Rough Justice

She pushed the bills aside and picked up the notebook. Darning had written the numbers with a purposeful hand, not scribbled or messy. They almost looked as if they were copied from somewhere. Where? Darning had given the notebook to a little boy, Dennell. Why? Did Darning know Steere was going to kill him? Did Steere kill Darning for the notebook? Judy kept thinking of the eighty dollars in the shoe box. Where had Darning gotten it? Blackmail? Did the notebook have anything to do with it?

Judy had no answers so she went to the refrigerator. Her best ideas came to her while she stood in front of her Amana, and she believed it was the freon fumes. She breathed deeply. Still no answers. She grabbed the milk carton, popped the cardboard spout, and took a slug.

Judy closed the fridge and glanced at the black Kit-Kat clock. Usually it made her smile, but not tonight. Tonight it meant she was getting nowhere, struggling to multiply while her best friend was fighting for her life. Judy looked at the telephone and considered calling the hospital again. She'd called ten minutes ago and they'd told her Mary was in intensive care after surgery. There would be no new news.

Judy popped a chocolate chip cookie into her mouth from a crinkled Chips Ahoy bag on the counter. Her thoughts returned to Marta. The TV news had reported she'd been missing for hours. Judy felt a twinge. She considered telling the cops about the notebook, but they wouldn't do anything about it tonight in this weather. Besides, Judy sensed Marta was alive. She remembered the endless demands Marta had made during the Steere case. People like Marta survived. It was the people around them who succumbed.

Still, where was Marta? What had she learned about Steere? Judy stopped her munching and reflected how dopey she'd been to fall for that lie about the D.A. Marta must have learned that Steere killed Darning, but she couldn't figure out why either. Judy sensed they were working on answering the same questions right now. Where could Marta be? Could she make sense of these numbers?

Judy's confused gaze met those of the man in a glossy print thumbtacked to the wall over the kitchen counter, Cezanne's Self-Portrait in a White Cap. She had bought the print at the art museum because she liked the look in the painter's eyes. They were brown as chocolate-covered almonds, and Cezanne's short, layered brushstrokes projected assurance and solidity. When Judy had stood close to Cezanne's paintings at the show, she could see the thickness of the paint and how the artist had waited for one layer to dry before applying the next. Waiting and painting, reworking and recombining the pigments. So different from her favorite artist, Van Gogh. Cezanne knew what he wanted to do but unlike Van Gogh it came from his head, not his heart.

There was a lesson in it. Judy had to disengage her heart and start using her head. Forget about her math anxiety and Mary and Marta and figure this puzzle out. Solve it. She looked anew at the first page of the book just as the doorbell rang. Startled, she turned toward the sound, her pencil poised. Who could it be? Judy felt edgy again.

She dropped her pencil and eased off the kitchen stool, away from the apartment door. On the way she grabbed her portable phone from its cradle, ready to dial 911. Would the police answer on a night like this? Would anybody? She slid a carving knife from the butcher block.

The bell rang again from downstairs. Judy wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't buzzing anybody in blind. There was no intercom downstairs, her building being older. Judy tiptoed to the window and peered at the street from behind the snowy sill.

43

Assistant District Attorney Tom Moran's life had become a living hell. Torture without rest, suffering without relief. Constant screaming and crying pierced his eardrums. He hadn't slept all night and was sweating like a beer bottle in summer, so stifling was the tiny rowhouse in East Falls. His mother-in-law had cranked up the heat because it was the first night his daughters were home from the hospital. Ashley and Brittany Moran. Twins.

Holy Mary, Mother of God. His mother-in-law, in her quilted robe, held the newborn Brittany, whose agonized screams filled the living room. His mother, in her flannel nightgown, held the newborn Ashley, whose agonized screams filled the dining room. Wandering between the two rooms in pajamas, like lost souls in purgatory, were his tipsy father-in-law, who peaked as a high school quarterback for Cardinal Dougherty, and his angry father, who couldn't be in the same room with his mother since their divorce. Satan was present in the form of his sister-in-law, who allegedly came to 'help' for the night and brought her three little devils. God only knew where his wife Marie was.

'Tom! Tom! We need two receiving blankets in the living room! They're in the nursery!'

Tom ran to fetch the receiving blankets, whatever they were. He didn't bother to figure out who was making the demand. There were so many demands for him to meet, their source was academic. His tie flying, Tom bolted upstairs to the nursery he hadn't finished painting. On the stairs he almost tripped on one of the devils, who was corkscrewing his index finger into his freckled nose. 'Don't do that, Patrick,' Tom said to his nephew.

'Shut up, dorkhead,' the kid muttered.

Tom turned on the stair, but he didn't have time to go back. He hit the nursery at full speed and sidestepped the baby gifts and paint cans. Marie had been after him to get the cans out before the twins were born, but the Steere trial took all his time. Only two of the nursery walls were Blush Rose and only half the baseboards were Cotton Candy. Meantime Tom had probably lost the fucking Steere trial. He'd stood in front of enough juries to know they weren't with him and he was too tired to give a shit.

'Tom! Tom, bring two pacifiers when you come down!'

Tom tripped across the shaggy pink rug to the changing tables. Underneath were shelves full of disposable diapers, Desitin, and baby powder. He shoved it all around but didn't see any receiving blankets. Or what else? Pacifiers. Meanwhile, all hell was breaking loose on the Steere case. The security guards got dead, DiNunzio got shot, and Richter went AWOL. Where the fuck were the pacifiers?

He searched the soft toys and baby gifts on the floor. No receiving blankets and it was time to receive. Tom tore through the baby gifts. A pink rattle flew in the air, then a pink playsuit. Everything was a rosy blur. Marie wanted girls, so at least she should be happy. That used to make Tom happy, giving Marie what she wanted. Providing, fixing, doing. That was his job. But this twin thing went too far. Now the Steere case was exploding and he was snowed in. With the screaming twins. In Baby Hell.

'Tom! Tom, the blankets! And the pacifiers!'

Tom chucked a fluffy white bear to the side. He was an assistant district attorney of a major metropolitan area. He had attended St. Joe's University and Villanova Law. He had ambitions to be a Common Pleas Court judge. He had no room for a baby in his life, much less two. He drop-kicked a pink elephant.

And now Tom was going to lose Steere, he knew it. The indictment shouldn't have been brought in the first place. The best thing I can do for you, his boss had said, is to give you a case nobody can win. Then you don't look bad when you lose. Try this case for me, Tom. I'll remember you did.