Kiss of Death

AT A QUARTER to nine on Monday morning, Penny Cavanaugh, Brandi Flynn, and I got out of a cab in front of 100 Centre Street, the Manhattan Criminal Courts Building.

The seventeen-story art deco courthouse has a steel frame and a granite and limestone facade. Four towers in front, with a jail behind, the taller tower looks like an ancient Babylonian temple. The building is stepped, and the windows are set in vertical bands, alternating with stone supports. Tall brass and glass entrance doors, both stationary and revolving, are bookended by a pair of huge, freestanding granite columns. A thick, rounded brass railing going up the steps from the street separated those entering the building from those exiting.

Brandi started to go up on the downside, but I caught the strap on her shoulder bag and steered her back to the right-hand section of the divide.

This morning, Brandi had dressed down from her usual flamboyant style, and wore a simple black dress with long sleeves. She called it her going-to-court outfit, but the plunging V neckline and the wide gold belt around her waist were classic Brandi. Penny was quietly elegant in a beige suit and a chocolate brown silk blouse the same color as her hair. In their separate ways, they were stylish, but in my navy blazer, red skirt, and white blouse, I just looked patriotic. Maybe because I’d been poor for most of my life, fashion wasn’t my thing.

The marble lobby was two stories high, with a hanging clock marking the center. There were handsome art deco lighting fixtures, metal doors, and two grand staircases with ornamental railings.

After we passed through the security check, an armed guard pointed us toward the staircase up to the courtroom. So many people swarmed through the lobby and elbowed their way up the stairs that I had a mental image of us as three salmon fighting our way upstream.

We made it, and found the door we sought. A removable sign announced that the Honorable George Dayton would be presiding inside. Still five minutes early, we pushed the door open and went in.

The air in the courtroom was filled with the hum of many low conversations, but none of the people here were smiling. In contrast to the grandeur below, this room where Nancy’s immediate fate would be decided was almost stark, with unembellished paneling.

Penny, Brandi, and I found places in the second row behind the railing that separated friends, relatives, and observers from prosecutors, defense attorneys, and clients.

Two rectangular wooden tables, with chairs behind them, faced the judge’s bench. One table was reserved for defense attorneys and their clients, and the other for the prosecutors. About four feet of space separated the two sides. Above the judge’s bench, in large brass letters affixed to the wall, were the words, IN GOD WE TRUST. I trusted in God, too, but I still wanted Nancy to have the best lawyer money could rent.

Everyone in the courtroom obeyed, and a man with a thick pelt of pewter gray hair covering his bulbous head entered from a door behind the raised judicial bench. He was so corpulent that his black robe clung to his body instead of swirling around it. As he took his place, the court officer signaled that all of us could resume our seats, handed the judge a sheaf of papers, and announced Docket number 13759, the People versus Nancy Susan Cummings.

A door—not the one from which the judge had entered—opened behind the bench. Nancy emerged, accompanied by Kent Wayne. She was pale, and her hair looked like it could use a shampoo, but it was combed, and I could tell she’d been allowed to apply some makeup. She looked around the courtroom, saw us, and managed a brave smile.

Nancy and Wayne made their way to the table on the left while an angular woman with short dark hair cut in a shag style moved up to stand behind the table on the right.

Judge Dayton peered over the papers in his hand and said, “Mr. Wayne, always a pleasure to see you.” His tone was unmistakably sarcastic. “How does your client plead?”

“What a surprise.” Judge Dayton turned to the prosecution table. “Ms. Robbins, I don’t suppose I need to ask, but just for the record, how do the People feel about bail?”

That set off a heated exchange between the two attorneys, but the judge quickly cut it off. “Enough! If Ms. Cummings did the deed, then the deed is done. Presumably the State isn’t claiming she’s a danger to others.”

With a sharp bang of the judge’s gavel Nancy’s bail hearing was over. I checked my watch. It had taken all of three minutes. The court officer called out the next docket number, another set of lawyer-and-client emerged from the door to the holding cells, and a young man with a bald spot the size of a yarmulke replaced the woman at the prosecutor’s table.

“This is what it’s usually like,” I said. “Last year, when the storyline had Link Ramsey on trial, I studied the routine so I’d get it right for the show.”

I looked up and saw that Nancy and Wayne had moved over to the far side of the courtroom. He was gesturing for me to join them.

“My favorite bail bondsman is waiting outside in the hall. If someone can give him a hundred thousand dollars—”

“Forget it,” I said. I didn’t want Nancy to thank me for being willing to pay her bail. It was money I never expected to have, and hadn’t earned. Gratitude wasn’t merited. “You’re getting out of here soon. I hope you don’t mind my taking off, but there’s someone I need to see right away. I can’t tell you anything yet, but this person may have information that’ll help you.”

FROM THE BACK of the taxi taking me to the airport, I used my cell phone. The first call was to Walter, to let him know that Nancy would be released today. Next, I dialed the office.

“You’ve got a dozen messages,” Betty said, “but only four need immediate attention. In order of time stamp arrival: first, Eva wants to cut her hair.”

I thought for a moment. Eva played the role of Sylvia, Evan Duran’s sister, a very attractive and vital older woman. With her stepchildren grown, Sylvia had just left full-time homemaking and started a fashion design business. A shorter style would fit her character in that storyline. “Tell her yes, and remind me to add some dialogue about Sylvia’s new look. What’s next?”

“Oops is right,” Betty said. “She told me she and her husband weren’t planning to start a family for another year. Now she’s worried because she knows you can’t write a baby into the Jillian-Gareth storyline, at least not in the next several months. She’s afraid you’re going to fire her.”

“Of course not! Tell her we’ll hide her pregnancy with props and camera angles when she starts to show, and by the time she’s ready to take maternity leave, I’ll have worked out a story to explain her temporary absence. I’m glad she told us right away, so we have time to plan. Remind me to talk to costuming about getting ready to dress her to disguise it.”

“And stick a note on my computer to go through her future episodes,” I said. “I’ll take out any physical actions that could hurt her—no climbing, falling, or running. If I can’t revise a scene, we’ll hire a stunt double. Tell her she has nothing to worry about.”

Betty chuckled. “Actually, I already did. I was sure that’s how you’d react. She left the office happy, and went to Craft Services to see if they had any lemon meringue pie.”

I smiled at the image of delicate Clarice, queen of dressing-on-the-side salads, stalking the caterer for pie. “What’s the fourth message?”

“All right.” I closed my eyes and visualized this week’s taping schedule. “He’s working Thursday afternoon. Ask him if he’d like to have breakfast with me Thursday morning. Pick some place away from the studio. I don’t want anyone on the show to see us together and get the wrong idea.”

I laughed. “We don’t need to go quite that far. I expect to be back in the office tomorrow afternoon. If there’s an emergency, you can get me on my cell.”