Rough Justice

past her. Marta jumped to avoid the fan of gray slush it sprayed in its wake. She stopped trembling as the truck rolled down the empty highway, shrank into a silver speck, and finally disappeared into thin, cold air.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Marta was in a blue Dodge Omni inching down Route 72. An older woman was at the wheel, going to Philly to visit her divorced daughter. The ride should have been a lucky break, but less than a mile down the highway Marta regretted ever accepting it. It was 11:30, and she could have walked to Philly faster. 'Are you sure I can't put the radio on?' Marta asked, trying again. She had to know what was going on. Was the jury still out? Were the cops after her?

'No radio,' the woman replied flatly. She was about sixty-five years old, with a cap of straight gray hair yellowing in the front. She could barely see over the wheel, which she squeezed with arthritic knuckles. A skinny brown cigarette dangled from her lips, dusting her thin cloth coat with ashes.

'Not even for a minute or two?'

'No radio.'

'Why not?'

'It's my car and I don't like radio. I don't like music.'

'I didn't want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news.'

'No radio.' The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. 'I don't like news. I never listen to news. If news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad.'

'Don't you want to hear the weather report? It's a snowstorm.'

'I look out the window, that's my weather report.' The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. 'If it's raining I get my umbrella. If it's snowing I get my Totes. What's so hard?'

'But there's a blizzard in Philly,' Marta said, about to explode. 'You need a traffic report. Don't you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?'

'I know how to get to my own daughter's.'

'What if you can't get through because of the snow?'

'I'll get through. If my daughter needs me, I'll get through.' The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. 'Don't do that!' the woman snapped. 'It's freezing out.'

'Sorry.' Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they'd never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn't know they were in motion.

'Keep that window shut! I'm older than you, not as strong.' She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. 'I'll catch my death.'

'It's so smoky in here.'

'Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It's discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers' side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don't have a sign saying NO DRUG ADDICTS, do they?'

Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the trial:

'This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere.'

Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn't give up hope.

'In a related story,' continued the reporter, 'no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere's former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery.'

Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.

'Told you, it's always bad news,' said the old woman. 'Murder. Killing. That's all they put on. That's all that matters to them.' The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.

'No, stop. I need to hear this.'

'All right, fine.' The woman quickly withdrew her hand. 'Don't get excited.'

Marta turned up the volume. The reporter said, 'The police have no suspects in connection with the shooting of attorney Mary DiNunzio. We'll keep you posted as events unfold both in and out of the courtroom. Back to you, Jane, for the latest on the blizzard that has buried the Delaware Valley.'

Marta tried to get a grip. Mary, shot? What had happened? Had Bogosian done it? How? Marta didn't know what to do. She felt shaken, torn. She was drawn to see Mary, but she'd be recognized and taken in if she went to the hospital. The press would be everywhere. Everything would be lost. No, not the hospital. Not to Alix Locke, either. Suddenly Marta knew where she had to go.

53

Ralph Merry ducked into a stall in the men's room, unbuckled his pants, and dropped trou. His white boxers