The Vendetta Defense

a small firm, only nine women lawyers and support staff, and for the next hour or so, whatever telephone calls the receptionist didn’t answer would be forwarded to voicemail. E-mail would go unopened, and faxes would wait in gray plastic trays. The office fell silent except for the occasional ringing of telephones, and Judy felt her whole body relax into the midday lull that was a long, deep breath before the afternoon’s business began.

She knew she was supposed to feel lonely, but she didn’t. She liked being on her own. She sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup amid federal casebooks, stacks of printed cases, scribbled notes, and correspondence that covered her wooden desk and the desk return on her right. Her office was small, standard issue for mid-level associates at Rosato, but the clutter reduced it to a shoebox. Judy didn’t mind. She didn’t think of her office as messy, she thought of it as full, and felt very cozy surrounded by all her stuff. Nobody needed a nest more than a lawyer.

Papers, memos, law school texts, novels, and copies of the federal civil and criminal rules filled the bookshelves across from her and the shelves behind her, under the window. Three large file cabinets sat flush against the side wall, their fake-wood counter hidden by twenty thick accordion files from Moltex v. Huartzer, a massive antitrust case, which was redundant. A tower of potential trial exhibits at the end cabinet threatened daily to topple. Blanketing the walls were dog, horse, and family photos, certificates of court admission and awards Judy had received as law review editor and class salutatorian, and diplomas from Stanford University and Boalt Law School. Judy was the firm’s true legal scholar, so her office, while a mess, was a highly scholarly mess.

And her friend Mary wasn’t around to nag her about it. Mary DiNunzio had worked with Judy since they had graduated from law school, but she was taking time off from work after their last murder case; since then Judy’s nest hadn’t felt much like home. She took a reflective sip of coffee, eased back in an ergonomically correct chair whose cushions stabbed her in the back and shoulders, and crossed her legs, which were strong and shapely but completely bare. In Judy’s view, pantyhose was for Republicans, and now that Mary wasn’t here, she was getting away with that, too. Judy and Mary disagreed about practically everything, including Murphy’s use of lipliner.

On impulse, Judy pulled open her middle drawer and shuffled through ballpoint pens, parti-colored plastic paper clips, and loose change until she found a red pencil she used to edit briefs; then she dug again in the drawer for the mirror Mary had given her. Judy usually used the mirror to check for poppy seeds between her teeth, but now, her red pencil poised, she appraised herself in its large square:

Looking back at her from the mirror was a broad-shouldered young woman whose bright blue dress, yellow T-shirt, and artsy silver earrings made her look out of place against the legal books. Her hair was naturally blond, almost crayon yellow, and hacked off in a straight line at her chin; her face was big and round, reminding her always of a full moon, and her eyes were large and bright blue, as unmade-up as her lips. Her light eyelashes were mascaraless, her nose short and bobbed. An old boyfriend used to tell her she was beautiful, but whenever Judy looked at herself, all she thought was I look like myself, which was satisfying.

She puckered up in the mirror. Her lips were in between full and thin, of a normal pink color. Hmmm. Judy raised the red editing pencil close to her lips. The color match was perfect. And she was a good artist. Watching herself in the mirror, Judy took the pencil, moistened the point, and sketched across the top of her lip. The red pigment smelled funny and felt cold but was blunt enough not to scratch, and she drew a light line on her top lip, outlined her lower lip as well, and puckered up again for the mirror.

Not bad. You could see the red penciling, but her mouth looked bigger, which was supposed to be good these days, when lips like hot dogs ruled. The phone started ringing at reception, but Judy ignored it. She smiled at the mirror and looked instantly friendly, in an ersatz-Murphy I-ignore-the-phones sort of way. Apparently you couldn’t beat office supplies for makeup. Maybe she should take a Sharpie to her eyelids. Paint her fingernails with Wite-Out. Who said being a lawyer wasn’t fun? She set down the pencil, picked up the phone, and punched in a number.

“So how do I look?” Judy asked when Mary picked up.

“I got your message about the Sherman Act. Stop calling me about the Sherman Act.”

“This isn’t about the Sherman Act. Antitrust is easy. Lipliner is hard.”

“Murphy was in, huh?”

“She was trying to be friendly so I sent her away.”

“You should have lunch with her.”

“I don’t like her, and she doesn’t eat lunch. If I liked her and she ate lunch, I would go with her. Instead I stayed in and drew on my lips. So what do you think? Does Oscar Mayer come to mind?” Judy air-kissed the receiver, and Mary scoffed.

“You’re supposed to be making new friends.”

“No, I’m supposed to be writing an article and you’re supposed to stop slacking off and get your ass back to work.”

“I’m fine, and thank you for asking,” Mary said, though Judy could hear the smile in her voice. The smile didn’t come from Revlon or even Dixon Ticonderoga but was due entirely to a wonderful heart, and Judy felt a twinge of guilt. Attempted murder wasn’t a laughing matter.

“I’m sorry. How’re you feeling, Mare?”

“Pretty good for somebody who took two bullets.”

Judy winced. She had almost lost Mary, forever. She didn’t want to think about it. “You need anything? It’s only fifteen minutes by cab. Want me to bring you anything?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure?”

Mary snorted. “You regret that wisecrack, don’t you? If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you feel guilty.”

“Me?” Judy smiled. It was a long-running joke between them. Mary, an Italian Catholic, held the patent on guilt, and Judy could see that it would never expire. “No way. I’m from California.”

“You should be guilty. You were making fun of somebody with ventilation. What kind of friend are you?” Mary laughed, but it got lost in a surprising burst of background noise, which sounded like men talking loud. Mary had been recuperating at her parents’ house in South Philly, and the DiNunzios, whom Judy adored, were an old Italian couple who lived very quietly, at least when Mr. DiNunzio wore his hearing aid. Usually the only background noise at the DiNunzio rowhouse was a continuous loop of novenas.

“What’s that sound over there?” Judy asked. “Another DiNunzio clambake?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Yes, I do.” It sounded like quite a commotion, with the men now arguing. Judy frowned. “Is anything the matter?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“My father’s friends are here. You met Tony-From-Down-The-Block.”

“The guy he buys cigars with?”

“That could be anybody, but yes,” Mary answered, and the background arguing surged.

“What the hell was that?”

“Feet.”

“It didn’t sound like feet, it sounded like voices.”

“Feet’s his nickname. His real name is Tony Two Feet. He’s shouting. He’s an excitable boy, for an eighty- year-old.”

“Tony Two Feet? That’s a name? Everybody has two feet.”

“Don’t ask me. He’s my father’s other friend. They’re all upset about Pigeon Tony.”

Judy smiled. “Is anybody there not named Tony?”

“Please. It’s ten Italian men. Odds are three will be Tony, two will be Frank, and one will end up in jail. Pigeon Tony just got arrested. The smart money was on Dominic.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Murder.”

Judy’s lips formed an imperfectly lined circle. “Murder?”

“Also my mother sends her love.”

“Murder?” Judy felt her pulse quicken. “A friend of your father’s, arrested for murder? Your father is around seventy-five, isn’t he? How old is Tony? And who did he kill, allegedly? I mean whom?”

“You can’t just say Tony, you have to say Pigeon Tony, and he’s close to eighty. He grew up in Italy and he