matter, Elliot exaggerated the anguish and confusion that Tina had undergone as a direct consequence of never having seen the body of her child.
Harry Kennebeck had a poker face that also
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”
“Ah,” Kennebeck said.
“The father will protest.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“On religious grounds?”
“No. There was a bitter divorce shortly before the boy died. Michael Evans hates his ex-wife.”
“Ah. So he’d contest the exhumation for no other reason but to cause her grief?”
“That’s right,” Elliot said. “No other reason. No legitimate reason.”
“Still, I’ve got to consider the father’s wishes.”
“As long as there aren’t any religious objections, the law requires the permission of only one parent in a case like this,” Elliot said.
“Nevertheless, I have a duty to protect everyone’s interests in the matter.”
“If the father has a chance to protest,” Elliot said, “we’ll probably get involved in a knock-down-drag-out legal battle. It’ll tie up a hell of a lot of the court’s time.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” Kennebeck said thoughtfully. “The court’s calendar is overloaded now. We simply don’t have enough judges or enough money. The system’s creaking and groaning.”
“And when the dust finally settled,” Elliot said, “my client would win the right to exhume the body anyway.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely,” Elliot said. “Her husband would be engaged in nothing more than spiteful obstructionism. In the process of trying to hurt his ex-wife, he’d waste several days of the court’s time, and the end result would be exactly the same as if he’d never been given a chance to protest.”
“Ah,” Kennebeck said, frowning slightly.
They stopped at the end of the next block. Kennebeck stood with his eyes closed and his face turned up to the warm winter sun.
At last the judge said, “You’re asking me to cut corners.”
“Not really. Simply issue an exhumation order on the mother’s request. The law allows it.”
“You want the order right away, I assume.”
“Tomorrow morning if possible.”
“And you’ll have the grave reopened by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Saturday at the latest.”
“Before the father can get a restraining order from another judge,” Kennebeck said.
“If there’s no hitch, maybe the father won’t ever find out about the exhumation.”
“Ah.”
“Everyone benefits. The court saves a lot of time and effort. My client is spared a great deal of unnecessary anguish. And her husband saves a bundle in attorney’s fees that he’d just be throwing away in a hopeless attempt to stop us.”
“Ah,” Kennebeck said.
In silence they walked back to the house, where the party was getting louder by the minute.
In the middle of the block, Kennebeck finally said, “I’ll have to chew on it for a while, Elliot.”
“How long?”
“Ah. Will you be here all afternoon?”
“I doubt it. With all these attorneys, it’s sort of a busman’s holiday, don’t you think?”
“Going home from here?” Kennebeck asked.
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He pushed a curly strand of white hair back from his forehead. “Then I’ll call you at home this evening.”
“Can you at least tell me how you’re leaning?”
“In your favor, I suppose.”
“You know I’m right, Harry.”
Kennebeck smiled. “I’ve heard your argument, counselor. Let’s leave it at that for now. I’ll call you this evening, after I’ve had a chance to think about it.”
At least Kennebeck hadn’t refused the request; nevertheless, Elliot had expected a quicker and more satisfying response. He wasn’t asking the judge for much of a favor. Besides, the two of them went back a long way indeed. He knew that Kennebeck was a cautious man, but usually not excessively so. The judge’s hesitation in this relatively simple matter struck Elliot as odd, but he said nothing more. He had no choice but to wait for Kennebeck’s call.
As they approached the house, they talked about the delights of pasta served with a thin, light sauce of olive oil, garlic, and sweet basil.
Elliot remained at the party only two hours. There were too many attorneys and not enough civilians to make the bash interesting. Everywhere he went, he heard talk about torts, writs, briefs, suits, countersuits, motions for continuation, appeals, plea bargaining, and the latest tax shelters. The conversations were like those in which he was involved at work, eight or ten hours a day, five days a week, and he didn’t intend to spend a holiday nattering about the same damned things.
By four o’clock he was home again, working in the kitchen. Tina was supposed to arrive at six. He had a few chores to finish before she came, so they wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time doing galley labor as they had done last night. Standing at the sink, he peeled and chopped a small onion, cleaned six stalks of celery, and peeled several slender carrots. He had just opened a bottle of balsamic vinegar and poured four ounces into a measuring cup when he heard movement behind him.
Turning, he saw a strange man enter the kitchen from the dining room. The guy was about five feet eight with a narrow face and a neatly trimmed blond beard. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie, and he carried a physician’s bag. He was nervous.
“What the hell?” Elliot said.
A second man appeared behind the first. He was considerably more formidable than his associate: tall, rough-edged, with large, big-knuckled, leathery hands — like something that had escaped from a recombinant DNA lab experimenting in the crossbreeding of human beings with bears. In freshly pressed slacks, a crisp blue shirt, a patterned tie, and a gray sports jacket, he might have been a professional hit man uncomfortably gotten up for the baptism of his Mafia don’s grandchild. But he didn’t appear to be nervous at all.
“What is this?” Elliot demanded.
Both intruders stopped near the refrigerator, twelve or fourteen feet from Elliot. The small man fidgeted, and the tall man smiled.
“How’d you get in here?”
“A lock-release gun,” the tall man said, smiling cordially and nodding. “Bob here”—he indicated the smaller man—“has the neatest set of tools. Makes things easier.”
“What the hell is this about?”
“Relax,” said the tall man.
“I don’t keep a lot of money here.”
“No, no,” the tall man said. “It’s not money.”
Bob shook his head in agreement, frowning, as if he was dismayed to think that he could be mistaken for a common thief.
“Just relax,” the tall man repeated.
