Renaissance,' and it included a huge advertising budget to attract tourists, an Avenue of the Arts project that would build museums, a concert hall, theaters, and an entertainment complex on the Delaware River. The jewel in the crown was to be the newly developed historic district:
The city has launched a campaign to enliven the mile-square historic district, including a $20 million Visitors Center called Independence National Historical Park, to be built adjacent to Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, as well as the nearby Colonialera neighborhoods of Old City and Society Hill. Plans include the building of a Constitution Center on the mall adjacent to the United States Courthouse, unifying the area, according to Ms. Pressman.
All of these plans depended on the appearance of downtown Philly, which was unfortunately influenced to a large degree by Elliot Steere, who refused to repair his vast number of buildings. Why? Steere would waste his properties until the city paid his price to reclaim and restore them. He knew how critical his holdings were to the mayor's plans and he wouldn't sell until the price peaked.
Mary felt a second wave of guilt. Her hometown was trying to make a comeback and Steere was blackmailing it. Almost single-handedly obstructing the city's turnaround and, as a result, torpedoing the mayor's reelection. Mary bit her lip. She'd hoped she'd be working for the good guys when she joined Rosato. Hellfire licked at her pumps.
But Mary had to get to Steere's quotes if she was going to have an answer for Marta. She scrolled backward, going deeper into the online archives. She was praying Steere had said something to the media in the early stages of the investigation. God knows, he gave tons of interviews. She sighed and returned to the zillionth article.
'I am absolutely innocent of any and all crimes charged,' Steere told reporters. 'It's a sad day when a man can't defend his own life without being harassed for it. This is a political prosecution. You know it and I know it.'
'Mr. Steere has no further comment,' interrupted his attorney, nationally known criminal defense lawyer Marta Richter. 'That's all for now, everybody.'
Members of the National Rifle Association protested Mr. Steere's arraignment by picketing in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Their spokesman Jim Alonso said, 'We represent every decent American's right to defend his life and property.'
A photo under the story showed Marta standing in front of twenty-odd microphones with a determined group of NRA types arranged decoratively in white T-shirts behind her. Each T-shirt had a red bull's-eye on the front and read PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON. Marta had orchestrated the demonstration but she couldn't convince the NRA guys to lose the T-shirts. Mary sipped her coffee, finally cooling. When would she work for the good guys? Or at least Democrats.
Mary hit a key for the next article, read more quotes by Steere, then kept at it, article after article. She checked the clock. 6:15. Mary kept scrolling and reading, her heart sinking. She wasn't finding anything and it was getting later. Her head began to thud, a caffeine hangover. Still she kept reading, skimming each article until the boldfaced Steere.
6:31. Almost 7:00, and Mary still had no answer. She paused, rethinking the problem. Maybe she was using the wrong search. She'd been researching articles that contained the name Steere and was getting a civics lesson. Maybe she needed to approach it from a different direction. She tried to formulate a new search request, her eyes scanning her office for inspiration.
The office was small, tidy, and efficient. An antique quilt hung on the wall next to framed diplomas from Penn undergrad and law school and some honors certificates. There were two simple chairs opposite a pine farm table she used as a desk; her law books stood upright as altar boys on wall-mounted wooden shelves. Mary had decorated her office to inspire confidence in her clients while not offending corporate sensibilities. It was designed to make no statement but 'HIRE ME PLEASE, YOU COULD DO A LOT WORSE.' Which was precisely what Mary thought of her legal abilities.
Mary's gaze fell on her desk, atypically cluttered with papers from the Steere case, which had taken over her office the way it had taken over her life. She hated the case. A carjacking ending in death. Knives. Guns. Awful. Mary remembered the police photos with nausea and it hurt to look at the autopsy photos. Mary had seen too much death; her husband, and later. The Steere case wasn't helping to leave those memories behind. The next person who said 'healing process' to her was getting a fat lip.
She stared at the Steere file and flashed on the photo of the dead homeless man, crumpled on the street in the fetal position. His eyes were open in death, his mouth an agonized black hole in a dense beard. Wild cords of his hair were soaked with blood. He wore baggy pants and no shirt. He'd had no ID or last known address, no friends or relations. The police had learned his name from the neighbors who lived near the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge.
His name was Heb Darnton. Mary had done the factual investigation on him and had interviewed the neighbors. They'd told her Darnton lived under the bridge, drunk most of the time. He used to shout at the passing cars but nobody thought he'd do any harm. The black community rose up at Steere's killing him. They demanded that Steere be charged with murder and demonstrated at the Criminal Justice Center, an inner-city counterpoint to the white suburban NRA members. Police with riot gear and German shepherds had to be called to keep order; for the cops and the press, the victim's identity became a detail as man morphed into symbol. Heb Darnton was forgotten in the fracas, but Mary never forgot a victim and never would. Because once upon a time the victim had been someone she loved.
The victim. Maybe that was it. Mary deleted the old search, typed in DARNTON, and hit GO.
Ugh, no. She read the first couple, skimming for information about Darnton. The homeless man was mentioned only as Steere's victim. She read the next five articles. Nothing. She narrowed the search and put in Heb Darnton.
Mary skimmed the first few. They were the same as in the earlier search, but included Darnton's first name. Her brain was too tired to think and she drained her mug. She'd run out of gas. Christ. What kind of a name was Heb anyway? A nickname? She took a flyer, typed in HEB, and waited while the hard disk ground away. Then she caught the typo in the search request.
EB.
Damn it! Mary never could type. She'd tried to teach herself on that Mavis Beacon program, with no luck. She bought the software because she liked the pretty, entrepreneurial Mavis on the box cover and wanted to support her efforts. But Mary couldn't find the time to cyberpractice and then she found out Mavis wasn't even a real businesswoman, just a model. It was disillusioning.
