Dead Even

Chapter 14

SITTING BEHIND HIS ANTIQUE DESK IN HIS OFFICE AT Echo Enterprises, Rafferty wasn’t happy. His breakfast with Claire had been stressful, his business lunch at CBS had been an ordeal, and as he stared across his desk, he realized the worst part of the day was right in front of him – Kozlow was in his office. “You better speak to Elliott. We have some serious problems.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Kozlow said, sitting in one of the two chairs opposite Rafferty’s desk. “You’re the one who’s-” The ringing of Rafferty’s intercom interrupted his thought.

“What is it, Beverley?” Rafferty asked.

“Sir, I have someone named Sara Tate out here who says she wants to see you,” his secretary said.

“She’s out there right now?” Rafferty asked, his fist tightening around the receiver.

“Yes, sir. Says she’s from the district attorney’s office and asked if she can take a minute of your time.”

Rafferty paused and thought about the situation. Finally, he said, “Beverley, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. No matter what Ms. Tate says, don’t let her know who’s with me in my office. If she asks, you have no idea who Tony Kozlow is, and you’ve never heard of him. I want you to give us five minutes, then I’ll buzz you and you can show her in.”

The moment Rafferty put down the phone, Kozlow said, “Sara Tate called here?”

“Worse than that. Sara Tate is here. Right outside as we speak.”

Kozlow jumped out of his chair. “Now? She’s here?”

“Calm down,” Rafferty said. “Let’s get you hidden, and then we’ll deal with her.” He walked to the corner of his office, pulled open a swinging panel, and revealed the entrance to his private bathroom. “Get in,” Rafferty said.

“In the bathroom?” Kozlow asked. “Don’t you have another entrance or something?”

“Get in!” Rafferty barked. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

Kozlow stepped inside. “See you soon,” Kozlow added as Rafferty closed the paneling.

Two minutes later, Sara, Guff, and Conrad walked into Rafferty’s office and found him sitting behind his desk, signing letters.

“Hi, Mr. Rafferty, I’m Sara Tate,” Sara said, extending her hand. “These are my colleagues, Conrad Moore and Alexander Guff.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Tate,” Rafferty said as he shook her hand. “Please, take a seat.” As Sara and Conrad sat down, Guff pulled up a chair from the far corner of the room. “Now what can I do for you?”

“Well, sir, we’re following up on the murder of Arnold Doniger, and-”

“What?” Rafferty interrupted. “You think he was murdered? I can’t believe it.”

“That’s the theory we’re investigating,” Sara said. “We actually came by to subpoena some of Echo’s corporate records, but we thought it might be helpful to talk to some of the firm’s partners.”

“No, of course,” Rafferty said. “Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“Can you tell us a little bit about Echo?”

“Absolutely,” Rafferty said. “Of course. Yes.” Forcing a stutter, he explained, “Echo is an ownership company that deals in intellectual property. In layperson’s terms, we own and are responsible for the copyrights for various theatrical properties.”

“Anything we’ve heard of?” Sara asked, trying to gauge the value of the business.

Rafferty’s answer was quick. “A Chorus Line, Inherit the Wind, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, A Streetcar Named Desire – there are a few others. If someone wants to produce the play, be it a high school or a fifty-million-dollar production company, they come to us first. In exchange for our approval, we usually work out some sort of percentage agreement.”

“So you get a percent of the take,” Conrad said. “I imagine that’s quite a cash cow.”

“It pays the bills,” Rafferty said.

“It may do more than that,” Conrad said accusingly.

“I’m sorry, are you insinuating something?” Rafferty asked, trying to keep the conversation friendly.

“Not at all,” Sara said as she glared at Conrad. “We’re just trying to determine if there’s anything we’ve overlooked. Now, let me ask you: How many other partners are there in the business?”

“There are over forty employees, but the only two partners are Arnold and myself.”

“Really?” Sara asked. “Then does that mean you have full ownership of the business now that Mr. Doniger is dead?”

“That depends on Arnie’s will. When we first set up Echo, we decided that specific bequests would take precedence over our partnership agreement. So if Arnie gave his share to someone else, I’m now a partner with them. To be honest, though, knowing Arnie, I’m pretty sure he donated his share to charity. He was a true philanthropist.”

“Actually, he left his share of the business to the partners of Echo,” Sara explained. “Which I guess means you.”

“What?” Rafferty asked, sounding shocked. “That can’t be. There must be some sort of mistake.”

“There isn’t,” Conrad said suspiciously. “Mr. Rafferty, how close are you to Claire Doniger?”

“I’ve known Claire since she and Arnie first met – at the Decorator Show House a few years ago. She’s a wonderful designer.”

“Do you spend a lot of time with her?”

“I’ve called on her a few times since Arnie died, to make sure she was okay. Beyond that, we haven’t really spoken; she prefers to keep to herself.”

“How about before her husband died – you didn’t see her socially?” Conrad asked.

“Not really,” Rafferty said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Sara jumped in. “Listen, Mr. Rafferty, we don’t want to take up any more of your time. You’ve been a big help.”

“Well, please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” Rafferty said. “Did you get everything you needed from Business Affairs?”

“I think so,” Sara said, standing and shaking Rafferty’s hand. “Once again, thanks for taking the time to talk with us.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Rafferty said as he walked them to the door.

When the door closed, Kozlow peered out from the bathroom.

“Come on out, they’re gone,” Rafferty said.

As Kozlow stepped out of the bathroom, the door to the office flew open. “Just one more thing,” Sara said. “I wanted to give you my card – just in case you need to reach us.”

Kozlow stopped dead in his tracks. Standing in the middle of the office, Rafferty had Sara on his far right and Kozlow on his far left, in their respective doorways. As Sara was about to step inside, Rafferty quickly moved toward her, blocking her entrance. “Thank you,” Rafferty said. “If anything comes up, I’ll be sure to call.”

“I appreciate it,” Sara said. “And once again, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No bother at all. I’m glad to help.” When Sara left the office, Rafferty closed the door behind her. Neither he nor Kozlow moved for ten seconds.

“She’s mine,” Kozlow finally said. “Enough of this.”

“Shut up,” Rafferty said, picking up his phone and dialing.

“Jared Lynch.”

“Listen, you overpaid, egotistical talking head, what the hell are you doing over there?”

“What’s wrong?” Jared asked. “Did something happen?”

“You’re damn right something happened! I just spent the last ten minutes entertaining your wife and her pathetic staff!”

“You saw Sara?”

“I not only saw her; I was questioned by her. And I’m telling you, that was it. She’s finished. I’m going to rip a hole in her so deep-”

“Please… just wait. Let me talk to her.”

“I don’t give a shit about your promises.”

“I’ll take care of her. I swear. Just give me a little more time.”

“This isn’t optional, Jared. If she doesn’t back off, I’m going to reunite her with Barrow. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Of course,” Jared said, sounding shaken. “I’m sorry it happened.”

Rafferty readjusted his jacket and paused. He didn’t like losing control, but he wasn’t going to let them take it all away. “Now, do you have any good news for us?” he asked Jared.

“I think so – I just got word from the judge’s clerk. The decisions on our hearings are coming down tomorrow. If we win a few of those, we’ll be able to exclude some of the evidence from Sara’s case.”

“You better pray for a good outcome,” Rafferty said. “Because if you stay on this path, she’s dead.”

“So what’d you think?” Sara asked Conrad as they left the offices of Echo Enterprises.

“My gut says he’s a liar, but I can’t prove it yet,” Conrad said. “Even when I tried to provoke him, he never once started to sweat.”

“Not only that, he seemed like he really wanted to help us.”

“I wouldn’t take anything from that,” Conrad said, standing on the sidewalk. “Feigning assistance is easy. Keeping calm is an entirely different magic trick. Besides, no matter how polite he is, he’s the only person who clearly benefits from Arnold’s death. That alone makes him one hell of a suspect. I mean, he’s about to inherit a fifty-million-dollar business, and he wants us to believe he doesn’t know what’s in the will?”

“Well, if anyone cares, I didn’t like him,” Guff said.

“Anyone who has three telephones – that’s not a good vibe.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Conrad said, hailing a cab. “Guff got a bad vibe; Rafferty must be a murderer.”

“What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?” Sara asked.

“We prepare for tomorrow’s hearing, we take another look at the will, and we do our best to figure out if Oscar Rafferty is a concerned friend or one of the best bullshit artists we’ve ever seen.”

“I just wish we had a better way to nail down the exact day of the death,” Guff said. “That might change the whole story.”

As she was about to get in the cab, Sara stopped. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “You guys mind taking a ride to the East Side?”

“Can’t do it,” Conrad said. “I have some stuff to do back at the office.”

“Just put it off for a-”

“I can’t,” Conrad said. “I have to get back.” Motioning for Sara and Guff to get in the cab, he added, “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stop worrying and get out of here,” Conrad said. “I’ll see you when you’re done.”

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Guff turned to Sara. “So where’re we going?”

“To do exactly what you said. We have to nail down the time of death.”

“Wait a second,” Guff said, trailing behind Sara as she walked toward Claire Doniger’s house. “That psycho told you to check out Doniger’s basement, and you’re just getting around to it now?”

“Yes, I’m just getting around to it now. I tried getting a detective assigned, but they wouldn’t give us one, remember?”

“I thought detectives had to be assigned in homicide cases.”

“They do, but the budget cuts are streamlining every department. That’s the only reason we’re doing it ourselves.” Sara walked up Doniger’s front stairs and rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” a voice asked.

“It’s Sara Tate, Mrs. Doniger. I want to ask you a few questions.”

Opening the door a crack, Doniger said, “I’ve already spoken to an attorney, and he said I don’t have to talk to you. He said if you want to charge me with murder, that’s your right, but I don’t have to say a word unless he’s present.”

“That’s good advice you got,” Sara said. “But did your attorney also show you one of these?” Opening up her briefcase, she pulled out a single sheet of paper. “This is a search warrant. If you want me to, I can fill it out and call in a busload of cops, who’d love to help me embarrass you in front of your neighbors. Or you can be cooperative and let me in, which would make a lot more sense. The choice is yours.”

Hesitating at first, Doniger slowly pulled open the door. She looked far more tired than the last time they saw her. Her once-perfect salon-styled hair was now flat and lifeless, and her usually well-rested visage was now bordering on haggard. Although she had tried to mask her pallor with a heavy layer of makeup, it was clear that Doniger was not having her best week.

As she stepped inside the lavishly decorated house, Sara turned to Doniger. “How’s everything going?”

“Wonderful,” Doniger said bluntly. “Now have your look around and be done with it. I’m very busy today.”

Making her way toward the parlor room of the beautiful nineteenth-century brownstone, with its matched pair of Dutch landscapes, heavy brocade drapes, and Louis XIV furniture, Sara felt an awkward sense of déjà vu rush over her. For months, she’d been mentally walking through this place. To do it in person felt unnerving.

“Crazy, huh?” Guff whispered as they made their way to the living room.

“Like a dream,” Sara responded. When they reached the kitchen, Sara once again approached Doniger. “So on the night you say he died, this is where you gave him his apple juice and granola bar?”

With a sour look, Doniger said, “I don’t need your accusations. Kozlow was a burglar – nothing more.”

“Whatever you say,” Sara said. “Now can you point us to the basement?”

“Why do you want to see the basement?” Doniger asked.

“We just want to see if there’s any other way a burglar might’ve snuck in,” Guff said. “If there is, it’ll help your story.”

Doniger stared at Guff, deciding what to do. Finally, she offered, “It’s the door right behind you. The light switch is on your right.”

As they made their way down the stairs, Guff realized Doniger was no longer following. “By the way,” he whispered to Sara, “you don’t have the authority to sign a search warrant. You need a judge.”

“I know that,” Sara smiled. “But she doesn’t. And now that we have her consent, we can search anywhere we want.”

“Cute trick. Now what exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure. All he said was to check the basement.” When Sara and Guff reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves staring at what appeared to be Arnold Doniger’s home office. On the far wall was a small wooden desk, a two-drawer file cabinet, and a personal computer. There was a Princeton reading chair in the corner of the room and a packed-to-capacity bookshelf on the right-hand wall. On the left wall was a perfectly preserved six-foot-long sailfish – apparently a trophy from a successful fishing trip – and a doorway that led to a storage room full of empty boxes and old furniture. The other two walls were covered with old photographs and other personal effects: pictures of Arnold Doniger when he was in the navy, photos of him on his sailboat, and one large portrait from his and Claire’s wedding.

“Nice picture,” Guff said, looking at the wedding photo. “They look really happy.”

“It’s sick, isn’t it?” Sara asked. “One day you’re wearing the white dress; ten months later, you’re wearing the black.”

“Welcome to the world of prosecution,” Guff said.

Sara read through a framed article from Avenue magazine next to the photo of the couple.

“Anything interesting?” Guff asked.

“Define ‘interesting,’” Sara replied. “According to this little society-page story, when Claire and Arnold were planning their wedding at the Pierre, Claire hated the curtains in the Cotillion Room so much, she had new ones made just for their wedding. Apparently, the Pierre refused to replace them, so Claire paid for them herself. Then, when the wedding was over, she just left them there – obviously they were too big to take home. The funny part is, the Pierre liked what she did so much, they left them up, and Claire’s curtains are still there today – making her the talk of the town for at least a full ten minutes.”

“So you’re saying Claire’s the type of person who enjoys a good roll in the dough?”

“If you’re asking me if she likes this lifestyle, I’d say the answer is yes.”

As Guff approached Arnold’s desk, Sara suggested, “You take the desk; I’ll take the rest of the room.”

Fifteen minutes later, they hadn’t found a thing. Frustrated, Guff started lifting each photograph to look behind it. “What’re you doing?” Sara asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll find a secret passage, or a used syringe, or something cool like that. You got any better ideas?”

“Not really,” Sara said, stepping through the doorway that led to the other half of the basement. She saw an old, worn love seat, a set of four wooden kitchen chairs, and a variety of empty computer, stereo, and kitchen appliance boxes. She also saw a clear glass door that looked like it led to an industrial refrigerator. When Sara pulled the door open, a blast of cool air hit her in the face.

“What’s that?” Guff asked.

Sara flipped on the light switch and stuck her head inside. At least three hundred bottles of wine were perfectly stacked in the cooler.

“Son of a bitch,” Sara said. She eyed the back of the six-by-six-foot wine cellar, pulled a pen from her briefcase, and jotted a note to herself. She then stepped back into the storage room, a knowing glare lighting her eyes.

“What’s the big deal?” Guff asked. “It’s just a wine cellar.”

“That’s not all it is,” Sara said, leaving the room. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sitting in Fawcett’s office in the basement of the medical examiner’s building, Sara waited for Guff to get off the phone.

“No, I understand,” Guff said. “But do you think it’s possible?”

As Guff waited for his answer, Fawcett walked in and sat behind his desk. “Who’s he talking to?” he asked Sara.

“Chillington Freezer Systems. They made the actual cooling unit for Doniger’s wine cellar.”

“Yeah. Yeah. No, I agree,” Guff said. “Thanks again for the help.” When he put down the phone, he turned to Sara and Fawcett. “Well, the wonderfully helpful customer-service people at Chillington said that a wine cellar is normally set at fifty-five degrees, and anywhere between fifty-five and eighty percent humidity, depending on the conditions of the room.”

“I don’t care about wine preservation,” Sara said. “I want to know how cold their freezers can get.”

“That’s the thing,” Guff said. “A wine cellar isn’t a freezer. It’s designed to chill, but not to get much lower than that.”

“So how low-”

“Relax, I’ll get there,” Guff said. “According to the woman on the phone, you can manually turn the temperature down to somewhere between forty-five and fifty degrees. But if you turn off the dehumidifier and the reheat coil, and the room doesn’t get any sun-”

“Like a basement.”

“Exactly,” Guff said. “In a room like a basement, you might be able to get it down to twenty or twenty-five degrees.”

“I knew it!” Sara shouted, slapping Fawcett’s desk. “I knew it the moment I saw it!”

“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Fawcett asked. “Why the sudden fascination with wine cellars?”

“Because of what you said in the autopsy,” Sara explained, pulling out the preliminary draft of Fawcett’s report that she was keeping her notes on. “You said that Mr. Doniger had some tearing in the lining of the brain, and that it might be caused by intense cold or freezing temperatures. Here’s our intense cold. That’s how they kept the body from smelling up the entire house, and that’s how they made it look like he died days after the burglary – they stuffed him in the wine cellar and turned the cold on full blast. Originally, I’ll bet they planned to just call an ambulance the next morning and say that her diabetic husband had died. But when Patty Harrison called in a burglary and Kozlow got arrested, they had to improvise.”

“What about the stuff in his pockets?” Guff asked. “The golf ball and the diamond watch?”

“My guess is Kozlow was being greedy. He probably grabbed them on the way out, hoping no one would notice. Clearly, he didn’t know he’d be arrested minutes later. Then, when the cop brought him back to the Donigers’ house, the cop asked Claire if she’d been burglarized. She had no choice but to go along with the burglary story. At that point, it was better than saying Kozlow was over there to kill her husband.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Fawcett said. “A few years ago, there was a man who tried something similar with his dead wife. As I remember it, he put her in a meat freezer until his step-children left for vacation.”

“See, that’s why I love New York,” Guff said proudly. “People are so conscientious.”

To make sure that he always had an easy excuse to return home, Jared left most of his belongings in his apartment. Once a week, he would come home to pick up an extra suit, a few more ties, or whatever else he could come up with, so he could take a look around and, most important, see his wife. After their last fight, Jared was determined to stay away, but Rafferty’s recent threat caused him to rethink his strategy. All he needed now was a little time in the apartment. To make sure that Sara wasn’t suspicious, he called first. He said he’d be by at approximately eight o’clock. Hoping to catch her asleep, he didn’t arrive until midnight. As quietly as possible, he made his way to the bedroom. Slowly, he opened the door.

“Where’ve you been?” Sara asked as soon as he entered. “You’re four hours late.”

Jared didn’t respond. He leaned his briefcase against his nightstand, then went straight to the bathroom. For the past two and a half weeks, their conversations were becoming shorter and more sterilized, eroding to the point of near silence. Office news was clearly off-limits, but now, the tension had begun to extend to small talk as well.

When Jared came out of the bathroom, Sara was under the covers, her back turned toward her husband. Suddenly, she heard Jared ask, “Were you going through my briefcase?”

“What?” Sara asked, turning over.

“Were you going through my briefcase?” Jared repeated, pointing to the floor. “When I went into the bathroom, it was standing up straight. Now it’s facedown on the rug.”

Laughing, Sara said, “I know this may surprise you, but there’s this thing we call gravity.”

“Don’t give me sarcasm!” he shouted. “I’m serious!”

Caught unawares by his sudden hostility, Sara asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you think is wrong? I caught you-”

“You didn’t catch anything,” Sara shot back. “You’re just pissed because you’re finally realizing that you’re going to lose this case.”

“Don’t say that!” he yelled. “I’m not going to lose!” His eyes were blazing with a look Sara had never seen on his face before. Gone was his usual unclouded confidence. In its place was pure desperation.

Trying to calm him down, she said, “Let’s just call it a night and save the fighting for tomorrow.”

“I’m serious, Sara, I’m not going to lose.”

“I’m sure you won’t.”

“Did you hear what I said? I’m not losing.”

“Jared, how do you want me to respond to that?” Sara asked. “‘You’re right’? ‘You’ll never lose’?”

“I just want you to take me seriously.”

Sara didn’t reply.

“Don’t ignore me like that,” Jared said. “Do you take me seriously or not?”

“If you have to ask, the answer doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I have to ask. So give me an answer.”

Turning away from her husband, Sara said, “Go fuck yourself.”

When Jared returned to Pop’s apartment, it was almost one in the morning. Still upset, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the outcome of the upcoming motions. Even if only half of them went his way, he thought as he opened the door, he was still in good shape. Now well accustomed to the smells of Pop’s apartment, Jared didn’t pay attention to the mustiness that had seemed to be suffocating him when he first arrived. He didn’t even notice the pictures of Sara that used to taunt him every night. But as he walked into the apartment, he did notice the 1946 vintage electric fan that was, for some reason, now spinning.

One of Pop’s best old keepsakes, the powder-blue art deco fan had been built by General Electric in the years before they made the metal blades childproof with an adequate protective cage. “And it still works,” Pop used to brag whenever the subject came up.

Watching the fan as it oscillated on the side table next to the couch, Jared knew something was wrong. When he had left this morning, the fan was turned off. And with the arrival of winter, only a lunatic would still be…

“Guess who?” Kozlow asked as he bolted out of the hall closet. Just as Jared turned around, Kozlow jabbed Jared in the nose with the palm of his hand. “They were in the office today!” Kozlow shouted as blood ran from Jared’s nose. “They were in the office and then in the basement! How the hell did that happen?” Before Jared could answer, Kozlow gave him a knee to the stomach. “C’mon, hotshot, explain that one to me!”

Doubled over in pain, Jared noticed a broom that had fallen out of the closet when Kozlow jumped out. All he had to do was grab it. But before he made a single move, Kozlow followed Jared’s gaze and turned around. “You were going to use this against me?” Kozlow asked, picking up the broom. With a quick swing, he smashed Jared in the ribs. “Answer me!” He hit him again in the shoulder. Then again in the ribs. Then again in the shoulder. “Why aren’t you answering me?” Kozlow screamed as Jared dropped to the floor.

Standing behind his victim, Kozlow put the broom under Jared’s neck and pulled tight. Choking for air, Jared fought wildly to wrench the broom from his neck. He dug his fingers against his throat, trying to get some leverage. It was no use, though. Kozlow wouldn’t let go. Jared continued to gasp and his face flushed red.

With a sharp tug up, Kozlow forced Jared to his feet and pushed him forward. They approached the edge of the couch. On the nearby side table, the fan was still spinning. When Jared realized where Kozlow was heading, he went wild. In a roar of adrenaline, he planted his feet and pushed backwards, sending both himself and Kozlow crashing into a wall full of picture frames. Glass rained to the floor. The sudden fit of energy had clearly caught Kozlow by surprise, but within seconds it didn’t seem to matter. Maintaining a firm grip on the broom, and holding it taut against Jared’s neck, Kozlow was once again in control. He shoved Jared toward the blades of the fan. Jared was squirming and his hands grasped violently at every nearby object – anything to stop him from reaching the couch. He pulled over the lamp, kicked over the wooden coffee table, and pressed his feet against the sofa. But the more Jared fought, the harder Kozlow pushed.

With one final heave, Kozlow threw Jared facedown on the arm of the couch and pressed his knee into Jared’s back. Kozlow picked up the fan and dropped it on the corner of the couch. Jared pulled his head back, his face only a few inches from the blades of the fan. Kozlow grabbed him by the hair and slowly pressed forward.

“You promised us that you’d win,” Kozlow said. “Isn’t that what you said? That you’d definitely win?”

“Later…” Jared coughed. “The motions.”

“Fuck later. This is for now,” Kozlow said, pushing Jared’s face even closer.

Jared turned his head to the side, buying himself the tiniest amount of space. Then Kozlow twisted him back, so that Jared’s chin faced forward. He was so close to the fan, he could smell the dust on the spinning blades.

“Tell me when it hurts,” Kozlow said.

Only millimeters away from the fan, Jared gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Kozlow smirked. And Jared screamed.

The next morning, Conrad and Guff were standing outside the courtroom, looking for Sara. “I can’t believe she’s late,” Conrad said. “This is the second time.”

“Maybe something came up,” Guff said.

“What could possibly come up? What else is she working on?”

“Her archery skills? Her tetherball game? How should I know?”

Looking at his watch, Conrad realized it was time to go inside. As he pushed open the swinging door to the courtroom, he saw Jared and Kozlow sitting on a bench in the back. Jared had a two-inch piece of gauze covering the end of his chin. Walking up to his opponent, Conrad said, “Nice to see you.”

“You, too,” Jared said flatly.

“What happened to your face?”

“None of your business.”

“Have it your way. You seen your wife?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I need to speak to her, and I’m not sure where she is.”

“You did fine without her last time,” Kozlow said, laughing.

“That’s funny,” Conrad said. “I hope you’re laughing like that at your sentencing hearing. It’s a great way to show everyone what a hump you are.”

“Okay, we get the picture,” Jared said, standing up. “You’re a real tough guy. Now get away from my client before I file harassment charges.”

Standing face-to-face with Jared, Conrad said, “I guess you have no idea how hard it is to prove harassment.”

“And you must have no idea how hard it is to be on the receiving end of the suit. Even if you win, it’ll consume six months of your life.”

Before Conrad could say another word, Sara came bursting through the door. Jared and Conrad looked at each other and fell silent. “What happened to your face?” Sara asked.

“Nothing,” Jared said.

Five minutes later, the court clerk called case number 0318-98: State of New York v. Anthony Kozlow. With his angular jaw and perfectly trimmed beard, Judge Bogdanos cut a handsome but intimidating figure. As a prosecutor almost twelve years ago, he had been well known for his zealous, almost irrational belief that anyone who was arrested was guilty of something. To defense attorneys, Bogdanos was biased; to prosecutors, he was a hero.

“I’ll keep this short and sweet,” he said as the parties sat down. “On the defendant’s motion for a continuance for further fact finding, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the diamond watch, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the silver golf ball, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of Officer Michael McCabe, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of Patricia Harrison, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of the 911 operator, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion denying probable cause, motion denied.”

And so it went. All thirty-four of Jared’s motions were ruled on, all of them denied. When Bogdanos was finished reading his decisions, he looked up and said, “Mr. Lynch, while I admire your persistence, I want you to know that I don’t enjoy having my time wasted. In life, there are rare moments when quantity is more important than quality, but believe me when I say that this is not one of them. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Jared said, his eyes on the judge.

“Perfect. Then let’s set a trial date. If it’s possible, I’d like to do it next Thursday.”

“That’s fine with the People, Your Honor,” Sara said.

Although tempted to ask for a later date, Jared kept quiet. Forcing a grin, he said, “The defense will be ready, Your Honor.”

“Good,” Bogdanos said. “I’ll see you all then.” With a quick flick of his wrist, he banged his gavel and the clerk called the next case.

“How’d it go?” Kathleen asked as Jared passed her desk.

Without responding, Jared headed straight for his office and closed the door.

In a minute, Kathleen followed. Expecting Jared to be at his desk, she was surprised to find him lying on the floor, his arms over his eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Jared was still silent.

“Jared, answer me. Are you okay? What happened to your face?”

“I’m fine,” he whispered.

“Where’s Kozlow?”

“I’m not sure. He left the moment we got out of the courthouse. Probably went to tell Rafferty that I blew it.”

“I guess that means the decisions didn’t go your way?”

With his arms still covering his eyes, he added, “I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, except for one or two of them, all of those motions were worthless. I was just hoping that we could catch a break.”

“From Bogdanos? You know better than that.”

Shaking his head, Jared said, “Kathleen, I’m in trouble. I don’t think we have a chance.”

“Don’t say that. The trial hasn’t even started yet. In fact, when-”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted. “It’s completely stacked against us.”

“Jared, you’re a defense attorney representing a guilty party. It’s supposed to be stacked against you.” She sat down next to her boss. “It was stacked against you in the Wexler case, and you pulled it out. And the Riley case. And the Shoretz case.”

“Those were different,” he said. “Those didn’t have-”

“They didn’t have what? They didn’t have your wife as the prosecutor? They didn’t have the consequences of this case? Obviously, this case is bigger. But that doesn’t mean we can’t save her. Sara’s not unbeatable – she’s a new recruit who got a few lucky breaks. Otherwise, you’re still the self-assured boy wonder. You know I’m right, Jared. Head-to-head, you have the advantage. She’s going to be okay. She will. So don’t shut down just because things aren’t going your way.”

Unconvinced, Jared continued to lie there, his arms still hiding his eyes.

“C’mon,” Kathleen demanded. “Wake the hell up. You’ve been like this ever since Barrow died. Regain control. Isn’t that what you’re always telling the new associates? Take charge. Take control.”

“Listen, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not in the mood right now,” Jared said. “Please just leave me alone. I’ll come around when I’m ready.”

“I wouldn’t wait too long,” Kathleen said. “The clock is ticking.”

“Oh, man, how fantastic was that?” Guff asked when they returned to Sara’s office. “I haven’t seen such a slaughter since the dinosaurs encountered that cold spell. E-X-T-I-N-C-T. Extinct, extinct, extinct!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Sara said.

“Are you kidding?” Guff asked. “Did you see Jared’s face when Bogdanos announced the decisions? Denied, denied, denied, denied, denied. It started sounding like the synopsis of my dating history.”

“If it’s possible, it was worse than your dating history,” Conrad said with a wide smile. “That was a full-scale massacre. Carnage, butchery, bloodbath, annihilation.”

“Maybe I should give him a call,” Sara said, reaching for the phone. “Just to make sure he’s-”

“He’ll be fine,” Conrad said. “It’s all part of the game.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Guff said. “Insane as it sounds, today’s the kind of day that makes me want to be a lawyer.”

“Milk it for all it’s worth,” Conrad said. “Because now comes the hard part. Now we have to put together a trial.”

At nine o’clock that evening, in Sara’s office, Conrad watched Sara cross-examine Guff for the seventh time in the last two hours.

“So, Mr. Kozlow,” Sara asked Guff, “why don’t you tell the court exactly how you murdered Mr. Doniger.”

“No, no, no, you’re doing it again,” Conrad interrupted before Guff could respond. “Don’t goad him – lead him. Lead him to where you want to go and hold on to him the moment you get there.”

“I feel like I’ve heard that philosophy before,” Sara said. “I think it was in… the Gulag.”

“It may seem extreme, but in life and in court, that’s how you get what you want.” Turning toward the sofa where Guff was seated, Conrad said, “Mr. Kozlow, you were in Arnold Doniger’s house that night, weren’t you?”

“No, I-” Guff began.

“And that’s the only way to explain how you got Claire’s watch and golf ball, isn’t it?” He looked back to Sara. “Make sure every question counts. The jury is looking to you for their cues, and in their eyes, every stutter is a lie.”

Getting up from the sofa, Guff said, “Speaking of which, I’d love to stay and get badgered some more, but I really have to run.”

“Coward,” Conrad said as Guff walked to the door.

When Guff was gone, Sara looked at Conrad. “Next victim.”

“Fair enough,” Conrad said, taking Guff’s old seat on the witness-box sofa. “But I’m warning you, I’m not going to be tame like Guff. My Kozlow is far more ornery.”

“Bring it on,” Sara said as she moved into position in front of the sofa. She looked down at her legal pad, got into character, then faced Conrad. In a stern, commanding voice, she said, “So, Mr. Kozlow, you were in Arnold Doniger’s house that night, weren’t you?”

“Ms. Tate, why do you keep asking me that?” Conrad moaned, sounding wounded and weak. “I already told the jury the answer. See, that’s the problem with lawyers today: You never listen. You just try to ram your point home, with no concern for the innocent souls you might be hurting.”

Caught off guard by Conrad’s response, Sara said, “That’s not fair. You can’t make him sympathetic.”

“Really?” Conrad asked. “What do you think your husband’s trying to do as we speak?”

Two hours later, Jared opened the door to his apartment. After Kozlow’s attack last night, he didn’t want to stay at Pop’s, and he was longing to see his wife. For the past ten years, no matter what problems he’d encountered, no matter what pressures he’d faced, no matter what battles he’d fought, Sara had always been there for him. She was the first person he saw when he came out of his knee surgery, and she was the only person who said he did a good job when he lost his first case. For the past three weeks, Jared had found it easier to avoid her, but as he walked into the silent apartment, he knew that at this moment there was no one he’d rather see. He missed her laugh, and the way she made fun of his fashion sense, and the way she picked a fight when she disagreed with someone. “Sara?” he asked as he walked into the living room. “Are you here?” He went into the bedroom. “Sara? Honey, are you here?” Again, there was no answer. His wife was gone. “Please be okay,” he whispered. For the past three weeks, Jared had been lonely; tonight, he was alone. Standing in the quiet of their empty bedroom, he felt every bit of the difference.

“One more time,” Conrad demanded. “Start at the beginning.”

“What’re you, a robot?” Sara asked, collapsing next to him on the sofa. “It’s almost midnight.”

“If you want it to be perfect, you have to put in the hours.”

“Screw perfection. For mortal beings, there’s no such thing.”

“I bet Jared’s shooting for perfection.”

“I’m sure he is. That’s the difference between us – he wants perfection, while I’m satisfied with doing it to the best of my ability.” Pointing a finger at Conrad, she added, “And stop trying to use him against me. I don’t like it, and it won’t work.”

“It’s worked up until now,” Conrad said.

“Well, stop it. It’s annoying.”

As he leaned back on the sofa, Conrad stared silently at Sara. Finally, he asked, “Have you always been so competitive with him?”

“With Jared? Of course. Since the moment we met.”

“And how’d you guys meet again? As summer associates in a firm?”

“No way, we have a much better story than that. I met Jared during our first year of law school.”

“Oh, God. Law school sweethearts. Is it possible to be more nauseating?”

“I doubt it. In this case, we’ve achieved perfection.” As Conrad shook his head, Sara added, “The first time I saw him, he raised his hand to answer a question in our contracts class. When he was done, the professor called his response ‘imaginative, but sophomorically implausible.’ He was so obviously devastated, I knew he had to be mine.”

“But that’s not how you met, is it?”

“Actually, we met during the first few weeks of school, but I didn’t get to know him until we were randomly matched as partners for moot court.”

“I assume you hated each other.”

“Of course,” Sara said. “He thought I was too pushy, I thought he was a wound-too-tight know-it-all.”

“So what finally brought you together?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was that I liked the word penis, and he had one.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. You always are. But I’m not sure how to answer that. When I think about Jared, though, I know one thing: He’s the person I aspire to be. Really. That’s how I see him. And when we’re together, he helps me be that person. Love has to be a complement.”

“It certainly does,” Conrad said.

“What about you? You ever been in love?”

“Of course I’ve been in love. I was even married for three years way back when.”

“Huh,” Sara said, looking at Conrad in a new light. “I don’t see you as the married type.”

“Me neither. That’s why I left.”

“What was her name?”

“Marta Pacheco. We met right after I got out of the marines and were married a year later. When I wanted to come to New York, she wanted to stay near her family in California. Really, it was just the straw that killed an already-overworked camel, but it was as good an excuse as any other to leave. We were way too young to hold it together.”

“And now your love is the criminal-justice system. How romantic.”

“This city is a vicious lover, but there’s no one finer,” Conrad said with a laugh. “Enough about my mistakes, though – I want to hear more about yours. Tell me why you got fired from your law firm.”

“Still curious about that, aren’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t be? You’ve been hiding it since the day we met.”

“And I’m hiding it today as well.”

“Oh, grow up already. How embarrassing can it be?”

“Quite embarrassing. Very, very embarrassing.”

“Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Sara was silent for a moment, then said, “Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you why I got fired if you tell me some equally embarrassing fact about yourself.”

“What is this, fourth grade? Now we’re trading secrets?”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Conrad said. “Now let’s hear your story.”

“Age before beauty, daddy-o. You want to hear it, you go first.”

“Your husband was right. You are pushy.”

“Just tell the story.”

“Fine, fine,” Conrad said. “My story’s easy. Have you ever heard of Plato’s philosophy of the soul?”

“Is this some sort of literary tale?”

“Just listen,” Conrad continued. “Plato believed that at birth, every soul received a unique demon or angel which defined that person’s genius and destiny. In his view, on some level, we were all oaks in tiny acorns. When I was little, my mother was a firm believer in this. And without a doubt, she was convinced that I had the soul of an entertainer.”

“You?”

“Believe me, I reacted the same way. Naturally, though, my mother wasn’t really interested in my own pubescent opinion. So when I was fifteen years old, I was told that I had to get a part-time job to help supplement the family income. To maximize that venture, and to complete my destiny, my mom got me a job as a magician’s assistant. At little kids’ birthday parties, he did the tricks and I did all the assisting.”

“That’s not embarrassing. It sounds like a dream job.”

“That’s what I thought – until I saw my costume. For four years, I was forced to wear gobs of face paint, a rainbow wig, and giant shoes that-”

“You were a clown?” Sara laughed.

“That’s me – the clown sidekick to Max Marcus, Cleveland’s Most Overrated Magician.”

“I can’t believe you were a clown,” Sara laughed.

“Laugh all you want, but I was really good at it. I even had my own clown identity.”

“Really? What’d you do? Scare the little kids until they confessed? The two of you had sort of a good clown-bad clown thing going?”

“I have to admit I was a little weak on the personality side. But I did pick out a name. From the day I started, I was known as Slappy Kincaid.”

Sara laughed out loud. “Slappy Kincaid? What kind of name is that?”

“It’s a good name. In fact, for a clown, it’s a great name.” As Sara continued to laugh, Conrad said, “So now you have my embarrassing fact. Time for yours. Why’d you get fired?”

Sara finally caught her breath. “I’m warning you, it’s not that big a deal. I mean, especially when you compare it to something like clown assistant…”

“Just get on with it.”

“Okay, here’s how it goes: Last year, when I went for my annual review, William Quinn, the head of the executive committee, told me that I wasn’t going to make partner. Of course, the only reason I worked like a dog for the two years before was because of Quinn’s reassurance that I was on the partner track. But things were obviously not working out as planned, and I was being asked to leave. However, since I’d put in a good six years of my life there, he said he’d let me stay on board for a whole four extra months if I needed to.”

“How kind of him.”

“Kindness is his middle name,” Sara said. “So anyway, I smiled, said thank you, and calmly left his office. By the time I got back to my own office, I was ready to smack Quinn in the head with a tire iron. And that’s when I saw the lovely little E-mail he’d sent me. According to the E-mail, the four extra months we spoke about had one small condition: I couldn’t tell any of the other associates in the firm that I was being fired – I had to say I was leaving by my own choice. Apparently, they were worried about what the younger associates would think if they knew that the firm promised partnerships but didn’t follow through. So in exchange for good morale, I was offered a better severance package.”

“And the idiot sent it to you by E-mail?”

“He sure did,” Sara sang. “Needless to say, I kindly responded with my thoughts on the subject. I politely declined his offer, and then, in my moment of blissful vindication, forwarded his letter and my response to the entire staff of Winick and Trudeau.”

“I must say, that was incredibly mature of you.”

“I was angry and hungry for revenge – it was a perfect time to regress. Besides, after throwing away six years, I couldn’t let him do the same thing to the other lawyers. They were my friends. If you want to fire me, that’s one thing, but don’t expect me to hide your dirty secret.”

Laughing, Conrad said, “So what’d you do when Quinn found out?”

“What’s to do? When he came storming into my office, I told him that I held him personally responsible for wasting half a dozen years of my life. He called me an unseasoned, shallow-minded waste of space; I called him a bloated and domineering Boss Tweed. After lunch, I came back and all my stuff was conveniently packed up for me. Naturally, I didn’t get the four extra months. Looking back, I guess it was a psycho move, but it really did seem like the best option at the time. And even if it is embarrassing, at least I-”

“Sara, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You should be proud of what you did.”

“You think?”

Conrad was flattered by the tone of her question. “You were looking out for your friends. That’s what’s important.”

A tiny grin lit her cheeks. “I’m glad you see it like that.”

“Of course, there are easier ways to protect them than by broadcasting your boss’s private mail.”

“Watch it, Slappy. Get on my bad side and I’ll syndicate your memos, too. Vengeful pranksters are far more dangerous than lawyer clowns.”

“But lawyer clowns are so much more fun.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sara said. “You’re not my type.”

“And what is your type?” Conrad asked.

“Let’s see. I like astronaut clowns, doctor clowns, and political clowns. But I don’t like lawyer clowns.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why do you ask?” Sara asked coyly.

“Just answer the question: Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure. Why-” Before Sara could finish, Conrad leaned over, grabbed the back of her head, and gave her a long, deep kiss. Sara knew she should pull away. Instead, she just closed her eyes.