Rough Justice

The ocean glimmered, barely visible. The waves that had seemed black as india ink last night were jade green, and the sea foam was tinted ivory. Whitecaps broke on the shore, one after the other, and sea bubbles raced in all directions and vanished. In the distance Marta could see the lighthouse and a rocky jetty near Steere's beach. The sight was desolate and beautiful, and she felt like it had been scrubbed as clean and raw as she was. As if God had taken a stiff wire brush to the world.

Marta considered walking into the waves just then. Leaving the fucking shovel on the ground and strolling right in, as if she were walking into a courtroom. Taking over. Striding into the Atlantic like she owned it. Marta could do that. The waves would welcome her and take her in and suck her up, her soggy coat and her aching back and her numb fingers. She even knew the depths of the water by the shore, if indeed that was what those precisely etched numbers on the nautical map had meant.

Marta pictured herself walking in to three feet and starting to float at six feet and by fourteen feet she could tread water, just for show. By sixteen feet she'd begin to dip below the frigid waves and they'd knock her around a little, but by eighteen feet she'd have them licked like she licked everything else. After all, she was undefeated.

Marta turned for a last look at Steere's house, in the light of a new day. It was majestic and serene. She owned no house like that anywhere. Not New York, Boston, L.A., or Cape Cod. She was never home anyway. She was never anywhere. She was always in motion. Marta knew where the VIP waiting room was in any USAir hub. She could work the cruise control on a rental Taurus without asking. She kept the fax numbers of every Four Seasons Hotel in her bulky Filofax.

Marta's wet gaze lingered on Steere's house. What a thing a house was! To think that she could walk into the Atlantic without ever having owned a real, honest-to-God home! And Steere's was a nice one, worth every zero. She imagined herself as its buyer, waltzing through for the first time. The house was set so beautifully, nestled alone among the dunes. Location, location, location.

Now that the sky was brighter, Marta could see how high the dunes rose in front of the house, tall and bright white in the new sun. No wonder they had been so hard to run on, they were steep. The wooden erosion fences crisscrossing them had done their job. Marta could see the wooden fence that had caught her coat last night. It crossed the beachfront in two directions.

She blinked against the glare. Funny. One fence ran down the beach from the upper left of Steere's property, and one ran from the upper right. Only the tops of the wooden posts showed, and Marta could see them clearly as the sun rose and a warm golden blanket slipped over the snowy beach. The two wooden fences met at the side of the house, about forty feet from where Marta stood. The tops of the slats made two dotted lines. And where the two dotted lines met, smack dab in the center, was a rather distinct X.

Was she exhausted? Was she crazy? Was her mind playing tricks on her? Marta wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, but the X was for real. An X, right next to Steere's house. X marks the spot! The pinhole in the map must have been a backup, in case the fences shifted. Marta bent over and grabbed her shovel.

45

A large, chilly presence, Bennie Rosato stood just inside Judy's apartment door as the associate gushed an explanation, from color blindness to a handwritten motion for a mistrial to Darning's white notebook. Bennie remained unmoved, stiff in her Gore-Tex jacket, unwilling to set foot in the apartment. As the managing partner of the law firm that bore her name, Bennie needed to maintain a professional distance from her employees, precisely because of times like this. Times she dreaded. 'So what I'm hearing,' Bennie said slowly, 'is that you have been gathering evidence to incriminate Elliot Steere.'

Judy nodded so eagerly that hair slipped from her headband. 'I'm working on it. The notebook means something; I just can't figure it out yet. It's full of numbers. I think it has something to do with street money.'

'You're missing my point, you're gathering evidence against one of our clients.'

'Well, against Elliot Steere.' Judy stood behind the canvas futon and leaned on its back. In her hand was the notebook.

'Run that by me again, Carrier. Are you making a distinction between Elliot Steere and our other clients?'

Judy blinked. 'Yes. Of course. Elliot Steere is a killer. A murderer. He sent somebody to kill Mary and Marta.'

'You have proof of this? Of any of it?'

'Not yet, but—'

'Not yet?' Bennie struggled to restrain herself. The associate seemed to have no idea how dangerous this game was. It was like watching a toddler play with an assault rifle. 'Do you realize what you're doing? You're Steere's lawyer. Even if you had proof of his wrongdoing, the only ethical thing you could do is file a withdrawal from the case. You get to bow out, not sabotage his murder trial.'

'The judge wouldn't have granted a withdrawal.'

'You didn't even try. You should have come to me. I could have filed something with the court. We could have fought it together. Legally. Even if we couldn't, you still have no right to be gathering evidence against your own client. It's the D.A. who has to prove the case against Steere, and if he can't, Steere deserves to go free. Period.'

'But he's a murderer!'

'What is this, Ethics 101? Elliot Steere is a client of our law firm, my law firm. Last time I saw one of his checks, it was made out to us, for a very large retainer.'

Judy shook her head in disbelief. 'So what? What does he buy for his money?'

'Loyalty, without apology or reservation. He buys all our efforts and skill, everything we know about the law and courtrooms. He paid for it, he's entitled to it. There is no shame in that, none at all. That's business. My business.'

Judy felt sick inside as Bennie spoke. She could never agree with Bennie and regretted telling her about Darning's notebook. Time to correct the error. Judy didn't think Bennie had focused on the notebook, so she let it slip from her fingers. It fell to the rug behind the futon and Judy nudged it underneath its canvas skirt with her toe.

'Didn't you stop and think?' Bennie asked, her temper giving way. 'Didn't you realize you have an ethical obligation here?'