Rough Justice

'No way, Fay Wray.'

'Yes, way. Oh, yes.' Judy lined up her skis and snapped a bungee cord around them. 'You will be mine.'

'It's not happening, girlfriend.'

'No time like the present.'

Mary shook her head. 'No. I'm smarter than I look.'

'No you're not. And it is happening. Here and now. Coming to a snowdrift near you.'

'I'm not doing the ski thing.'

'Yes, you are.'

Mary pursed her lips. 'I don't have skis.'

'I have an extra pair at home. There's no other way.'

'We can walk.'

'That'll take three hours.'

'You want me to ski to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge?' Mary said, raising her voice.

Judy shot her a warning glance and her blue eyes slid meaningfully toward The Hulk sitting in the conference room. He was a distance away but he was sitting right near the open door, flipping through a magazine. Judy couldn't tell if he was within earshot and she didn't want to take a chance. She was even beginning to feel funny about leaving Marta alone with him. She resolved to call the office and check on her when they got home. 'You follow?'

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the man, critically now. He didn't look like a cabdriver and he had no uniform like a limo driver. Who was he, anyway? Mary felt dumb for not wondering about him before. 'Maybe I'm not smarter than I look.'

'Told you,' Judy said as the elevator went ding!

* * *

Down the hall, Bogosian lifted his thumb off the caption under a bearded collie. Right again! He watched the lawyers get into the elevator and the doors close slowly behind them. So they were going to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge, huh? Bitches. He'd have to follow up on that, too.

16

After the associates left, Marta returned to her seat at the conference table and pretended to work, scribbling nonsense on a legal pad. She considered leaving a note of some kind, but that wouldn't help her right now. She felt Bogosian's gaze on her. What if he decided he wanted to sit in the room while she worked? She had to hurry.

Marta reached for Steere's tax returns. She was intrigued by the Mellon Bank connection and flipped through to the back of the tax return packet, prepared by an expensive accounting firm. Marta felt a twinge as she opened the slick plastic cover. Predators like Elliot Steere couldn't exist without professionals to keep him rich and free. Professionals like her. She hadn't realized it until she became the prey.

On the third page of the packet was a listing of Steere's mortgage deductions. He owned a couple of investment properties in his name and apparently had three residences under mortgage; homes in Society Hill, Vail, and Long Beach Island, New Jersey. It was the New Jersey house that caught Marta's eye. An address in a town called Barnegat Light.

The beach house. Marta remembered what Steere had said in the interview room at the courthouse: that he was going to St. Bart's on a jet leaving from Atlantic City, if the Philly airport closed. She looked out the windows of the conference room. Snow flurries swirled around the building, blown in all directions by confused currents. No small plane would fly in this storm. Steere had lied again. Marta clenched her teeth.

Then she thought a minute, pushing her emotions aside. Why did Steere say that? Why say anything at all? He'd been thinking about the beach. Maybe he'd been thinking about his beach house. He used to say he missed going there, when he was in jail over the summer, and Marta had the impression he considered it more a home than his city town house. Maybe it was his hideaway with his girlfriend. Maybe there'd be a clue there. Something, anything. Marta felt desperate. Her life was on the line.

The telephone rang on the sleek credenza behind her, and Marta jumped. Who was calling? The court? Had the jury come back already? No! She leapt from the chair and grabbed for the phone. Across the hall, Bogosian did the same thing, picking up the phone in his conference room. The lighted button would have told him which line to use. 'Yes?' Marta answered, anxious.

'Ms. Richter?' said a young man's voice. 'This is Judge Rudolph's law clerk.'

'Are they back?'

'No. Judge Rudolph asked me to inform the parties that he's granting the jury a conjugal visit. It was requested by one of the jurors. A transcript regarding the request will be available tomorrow to the parties.'

'A conjugal visit, tonight?' Marta asked, relieved. She'd gain some time before the verdict. 'It wasn't scheduled.'

'It is now.'

'Have they stopped deliberating for the night?'

'Yes, they'll resume at eight in the morning. Because of the snow, Judge Rudolph has ordered the deliberations be moved to the sequestration hotel.'

'Thanks,' Marta said, and hung up. Thinking.

Across the hall, Bogosian hung up, too. Watching.

Marta swiveled around and immediately got back to fake work. She kept her head down and wrote. She had to