Blood Relations (4 page)

Mora tossed the mirror into a drawer and stood by his desk, his fingers tapping lightly on its surface. He kept a neat office. Diplomas and certificates marched across one wall. Papers were in order. The furniture was new and modern, with a long leather sofa facing the windows and two chairs at his desk. Sam sat in one of them.

“Vicki gave you the facts on this sexual battery thing.”

“Briefly. She didn’t seem to think it was much of a case.”

“It isn’t. Or wouldn’t be, except for the people involved.” Mora gave a short laugh. “Every time we get a celebrity-especially movie actors-here come the reporters, busily misreporting.”

Sam said, “You’re referring to Marquis Lamont?”

“Played for the Giants,” Mora said, showing he knew football. “Wide receiver.”

“That’s right.”

“Was he any good?”

“Pretty good as a rookie, maybe the first two seasons. I think they would have let him go, but his knee went out and saved them the trouble. He was better at Florida State.” Sam added, “I haven’t seen his movies.”

Mora shook his head. “What passes for celebrity on Miami Beach amazes me.”

Sam waited for Eddie Mora to get to the point.

The state attorney sat on the edge of his desk. “First, a summary of what happened over there. Late last Thursday night a young lady by the name of Alice Duncan went to a nightclub called the Apocalypse at the invitation of a George Fonseca, who may have a managerial position there, although that point is somewhat unclear. In any event, he does have-or used to have-a sexual relationship with the alleged victim. According to Miss Duncan, they went to a room in the club where a private party was being held. During the course of the party, Fonseca forcibly raped her, then restrained her while Marquis Lamont did so. She states that Ruffini sodomized her with the neck of a champagne bottle. Most of the people at the scene didn’t see it, or say they didn’t. Given the general level of intoxication in that room, I wouldn’t put much credence in what any of them have to say.” A smile slowly formed on Eddie Mora’s lips.

“Can you imagine the parade of characters coming before the court? The jury would think they were watching a Fellini film. And the girl-is she credible? The best defense attorneys in Miami will be baying for blood. And assuming we survived a motion to dismiss and went to trial, what would a jury do with a defendant like Lamont?”

Sam said, “I’m surprised the Miami Beach P.D. has gone this far with it.”

“They wouldn’t have, but the doctor at the Rape Treatment Center called it in, and a detective went over.”

“Was the girl injured?”

“Not badly. Some abrasions from the metal wrapping on the neck of the bottle. They have to report a rape when the victim is under eighteen.”

“How far under eighteen?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sam swiveled the chair, following Mora, who had started to pace around the room. A habit of his. The man couldn’t sit still. Sam said, “Vicky alluded to some problem the Beach police have with publicity.”

“Correct. In the past they’ve been accused, as you know, of not filing charges against people with influence.

The new chief wants to put an end to that perception. I admire the man. If I can help him, I’ll do it.” Mora stopped walking. “You want to know why I don’t send this case through routine pre-file downstairs and let them mark it no action.”

“

“It crossed my mind,” Sam said.

Mora stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered over to the windows. The vertical blinds were tilted open.

Eddie had the same view Sam did, only two stories higher: trees, white stucco houses and apartments, the expressway arching over them, then the downtown sky scrapers a couple of miles away, silvery against a blue sky. The windows needed cleaning up here, too.

“Yesterday I was in a meeting, and I got an urgent message to call the city manager of Miami Beach. Fine. So I excused myself and called Hal Delucca at his office.

Delucca told me that one of his-his-most important businessmen was being falsely accused of rape and that a film studio was threatening to pull out of a deal to shoot a movie on South Beach. Delucca said the girl was making an obvious attempt at a shakedown. He said she was coming on to Marquis Lamont when she danced with him.

Then she offered to sleep with Klaus Ruffini in exchange for a modeling job, and there are witnesses to say so.

Delucca wanted me to tell the police to back off. Well, of course I couldn’t do that, and I told him I was insulted at the suggestion.” Mora straightened one of the vertical blinds at his window.

He turned around. “This puts me in a touchy position, Sam. Do I file this case to prove Delucca has no influence over me? Or do I let it go and have it appear that he does?

That telephone call wasn’t only between me and Hal Delucca. Other people in his office must have known what he was doing. He may have made promises to the men involved in this incident.”

Even as Sam had grown increasingly impatient, listening to the details of a tawdry case that would never be filed, much less go to trial, he had become fascinated by the spectacle of Edward J. Mora practically hyperventilat ing because a bozo like Hal Delucca had asked him for a favor.

“What is it you want, Eddie?”

“I want to be able to tell the press-tell anyone who asks-that we looked into it. That we care about this young woman and so forth, but that given the lack of concrete evidence, we decline to prosecute. I can’t handle this myself, you understand that. Whenever I become involved with a case, it makes a statement, and I can’t make a statement on this. I didn’t immediately consider you be PPW cause, well, I’ve always felt a distance between us. You wanted this job. The governor gave it to me.”

Sam made a little shrug. I didn’t hold it against you.”

“I know.” Eddie Mora paced back to the window. “You could have caused me some serious grief, but you didn’t.

That’s why you’re here now. Why I trust you. You’re not flamboyant, but you get the job done. And your integrity is unquestioned. People recognize that. If Hagen says a case is trash, it is.” From across the room Eddie said, “I want you to handle this case. Do whatever you think is right.”

“I don’t want it,” Sam said. “Let it go through the sys term, Eddie. Pre-file can notify the girl to come in, but ten to one, she won’t show up. It’ll wash out.”

“No. I want a senior prosecutor on this. I want you, Sam.”

Absently, S.am massaged the joint in his thumb. There was some pain there occasionally. Minor arthritis, his wife would say, dismissing it.

“Eddie-you know, this doesn’t seem like that big a deal.”

Mora looked at him a few moments, then said, “All right, I’m going to tell you what the deal is, but what I say doesn’t leave this office.”

“Sure.”

“I’m on the short list to run on the Republican ticket this fall.”

It took Sam a while to absorb that. “As vice president.”

“Correct.”

“Jesus.”

“That’s what I said.” Mora smiled. “Who me? The first Hispanic on the ticket. And the youngest man ever. How about that? I’d have to resign from this job, though, to give it my best shot. I can’t do both.”

Slowly at first, then with a sudden rush of understanding that took his breath, Sam knew where this conversation was going. He gripped the arms of the chair to keep himself steady.

Mora said, “I’ve been told my name will be on top, but anything could happen.” Smiling, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “So. There’s the situation, Sam. Even small things can be a problem.”

“And you want my help.”

“I would be grateful, yes.”

Three years ago, when Edward Mora, as a political convenience, had been given this position, a man well under forty, with his easy smiles and expensive suits, a man not even from Florida, who had not tried one case in a state court, Sam had kept his mouth shut. He had gone along.

He had forced himself not to think about how much he had wanted this job. If he had let himself dwell on the years that stretched out ahead of him-most state attorneys in Miami stayed in office until they retired or dropped dead-he might have come close to despair.

Samuel Hagen, the trustworthy plodder, not known for his flamboyance …

He kept his expression neutral, but the emotions slammed through his body. He knew then how much he disliked Eddie Mora, had always disliked him.

Mora was smiling slightly, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sam said.

“Good.” Mora rose from the chair. “You know, Sam, I feel I ought to apologize, pushing this on you.”

Standing up, Sam looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“Well … South Beach. The modeling crowd. It’s got to be hard for you, so soon after your son’s death. Such a loss for you and Dina.” The quiet tone was meant to convey sincerity. “Under the circumstances I’m doubly appreciative. I want you to know that.” He took a hand out of his pocket long enough to grip Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s not a problem, Eddie.”

“You sure? Tell me.” Speaking in nearly a whisper now. The brows knitting.

“I said it’s not a problem.”

Sam shut the door when he left, then stood there for a moment staring into its slick, painted surface. It had been weeks since anyone outside the family had brought that up. Matthew Hagen. Only nineteen years old. Such a good-looking kid, too. A model. Got drunk at a nightclub and crashed his motorcycle on the causeway at four in the morning. And his father a top prosecutor with the state attorney’s office. What a shame. After eight months, Sam was getting damned tired of polite, phony expressions of sympathy.

He wondered how long it would be till someone else said how fucking sorry they were for his loss. And if there would come a time when he could think about his son and not want to smash the nearest thing at hand.

ingertips moving quickly over the damp earth, Dina Hagen scraped together the leaves and twigs, then tossed them into a brown paper grocery sack. She nudged the piece of cardboard she’d been kneeling on farther along the walkway. Herringbone bricks bordered the screened terrace, leading across the thick Bermuda grass to the redwood gazebo where she had hung her orchids and staghorn fern. She had planted a low hedge of ixora as a border-a mistake, for the plants were far too uncontrolled. It would take some effort to trim them back.

The clippers fell into a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the chk-chk-chk of a sprinkler over the wooden fence that circled the garden. The smell of wet, rich earth and blooming gardenia floated in the still air.

Of course one did not have a garden behind a house in the flat, monotonous suburbs southwest of Miami; one had a backyard. But this was a garden, designed with an eye to color and shape and to the dry or rainy seasons as well, so that the yellow tabebuia would flower in one corner while the red bottlebrush stood dormant in another.

Just after Dina and Sam and the children had moved in, her brother Nicholas, who owned a plant nursery north of Tampa, had driven three hundred miles with a truckful of soil and fertilizer and pots of flowers, shrubs, and palm trees, all verdant and shining. Nick had installed a sprin NIEL

kler system and hidden lights on timers, and it was all perfect.

Then two years later the hurricane had blown through, leaving everything smashed and ruined; even the tile roof had been ripped off the house in a great groan and cry, like a limb torn from a body. Nick had returned the next spring with more plants. The garden had been replanted exactly as it had been before-better than before-and the house had been rebuilt.

Sitting back on her heels, Dina caught a glimpse of a face at the kitchen window. Her daughter, watching her.

Melanie had shouted from the terrace awhile ago to say she had a phone call, and Dina, feeling invaded, had snapped at her, then apologized. Now the face disappeared, and Dina moved along the walkway. Her knees ached a little, but she paid no mind to that. From behind her she heard the laughter of the teenager next door, a shriek, then a splash as though someone had gone into the pool. The boy’s high, clear voice pierced her with a stab of despair so acute it was almost physical.

Taking a few deep breaths, Dina trimmed a scraggly branch down to the proper level. A cluster of blood-red blossoms dropped into her hand. For a while now, she had not taken her pills. They dulled the pain but made her sleep too much, and she couldn’t think clearly.

She moved the cardboard and knelt again. She wore loose cotton pants. Her wide-brimmed hat lay across the yard on a step of the gazebo; the sun had gone behind the black olive trees on the neighbors’ property. There was time for this today because she’d skipped her doctor’s appointment. She had driven by his office in that ugly, square, glass-walled building without even slowing her car. The dread she had felt, thinking of going inside, had changed to giddy exhilaration as the building shrank in her rearview mirror. The last four sessions Dr. Berman had gone probing into her past, as if there he might find some clue to explain why she grieved so. She had wanted to scream at him. You idiot, this is not in my past.

it is here, now. Always with me. He was poking for faults and weaknesses, as if the fault, once isolated, could be fixed. But is grief a fault? He had given an answer so infuriatingly irrelevant that she had quite forgotten it. She finally understood that he was leading her to his own conclusion: Dina Hagen was weak. Weak and self-indulgent.

Sam had sent her to this doctor hoping it would help.

For months Sam had watched her, humored her, treated her like a sick child. Sometimes his patience would fray, then he would go out and run until it was too dark to see, or work out on his weight machine-clank, clank, clank-until he could hardly stand up.

His way was to bear it. Be strong. He was such a master, Sam was, at burying things and pouring concrete into the grave, then piling boulders on top and turning his back. But Dina could not do it, and nothing, nothing had dulled her pain. It was too much to bear.

Dragging the bag along, Dina moved slowly toward the gazebo. She tucked a tendril of hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, then blotted her face on her sleeve. The shirt was one of Sam’s, tied at her waist, the scent of his body still in the fabric. He didn’t wear cologne, so it was only Sam that she smelled. Lie in the same bed with a man for half your life, and you know everything about him: his scent, his voice, the feel of his body, his moods, his thoughts. His infidelity, Three years ago he had been unfaithful. By the time Dina had been sure enough to accuse him, Sam said it was over. He had refused to name this woman, though Dina suspected it must have been one of the lawyers at his office. Dina had seen them at holiday parties. Pretty women, with their white teeth and lustrous hair and narrow waists, doting on Sam Hagen. Young spiders, catching men that age, a trade of youth for power.