Silent Justice (59 page)

Ben turned and saw Christina had tears in her eyes. “This is so sad.”

Ben put his arm around her. “But a little less sad than it was, I think.” He stared into the flames. “A little less sad because, by standing firm and refusing to quit, these parents were able, in their quiet way, to extract some tiny measure of justice.” He turned toward Cecily. “That’s what this case was all about.”

In steady quietude, Cecily took a candle from a box and, approaching the fire, lit it. She inserted it in a brass holder and set it beside one of the uncovered stones. “This is for Billy,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly. “He’s what this case was all about.”

B
EN GOT THE CALL
at two in the morning, but despite the lateness of the hour, he dressed and raced to the hospital.

This was it, the nurse on the telephone had said. Mrs. Marmelstein was dying. She didn’t have much time left.

Ben drove to St. John’s and raced up the stairs to the fifth floor. In the main corridor, he found Jones and Loving hovering over a phone. The speaker was on and they were both listening to an angry voice.

“How dare you wake me up at this time in the morning!” the voice bellowed. “I told you I didn’t want any part of this! Now leave me alone!” The phone disconnected.

“Who was that?” Ben asked.

“Paulie,” Loving said gravely. “Mrs. Marmelstein’s son. We told him she was dyin", but the creep still refuses to come. Won’t even talk to her on the phone.”

“I promised I’d bring him back to her.” Ben felt an emptiness inside him he could hardly bear. “Has she been asking for him?”

“Constantly,” Jones said. “It’s all she thinks about. Seeing him again is her dying wish.”

“We’re just going to have to tell her the truth.”

“I suppose,” Jones replied quietly.

The threesome entered Mrs. Marmelstein’s room; Christina was already there. Mrs. Marmelstein appeared to be awake.

“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben.”

“Benjamin?” She seemed lucid, although he could see from the monitor that her life signs were faint and fading. Her eyes were closed, but Ben supposed that was natural, since she was now entirely blind. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m right here.”

“Of course you are.” A faint smile came over her face. “Aren’t you always? You’ve always taken such good care of me.”

“You’ve always taken care of me,” Ben replied. He was trying to keep his voice from trembling, but it was almost impossible. “You gave me a home. When I didn’t have one.”

“Did you find Paulie?” she asked.

Ben closed his eyes. A stabbing pain split his stomach. “Mrs. Marmelstein, I’m very sorry, but—”

“I’m right here.”

Ben whipped his head around. It was Jones speaking, but Jones, the perfect mimic, was speaking not in his own voice but in the voice they had just heard over the telephone.

Jones laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m here, Mother. I came as soon as I heard.”

Mrs. Marmelstein placed her shaking hand on his. “I’m so glad, Paulie. I’ve wanted to talk to you again so much.”

“Mother,” Jones continued, “I want you to know—I’m sorry about what happened.”

She cut him off. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Paulie. I was wrong. I know that now. All this time, I’ve been hoping you’d return—so I could beg your forgiveness. A mother should stand by her son. Always. Can you forgive a foolish old woman?”

Jones squeezed tighter. “Of course,” he said, barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Paulie,” she continued. “I want to explain something to you. About my will. I’ve left the house to Benjamin.”

Ben’s jaw dropped. She
what!

“That may seem strange, but I know you never really loved it and probably don’t want it. Ben needs it. He’s always getting himself into money troubles, trying to save the world on a shoestring budget. He thinks I don’t know how much difficulty he’s had, just as he thinks I don’t know how much money he’s slipped into my petty cash box over the years. But I do know. I’ve known all along.”

Ben felt an itching in his eyes he couldn’t seem to scratch.

“That’s all right,” Jones reassured her. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“I know. I just wanted to explain it to you. I wanted you to understand that even though I’m giving Ben the house—I still love you. Very much.”

“I love you too, Mother. And I always will.”

Her voice seemed easier now, calmer, soothed by hearing her son’s voice one last time. Jones never let the impersonation drop. He stayed with her for the rest of the night, as did they all, till early morning, when at last they saw the line on the monitor go flat, and the life-support console began to play its doleful one-note tune.

I
WOULD LIKE TO
express my appreciation to all the attorneys and scientists who are working together to learn the truth about environmentally derived diseases. Of course, I want to thank Jan Schlictmann, whose courageous lawsuit based upon the contamination in Woburn, Massachusetts, was recounted in Jonathan Harr’s masterly book
A Civil Action.
Unfortunately, that case was only the first, and Woburn is only one of many disease clusters that have arisen in recent years. All the outbreaks mentioned in chapter 33 are real. Too often it seems the diseases, ranging from cancer to autism and particularly targeting children, are linked to environmental contaminants. Readers wishing to learn the latest about this disturbing trend should visit the Web site:
www.civilactive.com
.

As before, I want to thank my friend and editor Joe Blades for his continued support and excellent work. I’m also keenly grateful to my literary agents, Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer at the William Morris Agency. I want to thank Arlene Joplin for reading my manuscript before publication and catching any number of foolish errors. I want to thank Robert Ginnish, Barbara Graham, and Hyla Glover for suggesting the title. And I want to thank my wife, the nicest person I’ve ever known.

My e-mail address is:
[email protected]
, and I welcome mail from readers. You can also visit my Web page at:
www.williambernhardt.com
.

-William Bernhardt

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 2000 by William Bernhardt

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-7719-5

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