The man lifts Jay by the throat, slamming the back of his
head against the wall. “Stay away from this, Mr. Porter,” he says.
“Go home to your pretty wife. Don’t make this any harder on
her than it has to be.” He releases Jay, whose head slumps over
to one side, his whole bruised body sinking onto the cold, hard
floor. Through the slits of his rapidly swelling eyes, he watches
the man retreat down the stairwell, the sound of footsteps fading
on the stairs.
When he arrives at his apartment, the television is on. Bernie is sitting on the edge of the sofa, the weight of her belly resting between her knees. She’s staring at the screen. She doesn’t for mally acknowledge his presence. She looks up once at Jay, who still has his keys in his hand, bloodstains on his dress shirt. She doesn’t mention his appearance, the bruises on his face and neck. She doesn’t say a single word. She simply turns back to the televi sion. The news is on, Jay sees, and on the screen, Elise Linsey is standing next to Charlie Luckman on the steps of the Criminal Courts Building. Bernie stares at her face.
“Jay? What is this?”
On the screen, Charlie is doing most of the talking. In fact, as
far as Jay can tell, this press conference on the courthouse steps is really Charlie’s show.
His first homicide case in years, one reporter says.
What’s it like going head to head with his old department?
Does he miss criminal law?
Would he ever think of rejoining the D.A.’s office?
Charlie tells the reporters that he is immensely proud of his private practice, and no, he does not find it odd that he now defends people with money who are accused of the very same crimes he used to prosecute. A bank account has no bearing on the Constitution, he says, adding, “Thank God.”
Yes, he would be a fool to say his previous experience at the D.A.’s office didn’t give him certain
Bernie stares at the girl’s face. “We’ve got to call the police.”
Jay takes a deep breath. “We need to talk, B.”
He crosses to his wife and kneels before her. She stares at his position on the floor, not understanding. He gently places his hands on her knees. Up close, he hears her quick, shallow breath. She reaches out and touches a bruise on his cheek. Jay winces, the pain cutting to the bone. “What happened to you?”
He tells her everything.
The bit in the paper. The visit to the crime scene. The groundskeeper. His fears about a setup. The man from the black Ford. The truth about Jimmy’s cousin. The break-in. The lies. The mess he made of things. His fears about the feds. The thoughts about his trial, his past. The demons he can’t shake. At the end of it, he rests his head in the space between her knees.
“I don’t feel right, B,” he whispers.
A few minutes pass. He’s encouraged by the light stroke of her hand across his hair. He has never felt more that he and B are not equals. Not a man-woman thing. Or even his age. But the simple fact that his wife is whole. And he, at her feet, is not. The reason he needs her so. This family, his child.
Bernie gently raises his chin. “Listen to me. We are going to go to the police. You’re going to tell them everything you just told me, just like that.”
“I can’t do that, B.”
“Why?”
He shakes his head. “No police.”
“Jay, if this has something to do with my birthday, that night on the boat.” She stops suddenly, changing her tone. “You were right, Jay. Is that what you want to hear? You were right, okay? The whole thing was nothing but trouble. But we got to tell the people what we know. We have to tell them what we saw.”
Jay looks up at his wife. “There’s more.”
The money and his missing gun.
He saved the best for last.
“I don’t know what I’m dealing with, B. You understand? I don’t know who the man is or where he came from. I don’t know what he’s prepared to do. I don’t know anything about him or this girl, if somebody put her up to this.”
“Put her up to what, Jay? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know, but the shit ain’t adding up. It’s just not add ing up.”
Bernie hugs her arms across her chest, wrapping herself in a tight cocoon, leaving no room for anybody else, especially not him. She gets huffy when she’s scared, often angry with him for, if nothing more, bearing witness to her moment of weakness, mak ing it real. She surprises him then, asking, “Where’s the money?” Something in her eyes frightens him. “That money’s trouble, B.” “Where is it?”
“In my office.”
