6
After going through about half of the files on my desk, and finding nothing that looked even remotely “unusual,” I decided it was time to take a break. Looking at the clock on the wall, I saw it was already three o’clock in the afternoon. It was time for a break. I was suddenly famished. Quickly deciding on Thai food, I rummaged through my desk, looking for the Thai Orchid’s take-out menu.
The telephone interrupted my search, and I answered on the first ring. Our firm has a telephone code, with which by now I was very familiar. One ring was a call from someone in the office. Two quick rings was an outside line. Three rings was my private, direct line. The phone rang three times.
“Hello,” I answered, expecting to hear the voice of one of my parents, Thea, or Dahlia. They were the only people who used my direct line.
“Is this Jasmine Spain?” a vaguely familiar voice asked.
“This is Jasmine,” I replied, surprised that someone not in my inner circle was calling on my personal line. Not many people had the number. “Who’s calling?”
“This is Mariah Brown.”
“Mrs. Brown, you’re represented by counsel. I should not be talking with you. If you have any information you want to get to me, have your lawyer give me a call.”
“I know the rules, Miss Spain,” Mariah replied. “Sometimes I just choose not to follow them.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Don’t worry about that. I need your help.”
“The police are looking for you,” I said, remembering that Marcus Claremont had informed me this morning that Mariah Brown was among the missing, and from what I gleaned from the cautious Claremont, Mariah was a suspect in Chester’s death. “You need to call your attorney.”
As if she read my thoughts, Mariah said, “I didn’t kill Chester Jackson, Miss Spain. Although I can’t say that I’m too broken up about it. But I didn’t kill him.”
“That’s something you need to discuss with the police,” I replied, wondering why she was calling me. Unlike the blatant contempt with which she had regarded Chester, she had, for the most part, ignored me.
Mariah Brown’s laugh was harsh. “The police? After what they did to my child? Have you forgotten, Miss Spain, that I sued the police? They’re supposed to believe me?”
“I don’t see how I can be of assistance to you,” I replied. “You need to call your attorney.”
“I don’t see how I can be of assistance to you.” She repeated my words in a perfect imitation of my lawyer-speak. “I guess you’re right, Miss Spain. Something about you, I thought, was different from the rest. I thought maybe you weren’t like the rest of them lawyers, but I see you’re just a slave carrying a briefcase.”
“There’s no need for you to insult me, Mrs. Brown.”
“I ain’t insulting you,” she replied. “I’m just telling the truth. I’m also going to tell you this: there was someone there when your client shot my son. My son remembered hearing dogs barking and seeing somebody there.”
“Does this person have a name?” I asked.
“I don’t know who the person is,” Mariah replied. “But there’s someone out there who saw what happened to my baby, and I’m going to find that person.”
She hung up before I had a chance to reply. I wasn’t sure what I would have said, anyway, if given the chance.
As much as I love good food in general, and good Thai food in particular, my appetite disappeared after my phone call with Mariah Brown. Why had she called me? We were on opposite sides of the case, and, I suspected, we were also probably on opposite sides in life view. She looked at me probably the same way that God-fearing folks looked at ladies of the evening hard at work plying their trade.
I was used to this reaction. Many people didn’t like lawyers. Hell, I wasn’t too fond of most of the members of my profession, either. Still, I would say defensively, there are such creatures as good lawyers. Folks who truly believe in truth, justice, and not just a big, fat retainer. My friends from college who knew I fasted for migrant workers, held sit-ins against apartheid, and wore black armbands in support of organizations fighting to end international human rights violations could not reconcile their current vision of me as a Wall Street lawyer.
I was particularly sensitive to the criticism leveled at me that I had sold out. As far as I was concerned, I could do more working from the inside than I could protesting against “the system.” My friends did not buy it, but nevertheless, I contented myself with the knowledge that I always counseled my client to do the right thing, even if it ended up costing the client a lot of money.
The Daniel Brown case, however, was different. I was convinced that Daniel was a victim of the increasingly common phenomenon—police brutality. This case was the only case in my career that I’d tried to get the hell off of as quickly as possible. Chester had insisted that I remain, and Raymond had backed him a thousand percent on this.
I’d try to reason with myself that even a creep like Pileski deserved good representation; after all, our system was built upon the basic tenet that the accused was innocent until proven guilty. God knows that he had stated loudly and consistently that he was wrongfully accused. His words provided no comfort, however, when I had to look into the eyes of Daniel Brown and his mother.
Now Mariah Brown had called me to declare her innocence. I understood why she wouldn’t call the police. This was a woman who firmly believed that the police were responsible for almost killing her son. She would not turn to them for any kind of assistance. But why call me? I wondered. There had to be others she could turn to. Why would she turn to the lawyer defending the cop who was accused of brutally beating her son? What about her own lawyer? Why hadn’t she called him?
I looked at my desk and saw Detective Claremont’s business card. If anything comes to mind, Miss Spain, please give me a call. I was certain that a call from the woman suspected of murdering Chester Jackson qualified. I felt nervous about calling him. I was attracted to him, and that was unsettling. It had been a long time since I’d been attracted to anyone. My dating life was sporadic at best. The crazy hours I worked didn’t leave much room for romance—not that I was planning to have anything romantic with Marcus Claremont—but the memory of those amber eyes and that sexy smile could make a sister weak. I got his voice mail and left a message asking him to call me. I told him that I’d explain more when we spoke. Hanging up the telephone, I had to admit that I was disappointed. I’d been looking forward to hearing that deep, sexy voice. Oh well, I thought as I pushed thoughts of Marcus Claremont out of my mind.
I then did something I’d done several times before that day: I called my sister. I’d tried to reach Thea all day but to no avail. I’d tried her cell phone, and no one answered. I’d called my home and was likewise unsuccessful. I was worried sick about her, but I also knew she needed some space. Thea was the kind of person who needed to work things out in her own head. I’d determined to give her the space she needed, but the sister in me couldn’t stop from calling her again.
I still had a hard time believing that Brooks would cheat. Why would he cheat on Thea? I wondered. She’s gorgeous, kind, funny, smart, and totally devoted to her family. But I knew that many other gorgeous, kind, funny, smart, and equally devoted women fell prey to cheating husbands. Unfortunately, I knew this from personal experience. Still, bad things weren’t supposed to happen to my sister.
The telephone kept ringing, and I finally hung up when my answering machine clicked on. I’d already left Thea seven messages, and I was certain that message number eight wouldn’t be answered, either.
Raymond came to my office door at eight o’clock that evening.
“Found anything interesting?” he asked.
I shook my head. “The only thing I’ve learned, and which you already know, is that Chester was probably the most organized, anal-retentive attorney who ever walked this earth. Everything is in order. Every phone conversation he ever had was memorialized, down to date and time of call. Lists of potential witnesses are alphabetized. He kept drafts of everything he ever wrote, even letters.”
Raymond lifted a pile of folders from one of the chairs in the corner of the room and then dumped them on the floor. As he sat down, he said, “Found anything that could hurt us?”
Hurt us? “Raymond, if you told me what you’re looking for, then this needle in a haystack thing could be entirely avoided.”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, Jasmine!” Raymond’s voice rose in irritation.
I decided that some battles could be fought at a later time, when my boss hadn’t spent some time in a bar.
“I’ll let you know if I find anything, Raymond, but so far, I haven’t seen anything that sets off any kind of alarms.”
There was a quick knock on my door, and before I had a chance to say, “Come in,” my door swung open to reveal Nina Smyth. Her eyes focused directly on me. “What the hell are you doing going through Chester’s files?”
“I asked Jasmine to make sure his files were in order.” Raymond’s voice could cut through steel.
“Raymond,” said Nina, immediately deferential, “I didn’t see you over there.”
“Apparently,” he replied.
“Exactly what is your objection to my reviewing Chester’s files?” I asked, bringing both Nina’s and Raymond’s attention back to me. I didn’t like being a bystander to a conversation in which I was featured.
Nina turned her pale eyes back in my direction. She was wearing a dark brown suit that was two sizes too big for her, and her eyes looked as if they hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep for awhile. The smell of tea rose, which clung to her expensively tailored suit, made my nose itch.
I had never liked Nina. She had adopted the worst that our profession had to offer and claimed it as her own style. I couldn’t dispute that her guerilla warfare style of practicing law was effective. I could understand being tough with an opposing counsel. I couldn’t understand being tough and downright evil to those who worked with her. I didn’t work with her, and it was an unspoken rule that if Raymond wanted me to continue working at the firm, I would never work with her.
“It makes more sense for me to go through Chester’s files,” she said. “I worked with him. I was certainly more familiar with his caseload than you would be.”
She was downright territorial.
“Nina,” said Raymond, his voice even, his eyes cold, “I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission before I gave an associate an assignment.”
The words had their desired effect. She seemed to shrink within herself, and once again I was aware how thin and almost boneless she looked. A long time ago, when I first met Nina, before I got to know her, I thought she was attractive. Back then, she was a good fifteen pounds heavier, and she used to wear her brown hair in a short bob. Nina was now a blond princess with streaked highlights. Her hair was now worn in a short boyish crop that emphasized her admittedly good bone structure. In her ears were diamonds that set somebody back a big chunk of change, and her ill-fitting suit was nonetheless very expensive. Standing there, in my cluttered office, she looked like the unhappiest person in the world.
I watched as she swallowed down the angry words she obviously wanted to say. Instead, she said, “If you need any help, Ray, just let me know,” and left, closing the door behind her.
Raymond shook his head and said, “I don’t know what Chester saw in her.”
“You knew about Chester and Nina?” I asked, surprised. How come everybody in the office seemed to know about this affair except me?
“There is nothing that goes on in this office that I’m not aware of.”
There was another knock on my closed door.
“Now what!” barked Raymond, clearly annoyed at yet another interruption.
“Come in,” I called out, and Jean, Raymond’s secretary, walked in.
I shouldn’t have been surprised Jean was at the office so late. There were many times when she left later than most of the attorneys at the firm.
But it was clear from her demeanor that work was not what brought her to my office that night. She was upset. As she spoke, her hands gestured wildly in the air, as if she were waving away a pack of flies. She was talking so fast that at first her words were almost unintelligible. After a moment I realized she was saying, “Come quick. Come quick. In the conference room.”
“Slow down,” commanded Raymond. “What on earth is the matter, Jean?” He was back in control. That deep, Baptist preacher voice had replaced the earlier tentative voice of fear.
Jean took a deep breath. Then she said slowly, “Raymond, my husband just called me. There’s a woman on the television. Giving a news conference about Chester. She says she’s his wife. And it’s not Sherrie Jackson.”
I was out of the door before Raymond was. All three of us ran the short distance between my office and the conference room, where several attorneys, as well as a few secretaries working late, were crowded around the television set.
I pushed my way into this group and saw a stunning woman—really, she looked more like a child—standing next to two serious and unsmiling men, talking into a podium filled with microphones. I couldn’t tell how tall she was, but she appeared to be of average height. However, nothing else about her was average.
She was light skinned, with short, curly hair that framed a perfect, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were wide and were some indeterminate color, maybe blue or green, I couldn’t tell from the television set. Her cheekbones were high and looked as if they had been carved out of a piece of ivory. Full, pouty lips painted bright red contrasted with her pale skin but added drama to her overall effect. She resembled a much younger version of Chester’s wife, Sherrie, and she looked nothing like me. Well, I thought, with more than a trace of bitterness, she certainly is his type.
She sounded like a child, her voice high and breathless. “We’ve been married now for about two years, and it is a tragedy. You all know my Chester as a brilliant legal mind. I know him as my husband.”
Upon hearing this news, I imagined that somewhere on the Upper East Side, in a town house on Park Avenue, Sherrie was lying on the floor, with someone waving smelling salts under her nose.
“It is a difficult time for me to come forward with this information. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but we kept this a secret for so long, and I believe that now the time for secrets is over. Chester was my husband. Not in the legal sense, but our marriage was one that was consecrated by love, not by the laws of society.”
“What a crock of ...” I heard Jean mutter behind me.
“If there is anyone, anyone,” continued Chester’s “wife of the heart,” “anyone out there who has information about my husband’s murder, I ask you to come forward and tell the police. Please ...” Her words dissolved into tears, and the camera followed her as she walked away from the podium, leaning heavily on the arm of one of the unsmiling men.
A reporter interrupted this scene. He spoke in hushed and dramatic tones. “The events surrounding the death of noted African American lawyer Chester Jackson are certainly getting more bizarre. We have just heard a news conference given by Winter Reed, a woman claiming to be the wife of Chester. The story of Chester Jackson and his many wives certainly adds a new twist to his tragic and senseless murder. Back to you, John.”
When John the newscaster came back on camera, he looked just as shocked as everyone standing in the conference room. However, he collected himself a lot quicker than the folk at B&J. He started talking about the latest campaign by the mayor to clean up New York streets. We were silent.
That was until Raymond snapped, “Turn that thing off!” His mouth was a thin line of anger, and his black eyes blazed. While the rest of the room was stunned and confused, Raymond was angry. So angry that he didn’t censor his tongue.
“Damn that man to hell!” His voice rose to a roar. “Damn him to hell! B&J is going to be on every tabloid show from here to California because of him.”
“Raymond,” somebody with career suicide in mind said, “the man is dead.”
“I hope he burns in hell!” Spit was flying, and Raymond was screaming at the top of his lungs. I could see the veins bulging in his neck. A bad sign. A very bad sign.
Everyone with sense left the room quickly. I, unfortunately, stayed. My mind was racing as I explored this new bit of information. Chester had been, at the very least, an adulterer, and at the worst, a bigamist. I was not sure what a marriage of the heart was; however, I assumed that one didn’t need a marriage license in order to qualify. Poor Sherrie. I never thought the day would come when I would feel sympathy for her, but I wouldn’t wish this kind of humiliation on my worst enemy.
Raymond sat down and started drumming his fingers on the table. He was a man who thrived on self-control. In all the time I had known him, I could count on two fingers the times I had ever seen him lose that tight grip he had on his emotions.
“Raymond, this is going to blow over. It won’t affect B&J.” I hated to lie to the man, but I thought that perhaps it might make him feel better. I was wrong.
“Like hell it won’t.” Raymond glared at a spot on the wall, just left of my head, seeing something that was obviously invisible to me. “We’re going to be the laughing stock of New York when everything comes to light.”
“Everything?”
“Jasmine, this is just the tip of the iceberg.”
I was tired of everybody being so damn mysterious. First, Lamarr, now, Raymond. “Raymond, you’ve asked me to help you. I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on.”
He shook his head slowly. “Chester is going to be the downfall of this firm.”
“Lawyers have had affairs before.”
“This is true, but they usually try to avoid their clients’ girlfriends. And, if they’re smart, they usually try to avoid stealing their clients’ money.”
“Raymond,” I said, the thought forming in my mind slowly, but irrevocably, “you knew about this woman?”
He didn’t try to skirt around the truth. He didn’t even bother answering, which was an answer in and of itself.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Vincent Crown’s girlfriend.”
“Councilman Vincent Crown?” I repeated.
“The one and only.”
Vincent Crown, in addition to being a client, was a councilman in Harlem. He was also a prominent businessman who’d recently been indicted for tax evasion. Raymond was defending him. We’d represented him a few years before, when he was going through a messy and very public divorce.
I didn’t attempt a response. This was all beyond me. Chester was dead, but before he died, he had an affair with two women and decided to dabble in bigamy. I now took Chester’s faxed good-bye, judging me unadventurous, to be the highest praise. What’s next? I thought, already dreading the answer to my question.
When I found my voice, I said, “Chester must have had a death wish. I’m sure one of those people he messed over probably killed him.”
“Apparently, it was granted,” he responded, without a trace of humor.
“What now?”
“We’re going back in your office, and we’re going to dig through each and every file to find out what other dirty dealings Chester was doing.”
I was afraid he would say that.
I didn’t leave my office until almost ten o’clock that evening. We’d gone through all of Chester’s files and found nothing out of the ordinary. I took the car service home, with thoughts of the warm bed waiting for me. I was tired. Emotionally tired. Physically tired. I was going to take a long, hot bath and throw myself into my bed.
As the driver pulled up in front of my apartment building, I saw a woman standing out front. It was Mariah Brown. Looking back, I wonder why I wasn’t afraid. I was certain that Mariah was on Detective Claremont’s short list of suspects for Chester’s murder—she had all but predicted a violent death for him in open court—and I was just as certain she had no love for me. Still, I got out of the black sedan, more curious than afraid.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her, dispensing of any formalities as the livery car drove away.
“I should think that’s obvious,” Mariah replied. She was a thin woman, the color of a pecan. She once was probably considered beautiful, but there was a bitter air about her, marring her attractiveness. She had small eyes, a prominent nose, and a square chin. My mother would say that she had the features of a stubborn person. Her hair was braided into small braids, pulled away from her face.
First, she’d gotten my private work number, and now she had my address. This was more than disconcerting.
“How did you get my address?” I asked.
“Never mind that, Miss Spain. You and I need to talk.”
“About what?” I asked.
“We need to talk about what really happened that night between Lucius Pileski and my son.”
I sighed. I had heard her version of events before—in court pleadings, in the newspaper, and during court conferences.
“The police are looking for you, Mrs. Brown.”
Her laughter sounded harsh. “Do you think I give a good damn about the police? It was the police that hurt my son.”
“It’s late, and I’m tired,” I told her. I wanted to get away from her. I wanted to go upstairs and put this day behind me.
“When your client beat my son ... there was a witness. I’m trying to find him. I’m close to finding him. When all this stuff comes out, you’ll see, Miss Spain ... you’ll see what kind of client you have.”
I sighed. I already knew what kind of a client I had. I didn’t need anyone else to tell me that.
“If you have information about the case, you need to go to the police,” I told her. “I’m not supposed to talk to you. I represent Mr. Pileski. If you have anything you’d like me to know, tell your lawyer to speak with me. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”
I didn’t want to be hard, but the ethical canons prevented me from speaking with another party in a case that was represented by counsel. I was also uncomfortable talking with her. It was hard to look at someone in pain, knowing you had something to do with their pain. I was representing a man who ultimately had caused Mariah a great deal of pain.
“You don’t break the rules, do you, Miss Spain?”
Not often. “No, I don’t break the rules.”
“Even if the rules protect someone who is guilty?”
I didn’t want to play this game anymore. “Have your attorney call me.”
As I turned to walk up the stairs to the front door of my apartment building, Mariah Brown said something that stopped me cold.
“Chester Jackson broke the rules, Miss Spain. And look what happened to him.”
I turned around. “Excuse me?”
“Did you know that Chester sent someone to offer me money ... a lot of money ... said they’d make me a rich woman if I dropped the lawsuit against Pileski?”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I asked.
“Who do you think would believe me?” she asked.
She had a point.
The shock on my face provided her with an answer.
“I told the guy to tell Chester that unlike him, I couldn’t be bought.”
There was a malicious glint in Mariah’s eyes. For the first time, I wondered if I’d been wrong about Mariah and she was capable of murder. Had she killed Chester, and had she come back to take care of me?
“Did you kill Chester?” I asked, with a reckless disregard for my own personal safety.
Mariah’s laughter did not reach her dark eyes.
“If I woulda wanted him dead,” she said, when the laughter stopped, “he would have been dead a long time before now. No, I didn’t kill him, Miss Spain.”
I watched her as she walked away. Did Chester try to bribe her? After all I’d learned these past few days, there was nothing I’d put past him. Mariah Brown had a lot to be bitter about. Her son was the only thing in her life that had worked out. Various men had come and gone. She’d dropped out of high school to raise Daniel. Life had not been easy for her, and now, after a long line of bad stuff happening, which included a short stay in a Women’s Correctional Facility for shoplifting a few years ago, her son was lying in a rehab center, hoping to regain the use of his legs.
I opened the front door to my apartment and found my sister sitting on the couch. The sounds of jazz coming from my stereo provided a backdrop to the misery that was clearly etched on my face.
She looked over at me when I came in, as her Yorkie, Magic, ran barking around my heels.
“Do you usually get home this late?” she asked.
I went over and sat down on the couch, next to her. “Usually,” I replied.
“You work too hard, Jasmine,” my sister said. “There’s more to life than work.”
She had a point there.
“Thea, I’ve been calling you all day,” I said as gently as I could. “I’ve been worried about you.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. Reese and I went out for a walk, and we just kind of kept walking all over the city. We just got back an hour ago.”
“I called your cell phone.”
Thea gave me a sad smile. “I left it here. Brooks has been trying to reach me on the cell. I didn’t feel like being bothered.”
“Does he know you’re here?” I asked.
Thea sighed again. “Yeah. Mom told him.”
I shook my head. “I should have known.”
Wanting to change the topic from our meddling mother, I asked, “Where’s my favorite nephew? Is he asleep already?” Reese was known for his late nights and his devotion to Cartoon Network.
“Your only nephew is on your bed. He fell asleep watching television.”
“Is he okay?”
“He keeps asking about Brooks, but apart from that, he seems like he’s hanging in there. He wants to go back to our apartment, but I told him we’re keeping you company.”
Thea cleared her throat. “I’m going to see a lawyer tomorrow.”
“Isn’t that a little quick?” I asked. “You just moved out yesterday. Maybe you should talk to Brooks.”
Thea shook her head. “I told him I would stand by him no matter what happened in our marriage, but I also told him that if he cheated on me or if he beat me, I’d leave him so fast, his head would spin like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.”
Divorce is a bitch, I thought. My experience with marital dissolution had driven me to a psychiatrist’s couch for two years and even now I’m not completely over the pain of it, the realization that the one you once loved so deeply is now a complete stranger. Even though I stopped loving my husband a long time before we divorced, I still felt loyal to him. I still worried about him. I hoped his life was working out. We had been a team for a long time. After the team disbanded, it was as if someone had neglected to remind me. We didn’t have children, and I could only imagine the pain of having to go through that and having your child go through the drama with you.
I reached out and held my sister’s hand. “You know, I’m going to be here for you and Reese.”
A solitary tear rolled down Thea’s face. “I know.”
She wiped her face and then said, “Enough about me and my Lifetime movie drama. How was your day?”
“Don’t ask,” I said.
“At least you don’t have to divorce anybody,” Thea said.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess it could always be worse. Listen, how do you feel about some cookie dough ice cream?”
Thea gave me a sad smile. “You always know how to cheer a sister up.”