Authors: Lisa Scottoline
Mary stayed at the window, wondering. It seemed unlikely that Premenstrual Tom could be out there, but it wasn’t impossible. There were dangerous people in this city; she knew because one of them had taken her husband’s life. They had been married only two years, and Mike had been killed while he was riding his bicycle on the West River Drive, intentionally struck by a car. That his murderer had eventually been caught gave Mary no comfort. She was a lawyer still trying to understand the meaning of justice. She understood completely the meaning of loss.
She hooked the shutter closed, turned away from the front window, and switched off the light.
Plunging herself into a familiar blackness.
“Go away,” Mary said without looking up. She was in her usual spot in the conference room, having spent another full day reading government documents. She still hadn’t found Amadeo’s file and she had three billion documents to go. Many lawyers would have balked at the task, but not Mary. She grew up in South Philly, where she’d learned to pop her gum, wear high heels, and work overtime. One of these skills would prove useful in life. Guess which.
“Come on, you need a break,” called a voice from the threshold. Judy Carrier, fellow associate and best friend. “Let’s go, it’s time for dinner!”
Mary finished reading her document and went on to the next. Only 2,999,999,999 to go.
If I never eat again, I can be finished by menopause. Yippee!
“It’s almost seven o’clock. Aren’t you hungry? I’m starving.”
“That’s because you move around too much. Sit still. Work.” Mary knew it was futile, even as she said it. Judy Carrier was from Northern California, where she climbed mountains for fun. Mary couldn’t relate. Once she saw a photo of Judy’s family wearing waist belts, ropes, and clips, and she thought they all worked for Comcast Cable.
“Let’s go to the sushi place across the street. I hear that super-hot guy from Dechert goes there, his name is Nicastro. Stephen Nicastro.” Judy brightened. “He must be Italian, like you!”
“Then we belong together. Register us at Bloomingdale’s.”
“Also if we go now, we can be back when Premenstrual Tom calls. Boo!” Judy had been ragging Mary all day and had even left a box of Midol on her desk.
“That’s very supportive. Now go away. Let me work. Leave.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Judy walked into the conference room and plopped into a swivel chair.
Mary looked up, vaguely annoyed. Judy was pretty in a wide-open, all-American way, with round, bright blue eyes, a small, straight nose, and an easy, optimistic grin. Her chin-length hair had been dyed most recently the canary of legal pads, which Mary hoped was coincidental. And in contrast to Mary’s stiff navy suit, Judy wore a tie-dyed T-shirt, baggy jeans, and yellow clogs that looked like bananas for the feet. The total effect was Business Casual meets Cirque du Soleil, but Mary didn’t say so. Best friends know when to shut up. “So you just gonna sit there and stare at me?”
“I want you bad.”
“Weirdo.”
“When can we eat?”
“After I find Amadeo’s file.” Mary held up the paper she’d been reading. “These are inventory sheets of property and bank accounts from other internees. If I find his inventory sheets, I’ll know what happened to his boats.”
“What’s the difference?”
“If I can trace what happened to his boats, I can get his estate reimbursed for their loss. All the money he had he put into that business and it was lost when he was interned. You read the
Korematsu
case, you know the great dissent by Brennan. That’s the justice part.”
“True, except that the dissenters in
Korematsu
were Murphy and Jackson. You and Bennie always get that wrong. Brennan wasn’t even on the Court at the time.” Judy smiled. “And justice can wait until after dinner.”
Mary knew Judy was kidding, at least about justice. An honors graduate of Boalt Hall, editor in chief of the
Law Review
, and a former law clerk to the Chief Judge of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, Judy Carrier had legal credentials that enabled her to correct everybody in the office, and far surpassing others who dyed their hair with Jell-O.
“Wait a minute,” Judy said, frowning at the documents scattered over the conference table. “You must have read these documents at the National Archives when you Xeroxed them. Did you see Brandolini’s file then?”
“No, but I’m double-checking. I could have missed it. It has to be here.” Mary skimmed the next document and sent up a silent prayer to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Lost Causes and Document Productions.
“
You
miss it?” Judy’s eyes flared in blue disbelief. “You never miss anything. You’re the most careful girl I know.”
“Except for the dissenters in
Korematsu
. Besides, I couldn’t concentrate when I was Xeroxing. I had to find the right files and I could only use the copy machine for five minutes at a time. They had so many rules, between the declassification stickers and the Identicards and the one-folder-at-a-time.” Mary didn’t add that she’d gotten distracted by just being at the National Archives. The College Park building was sleek, modern, and beautiful, a fitting edifice for the documented history of her country. She’d loved every minute of her research there, down to the cheery red pencils they gave you for free and the sign that read
THIS IS YOUR HERITAGE
!
“Mare, you’re wasting your time.”
“My time is officially worthless. This case is pro bono, remember?” Mary finished reading the letter, which was USELESS, too. She reached for a Post-it, slapped it on the letter, and instead of USELESS, scribbled THIS SUCKS. For variety.
“Okay. Fine. You force me to Plan B.” Judy produced an almond Hershey bar from her jeans and unwrapped the tinfoil. She took a huge first bite, ignoring the perforations around the chocolate rectangles. Judy didn’t like to be told what to do, even by candy.
“Don’t get chocolate on my files,” Mary said, but Judy was already chomping a coveted almond and soon would begin excavating all of them, saving for last the nutless chocolate remnants. It was one of her saturated fat fetishes. “Jude, I mean it, with the chocolate.” Mary set her letter aside and scribbled THIS SUCKS, TOO on a Post-it. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Judy picked up a sheaf of papers, which Mary grabbed back.
“Please! They’re Amadeo’s personal papers.” Mary set the stack safely on her side of the table, but when she looked up, Judy was picking up something else. “Stop! That’s an original, too!”
“An original what?”
“It’s his alien registration booklet.” Mary grabbed it back, relieved to see it wasn’t chocolate-covered. A pink booklet, it measured slightly larger than her palm and its faded paper cover was as soft as her old Catechism manual. It bore a round purple stamp dated MAR 6, 1941. “Amadeo had to register as an enemy of the country, even though his son fought for us in the same war. I can’t believe that my country did this to its own people, to Amadeo. It’s not the American way.”
“Amadeo wasn’t an American.”
“He was too. He lived here for thirty years. He offered up his only son to the war, to fight for the country. If that isn’t an American, what is?”
“But he wasn’t a citizen, was he?”
“You’re being legalistic.”
“I’m a lawyer. What do you expect? Don’t get your thong in a bunch.”
“I don’t wear thongs. What kind of girl wants people to think she doesn’t wear underwear?” Mary sounded crazy even to herself, and Judy was looking at her like she was nuts. “All I’m saying is that I’m Catholic, okay? I
welcome
visible panty lines.”
Judy put up a hand. “You’re hungry, that’s why you’re so cranky. So let’s go walk my dog, then eat.”
Mary returned to the booklet. The caption read, United States Department of Justice and under it, Certificate of Identification. There was an inky, rolled-out fingerprint on the left, and on the right, a black-and-white photo of Amadeo Brandolini, who was movie-star handsome. His eyes were dark under a strong forehead, his full mouth formed an easy smile, and his thick black hair glistened, evidently pomaded for his meeting with his adopted government. Mary held up the photo. “Doesn’t Amadeo look like George Clooney?”
Judy squinted at the thumbnail-size photo. “No, freak, he looks nothing like George Clooney.”
“He does, too. Exactly.”
“You’re getting bizarre. It’s like you have a crush on him or something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary’s gaze shifted to the right page of the booklet, which recorded that Brandolini was five seven and only 155 pounds. Under Distinctive Marks, someone had written
scar on forehead left side
. It said that he was born on August 30, 1903, in Ascoli-Piceno and had resided at 4933 Thompson Street in Philadelphia. Under Length of Residence in United States, someone had written
32 years
. Mary shook her head. Thirty-two years in this country, but he’d never applied for citizenship because he couldn’t read and write. It would be his undoing.
“Where did you get that registration book? That wasn’t at the National Archives, was it?”
“No, it was in his son Tony’s personal effects. I got it from the lawyer for the estate, Frank Cavuto.” Mary looked at the last page of the booklet. On the line that read Signature of Holder was scrawled a scratchy
X
. Next to it, someone had written
his mark.
Mary couldn’t stop looking at that
X
. The unknown.
“Girls!” came a shout from the door, startling them both. It was Bennie Rosato towering in the threshold, her thick blonde hair piled into an unruly topknot. She wore jeans and a Fairmount Boat Club sweatshirt and hoisted a heavy handbag, trial bag, and black suitcase. She didn’t look at all hungover to Mary, which was only one of her superpowers. “I gotta go to New York, I got called to trial in Preston on Monday. I’ll be two weeks, tops. Can you tykes hold the fort?”
“Is a raise involved?” Judy asked with a smile, but Mary didn’t have the guts, especially since Bennie carried concealed.
“That’s almost funny, Carrier. Now. DiNunzio.” The boss fixed her intense blue eyes on Mary. “I left two of my cases on your desk. They both have depositions this week. Take one and defend the other. Thanks.”
“Sure. Yes. Fine.”
Eeeeek!
“What about Premenstrual Tom? I heard he called again today.”
“I didn’t take the call, and you’d better not take any more while I’m away. He didn’t come to my house last night, did he? He didn’t come to the office today, did he? See? He’ll go away, they always do.”
Premenstrual Fred didn’t.
“What about that man, at my window?” Mary asked. She’d slept lousy last night and couldn’t shake her bad mood. Even Conan O’Brien hadn’t helped, when he did his little hip dance.
“That man was a shadow.” Bennie shook her head. “Now tell me what’s new in Alcor and Reitman. I heard they were getting active.”
“No, they’re quiet right now.”
Because I’m ignoring them.
“I don’t want you spending all your time on Brandolini, I told you that. We’re just recovering from last year, so this isn’t the time to let down.” Bennie’s eyes narrowed. “Bill some time, ladies. Clients who pay deserve justice, too.”
“Got it. Right.” Mary set the papers down, and Bennie kicked the back of Judy’s chair with a worn running shoe.
“Carrier, I almost forgot. I left the Neely Electric file on your desk, you’ll see the notes on it. I need a summary judgment motion drafted and emailed to me by the end of the week. Tell me that’s not a problem.”
Judy laughed.
“Excellent. All right, I got a train to catch. I told Marshall to call me if we hear from Premenstrual Tom, and I’ll stay on top of it. DiNunzio, don’t forget about your other cases. And Carrier, don’t pierce anything else. Bye, kids.” Bennie rapped the threshold smartly, then disappeared. The associates remained silent until they heard the
ping
of the elevator that carried her away, then they burst into chatter.
“Don’t pierce anything
else
?” Mary leaned forward. “What does she mean by
that
? And why does she know before me?”
“Tell you on the way to dinner.” Judy leapt to her bananas and rounded the table, where she grabbed Mary by the sleeve of her jacket and hoisted her to her pumps. “Now, girl! Out! You’re coming to dinner with me.”
“No, stop! I hate sushi!” Mary tried to stay rooted, but it was USELESS. She was a fireplug, but Judy was a Sequoia.
“We’re not having sushi.” Judy tugged Mary toward the conference room door. “I have a better idea.”
“Better than piercing whatever?”
“Yes!” Judy yanked Mary to the elevator, got her downstairs, and stuffed her into a cab. Only then did Judy reveal where they were going.
And what she had pierced.
Mercer Street was a typical side street in South Philly, only one-Ford wide and lined with attached rowhouses of red brick, each a squat two stories. Every rowhouse had two windows on the second floor, and on the first, a bay window that generally displayed a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary and a miniature flag of Italy, the United States, or the Philadelphia Eagles. There were minor variations in the front doors, but everybody owned a screen door that displayed a scrollwork initial. On Mercer Street, the scrollwork initial was usually D. When Mary was young, she thought the D stood for Door, then her family got one and she realized it stood for DiNunzio, D’Orazio, DiTizio, D’Agostino, DeMarco, DiAngeli, D’Amato, DeCecco, Della Cava, and finally, Dunphy. Whose wife was a DaTuno.
Mary and Judy climbed the front stoop of her parents’ house and were just about to open the screen door when a gleaming black Escalade barreled down the narrow street. Nobody drove like that down Mercer, and Mary turned in annoyance, just in time to get a glimpse of the driver. He wore a black shirt and was burly, with his head slightly down and his cheeks pitted with acne scars. She was about to holler at him for driving too fast when Judy yanked her inside.