Blessed Assurance (38 page)

Meg stared at St. Clair. “Why are you behaving this way?”

“In what way? Your old nurse's grandson needs legal counsel and that's the only help I can give you.”

“You're being helpful?” More furious words bubbled in her throat. Realizing animosity wouldn't get her anywhere, she substituted, “Fine.”

“Won't you come into my office, then, and wait while I make
out the list?” He ushered her into his neat, masculine office. With unnecessary ceremony, he took her black umbrella and damp coat and seated her in a comfortable dark leather chair. If his former behavior hadn't shown his lack of respect for her as a woman, this wouldn't have offended her. But this man was the prosecuting attorney. She couldn't indulge herself by telling him off. Del was depending on her.

As he jotted the list, he kept up, in a rich southern accent, a soothing flow of inconsequential chatter. Meg doubted he would have noticed if she'd even disappeared. The self-absorbed southern gentleman—handsome, sleekly-tailored, and completely maddening, didn't realize he was a relic, the last of a dying breed. Viewing him as a museum exhibit made it possible for Meg to sit quietly. He'd never have survived in France. The rigid ones cracked, then broke.

Standing, St. Clair handed her a half sheet of yellow paper. She rose and accepted it. Even though her hands were gloved, the brush of his strong fingers on hers set a tingling racing through her palms. Had he done that on purpose? Did he have enough nerve to flirt with her?

She smiled at him from under fluttering lashes. If she flirted with him, would he actually think his gentlemanly behavior had reminded her of “her place”?

She glanced at the paper. Only four names and addresses. “I didn't realize there would be so few lawyers in New Orleans.”

“I'm afraid very few lawyers will be interested in such a cut-and-dried case.”

“Especially for a black man?” she asked disingenuously.

He nodded. For a moment, he looked as though he might say more, then went to open the door for her.

Burning with unspoken outrage, she allowed him to show her out with every courtly courtesy. Outside, she murmured, “You'll rue this day, Mr. St. Clair.”

She rode away in a black-and-white taxi. When the taxi passed the building marked, “Jail,” tears of frustration stung her eyes. Del,
so alive, so good, was in there caged up away from his music.
Del, what are we going to do?

In the distance, an imposing cathedral spire caught her eye. She tapped the cabby's shoulder and directed him to take her there. She hurried into the shadowed French colonial church.

The sound of the splashing rain on stone steps lingered by the open double doors. Meg closed her eyes, letting the peace of the cathedral seep inside her heart. She felt transported back to France where every city, and even some villages, boasted a medieval church. How many times, either in the midst of battle or on leave had she stolen into the back of a church and listened to the murmur of prayers and felt warmed by the glow of candles?

Sliding into a rear pew, she knelt on the padded kneeler. Closing her eyes, she bent her head to the top of the worn wooden seat in front her. She wanted to pray for Del, ask God for guidance. She couldn't. All her life, she'd been taught to pray. But now, inside, she felt parched, empty.

Stop this. If I can't get this cleared up, Del's life could end.
She sat back into the pew, wiped her eyes, and drew in a few deep breaths. Two black-robed nuns entered, their white wimples glimmering in the murky light. St. Clair had made his opinion against Del clear; she couldn't trust the man. Meg glanced at the list. They might be the worst lawyers in New Orleans. To make her own judgment, she'd have to go where lawyers were, see them in action.

She walked out into Jackson Square, a park bound by a wrought iron fence. The rain had softened to a mist. Ahead at the river's edge, she glimpsed the French Market, street vendors under dripping awnings. Hailing another taxi, she ordered, “Take me to the county…I mean, parish courthouse please.”

 

Marie is alive.
Gabe couldn't get Paul's letter out of his mind. The bleak sky outside the courtroom cast almost no natural light through the tall windows. Someone coughed. Lonely globes of light dangled from the high ceiling. Gabe felt like he was waiting in a funeral
parlor. He'd opened Paul's letter right after that Yankee woman had left.
Marie, oh, Marie.

“All rise,” the bailiff called, bringing Gabe back to his surroundings. Just another numbing day of initial appearances where he announced charges against prisoners. Petty theft, prostitution, first-degree murder…
I shouldn't have left France.
Gabe put this aside as white-haired Judge Simon LeGrand gaveled the court back into session.

Gabe stated charges against a thin man who had been caught pick-pocketing, then a black prostitute in a wrinkled blue dress who had strayed from the Storyville red-light district. Both in turn pleaded not guilty and bail was set. Then Delman DuBois was led to the desk facing the judge's bench. Someone behind Gabe let out a shocked gasp.

Gabe glanced around, then looked at the prisoner more closely. Three days had improved the boy's appearance though a white bandage stood out starkly on his dark forehead. The Yankee woman intruded on his confused thoughts. Miss Wagstaff would be worth a second look, if a man could overlook her naggy voice. What kind of man sent his young daughter alone to take care of a murder charge?

Gabe's conscience prodded him:
Why wouldn't you tell her that Delman's initial appearance was before the court today?

Because it would only upset her. Even I was disgusted by his battered face. I couldn't expose a lady to something like that
.

His conscience pressed harder:
You mean you felt guilty, not disgusted, don't you? A bound prisoner had been beaten
.

I can't be held responsible for others' crimes. Worse happened in France. I sent the telegram, checked to make sure the boy received a clean bed and medical attention
.

The Yankee woman's extraordinary face, framed by that ridiculous scrap of a hat and full bangs, emerged again in his mind.
I can't change the way things are. I'm just the prosecutor.

The ancient judge straightened a few papers in front of him with blue-veined hands. “What are the charges against the prisoner?”

Gabe replied, “Theft and murder in the first degree.”

“How do you plead, Delman Dubois?” The judge peered down at the prisoner.

“Not guilty, Your Honor.” Delman stood tall in spite of his rumpled clothing.

Then Gabe noticed the judge's gaze straying from both him and the prisoner to a point behind them. Unwilling to behave unprofessionally by twisting his neck around, Gabe waited in a silence that settled over the courtroom.

“Miss,” the judge asked in a polite tone, “is there a reason for your standin' in the aisle of my courtroom?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

It couldn't be.
Gabe stiffened as he recognized that voice. The Yankee had nerve, he'd give her that. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the judge. He wouldn't allow her audacity to draw him into ungentlemanlike behavior. Why did this woman have to push her way where she didn't belong…and today of all days.

“Would you care to give the court your reason?” the judge continued with exaggerated courtesy.

“If I may.”

Her sweeter-than-sugar tone aggravated Gabe. She hadn't sounded that way in his office. She might fool this old judge, but not him.

“You may if you'll do so quickly.” The judge motioned for her to come forward.

Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. Each tap made Gabe's irritation mount. “Thank you, Your Honor. I just wanted to let Del know that I'm here to help him—”

“Meg!” Delman swung around.

She hurried down the aisle past Gabe.

In the stark courtroom, Gabe took in the sight of her. Red hat, red purse and shoes, and rouged lips, she flaunted herself like an exotic tropical bird. She reached for Delman's hands. His wrists were shackled, but he caught her hands in his and bent his head over them.

Gabe averted his eyes, uncomfortable by the show of emotion inappropriate between them and in a courtroom.

“What did they do to you, Del?” She cast a blistering glance at St. Clair.

Gabe wanted to clear himself of her suspicion, but she had no business standing in judgment over him. He had matters of life and death on his mind. Marie's sweet face slipped through his thought, disrupting his concentration. How had she survived?

“Counselor, would you explain what happened to the prisoner?” The judge stared pointedly at Gabe.

Holding tightly to his self-control, Gabe gave a cramped smile. “Delman resisted arrest.”

The prisoner straightened up and let go of the lady's hands.

She stared at St. Clair and in an undervoice demanded, “Is this why you wouldn't tell me about the status of Del's case?”

Before Gabe could reply, the judge asked, “Mr. St. Clair, do you know this young lady?”

“Yes, Your Honor. She visited my office this morning. I gave her a list of lawyers who might represent Delman.” Men went to court, not ladies. And her showing up here now shouted an immodesty that no real lady would ever display.

The judge asked her what her relationship was to the prisoner. She gave the judge the same answer she'd given St. Clair. The judge looked sympathetic. “Young lady, we can't hold up this proceeding any longer.”

“I'm sorry, Your Honor. But could I ask one question, please?”

Her flustered expression was very convincing. St. Clair gripped the back of the chair next to him, fighting the urge to hurry her out into the hall and give her a piece of his mind.

The judge nodded, obviously enjoying a lovely distraction in a boring, gray day.

She tilted her head shyly. “Is this a case where bail would be possible? Bail is the right term, isn't it, Your Honor?”

Her bewildered tone didn't fool Gabe. A woman who said she'd applied to law school knew something about bail.

“Mr. St. Clair,” the judge asked patiently, “has the defendant obtained counsel?”

“Your honor,” Gabe replied in a measured tone, “I wrote her a list of names—”

“Yes, he did, but I'm a stranger here,” the woman put in sounding earnest. “How do I know how to judge which one to hire?”

Her helpless-sounding explanation made Gabe clench his jaw, so he wouldn't let a rash word slip. This judge was a stickler for decorum. And obviously a sucker for a well-turned ankle, which this woman definitely, unfortunately possessed.

The judge spoke again: “It would have been better if a male member of your family had come, Miss.”

My thoughts exactly, Judge.
Gabe fumed.

“My father couldn't leave my stepmother. She's at the end of a very difficult confinement.”

“That is unfortunate. But the question of bail will have to be postponed until Delman has obtained counsel. Mr. St. Clair, I will order a continuance for this case for two days while this little lady seeks counsel for him.”

“Thank you so much.” Her voice dripped with honeyed relief. “Your honor, are prisoners allowed visitors?”

“You'll have to talk to the bailiff about that, Miss.”

“Thank you again.” She touched the prisoner's shoulder, then he was led away. As she turned to saunter to the back in the courtroom and sit down again, the blasted woman had the nerve to smile sweetly at him.

Gabe continued his duties. All the while, he felt her eyes burning into the back of this head. Women and law didn't mix. She'd just proven that. But Gabe's mind strayed back to what was more important. What was he going to do about Marie?

 

Shaking inside with outrage, Meg made her way out of the courtroom. In the hallway, she asked the bailiff about visiting Del. He told her she could see him at the jail tomorrow at four in the afternoon. She walked back out to the street. The rain had
stopped, but dismal clouds obscured the late afternoon sky.

Seeing the evidence of the abuse Del had suffered had more than shocked her. Her father had never sheltered her from the nasty side of life. At fifteen, she'd started doing interviews for her father's issues magazine, the
Cause Celebre
—striking workers outside factories, suffragettes, children picking fruit twelve hours a day for pennies. Then in France, she'd witnessed wholesale carnage and unimaginable suffering. But this was Del, practically her brother and one of the finest men she knew. She'd yearned to slap the prosecuting attorney's smug face.

Another taxi took her to the telegraph office where she struggled to compose a confident message. “Dear father, arrived safely. Stop. Spoke to parish attorney. Stop. Have seen Del. Stop. In process hiring counsel. Stop. Love to all, Meg.”

Soon she returned to her hotel lobby and requested her key. An envelope awaited her, a pink gardenia-scented one. Upstairs in her room, she slit it open with her nail file. It was an invitation to dine with Aunt Fleur's cousin, Emilie. Meg tossed it onto the soft bed and lay down. Dinner? She should be starving, but all she wanted was to storm the parish jail, free Del, and shake off the must and mold of this dreadful town.

Del's situation was more serious than she'd thought. The only way she could help Del was by arming herself with all the information she could find, not only about law but about this city as well. She needed to know where power lay here and who had clean hands. Cousin Emilie could introduce her to people of influence. She'd need influence to free Del. He didn't merely face a false charge. He faced unabashed racial prejudice.

She phoned Emilie who was just thrilled that Meg was in town, couldn't wait to meet her, and who would send her car to pick Meg up at 7:30
P.M
.