kids, owning dogs, learning how to run a household were new adventures for Zack, but he wanted to be part of everything. Grateful for the sweetness of our new existence, we were careful never to let everyday contentment slip through our grasp. But that night, it wasn’t the sweetness of the day that I remembered, it was Zack’s bleak statement that we are hanged by the loose threads of our life. It was a truth I had seen played out too often, and despite the afterglow of lovemaking, I felt a thrill of existential terror. I moved closer to my husband, put my head on his chest, and listened to the rhythm of his heart until I, too, fell asleep.
The next morning when the dogs and I got back from our run, the newspaper was in the mailbox. I picked it up and headed for the back lawn so Willie and Pantera could rub some of the mud off their feet. While they chased each other around the yard, I scanned the
The story about Ginny focused not surprisingly on her daughters. The paper had printed side-by-side photos of the girls with each of their warring parents. The picture of Ginny and her daughters had come from her campaign literature. The twins were immaculately groomed, but their smiles were tight, and I remembered the misery of getting our kids to pose for the requisite family campaign portrait. The photo of the girls with Jason Brodnitz was a candid shot of the three of them skiing, ruddy with cold and pleasure. In the battle of the photo op, Ginny had lost round one.
There was no picture of Cristal Avilia, and the story was sketchy on details – a thirty-four-year-old woman had become the city’s sixth homicide victim of the year. Cristal Eden Avilia had been found dead outside her condo in the warehouse district shortly after 6:00 p.m. Wednesday. The police were not releasing the cause of death. Anyone with information about her death was asked to call police.
I dropped the newspaper on the picnic table. No use starting the day with a reminder of the complexities of the outside world. I called the dogs. “Come on, you two, let’s go inside and say good morning to our big sparkly top banana.”
When I walked into the kitchen, it seemed the universe was unfolding as it should. The coffee was brewed; the juice was poured; the porridge was made; and Zack was sitting at the breakfast table thumbing his BlackBerry, wholly absorbed. I never tired of my husband’s face. He was a handsome man: balding, thick-browed, and dark- eyed, with a generous, sensuous mouth and a vertical fold, like a bloodhound, in his right cheek. In court he could freeze an opponent with his barracuda smile, but at home his mouth softened and his smile was melting. The dogs loped over to him, and I kissed the top of his head. He flicked his BlackBerry off. “Breakfast is ready, our daughter is safe in her bed, and you and the dogs are here. Life is good.”
“You bet,” I said. I filled the dog bowls.
Zack watched with awe as Willie and Pantera inhaled their food. “Imagine loving any food as much as they love that stuff,” he said.
“And it’s the same thing, day in, day out.” I read the label on the sack. “Ground yellow corn, poultry by-product meal, animal fat preserved with mixed-tochopherols, animal digest…”
Zack frowned. “What the hell is animal digest?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” I brought our coffee over to the table and began ladling out the porridge. “Mmm,” I said. “Cashews – my lucky day. So what’s with all the messages? It’s only a little after seven.”
Zack sipped his coffee. “It seems that Cristal had many clients. Judging from my messages, a lot of them are lawyers.”
“If they’re lawyers, why don’t they talk to someone from their own firms?”
“Because the lawyers in their own firms are respectable, and they’ve done something they’re ashamed of. Sometimes only the Prince of Darkness will do.”
“Is that why Ned sought you out at the end?”
Zack sipped his coffee. “I guess, and isn’t that a hell of a note? He’d been partners with Doug Meinhart and Gerry Loftus for fifty years, but when he decided to end his life he couldn’t go to them because he’d indulged in a common sex act and some desperate fantasy.” Zack drained his juice. “Not nice stuff, according to the rigorous standards of Osler Meinhart and Loftus. Do you know that every Friday for fifty years the partners and staff there have gathered in their boardroom to have a glass of pale amontillado sherry. Ned told me once they look forward to it all week. Jesus, what a bunch of bloodless sticks.” Zack dug his spoon into his porridge. “Anyway, that explains why Ned came to me.”
“Does it ever bother you that you’re not Atticus Finch?”
Zack’s spoon stopped in mid-air. “No, because I don’t know who he is.”
“The lawyer in
“Whoa, Gregory Peck.” Zack’s tone was sardonic. “So I’m guessing that Atticus Finch was noble, and that he won his case.”
“No, he lost his case, but he lost nobly.”
Zack swallowed his porridge. “Maybe if he’d been willing to get his hands dirty, he would have won.”
I didn’t respond, and Zack looked at me hard. “So does it bother you that I’m not Atticus Finch?”
I met his gaze. “I’m getting used to living on the edge,” I said. “Want some toast?”
“No time. I have to be in court this morning. And I haven’t quite figured out what I’m going to do.”
“Is it a big case?”
Zack shook his head. “Nope. Simple assault. Remember that woman who punched the mayor in the nose? It was in the news a couple of months ago.”
“The homeless woman,” I said. “She was protesting the gentrification project in the warehouse district.”
“Right,” Zack said. “Well, that’s my client. Her name is Francesca Pope, and she’s schizophrenic. The day of the incident, she was off her meds. She is quite literally not guilty by reason of insanity. She really didn’t understand what she was doing when she assaulted that officious prick.”
“So you can get her off?”
“Without breaking a sweat, but therein lies the problem. If I argue she’s unfit to stand trial, the Crown will go along with me, and she’ll be committed to the hospital in North Battleford.”
“Wouldn’t that be the best thing for her? She’d be cared for, and she’d get treatment.”
“And she’d be locked up, which is exactly what Francesca doesn’t want because she’s afraid they’ll take her bears away.”
“Her bears?”
“She has a backpack full of stuffed bears. She tells me they’re called Care Bears.”
“Mieka used to collect those when she was little.”
“I hope they were in better shape than these. The smell of them just about knocks me out. But gross as they are, they are Francesca’s treasure. Really, Jo, those Care Bears are like her kids. Try to think of it in those terms, and you can understand why she’s so frightened of being locked up.”
“But, Zack, if she’s a danger…”
“She isn’t. She’s no more a danger than you are, but the mayor was annoyed because the bears were ruining his picture, so he kicked them out of the way.”
“So you’re going to try to get her off?”
“That’s what she wants. The Crown will want to send her to North Battleford for treatment, but there aren’t many spaces. She’ll have to wait, and in the meantime she’ll go to Pine Grove and be thrown in with the general population. She’ll be housed and fed and her meds will be administered, but there’ll be no treatment. Pine Grove is a tense place, Jo, full of people who are quick to judge and quick to take advantage – just about the worst possible atmosphere you could imagine for a schizophrenic.”
“And the alternative is the street.”
“Right, where there’s no one to take care of her or make sure she has her medication, but where she will have her bears.” Zack swept a hand across his eyes. “So which door would you choose, Ms. Shreve?
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, luckily it’s not your problem,” he said. “Anything going on tonight?”
“We have that meeting about the Farewell at Taylor’s school.”
“Jeez, I almost forgot. But I’m prepared. Taylor told me exactly how to vote.”
I smiled. “Did she now? So, are you going to fill me in?”
“Let’s see.” Zack squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “No on semi-formal dress because last year the boys
