Rough Justice

'Wonderful. Where's Sam?'

'He's at the Doral at a meeting. All the managing directors of major cities are there. He's the keynote speaker.'

'The Doral? He went?He knew the Steere case was going to the jury!'

'He had a command appearance.' Someday Jen would tell the mayor that his aides made themselves scarce in a crisis because of hissy fits like this one. The phone jangled in the scheduling office. The fax machine beeped in the secretary's area. Jen was beginning to see little pinpoints of light in the distance. Oh, no. It was her early-warning sign.

'Where's Tom Moran? He should know what's going on with Steere! Do the murders affect the court case? Can Steere move for a mistrial?'

'Moran's trying to get here, but the plows haven't gotten to East Falls yet.' Jen pushed up her glasses, as if that would stop the lights in her mind. The mayor didn't know about her migraines, none of them did. It wasn't the kind of information you publicized if you wanted to get ahead in politics. 'He's in touch with City Hall Communications. We can get him on the phone if you want.'

'I don't want him on the phone, I want him here! Goddamn it, why does he have to live in East Falls?From now on, everybody rents apartments in town! Get the same goddamn apartment if you have to!' The mayor stormed back and forth. 'What's Moran doing at home anyway?'

'They had the new babies, remember?' Jen tried to ignore the telephones and faxes. A light began to flicker behind her left eyeball, frantic as a candle in a hurricane. 'They're twins, and you're the godfather,' Jen added, and one of the junior aides, Jack O'Rourke, started to giggle. Idiot, Jen thought. She didn't mind that he was stupid, only that he didn't know how stupid he was. The flickering behind her eye intensified.

'I can't be the godfather, I'm the mayor! I'm up for reelection in November and I'm further behind in the polls than last election! The writing's on the wall, people! Can you read silently while I read aloud?' The mayor charged across the red patterned Oriental. He only wanted to fix the city he loved and he couldn't catch a break. He hadn't gotten the Philadelphia Renaissance off the ground because of Steere. He wanted that prick in jail forever. It was the only way to shake loose those properties and win the election.

'I have a thought, sir,' O'Rourke chirped up. 'What if Steere's lawyers killed the security guards? What if they killed the guards and ran away with the suspect? Like a conspiracy.'

'What?'The mayor bit his tongue not to tear the kid a new asshole. The kid never said anything worth hearing, but he was Frank O'Rourke's son and the mayor wasn't above a little patronage if it got the job done. He was trying to keep this city afloat, and assholes like Elliot Steere were boring holes in the boat. Suddenly he whirled around on his wingtips and folded his arms with his back to his staff.

The aides exchanged glances behind the mayor's back. They tried not to laugh out loud as the mayor went into The Cone of Silence. It was their nickname for Mayor Walker's little quirk, and Jen usually found it funny. Not tonight. There was too much to do and the pinpoints in her head were spreading into large blotches of white light, like holes burning in a paper lantern. She needed to get her Imitrex injector from her desk. Her office was just across the hall. It would take her three minutes.

The mayor finally turned around, looking calmer. Redness ebbed from his face, and he stood still. 'We should talk to the press, Jen,' he said, his voice almost back to normal. 'Take the high road on Steere. Two men are dead. Say we're doing everything we can. We'll make sure the Steere case goes forward and justice is served. Write that up for me. Got it?'

'Yes,' she said, but she didn't know how she could possibly whip up a speech. The nausea was starting, and after that would come the pain. Unbelievable, immobilizing pain. She'd have to lie down in a dark room. She'd be totally and completely fucked.

'The headline is the new snowplows, Jen. Announce the snowplows right up front. Say that we were responsive. All the streets will be plowed, no matter how narrow. Is the press outside?'

'In the hall,' Jen managed to say.

'Is Alix Locke still out there? I want her in on this. She's the one who made the stink about the goddamn plows.'

Jen nodded, but even that hurt her head. 'She's been out there since the murder story broke. She wouldn't go away. She's bitching that we're not releasing the police report.'

'Why? She knows we don't release until the investigation's over. What is it with Locke? Why is she always in my face? I thought she was a Democrat.'

'She's a reporter. Doing her job. Being a bitch.' Jen's brain flooded with light. She was sick to her stomach. The pain was starting.

The mayor's secretary reappeared at the door. 'Mr. Mayor,' she said, her lined face alarmed. 'Alix Locke is insisting on speaking with you. She won't take no for an answer, sir.'

'Tell her to wait until the press conference like everybody else!' the mayor boomed, and his voice reverberated like a rifle shot through Jennifer's brain. Then the phone started ringing again.

'When it snows it pours,' O'Rourke said, but none of the staff laughed. Least of all Jennifer, who bolted for her office and her Imitrex injector.

'I'll announce the conference,' she said.

21

Christopher Graham wedged his powerful frame into the tiny chair in his hotel room and set his green bottle of Rolling Rock on his leg. Christopher hated conjugal visits. Like Mr. Fogel had said while they were playing cards on the last visit: 'Neither of us has anybody to conjugate.' Tonight Mr. Fogel wasn't up for cards, so Christopher sat alone and took another swig of Rolling Rock. The jurors were allowed one alcoholic beverage a night.

'This one's for you,' Christopher said, hoisting the bottle in the silent hotel room. His gaze wandered listlessly over snow flying outside the window, the double bed with the polyester comforter, and the TV on its swivel stand. The hotel would pipe in a cable movie for free during the conjugal visits— tonight's was Jurassic Park— but Christopher kept the TV turned off. Beside him on the steel cart sat the remains of his dinner: fried chicken and Spanish rice, with ice cream for dessert. Christopher had come to hate fried chicken on this jury. Not as much as he hated chairs that were too small, though, and not half as much as he hated conjugal visits.