She sat blinking as though she’d been slapped.
No sense brooding
, she told herself.
There’s work to be done.
It was past three in the morning. Anne had reached the last unscored scene, when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello.” It was a woman’s voice, young and nervous. “I’m sorry to bother you. This is Candace Loffler. Returning your call.”
Loffler.
It took Anne a moment to recognize the name and to place the apologetic, babyish voice that she’d heard on an answering machine. Leon’s alleged telephone victim in Chicago.
“I got your message. And I don’t like what they’re trying to do to your father. The phone company traced the call, but what does that prove? I mean really? Anyone can pick up someone else’s phone and dial. Even if they say they’re your father, it doesn’t mean they are, does it?”
“Did the person who phoned you actually say he was my father?”
“No. They didn’t give a name. But I had a feeling”—for a moment Candace Loffler was silent—“the person who called me … was pretending to be a man.”
“Wait a minute.” Anne felt slow—as though she had only the slumbering brain of a lizard to process her thoughts. “The person who phoned you
wasn’t
a man?”
“She was forcing her voice down—trying to sound like a man. She was saying things that I guess she thought a man would say. It wasn’t very convincing. In fact it was pathetic.”
“You’re
sure
it was a woman? Would you be willing to make a sworn affidavit?”
A hesitation. “If I had to.”
NINE
Wednesday, September 18
First day of trial
6:55 A.M.
A
NNE FINISHED THE TAPE
of the score a little after six in the morning. Outside her window, the water tower on the building across the way was just beginning to catch the early rays of dawn.
She lay down and to her astonishment felt not the least need to sleep. At seven she left a message on her producer’s answering machine: “The tape of the score will be with the doorman.”
She waited till eight before phoning Connecticut. Tim Alvarez answered.
“Sorry to phone so early. Did I wake you?”
“That’s okay.” He sounded groggy. “I was up.”
“What do you know about
Mathis
v.
Doe
?”
“Leon was pretty secretive about that case, and once it was decided he destroyed his records.”
That seemed odd. Anne had never known her father to destroy a piece of paper in his life. “Who was his client?”
Tim hesitated. “Your father never told me the name.”
“Did the client ever come to the house?”
“Once or twice.”
“Do you recall the dates?”
“A while ago.” He sounded apologetic. “Is it important?”
“It could be.”
“I can look the dates up and call you back.”
“Could you look them up now? I’ll hold.” She lifted a steaming mug of herb-and-clove tea from the kitchen counter. The warm aroma reached soothingly into her sinuses.
“Okay.” Tim was back. “I have the log of household expenses. Every time the client stayed over, Leon had me lay in hot dogs and diet Dr Pepper. The client’s first visit was a year ago, the weekend right after Labor Day. The second visit was December fourth and fifth, same year. A weekend again.”
Anne jotted down the dates. She compared them to the dates of the obscene calls on the cabin phone. They matched.
“The third visit was six months later—June seventh and eighth. Another weekend.”
And another match.
“Did Leon’s client stay in the cabin?”
“I couldn’t say. Does it matter?”
It struck her as an odd thing for Tim not to know. “Yes, it does, because the visits coincide with the dates of those obscene calls. Doe was accused of sex offenses. I think he made those calls. And I think Leon’s protecting his client.”
“But Doe won the case.”
“That doesn’t mean Doe wasn’t guilty. All the court decided was a constitutional issue. Was Leon’s client a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t
know
? How were they dressed? Was their hair long or short?”
“I never saw the client. Leon always sent me away before they arrived.”
Anger flashed through Anne. “But you’re never supposed to leave Leon alone.”
“I know, I know, but he was adamant. His client’s identity had to be secret.”
“You never spoke with them on the phone?”
“I never got the chance. The client phoned at prearranged times and Leon always got to the phone first.”
“That’s incredible, even for Leon.”
“Wait a minute. Once I did pick up the extension and Leon was talking to someone. And he was furious at me afterward.”
“Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s?”
“It was a unisex voice. Never heard it before in my life. Or since.”
Anne glanced over the bills for the house phone. “The same weekends that the client visited, Leon was placing phone calls to two judges: Gina Bernheim and Bob MacLeod. Was either of them involved in
Mathis
v.
Doe
?”
“I have no idea. Look, I have to go—Leon just buzzed. We’ll talk later, okay?”
Anne studied the home phone bills. The sequence of calls to 831 and 929 struck her as curious. They were always in the same order: 929 immediately followed 831 and was always dialed three or four minutes later.
Except for September thirteenth, one year ago: on that day a 929 call was dialed at exactly the same time as the 831 call. On December fourth the same thing happened. On December fifth, it happened a third time.
She scanned the rest of the bills, then dialed the telephone business office. “I have a question about my AT&T invoice. There seems to be a mistake. You’ve billed me for eight calls to a 929 number in Manhattan, but they were made at the same time as calls to an 831 number.”
“Could I have the number you were calling from and the dates?” A moment later the operator was back. “There’s no mistake, ma’am. You were speaking to both parties. Those were conference calls.”
“Anne!” a voice yelled. Heels tapped rapidly on the sidewalk. “Annie!”
She turned around and there was Kyra, running down the sloping pavement. “Your phone’s been busy for
hours
.” She was wearing a silk jacket and dungarees, as if she’d dressed to be photographed from the waist up. “Thank God I caught you. Let’s get a cup of coffee. You’ve got time.”
Anne set down her suitcase and glanced at her gift wristwatch. “No, I don’t, not if I’m going to make your trial.”
“They never start on time.” Kyra took her by the elbow, steered her past the cash machine on the corner and through the little knots of pedestrians on Lexington. The coffee shop was brightly lit and crowded, but they found a corner booth with sponged Formica glistening.
Kyra pushed a Bloomingdale’s bag across the table. “This is for you.”
Anne peered inside. Four pairs of nylon panties. “What in the world …?”
“They say sequestered jury duty is worse than Europe on five dollars a day. Chances are, you’ll wind up doing your own washing. These dry fast.” Kyra placed a small powder-blue box on the table. “This is for you too.”
“Tiffany’s?”
“Only the box.”
Anne opened the box and picked through a layer of cotton that seemed to have been saved from pill bottles. She found a carved jade locket and lifted it by its gold chain. “Mother’s old cameo.” She had always loved it. “But why?”
“You’ve been awfully kind to me over the years. And I’m not very good at saying thank-you.”
Anne snapped the locket open. Inside was a woman’s profile carved in ivory. “Mother always said it was Great-grandma. Sweetie, you can’t give this away. She left it to you.”
“And I’m leaving it to you.”
“Fine. I’ll accept it when you die.”
“That’s too long to wait. Besides, we won’t be seeing each other for a while. I want you to have it now.”
“Sweetie, it’s only a trial.”
“You never know what’s going to happen in this world.” Kyra gave the word
what
an odd inflection.
“Kyra, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that …” She seemed to have to force herself to exhale. “I had a dream. It was about you and me and …” She broke off.
“Sweetie—something
is
the matter. Tell me. Tell Annie.”
“I just wanted you to know—you’re my best friend. That’s all I wanted to say.”
“And you’re mine.”
“But I’m not good like you or strong. Time and time again you’ve helped me out of scrapes and you’ve never asked for anything in return.”
“Because my life is simple. You have to worry about a child and a crazy job.”
“And Catch.” Suddenly Kyra’s eyes had no gift for pretending. “Annie, I’m scared.”
An aching empathy slid through Anne, a sense that all her life her sister had been walking a high, thin wire with nothing below, dreaming that someday a pair of godly arms would lift her to safety—and then discovering that those arms belonged not to a god but to a fallible human being.
“What if he gets custody?” Kyra gazed at her with naked, uncomplicated fear. “What’ll I do?”
“Sweetie, that’s not going to happen.”
“How can I be sure?”
Anne slipped the locket chain around her neck. “Because I promise you.”
Ignoring picketers, Anne hurried up the steps and into the lobby of the federal courthouse.
The guard at the metal detector grinned at her. “Late today, Kyra.” He had a Russian accent and the overbred profile of a prizewinning Afghan.
She stepped through the metal detector. The alarm didn’t challenge her.
“Nice locket.” His dark eyes were like tiny suction cups. “The jade brings out your eyes.”
There was a smell in the jury room like a refrigerator that needed cleaning. Anne took a chair beside Donna Scomoda. “Didn’t you say you used to be a nurse?”
Donna smiled. “Four of the weirdest years of my life.”
“Did you ever take care of men in their late seventies?”
“A few hundred, I suppose. Alzheimer’s mostly.”
“Did any of them still have an interest in sex?”
“Tell the truth, it was about the only interest they had left.” Donna folded her crossword puzzle. “I had this one case, every time I was alone with him, he’d offer me money. Ninety-three years old and he wanted me to strip.”
“Did any of these men use the phone?”
“Phone sex services?” Donna sipped a plastic cup of deli coffee. “You should see the bills these old goats ran up.”
“Did they ever make anonymous calls?”
“If there’s a law against it, they tried it. One time the FBI came down on me, like I should’ve known my patient was an interstate phone flasher. He was sneaking a cellular phone into the john. When they get to that age, they’re kids. Some doctors say you can control them with medication. Personally, the only medication I’d trust is handcuffs.”
The bailiff rapped on the door. “Ladies and gentlemen, the judge is ready.”
In the courtroom, a genial babble floated above the benches, like the chatter of an opening-night audience eager for the curtain to rise.
Most of the players were ready at their places. Corey Lyle, the defendant, was speaking quietly with his attorney. Anne had never seen him in person before. He had the same wavy, graying hair as in his pictures, but photos couldn’t catch the animated eyes, the broad, relaxed movements. In his dark-blue pinstriped suit he looked like a businessman cheerfully resigned to sitting through a tiresome meeting.
The court stenographer began setting up her machine. There was a wave of applause. She ignored it.
A door swung open at the front of the courtroom.
“All rise,” the bailiff commanded. “The Supreme Court of the Southern District of New York, Judge Gina Bernheim presiding, is in session.”
Judge Bernheim, black-robed, glided to the bench. “Be seated.” She allowed her gaze to sweep the room. Not an empty seat in the house. She seemed satisfied. “We are here today to hear the case of the People of the State of New York versus Corey Lyle. Will the clerk read the indictment?”
The clerk stood. “It is charged that Corey Lyle did unlawfully conspire with others to murder John Briar and Amalia Briar.”
Judge Bernheim explained the conspiracy law. “Is any juror unclear on the meaning of the statute?”
Silence.
The defense attorney rose. “Your Honor, we move for dismissal on grounds that the conspiracy statute is vague and punishes thought and is therefore unconstitutional.”
“The United States Supreme Court is going to have to rule on that,” Bernheim said. “In the meantime, we’ll hear the evidence and make our decision on the basis of the present statute.”
Tess diAngeli rose from the prosecution table and cut a direct line to the jury box. “Gentlemen and ladies of the jury—we are here to exact justice for as evil and cowardly an act as I, in all my years as assistant district attorney, have ever prosecuted.”
Tess diAngeli’s unlined brow suggested that for several of those years she must have been prosecuting dolls.
“When I show you how Corey Lyle, unwilling to expose his own hand or risk his own neck, compelled an innocent man to suffocate the life from John and Amalia Briar—two distinguished and trusting senior citizens who had dedicated their lives and their resources to public service and to helping others—you will begin to grasp the depths of moral savagery to which the defendant has sunk—and to which he has dragged the cult that bears his name.”
Corey Lyle sat quietly, patiently erect at the defense table—watching his beautiful accuser with undisguised fascination.
“Today we are confronting an act of pure governmental terrorism.” Dotson Elihu faced the jury, enunciating with concentrated fury. “This is the persecution of an innocent man for a murder that the State of New York admits—yes,
admits
!—was abetted not by Dr. Corey Lyle but by the federal government’s own hired agent. And why has the State of New York brought this charge? Because of pressure from the federal government, which is using this trial to justify the obscene bloat of the domestic security budget and bureaucracy”—
B
consonants shot from Elihu’s lips like bullets—“and to silence its critics. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: it is not Corey Lyle who is on trial here today, it is the United States government.”