Final Appeal

Eletha helps me to a sitting position. “You need to see a doctor, honey.”

Behind her, Sarah says to Ben, “Don’t be so fucking cocky. I didn’t think it was such a good opinion. Galanter blew the ineffectiveness issue. Nothing Hightower’s lawyer said to that jury could have made up for the failure —”

“Please, you two!” Eletha says, half turning toward them both. “This not the time or the place. Grace is hurt, and all you can do is argue!”

I squeeze her arm to calm her. “I’m fine, El. I just got a bump, that’s all.” My fingertips root through my hair to find the Easter egg on the right side. Let the judge rest in peace. I must be on the right track because somebody’s worried about it. But who? I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded like a man, but it could just as easily have been a woman speaking low.

“You might have a concussion,” Eletha says.

“I feel fine.” I struggle to sit up.

“I told you she don’t need no hospital,” McLean says. Jeff watches from the chair.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” Eletha says.

“Fine. I’ll stand.” And I do, to stop her from worrying. The room spins a minute, and Artie steadies me with a strong arm.

“Grace!” Eletha shouts.

“Eletha, please. You’re giving me a headache.” I cover my ears and Artie laughs.

“She’s okay, El,” he says. “I got her.”

“Somebody warned me out there,” I say, slightly woozy.

“What do you mean?” Artie says.

I stop myself; I shouldn’t say anything, not yet. “I thought I heard somebody warn me to be careful. I guess about the crowd.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.” I shake my head, and the fuzziness isn’t hard to fake. “I guess it was nothing.”

Eletha reaches out for my other arm. “You should go to the hospital. You look white.”

“I am white.”

“Excellent!” Artie says, laughing, and I convince Eletha that I’ll survive if she lets me leave the marshals’ lounge. I don’t feel especially comfortable around McLean or Jeff anyway.

The courthouse lobby is almost vacant, like it was before the Hightower case started. No reporters or gawkers are in sight, just a handful of lawyers and witnesses, watched over by a platoon of marshals. “Where are all the reporters?” I ask, as we walk through the lobby.

“They cleared the building,” Ben says.

“She picked up on that, dude,” Artie says. “The mayor filed for a restraining order to block the press from in front of the courthouse. The DOJ applied for one inside.”

“They won’t get it,” Sarah says.

“Yes, they will,” Ben says. “It’s within the police power. They’ll get it because of the shootings.”

We reach the elevators and the marshals make us walk through the metal detectors, even though Eletha threatens their life. Or maybe because she threatens their life. “You okay?” asks Ray, when I emerge on the other side.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Good.” He looks relieved. Relieved enough to wave to Eletha.

We ride up in the elevator in silence. The law clerks seem uneasy, and I feel stone scared. People have been shot; it may or may not have to do with the warning. But the warning was real; it came from a killer, maybe Armen’s killer.

“You’d better go home, if you’re not going to a hospital,” Eletha says as we step off the elevator.

“Maybe I will,” I say. Ben is the first to find his keys, and he unlocks the exterior door.

Eletha pulls me by the arm, and we troop down the hall together. “First we’ll get some ice on that bump, like the nurse said,” she says. We push open the door to chambers, and standing in the middle of the room is Senator Susan Waterman.

I blink my eyes once, then again. She’s still there.

Bernice, the dog who’s been driving my station wagon, stands disloyally at her side.

“What are you doing here?” Sarah shouts, letting out a squeal of delight that reverberates in my brain. She rushes over to Susan and gives her a warm hug. “I thought you were in Bosnia!”

“I delayed the trip. We leave tonight.”

Ben tightens his tie. “Senator Waterman,” he says, extending a stiff hand, “please accept my condolences.”

Susan breaks her clinch with Sarah. “Thank you, and I’m pleased to finally meet you,” she says to Ben, pumping his hand so vigorously that her silver bangles jingle. Ben seems to forget that he’s a Republican for a minute as he takes in the aura of power that envelops the woman. It’s undeniable, despite the offhand way she wields it. “My husband told me so much about you, Jim.”

Ben withdraws his hand. “I’m Ben. Ben Safer, Senator.”

Her clear blue eyes focus on Artie. Tiny parentheses at the corners of her lips deepen into a smile. “Then you must be Jim,” she says, vaguely off balance.

“Artie Weiss, Senator. I’m sorry about Armen.” He can barely say it; he must still be hurting.

“Good God, I’m zero for two,” she says with a light laugh. “Wait, I know. You’re the basketball player.”

“Right. I think Jim was one of last year’s clerks,” Artie says uncomfortably.

“Of course.” She shakes his hand and then looks at Eletha. “You look wonderful, Eletha. How are you?” She extends a hand.

Eletha shakes it, obviously underwhelmed. She complained all morning about the funeral arrangements, or lack therof.

“Fine,” she says. “How was the funeral?”

A flicker of pain crosses Susan’s face; the first sign of grief I’ve seen. “Beautiful. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, El,” she says, then her gaze focuses on me, direct and strong. “You must be Grace. My husband spoke about you all the time.”

I bet he did. Did you kill him for it? “I’m sorry—”

“Thank you.” She extends a hand and squeezes mine hard; I squeeze back just as hard. We have both proved our manhood. “And thank you for adopting Bernice. I was so surprised to see her here, I called the refuge and they told me. I couldn’t possibly keep her, with my schedule.”

I’m sure. “She’s fine with me.”

“Grace got caught in that mess down there,” Eletha says. “Hit on the head. I keep telling her she should go home.”

“By all means you should. I’ll lend you Michael, he’ll put you in a cab.” She gestures to the tall aide with the expensive glasses, standing by Eletha’s desk. I remember him from the memorial service.

“I feel fine, I really do.”

“Nonsense.” She marches me over to Eletha’s chair and plops me down in front of the monitor. “El, would you get us some ice for this bump?”

“I was about to.”

Bernice trots over to me and burrows under my hand, trying to make up for her inconstancy. Her brown eyes roll up at me like marbles. “Good dog,” I say, softening, and pat her head.

Eletha returns with some ice wrapped in a paper towel and hands it to Susan, who brandishes it like Nurse Ratchett. “Where’s the bump?” Susan says.

“In the back.”

“Remember when Malcolm fell off his bike, Eletha?” Susan asks. She probes my head with a large hand and presses the ice into my noggin—not exactly a mother’s touch. “He needed stitches, didn’t he?”

“Twelve of ’em.”

“Twelve stitches, can you imagine? Poor kid. He was four, right?”

“Five,” Eletha says.

“I think that’s enough ice,” I say.