Authors: Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
“What happened to your face? Was it a recent accident or is it an old injury? Did you decide to expose it at the last minute to influence the jury?”
Questions flew at her from all directions. “No comment,” Stella said. She turned to say something to Ben Growman, and then walked over and embraced Judy McKinley. “It’s over, Judy,” she said. “Maybe you can get on with your life now.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, sobbing. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. You were wonderful today. I don’t know what happened to you, but—”
Stella released her when Growman stepped up beside her. The television cameras were rolling again and the photographers were snapping shots of the two of them together. “You’ve said you might retire next year,” a woman reporter said to Growman. “Are the rumors true that you’re grooming Ms. Cataloni as your successor?”
Growman beamed, moving closer to Stella and draping an arm over her shoulder. “That’s a clear possibility, young lady,” he said, using the relaxed, folksy tone of a seasoned politician. “To tell you all the truth, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather endorse than Stella Cataloni. She’s the finest prosecutor we’ve ever had in this agency.” He glanced over at Stella, smiled and then chuckled. “Maybe I’ll even organize her campaign. Heck, I’ve got to do something after I retire. Of course, that’s if she’ll have me.”
Stella felt her chest swell with pride. When a man with twenty years in on a job, as respected and revered as Ben Growman, issued a glowing recommendation on national TV, it was tantamount to handing over the keys to his office. Feeling his hand brush against her side, she reached down and squeezed it. Stella was on a high, and she loved it. Nothing could stop her now.
Stella, Growman, Kominsky, Anderson, and several other senior D.A.‘s gathered in the conference room, better known as the war room. Once a week Growman assembled the senior staff and department heads, and they all faced each other around the long oak table as he made work assignments and commented about various aspects of ongoing cases. The table was now covered with paper napkins, pizza boxes, plastic cups, open bottles of champagne, and a festive atmosphere prevailed.
Also present was Samuel Weinstein, Stella’s planned dinner companion for the evening. They had made arrangements to get together before she realized the verdict would be in on the Pelham case. Technically, Weinstein was Stella’s divorce attorney, but even before she hired him to represent her in the dissolution of her marriage, they had moved in the same small world. Weinstein was a close acquaintance of Ben Growman’s and had met everyone in the room on at least one or two occasions. Dallas, like many towns, had specific social circles. People who were in the law game generally belonged to the same private clubs, worked out at the same gym, had drinks at the same bars, and moved within a defined social circle. Two industries were predominant in Dallas—insurance and oil—although in recent years the skyscrapers that housed the enormous insurance firms had dwarfed what remained of the oil business. Then there was Dallas old money, what Stella referred to as the “Highland Park Crowd,” basically old-line Dallas families, many of which had inherited their fortunes. Highland Park was an affluent, older area in north Dallas, most of the homes well over a million dollars. High-tech companies like Ross Perot’s Texas Instruments had also sprung up through the years, and their employees had created a world unto themselves.
Lately Stella had been spending a great deal of time with Weinstein, not all of it related to her divorce. Sam was a good-looking man and a dynamite divorce attorney, but in some ways he was old-fashioned. Only forty-three, he had been a widower for over ten years, having lost his young wife to breast cancer. Stella found him appealing, even if he was a tad too conservative. With his curly hair and penetrating eyes, a prominent nose and strong jaw, the attorney had been a steadying influence as she navigated the emotional waters of her divorce. From time to time he took her out to dinner, assuring her that everything would turn out fine if she only gave it enough time and didn’t panic. But Stella was still undecided where she wanted the relationship to go.
“You shouldn’t drink so much champagne,” he told her, scowling. “You’ll make yourself sick. You didn’t have dinner. You didn’t even eat the pizza.”
“Oh, yeah,” Stella said, tipping another plastic cup of champagne into her mouth. “After today I think I deserve to get sloshed. If it all comes back up, so be it.”
The rest of the table responded with laughter. Growman stood. “To Stella,” he said, holding his champagne glass in the air. “We should all be so dedicated. Take a good look at her, people, because in a few years Stella Cataloni is going to be the new D.A. of Dallas County. Yours truly will be just another old fool puttering around on the golf course.”
Stella grabbed her glass and tapped it against every glass at the table, leaning over to reach some of them on the far end.
“Speech,” Kominsky called out. He had already emptied one bottle of champagne long before the others had arrived.
“I’m too drunk to give a speech,” Stella mumbled under her breath. Then she lifted her glass again, “To Ben Growman,” she offered. “May he retire post haste. Then I can sit at the head of the table and make your lives hell.” When she tapped into Sam’s glass, it tipped and champagne spilled down the front of his suit. He reached for a napkin and tried to soak up some of the wine.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Stella said, frowning.
“Coffee,” Kominsky yelled. “Get the woman some coffee. We’ve got a sauced prosecutor on our hands. Two, actually.”
Brenda Anderson left to see if there was any coffee left in the kitchen down the hall. Seated next to Stella, Growman leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I had my secretary tape your interview off the television today. Come by my office and I’ll give you the tape as a souvenir. If you study it, you’ll learn how to present yourself to the media. That’s part of the game, you know. Once you start campaigning, you’ll want to become more polished.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Stella’s lighthearted mood evaporated. She had exposed her scars and won the case, but now it was over, and she certainly didn’t want a souvenir of herself looking like a freak. “I’m ready to go,” she told Sam, patting down the hair on the right side of her face. “It’s been a long day, and you’re right, if I keep drinking, I’m going to pass out or get sick.”
Standing to leave, she told herself that Sam was special. She had learned to respect him, even lean on him during the past eight or nine months. Raising his twelve-year-old son alone while managing a thriving law practice had to be a difficult task. Stella was so obsessed with her job that she couldn’t even appease her husband, let alone handle the demands associated with raising a child.
A junior attorney, looking haggard, stuck her head in the door. “I have a call for you, Stella,” she said. “Do you want to take it or should I have them call back in the morning? It’s Holly Oppenheimer from the Houston D.A.‘s office.”
“What line is she on?” Stella asked. Even though Oppenheimer was a prosecutor in Houston now, she had once been a D.A. in Dallas and the two women were friends. Holly had been the prosecutor when Pelham was first tried, and Stella had conferred with her on a regular basis before and during the present trial.
“Line three,” the woman said. “It’s the only line that rings through when the switchboard is closed, and it only rings in my office. Every time I work late, I get stuck with all these calls.”
Telling Sam she would be only a few minutes, Stella walked over to the console behind the conference table and picked up the phone. “Holly,” she said, “did you hear the news about Pelham?”
“Of course I did, Stella,” the woman said. “How could I not hear? You’ve been on almost every TV channel. The CBS affiliate here in Houston carried it live. I couldn’t wait to congratulate you.”
“Thanks,” Stella said, “but you know what? Most of what I used was your doing. We filed the same charges, used the same evidence. We tried our best, but we couldn’t come up with anything new. I just dug into your old notes and put a slightly different spin on them.”
“Come on,” Holly said. “It took a lot of courage to do what you did, Stella. I know how you feel about your scars. I think the decision to expose them was a stroke of genius. There’s no doubt in my mind that your strategy influenced the jury.”
“Oh,” Stella said, “no one knows how effective it really was. The jurors might have returned the same verdict regardless, but I guess my little courtroom theatrics didn’t hurt. I wear this face every day, so I decided I might as well get some use out of it.”
Holly said, “You’ll never know how bad I wanted that case, Stella. I got very close to Ricky’s mother, you know. When we lost it and they kicked Pelham free, I felt like I had failed her.”
“She’s a nice lady,” Stella said. Seeing Ben Growman glaring at her, she turned to face the wall. “She asked about you the other day, told me to send her regards.”
“How is she?” Holly asked. “This was so hard for her. Ricky was her only child. Since I have a daughter of my own now, I know how a mother feels.”
“She’s better,” Stella said. “I think now that it’s over, she can finally get on with her life.” Turning introspective, she thought about her own situation. “By the way,” she said, “have you had a chance to look over the old reports on the fire? You’ve got a great eye. Holly, and you might be able to see something the earlier investigators missed.”
“Oh,” Holly said. “I’m sorry, Stella. I was so excited over the Pelham case that I forgot to tell you. Your old boyfriend is back in town. The cops stopped him just last night. He’s coming in tomorrow morning to give us a statement, so maybe—”
“Randall?” Stella said, a hand flying to her cheek. She tapped Growman on the shoulder. “They found Tom Randall, Ben. He’s back in Houston.”
Growman fidgeted in his seat and scowled.
“What time is he coming in?” she asked.
“He’s supposed to be here at nine,” her friend answered. “Listen, Stella,” she said, her voice harsher, “people thought I left the agency because I lost the Pelham case, but I left because Growman sexually harassed me and forced me to resign. Just because the review board didn’t take my allegations seriously doesn’t mean they weren’t valid.” She paused and heavy breathing came over the line. “I know you and he are tight and he’s probably sitting right next to you, but to tell you the truth, I really don’t care.” Before Stella could respond, her friend slammed the phone down in her ear.
“Your biggest fan,” Stella said to Growman.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, tipping his chair back until the legs came off the ground. “Tell me something I don’t know.” A few moments later, he straightened up, seeing the look on Stella’s face. “Randall’s the man you think set the fire that killed your parents? That means he’s the person responsible for your scars, right?”
“Right,” Stella said, her eyes flashing with hatred. “You know how bad I want this man? You have no idea, Ben.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve waited sixteen years to find this asshole,” she snarled, “to make him pay for what he did to me. I’m going to nail his fucking ass to the wall.” Her hands locked into fists at her sides. “Not only that, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”
Whereas the people gathered at the table had been chatting and laughing among themselves, they now all fell silent. Before today no one except Growman had been aware that Stella’s face was scarred, since she had always concealed the scars beneath her hair.
Brenda stepped back into the room and looked around. “Did I miss something?” she asked. “Did someone just die in here? I thought this was a party.”
Stella’s eyes were glazed over and her mouth set. Her heart was beating like a drum inside her chest. Realizing that the other attorneys were hanging on her every word, she just stood there, overcome with embarrassment.
Sam quickly rose and pushed his chair back to the table. “Come on, Stella,” he said, gently taking her by the arm and leading her toward the door. He could feel her trembling. “I’ll drive you home. Let’s get out of here.”
About the Author
Nancy Taylor Rosenberg has worked in law enforcement in Texas, New Mexico, and California, handling a multitude of sex crimes and murders. Her two previous bestsellers,
Mitigating Circumstances
and
Interest of Justice
, are Main Selections of the Literary Guild. Her latest work,
California Angel
, is also a Literary Guild Selection. She lives in the New York area.