The Missing Piece (12 page)

Ronan Hannigan materialized in the sun-lit mist, arms pumping, legs churning, silky green tank top and shorts rippling in his self-created breeze. He drew even with Damien, threw up his arms, and stuck out his chest as if breaking the tape at the end of a race. Within a few paces he was walking, his thumbs hooked on his flanks, his fingers spanning his narrow stomach. As he traced a desultory arc from the center of the street to the curb, Damien fell into step beside him.

They walked up to the corner and turned back. Hannigan said nothing. His mouth was locked open, stretching the thin beard that defined his jawline. Finally, he forced air out of his lungs, did a deep knee bend, and shook the tension out of his arms.

“You got my call, huh?” said Hannigan.

“I did,” said Damien.

“Well, what are you going to do? I'm losing people fast. This keeps up, I'll be making speeches to myself.”

“I'll scout around.”

“Ten dollars a day. Breakfast at the mission. Lunch provided.”

“The others got twenty.”

“And half of them are gone. That's the deal. Find me thirty people. You get me thirty people, I'll give you a bonus.”

“I have something else.” Damien patted his carry case. “Information helpful to your cause.”

“What kind of information?” said Hannigan.

“I can't tell you without giving it away. Let's just say it's information you could use in your protest signage, or bring to bear on the judge personally.”

“So it's personal information?”

“Of the most sensitive nature,” said Damien.

“I don't want it,” said Hannigan. “I'm not after Judge Conover personally.”

“Sure sounds like you are with the signs and the chants.”

“Well, I'm not. I'm trying to help my people, yes. But I'm catching a whiff of something bigger. I want to shine a light on the basic unfairness of the judicial system. It's a club just like Wall Street is a club. The rich and powerful get waved in, while the poor and weak get whatever justice trickles down to them.”

They reached an iron gate with a sign for the mission attached by a wire coat hanger. Hannigan opened the gate and closed it behind him.

“I need people,” he called back over his shoulder. “Thirty of them by tomorrow. Get them for me.”

*   *   *

Linda watched Hugh through the curtain of her hair as he came out of his walk-in closet and laid two golf shirts in an open suitcase.

“You're going to have time for golf?” she said.

“Of course not,” said Hugh. “But I can't stay in a suit and tie all day and into the night. I need to be comfortable working late.”

“Just kidding, silly,” she said.

Her stomach felt queasy. Not barf queasy, but more like burp queasy. She rolled onto her stomach.

“Which of these?” He held two more golf shirts, weighing yellow against red.

Linda took a deep breath and lifted her head.

“I like you in yellow.”

Hugh tossed that shirt into the suitcase.

Early in their marriage, they always wrestled with important decisions until they reached a conclusion. Vacation in Italy or France? Buy a brownstone on the Upper West Side or a condo in Battery Park City? Every decision presented binary choices, and they carefully weighed the pros and cons for each. Lately, though, their disagreements sounded like oral arguments in court. She stated her side, he stated his, and then they both went silent as if expecting a judge to decide. But there was no judge, just an inconclusive silence that meant
I'll do what I want
. So it had been last night.

“I'm leaving now,” said Hugh.

Linda realized she had dozed off. Her stomach gurgled, and she burped into the pillow before turning over.

“Good luck,” she said.

Hugh leaned down, pecked her forehead and her nose, and then kissed her on the mouth.

“Thanks,” he said. “Miss you.”

“Miss you, too.” She dropped her head back onto the pillow and listened to his footsteps recede in the hallway, the squeak and rattle of his luggage, the rumble of the descending elevator. She waited a minute, then pushed up and dropped her legs off the side of the bed. Still naked, she reached for her bathrobe and pulled in onto her shoulders. Was she showing, or did her belly bulge like that because she was sitting?

She went to the window just as Hugh emerged from beneath the stoop and dragged his luggage to the curb. He stabbed a number into his phone and held it to his ear. He paced as he spoke, and he was still speaking when the car service limo arrived to bear him like General Salvus into the hinterlands.

Linda burped and tasted bile. She made it to the toilet just as the heaves gripped her.

 

CHAPTER 13

Karen put the call on hold but out of habit still covered the mouthpiece before she spoke.

“For the judge,” she said. “Sounds important.”

“Tell 'em she's late again,” said Mark.

Karen sighed, letting her shoulders slump. The judge imposed few rules in chambers, but the one inviolate precept was never, ever admit to the judge's absence from the courthouse during business hours.

“You know I can't do that,” she said.

“Who is it?” said Mark.

“A lawyer named Arthur Braman.”

“
The
Arthur Braman? Of Carey Hoffenstein?”

“He didn't mention the firm. Is there more than one?”

“Only one that I care about.” Mark picked up his phone and connected to the line. “Hello, Mr. Braman, this is Mark Garber, the judge's law clerk. How may I help you?”

“I understand the Appellate Division just issued a decision in
Croatia v. Leinster
and that the case will be remanded to Judge Conover for trial.” Braman's voice was smooth and his words carried a slightly wry twist as if he spoke through a smile. “I wanted to confirm that with the judge and schedule a pretrial conference.”

“The judge is in conference right now,” said Mark.

“Shall I hold?”

“Better that you give me your call-back number,” said Mark. “I'll get back to you ASAP.”

He hung up and immediately called the courtroom. The phone rang and rang, which could only mean that the clerk was away from his desk.

“What's up?” said Karen.

“The Roman silver case is back,” said Mark. “And Braman says it's ours.”

He left chambers and ran down the corridor. Forget about the judge and her list of law firms. Forget about Hugh Gavigan and his transparent lack of interest. This could be his lucky day.

*   *   *

In his midtown office, Arthur Braman hung up his phone.

“The law clerk doesn't know a goddam thing about it,” he said.

His associate stood across from his desk, holding the decision she had just downloaded from the state law reporter's website.

“Maybe my information is wrong,” she said.

“No. No, I'm sure it's right. It makes perfect sense.” Braman riffled a thick folder of résumés. Something caught his eye but didn't quite register before he exchanged it for the decision. “Bring those down to Bassano. He'll know what to do with them. I'll buzz you when I hear back from chambers.”

The associate turned to leave.

“Wait,” called Braman, realizing now what had caught his eye. “Let me see that folder again.”

The associate handed it over, then stepped back as Braman paged through the résumés.

“I'll take care of this one,” said Braman.

*   *   *

After his brief visit to the courtroom, Mark was even more keyed up than he had been after speaking to
the
Arthur Braman. The clerk had checked the court's computer system and verified that, yes, the Roman silver case was back and had been assigned to Judge Conover for trial by administrative order of Judge Belcher. Seeing those facts on the green-and-black computer screen sent a thrill coursing through Mark's usually stolid body, and he inveigled the clerk to print out the Appellate Division decision. He was chugging up the stairs, the decision rolled like a diploma in his hands, when his cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He stopped, huffing, at the 4M landing, and fumbled the phone out of his pocket. The screen listed the number as “restricted,” which was not unusual for large law firms. He gulped a mouthful of air and answered.

“Mark Garber here,” he said.

“Hello, Mark. This is Arthur Braman. We spoke just a few minutes ago.”

Like I don't remember, thought Mark.

“I just went to the courtroom,” he said. “I have—”

“Hold on, Mark, don't say anything else. I want to be completely proper about this.”

Mark looked up. Above him, two short flights of stairs zigzagged up to the chambers corridor on the fifth floor. Just a few feet beyond that juncture was the doorway to chambers.

“When you identified yourself earlier,” said Braman, “I knew your name sounded familiar. Now I know why. You know what I'm talking about.”

“Of course,” said Mark.

“Good. Well, now that I have verified the case is assigned to Judge Conover, it would be improper for us to discuss any future employment arrangements until after the trial is concluded.”

“I understand,” said Mark.

“I know what it's like to send out résumés,” said Braman. “Most firms do not give the courtesy of an answer. That will not be the case with us. In the meantime, however, because we will be before your judge and you will, I assume, play a major role in the trial of the case, our communications must be discreet and aboveboard.”

“I understand,” said Mark.

“Patience,” said Braman, and rang off.

Mark looked at his phone and saw the numbers for the duration of the call blink several times and then disappear. It took a mere one minute and twenty-nine seconds for his entire future to change.

*   *   *

After her third consecutive bout with morning sickness, Linda arrived at the courthouse late enough to consider going directly to the courtroom, where she knew a calendar of pretrial conferences awaited her. But she had bought a box of saltine crackers and a six-pack of seltzer at a deli and wanted to unload the bag in chambers. Karen was at her desk, looking perky in Halloween colors that picked up the reddish highlights in her hair. Mark was absent.

In her own office, Linda dropped the saltines into the big bottom desk drawer and wedged the seltzer into the minifridge. She turned around to find Mark standing in front of her desk.

“Someone named Arthur Braman called for you,” he said. “He said that the Appellate Division decided the appeals in the Roman silver case and that you had the trial.”

“And?”

“I just checked it out.” He unrolled the five-page decision and handed it to Linda. “It's all true.”

Linda sat down and skimmed the decision enough to see that the Appellate Division threw out Judge Johnstone's rulings and directed a new trial on all of the evidence.

“Damn,” she breathed, then looked back at Mark. “Have you told Braman his information is correct?”

“No,” said Mark.

“Call him. Tell him. Then ask him to contact the other lawyers and say that I'm directing them all to come in for a conference tomorrow at ten.”

*   *   *

Foxx sat on a bench deep in the park. He wore a houndstooth cap to cover his distinctive silver hair and a brown corduroy jacket to hide his uniform shirt. The protest had hung together over the weekend, but just barely. He counted eleven protestors, including Ronan Hannigan.

His cell phone buzzed. Bev calling. He considered dropping the phone back into his pocket, then decided that if she was calling instead of texting it could be important. Or not.

“The Roman silver case is back,” said Bev. “Conover's trying it.”

“How did that happen?”

“Appellate Division decided the appeals this morning. Ordered an immediate trial. Didn't directly say who should try it, and with Johnstone gone assigning Conover must have been Belcher's doing, with or without prodding.”

“By who?”

“Don't know that. I imagine the public story would be continuity and familiarity with the issues. I want to know why, so you're going into her part tomorrow.”

“Kearney already has me observing the park protest,” said Foxx.

“He told me. He also told me it looks like it's about to fall apart.”

“We did this before. I saw nothing suspicious last time.”

“That's because we were too late to the dance,” said Bev. “I only found out later.”

“The inquest?”

“Later than that. Anyone near you?”

Foxx shifted on the bench, dipping one shoulder and adjusting the phone against his ear.

“No,” he said.

“What I am about to tell you is highly confidential.”

 

CHAPTER 14

Halfway through the morning, the maintenance chief told Ivan that he would have butt duty that afternoon because the custodian who usually handled that job needed to rush home to tend to his terminally ill wife. Butt duty meant policing the courthouse portico, the front steps, and the sidewalk down to the curb of Centre Street. Ivan did not mind digging crushed cigarettes off the stone and sweeping them into a dustpan; it was the kind of quiet, mindless, solitary work that he enjoyed. But he did mind that his lunch hour would not coincide with Jessima's. N
EED TO WORK
, he texted her, adding a frowny face at the end. M
ISS YOU
, came Jessima's reply.

Ivan piled the CFL boxes in his supply closet so that he had room to sit and eat his lunch. Finished, he crossed his arms on the rim of the slop sink and lowered his head for a brief, dreamless nap. Twice he heard footsteps approach in the corridor that dead-ended just past his closet. Twice he thrilled to the thought it might be Jessima coming to see him. But each time, the footsteps receded before reaching his door.