. I had never tried a criminal case, and I would have been the last one to take the responsibility of defending Liz. Once I had agreed and accepted the fact that she would trust no one else, I turned to Sarah Morton. Her immediate response was to say, “You are absolutely crazy, Ike. I'm a people's defender. I've never had a high-profile case like this. I defend drug pushers and small-time crooks and muggers.”

“I've watched you. You're the best damn criminal lawyer in the business.”

It took some argument to persuade her, but after the grand jury had indicted Liz, she appeared with me at the bail hearing. In typical fashion, Rudge asked for half a million in bail; and here I was grateful for my many years of teaching. Alan Krisky, the judge, was Columbia Law and had taken classes with me. He said to Rudge, “The right to reasonable bail, Mr. Rudge, depends on character. She lives with Professor Goldman. The bail is twenty thousand dollars, cash or bond.” It was a sort of inside joke, which Rudge did not appreciate, but I thanked God for the fact that Liz would not have to spend another night in jail.

I must say that if I had cared for her before, she was now my whole world. I had confessed to myself that I was wholly in love with this woman who had appeared one cold night on a bridge, intent upon killing herself. I use that endlessly misused word,
love
, a word utterly degraded in Hollywood dramas and films. This was no youthful crush or simple physical attraction. I had been living with some part of my soul absent, and no knowledge of what was missing and no real desire for it. Charlie had let drop once that he thought I was the father she had never known, but he was way off the mark. If there was any parenting, it came from her constant solicitude and understanding. Given that most love affairs between an older man and a much younger woman are incomprehensible to so many, I must perhaps leave this as such.

Tonight, when we sat down at my kitchen table for our first strategy meeting, she was more alive and alert than I had ever seen her to be. Her large gray eyes sparkled, her lips were set, and her lovely, small face was tuned to excitement. She had been through a great deal, an arrest for murder, a grand jury, a night in jail, and the sudden transformation from a totally unknown woman from Boston to an object of media fixation. If I had been asked a month ago what such a sequence of events would do to her, I would have thought that it would crush her. As she had said to me, “I'm not happy that he's dead. I never wanted anyone dead—much less a man for whom I once had feelings. But I'm released, Ike. Whatever happens now, I'm released, I'm free, and I love you; and it's like being born again. I'm ashamed of what I feel, but I welcome it.”