Authors: Lisa Scottoline
“Nothing.”
Nut-ting-eh
, it came out.
“Something’s wrong, Ma. You’re thin, I can see that. Tell me.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ma, you’re making my head hurt more.” Mary sat on the bed, refusing to make her hospital corner. “Tell me. I’m ready. I can handle it, whatever it is. We can handle it together.” Her words rang with an authority unusual for Mary, and she realized she couldn’t even have faked that tone before.
Her mother remained silent as she folded her corner, her lips forming a tight line. She smoothed out the sheet with the flat of each hand in brisk, practiced strokes, and in no time, her side of the bed was completely made and Mary’s was a complete mess. Her mother pretended that she didn’t notice as she picked up the white thermal blanket, bleached to the soft hue of city snow, and held it bunched in her hands, ready to put on the bed. Her mother tilted her head in appeal. “Maria.”
“I’m not moving until you tell me.”
“
Per favore
.”
“No.” Mary folded her arms. It was stubborn meets stubborn, in a face-off over the hospital corners. Her mother couldn’t stand an unmade bed. It was like a ringing telephone for some people, or a form of torture by electrocution for others. After a minute, her mother gave a small, final sigh and eased onto the bed, hugging the blanket to her chest. Mary swallowed hard. She was getting ready to say something.
“I’m a little sick.”
Leetle seek.
Mary felt her heart stop. “How sick? What do you have?”
“Little sick, inna, inna —” Her mother frowned in a squeamish way and made a swirling gesture near her pelvis. “
Ovaie
, itsa sick. Little bit, sick.”
No. This isn’t happening.
What? Mary struggled to translate from the hand motion, “Like your ovaries? What does ‘sick’ mean?”
“Little bit sick.”
It had to be. What else could it be? She didn’t want to say the word. “Ma, did he say it was cancer, in your ovaries? That you have ovarian cancer?”
“
Sì, sì, è cancro
” — her mother made the swirling gesture again, yes, it’s cancer, and Mary felt as if somebody had thrown a switch on all the circuits in her brain.
Her mother said quickly, “No worry, Maria,
dottore,
he say I ’ave operation.”
Operaysh
.
“Operation? What kind of operation?”
“
Isterectomia,
” her mother answered in Italian, a word Mary had never heard, but she could guess.
“A hysterectomy?”
“
Sì.
” Her mother flushed, mortified.
She needed a hysterectomy. Maybe they had caught it early. Maybe she’d be okay.
Mary was terrified and relieved, simultaneously. She tried to collect herself. “Ma? You scared? It’s a normal thing, a common thing, to be scared.”
“No scared. I pray, I no scared. God, he take care of me.” Her eyes remained unflinching, richly brown and clear, gazing back at her daughter, as always, with honesty, love, and something new. Bravery. Vita DiNunzio had never ridden a bucking bronco, climbed anything taller than a footstool, or kicked her way out of a Lexus. But she was braver than all of them, and Mary felt a sudden shame that she had never realized it before. She got up on weak knees, went around to the neat side of the bed, and put her arms around her mother, who felt so terribly frail in her arms.
“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll take care of you, Pop will take care of you. You’ll be fine.” Mary searched for the words, never having comforted her mother in her life. “Ma, I’ll make sure everything’s okay for you, you’ll see.”
“
Sì, sì
,” her mother said, holding tight to the white blanket, and for a single moment, she permitted herself to be cradled like a child.
By the very child she’d brought into the world.
* * *
Mary had a sleepless night, between trying to work and trying not to worry about her mother, and was up at seven, showering in the bathroom down the hall, then changing into one of her sister’s old brown suits, which almost matched a beat-up pair of Aerosoles she kept at her parents’ for emergency Mass. Her black clutch bag and her cell phone had been confiscated for evidence, but she wouldn’t need them where she was going today. She took a second to peek out the bedroom window, and there were only a few reporters out front, leftover from last night. MacIntire was among them, looking up at her lighted window, and she drew away. Mary was glad he had survived the snow shovel. He would come in handy today.
She headed out of the room but stopped at her bureau, taking the time to dab some cakey flesh-colored Clearasil over the purplish bruises on her forehead, which would fool no one and stung besides. She took no pain meds, despite the dull ache from the wound, because she had to think clearly today. She made her bed hastily, turned out the bedroom light, and padded down the hall, checking in on her parents’ bedroom, almost hoping they’d be asleep.
But they weren’t. Their bedroom was empty, dark, and looked the way it always did; their double bed flush against the flowered wallpaper, a wooden crucifix over the dark head-board, a blue plastic denture case on her father’s night table. They were already awake and downstairs, waiting for her.
Good! Right?
Mary had told her mother last night that she had to leave the next morning. They’d tacitly agreed that they’d had enough drama for one night and could postpone the fistfight until morning. Now. She left the room, steeled her nerve, and tramped downstairs to do battle over fresh coffee.
The DiNunzios may be crazy, but at least we’re civilized.
Five minutes later, Mary was sitting behind a scorching cup, opposite her father, saying nothing as they waited for her mother to sit down. Both her parents were fully dressed, her father in maroon Bermuda shorts, undershirt, white socks and black slippers, with his hearing aid curled in his ear like an electronic snail.
Uh-oh.
He had undoubtedly gotten an earful last night, and it was a bad sign that he wanted to hear this morning. Her mother wore her flowered housedress, her scuffy slippers, but no pink hairnet, which meant only one thing: she was going to early Mass this morning. A
definite
bad sign.
Mary sipped her coffee for strength while her mother put the pot down so hard on the stove it made a
clank,
unseating the cast-iron burner. Then she came over to the kitchen table and sat down behind her cup without a word. Her eyes weren’t too tired to be stern behind the bifocal half of her glasses, which magnified her pupils in a black-and-brown window. Her lips were as tight as last night. “So, where you go, Maria?”
“To court, for Amadeo.”
“You should stay home. You’re sick. Your head.”
“I can’t. I have to go.”
“The newspapers, out front again.”
“I know. They should leave when I do, but if they don’t, don’t talk to them. Don’t talk to them no matter what.” Mary turned to her father. “Don’t let her hit them with the spoon, either. That’s assault.”
He smiled, but her mother frowned. “Today, Judy goes?”
“No, I go alone.”
“
E Benedetta
?”
“No, not Bennie either.” Mary didn’t even want to think where Bennie was or what she’d say about what had happened. She’d unplugged her parents’ phone for a reason. They’d realize it sometime next year.
“These man, Saracone, he sent the one last night?”
“Yes, the son,” Mary said, without hesitation. Justin Saracone was protecting his secret. No use sugarcoating it. Her mother wasn’t stupid.
“And the police, why the police don’ stop these man?”
“They can’t prove he did it, and they have to prove it.”
Like me.
“I can’t wait for them anyway. Now, I have to go.” Mary didn’t know how to put it any differently. She was going to court no matter what her mother said. She couldn’t ask permission to do her job, but this was beyond that. She couldn’t ask permission to be herself. Not after Montana, or last night. They had two different paths to follow, mother and daughter. They were separate now. Changed, now and forever. Mary reached across the table and touched her mother’s hand. “I can handle it, Ma. I saved my own life last night. You’re going to save yours, too, right?”
Her mother didn’t reply. Her father looked down.
“We can do it, Ma. You and me. But I have to go now. I’m gonna be late. You have to let me go, Ma.”
You have to let me go.
Suddenly her mother stood up, pushing back her chair, which made a familiarly unhappy squeak on the tile floor. Mary knew what would happen next because it happened all the time. Her mother would walk out of the kitchen. If Mary were going to leave today, it wouldn’t be with anybody’s blessing. But in the next minute, instead of storming out of the room, her mother opened her arms.
“Maria, good-bye, Maria,” she said, in a shaky voice.
Mary’s mouth dropped open. She rose reflexively and went around the table. But this time, she did cry.
And when she was finished, she wiped her eyes and went to work.
The rain didn’t faze the throng of reporters and photographers who mobbed Mary as soon as she got out of the Yellow cab in front of the United States Courthouse. They overflowed the wide sidewalk almost to the glamorous new Constitution Center, spilling off the curb, snarling cab, car, bus, and tourist traffic on an insanely busy Market Street. There were at least a hundred reporters, and Mary spotted ABC, COURT-TV, and CNN logos, as well as locals KYW and WCAU. And to think, all she had to do was almost get killed.
“Mary, Mary, Mary!” Everyone in the crowd was shouting, a reportorial cacophony. Mary had never heard her name so many times, except for Our Lady of Angels. “Mary, did you know the guy who kidnapped you?” “Mary, over here!” “Mary, smile!” “Mary, this way!” “Mary, did the Roundhouse identify the driver yet, Mary?” “Mary, how’d you get outta the trunk?” “Mary, is it true he was related to Justin Saracone?”
“After court! No comment until then!” Mary waved them all off as she made her way through the bubble microphones, boom mikes, and steno pads. They aimed videocameras, still cameras, and handheld klieglights at her Clearasil, and round flexible reflective screens bounced artificial light into her tired eyes. It was even better than she had hoped. “No comment until after the hearing! Thank you!”
Mary pushed her way inside the tall red-brick building, threading her way through its packed lobby of jurors, lawyers, spectators, and reporters who dogged her every step. She ignored everybody, barreling head down through security to the elevators, and she didn’t look up until she reached the courtroom.
The courtroom was immense, with long dark wood pews and a matching wood dais under the huge golden seal of the United States Courts, and even as large as it was, the courtroom was bursting at its federal seams. Spectators crammed the pews cheek by jowl, knee to knee, filling every inch of bench. They stood along the back wall of the courtroom, concealing its heavy acoustical wood panels, and along the sides, under the heavy oil portraits hanging there, framed in gilt. Beyond the bar of court, the courtroom deputies were at full staff, and every law clerk’s high-backed chair was taken. The body heat challenged the air-conditioning, and the air was thick with aftershaves, perfumes, and pencil leads.
Mary stepped onto the blue carpet of the center aisle, and murmuring rippled through the crowd. Every single head turned toward her. She felt her face flush red as tomato sauce and kept her head down as she barreled down the aisle, with everyone craning their necks, or boosting themselves up to catch a glimpse of the lawyer who got locked in the trunk. Sketch artists held their gray pads sideways, and reporters scribbled on steno pads, including Mac, whose eye she avoided. The
circolo
, occupying two aisles on her right, waved frantically at her, and Mary acknowledged them with a nod, then practically ran up the aisle to the polished counsel table, where Judy was sitting, dressed up in a black suit, real eyeliner, and hair moussed into submission.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Mary whispered as she took her seat, and Judy smiled.
“How’s first chair feel, big girl?”
“Terrifying.”
“Go get ’em.” They both looked over at the same time to defendant’s table, where an older corporate-type lawyer sat next to Justin Saracone. Both lawyer and client were dressed in expensive dark suits with a sleek Italian cut, shiny black wingtips, white shirts with cutaway collars, and puffy silk ties. The only difference between them was that Justin had a swollen upper lip.
Mary smiled. “I do good work.”
“You the
man
. BTW, you see the boss? She’s here. Third row, in the middle.”
Mary took a peek.
There
. Bennie in her trademark suit. Trademark hair. Trademark glare. Mary faced front, fast. “Am I fired?”
“Not this time. She feels guilty she almost got you killed on that last blind date.”
Suddenly a paneled pocket door opened to the left of the dais, and the courtroom deputy appeared and took a position in front of the American flag, his chest puffed out. “All rise for the Honorable Lisa Gemmill,” he called out, his ringing voice hushing the crowd instantly, and Mary, Judy, and everyone else rose as Judge Gemmill entered the courtroom. Mary had never been before her, but the number of judges Mary had never been before was legion.
Judge Gemmill nodded to the courtroom as she swept in and took her seat on the dais. She had long, dark hair, bright intelligent eyes, and wore a chic string of pearls with her robes. “Good morning, Ms. DiNunzio, Mr. Rovitch.” Then her gaze took in the entire courtroom, her displeasure undisguised. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will have order in my courtroom today. I intend to keep these proceedings on a tight rein.” She focused on Mary. “Ms. DiNunzio, you’re the movant today. Please begin.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Mary gathered her papers and exhibits and went to the lectern, trying to forget that five million eyes were staring at her. “Your Honor, if it please the Court, my name is Mary DiNunzio, and I’m here on behalf of the estate of Amadeo Brandolini —”