A Woman’s Eye

MURDER WITHOUT A TEXT by Amanda Cross

CAROLYN G. HEILBRUN is a professor of English at Columbia University and the author of such scholarly books as Writing a Woman’s Life and Hamlet’s Mother and Other Women. But it is as Amanda Cross, author of the very popular Kate Fansler mysteries, that she is known to hundreds of thousands of devoted readers. Kate debuted in In the Last Analysis in 1964.

At the time of Professor Beatrice Sterling’s arraignment, she had never set foot in a criminal court. As a juror, a duty she performed regularly at the close of whatever academic year she was called, she had always asked to serve in the civil division. She felt too far removed from the world of criminals, and, because of her age (and this was true even when she was younger, referring as it did more to the times in which she had been born than to the years she had lived), too distanced from the ambience of the criminal to judge him (it was almost always a him) fairly. She was, in short, a woman of tender conscience and unsullied reputation.

All that was before she was arrested for murder.

Like most middle-class dwellers in Manhattan, therefore, she had never been through the system, never been treated like the felon the DA’s office was claiming her to be. It is a sad truth that those engaged in activity they know to be criminal, shoddy business practices, drug dealing, protection rackets, contract killings, have quicker access to the better criminal lawyers. Those unlikely to be accused of anything more serious than jaywalking often know only the lawyer who made their will or, at best, some pleasant member of a legal firm as distant from the defense of felons as from the legal intricacies of medieval England. Beatrice Sterling’s lawyer was a partner in a corporate law firm; long married to a woman who had gone to school with Beatrice, he had some time ago agreed to make her will as a favor to his wife. His usual practice dealt with the mergers or takeovers of large companies; he had never even proffered legal advice to someone getting a divorce, let alone accused of murder. There was not even a member of his firm knowledgeable about how the criminal system worked at the lower end of Manhattan, next door though it might have been to where their elegant law firm had its being. The trouble was, until her arraignment, neither Beatrice nor her sister considered any other lawyer. It is always possible that with the best legal advice in the world, Beatrice would still have been remanded, but as it happened, she never had any chance of escaping rides to and from Riker’s Island in a bus reinforced with mesh wiring, and incarceration in a cell with other women, mostly drug dealers and prostitutes. By that time Beatrice was alternately numb or seized with such rage against the young woman she was supposed to have murdered that her guilt seemed, even to her unhappy corporate counsel, likely.

Professor Beatrice Sterling was accused of having murdered a college senior, a student in a class Beatrice had been teaching at the time the young woman was found bludgeoned to death in her dormitory room. The young woman had hated Beatrice; Beatrice had hated the young woman and, in fact, every young woman in that particular class. She would gladly, as she had unfortunately mentioned to a few dozen people, have watched every one of her students whipped out of town and tarred and feathered as well. She had, however, insisted that she had not committed murder or even laid a finger on the dead girl This counted for little against the evidence of the others in the class who claimed, repeatedly and with conviction, that Beatrice had hated them all and was clearly not only vicious but capable of murder. The police carried out a careful investigation, putting their most reliable and experienced homicide detectives on the case. These, a man and a woman, had decided that they had a better than even case against the lady professor, and, since the case might become high profile, got an arrest warrant and went to her apartment to arrest her and bring her into the precinct.

It is possible, even at this stage, to avoid being sent to jail, but not if the charge is murder in the second degree (first degree murder is reserved for those who kill policepersons). Those accused of minor misdemeanors are issued a Desk Appearance Ticket and ordered to appear in court some three or four weeks hence. (Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t, but such a choice was not offered to Beatrice, who would certainly have appeared anytime she was ordered to). She was allowed one phone call, which she made to her sister to ask for a lawyer, a wasted call since the sister, whose name was Cynthia Sterling, had already called the corporate lawyer husband of Beatrice’s school friend. Beatrice was told by the woman detective that it could be anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours until her arraignment and that probably no lawyer could get to her until a half hour before that occurred. Men who go through the system are held during this period in pens behind the courtrooms. Since there are, in the Manhattan criminal system, no pens for women, Beatrice was held in a cell in the precinct. The system happened at that time to be more than usually backed up-and it was usually backed up-so she was not taken directly to Central Booking at One Police Plaza, police headquarters for all the boroughs and Central Booking for Manhattan, until two days had passed.

Neither Beatrice nor her sister Cynthia had ever married, and a more unlikely pair to become caught in the criminal system could not easily be imagined. As Beatrice in jail alternated between numbness and rage, weeping and cold anger, Cynthia came slowly, far too slowly as she later accused herself, to the conclusion that what she needed was help from someone who understood the criminal system. Beatrice’s school friend’s husband was useless: less than useless, because he did not know how little he knew. A knowledgeable lawyer could not now save Beatrice from her present incarceration and all the shame and humiliation connected with it; but he or she might be able to offer some worthwhile, perhaps even practical, advice.

We all know more people than we at first realize. Cynthia could have sworn that she knew no one connected with law enforcement or criminal defense even four times removed. She forced herself to sit quietly, and upright, in a chair, calming herself in the manner she had read of as recommended for those undertaking meditation in order to lower then-blood pressure. She sat with her feet flat on the floor, her back straight to allow a direct line from the top of her head to the base of her spine, and in this position she repeated, as she thought she remembered from her reading, a single word. Any one-syllable word, if simple relaxation as opposed to religious experience were the aim, would suffice. She chose, not without some sense of irony, the word “law.” Faith in law was what, above all, she needed. Slowly repeating this word with her eyes closed and her breathing regular, she bethought herself, as though the word had floated to her from outer space, of Angela Epstein.

Cynthia, after continuing her slow breathing and word repetition for a few seconds out of gratitude, contemplated the wonders of Angela Epstein. She had come to Cynthia’s office only a week or two ago to say hello. Could fate, were there any such thing, have whispered in her ear? Cynthia was the dean in charge of finances at a large, urban college quite different from the elite suburban institution in which Beatrice taught. In that capacity, Cynthia had, in the past, been able to put Angela Epstein in the way of fellowship aid, and Angela, unlike the greater number of her kind, had continued to be grateful. Finding herself in the area of her old college, she had stopped in to greet Cynthia, to thank her for her past help, and to tell Cynthia about her present life. What Angela did-it was something in the investment line-Cynthia could not precisely remember, but a sentence of Angela’s echoed, like the voice of a guardian angel in a legend, in Cynthia’s postmeditation ears: “I’m living with a wonderful guy; he’s a public defender, and he loves what he does. It’s great to live with someone who loves what he does, and who does good things for people caught up in New York’s criminal system; between us, we can afford a loft in Manhattan.”

From Information, Cynthia got the number of Angela Epstein. Here, as it was night, she got a message machine. She left as passionate a request for Angela to call back as she could muster; indeed, passion quivered in every syllable. But if Angela and lover had retired at midnight, they might not return her call until morning, perhaps not until they returned from work the next day. Cynthia decided-rather, she was seized by a determination-to go and visit Angela herself at that very moment. Perhaps she would not get in; perhaps she would be mugged in the attempt. But with Beatrice behind bars, any action seemed better than no action. She pictured herself banging on the door of their loft until allowed entrance and the chance to plead. She dressed hurriedly, descended to the street, commandeered a taxi, and told the driver to take her to the Lower East Side, insisting over his protests that that was indeed where she wanted to go.

“This time of night, you gotta be outta your mind.”

It occurred to Cynthia, even in the midst of her distracted determination, that she had not been driven by an old-fashioned cabdriver for a very long time indeed. He was American, old, shaggy, and wonderfully soothing.

“I have to go now,” she said. “Please. Take me.”

“It’s your funeral, literally. I’m telling you. I wouldn’t be out on the streets myself this time of night, except it’s my nephew’s cab; my nephew’s having a baby in the hospital with his wife. It takes two to have a baby these days, I mean to have it, not to start it, if you see what I mean. Me, I drive only by day.”

“I see,” Cynthia said, blessing him for beginning to drive.

“He’s working his way through law school, drives a cab at night. These days, in this city, you don’t need to be a lawyer, you need to hire one, and a doctor too while you’re at it, I tell him. So he’s crazy, so you’re crazy. You’re not buying drugs, I hope?”

Cynthia assured him that she was not. Was meditation like prayer? Was it answered like prayer? First the name had come to her, then this wonderful cabdriver. Could another miracle happen, that they would hear her pounding on the door and let her in and listen to her story?

Another miracle happened, though not quite that way. As she emerged from the taxi, a couple approached her. They looked at her oddly; she was not, it was to be assumed, a usual type to be seen in this neighborhood at this hour. The couple had also emerged from a taxi, even now departing.

“Dean Sterling!” someone shouted. It was Angela Epstein. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for you,” Cynthia said, suddenly unbelievably tired, worn out by all the sudden good fortune that had come her way.

“So ya gonna pay me, or ya forgot and left your purse at home?”

Cynthia came to her senses, apologizing to the cabdriver and the astonished young couple. She reached into her purse and gave the cabdriver a large bill. “For you and your nephew and the baby,” she said. “You are wonderful.”

“You too,” he shouted, taking off with a screech of tires. Cynthia had meant to beg him to return, but she merely shrugged. It was Angela Epstein’s young man upon whom she now turned her full attention.

“You are a public defender, you understand the criminal system?” she said, as though he might deny it and turn out to be something wholly useless.

“Yes,” he said, taking her arm. “Are you in trouble? Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it?” Over her head, for he was a tall young man, he gave Angela a quizzical look; she made soothing gestures and rushed ahead to open the building door, peering about to see that there were no dangerous types lurking.

“I’m afraid I don’t even know your name,” Cynthia said.

“My name’s Leo,” he said. “Leo Fansler. What’s yours?”

“Cynthia Sterling. My sister Beatrice Sterling is in jail, accused of murder. And I’m afraid they won’t even let her out on bail; that seemed to be the only coherent statement I could get out of the lawyer I called. Will you help us?”

“I’ll try,” Leo Fansler said.

They got her settled on the couch with a cup of tea and a blanket over her legs because the loft was chilly. Besides, they wanted to do all the easy things they could think of to help her. She had always appeared to Angela as a woman of such power and efficiency, but she now looked the very picture of distraction and disarray, rather-Leo later said to Angela-like the White Queen. (Leo had to explain who the White Queen was. “You’ve read everything,” Angela lovingly accused him. “Not really,” he answered. “I just lived for a time with a literary aunt.”)

At last Cynthia managed to tell Leo, in answer to his questions, with what her sister was charged, when she had been arrested, whether or not the detectives had had a warrant, and whether she had yet been arraigned. He tried, as gently as possible, to keep her from telling him the whole story from the very beginning, “Not yet,” he said. “I’ll find out from your sister; I’ll talk to her, I’ll get the whole story, believe me. But right now all I want to know is where she is, and what’s already happened in court.”

Cynthia made a noble attempt to be as coherent as possible. To her infinite relief, Leo understood her, interpreted her vague answers, knew what to do,

“Do you know when the arraignment is?” he asked, “Did they tell you, or her?”

“Probably tomorrow, but they can’t be sure.”

“Okay. I’ll be there,” Leo said. “Her lawyer will try for bail at the arraignment, but probably won’t get it. The chances are she’ll be remanded, and we’ll try again; we may do better upstairs at the felony arraignment. But if she does get bail for a murder charge, it may be in the neighborhood of a million dollars. Can you raise that much? There are bondsmen…”

“I’ll raise it,” Cynthia said. “The lawyer already spoke to me about that. The one who doesn’t know anything. I think he talked about money because that’s all he knows anything about. We’ll mortgage our apartment. It’s very valuable. It’s worth over a million now, though it wasn’t when we moved in thirty years ago.”

“It takes a while to get a mortgage, even a loan,” Leo said, more to himself than her. “I’m going to call you a taxi now; the company will send one if we offer double. Otherwise they avoid this neighborhood at night. You go home and try to get some rest. Meet me in the public defender’s office on Centre Street across from the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine. Can you manage that?”

“I could take her,” Angela said. “I could be late to work.”

“I’ll find it,” Cynthia said. “Please, you’ve done enough. I’ll meet you there.”

“Get off the subway at Chambers Street. Then ask someone the way. Don’t take a taxi; you’ll be stuck in traffic for hours.”

“I’ll be there,” Cynthia said. “Poor Beatrice. I’ll be there. You will let me convince you she’s innocent.”

“Tomorrow, or maybe even later. The important thing is, you’ve got someone on your side who knows the system. That’s all you have to think about right now. I’m going to try to get you another lawyer for the trial. I know it’s impossible, but try not to worry too much.”

Cynthia arrived at the public defender’s office at nine o’clock. She saw no reason to tell Leo, who came out to the reception desk to meet her, that she had set out at seven, and wandered around the confusing streets of lower Manhattan for at least an hour, until a truck driver finally gave her proper directions. Leo led her off to his office, hung up her coat, sat her down, and tried to tell her what had happened so far.

“Where is Beatrice now?” Cynthia asked, before he began.

“Probably on her way in from Central Booking. We haven’t much time, so you must listen.”

“I am listening,” Cynthia said, drawing together all her powers of attention. The time for action had come.

“All right,” Leo said. “She was arrested and taken to your precinct, where pedigree information, name, address, and so on, are taken, and a warrant check is made, that is, to see if she is wanted on any other cases. I know, I know, but we’re talking about the system here, not your sister. As you’ll see when we go to court, most of those arrested have records, and quite a number do not have an address, so she’s ahead on that count. The detectives will have questioned your sister extensively, and we can only pray she had the sense not to say anything at all. Any statement she made upon arrest can and will be read out at her arraignment,”

“It all seems very unfair,” Cynthia said, “taking advantage of people when they’re upset.”

“That’s exactly the point. And even hardened criminals rarely know enough to shut up. I don’t know how long she was held in the precinct-I’ll find out-out it was as long as they had to wait before Central Booking was ready to process more bodies.” Leo ignored the fact that Cynthia had closed her eyes and gone white. He kept on talking to bring her around. “Her prints were then faxed to Albany, where they are matched by computer against all other prints in the state. The result is a rap sheet, which in your sister’s case will be encouragingly blank. I assume she has no record.” He looked at Cynthia, who nodded certainly. “That’s good news for our side when it comes to pleading for bail,” Leo said.

“The reason she’s now in jail is because the system was backed up; they had to go to the DA’s office for a complaint to be drawn up, and because she had to be interviewed by the Criminal Justice Agency.” Leo noticed that Cynthia was beginning to look faint. “Hold on,” he said. “We’re almost finished with this part. She’s got a CJA sheet-for Criminal Justice Agency,” he added, as faintness was now joined by bewilderment. “Everyone in court, the judge, the DA, your sister’s lawyer, will use that sheet. It gives her years at her address, her employment, length of employment, and so on. That’s going to help your sister, because she’s obviously been a responsible member of the community with a good employment record and a steady address. We’re waiting now until all these papers reach the court. We’ll try for bail at the arraignment, but don’t be hopeful. On a murder charge like this, she’ll almost certainly be remanded at arraignment.”

“Will you be at the arraignment arguing for her bail?”

“I can’t be,” Leo said. “She’s not eligible for legal aid. But I’ve got her a lawyer, a woman I went to law school with. She’s first-rate, she has worked for the DA, she knows what she’s doing, she’s smart, and above all, she’ll understand where your sister’s coming from. She’s already gone to the court to be ready to meet with your sister when she’s brought in from Central Booking to the arraignment. That’s the whole story. Are you okay for now?”

“Will they put her in a cell when she gets here?”

“No, Women aren’t put into pens. She’ll sit on a bench with other women prisoners at the front of the courtroom. She’ll go into a booth there to talk to her lawyer. We’re going over there now; you’ll see the setup.”

“Will she see me?”

“Yes. But you mustn’t try to talk to her or to reach her. Sally, that’s her lawyer, will tell her about what you’ve done so far, including finding me. Ready? Here’s your coat. Let’s go.”

“Don’t you need a coat?”

Leo shook his head. Nothing, he thought, would keep a woman from noticing he didn’t wear a coat racing around the courts; no man would ever notice it. It had something to do with female nurturing, Angela would say.

“Do you think you could walk down six flights,” he asked, “because the elevators take forever? Good. We’re off.”

There was a lot happening at the court. Cynthia saw the judge, the DAs, and men in white shirts with guns who Leo said were court officers; they carried the papers between the lawyers and the judge. When Beatrice was brought in front of the judge, holding her hands behind her, Cynthia thought she would weep and never stop. She couldn’t hear what any of them said, except for the DA who spoke loud and clear: “The people are serving statement notice. Defendant said: ‘I didn’t kill her. I loathed her but I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill anyone.’ No other notices.”

Cynthia looked with agony at Leo.

“Never mind. Not exactly inculpatory. It’s always better to shut up, but a protest of innocence is not the worst. Listen now; Sally’s asking for bail. The DA asked that she be remanded-sent to jail while awaiting trial. Sally’s answering.”

“With all due respect, your honor, the ADA’s position, while predictable, takes no account of my client’s position in the community. The case is not strong against my client; the major evidence is circumstantial. We have every intention of fighting this case. My client not only has no record, but is a long-honored professor in a well-established and well-known institution of higher education. She has been a member of the community and has lived at the same address for many years. There can be no question of my client’s returning. We ask that bail be set sufficient to insure that return, but not excessive. My client is a woman in her late fifties who is innocent and intends to prove it.” There was more, but Cynthia seemed unable any longer to listen. Leo had said there was little hope for bail at this point. She tried to send thought waves of encouragement and support to Beatrice, but the sight of her back with her hands held together behind her was devastating.

The judge spoke with-Cynthia might have felt under other circumstances-admirable clarity. “The defendant is remanded. Adjourned to AP-17, January sixth, for grand jury action.”

That was that. Beatrice was led away, and Cynthia wept.

“It won’t be too long,” Leo said, trying to find some words of comfort. “The law does not allow anyone to be kept more than one hundred forty-four hours after arrest without an indictment. And now she has a lawyer who knows what she’s doing, and who will, with any luck, get bail for her after her felony arraignment upstairs. You go home and try to be ready to raise it. At least a million; that’s a guess, but probably a good one. Can you get home all right?” Cynthia looked at where Beatrice had been, but she was gone. She saw the booths, like confessionals, she thought, where Beatrice might have talked to her lawyer before Leo had brought her. But Leo hurried her out; he was already late for another hearing in another court.

Later Leo and Sally met for lunch in a Chinese restaurant on Mulberry Street. Sally was not encouraging. “Am I sure she didn’t do it? No, I’m not sure, so what is a jury going to make of her? Talk about reasonable doubt: I’d have less doubt if I saw the cat licking its lips before an empty birdcage. Leo, my love, my treasure, take my advice: start thinking about a plea in this case. She’ll get eight and a third to twenty-five if she’s maxed out on a manslaughter plea, with parole after eight and a third. Otherwise, we’re talking fifteen to life. Think of Jean Harris.”

“Jean Harris shot her lover.”

“That’s more excusable than bludgeoning to death a twenty-year-old girl.”

“What happened exactly?”

“According to the DA? The girl was found dead in her dormitory room on a Saturday night. The dormitory was close to empty, and no one saw anything, except some boy on his way out who saw an old lady, and picked Professor B out of a lineup. A hell of a lot of good her corporate lawyer did her there. Professor B says she was home; sister away at some institutional revel. Every one of the girl’s friends has testified that Professor B hated her, though only slightly more than she hated the other girls in ha’ seminar. Something to do with women’s studies, more’s the pity.”

“That’s all the DA’s got?”

“An eyewitness, a lack of other suspects, and Professor B’s prints all over the girl’s notebook. Even Daphne’s friends admit she went rather far in goading the old lady, but that hardly excuses murder. It’s not as though we’re dealing with the battered woman’s syndrome here. That’s how it is, Leo. We’ll have to plead her out.”

“Thanks for agreeing to a Japanese restaurant,” Leo said. “I know it’s not your thing. I needed some raw fish: brain food. Also you like the martinis here; I think you better have two before I start on my story.”

Kate Fansler sipped from the one she had already ordered and contemplated Leo. He had said he wanted advice; the question was, about what? Kate considered the role of aunt far superior to that of parent, which did not alter the fact that the young made her nervous. This advice, however, turned out not to be about the young.

“It doesn’t sound like a very strong case against her,” Kate said, when Leo had told her the story and consumed several yellowback somethings; he went on to eel.

“It’s not; but it’s the sort of case they’ll win. They’ll bring on all the girl’s friends, and what’s on Beatrice’s side? A devoted sister, and all the stereotypes in the world to tell you she had a fit of frantic jealousy and knocked the girl’s head in.”

“You sound rather involved.”

“I’m always involved; that’s why I’m so good at what I do, and why it’s interesting. I also know how to get uninvolved at five o’clock and go home, unlike high-class lawyers.”

“So Sally’s arguments have a certain cogency.”

“Naturally. That’s the trouble. It’s a little early to tell, but it looks to me like either she cops or, as my clients say, she’ll blow trial and get a life term. As far as I can see it’s a dilemma with only one way out. Find the real killer. Right up your alley, I rather thought.”

Kate, who had decided on only one martini, waved for the waiter and ordered another. “I’ve known you so long,” she said, “that I’m not going to exchange debating points. We can both take it as said. If I wanted to talk with your murderer, would I have to go out to Riker’s Island?”

“No. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Sally will get bail after the indictment, if we have any luck at all with the judge. There’s every reason not to keep the old gal in jail, and Sally can be very persuasive. In which case you can visit her in the apartment they have just mortgaged to get the bail.”

“Leo, I want one thing perfectly clear…”

“As you said, dear Aunt Kate, we know the debating points. Just talk to the elderly sisters, together, separately, and let me know what you decide. End of discussion, unless of course, you decide they’re innocent and I can help.”

“I thought it was just one of them?”

“It is; but Cynthia’s the one I met first, so I sort of think of them as a pair. I’ve never met Beatrice; just caught sight of her with the other women prisoners at the arraignment. But I have met Cynthia, I’ve heard Angela on Cynthia, and I’m not ready to believe that Cynthia’s sister could have murdered anyone.”

Leo had told Kate that for a woman of Professor Beatrice Sterling’s background, experience of the criminal system would be a nightmare; indeed, Beatrice, as she asked Kate to call her, had the look of someone who has seen horrors. They were meeting in the sisters’ apartment after bail had been granted. Cynthia, now that Beatrice was home, was clearly taking the tack that a good dose of normality was what was needed, and she was providing it, with a kind of courageous pretense at cooperation from Beatrice that touched Kate, who allowed a certain amount of desultory chatter to go on while she reviewed the facts in her mind.

Burglary had always been a possibility, but it was considered an unlikely one. The victim’s wallet had not been taken, though the cash, if any, had. Her college ID, credit cards, and a bank card remained. Pictures that had been in the wallet had been vigorously torn apart and scattered over the body. Her college friends, although they knew the most intimate facts of her life as was usual these days, did not know how much money she usually carried or if anything else was missing from her wallet. She had been bludgeoned with a tennis award, a metal statue of a young woman swinging a racket that had been heavily weighted at the base. The assailant had worn gloves. What had doomed Beatrice was not so much these facts, not even the identification by the young man (though this was crushing), but the record of deep dislike between the victim and the accused that no one, not even the accused, denied, Motive is not enough for a conviction, but, as Leo had put it, the grounds for reasonable doubt were also, given the likely testimony of the victim’s friends, slim. Kate put down her teacup and began to speak of what faced them.

“You are our last hope,” Cynthia said, before Kate could begin.

“If that is true,” Kate answered, looking directly into the eyes of first one and then the other, “then you are going to have to put up with my endless questions, and with retelling your story until you think even jail would be preferable. Now, let’s start at the beginning, with a description of this seminar itself. How did you come to teach it, were these students you had known before, what was the subject? I want every detail you can think of, and then some. Start at the beginning.”

Beatrice took a deep breath, and kept her eyes on her hands folded in her lap. “I didn’t know those particular students at all,” she said, “and I didn’t particularly want to teach that seminar. For two reasons,” she added, catching Kate’s “Why?” before it was spoken. “It was in women’s studies, which I have never taught. I’m a feminist, but my field is early Christian history, and I have not much expertise about contemporary feminist scholarship. The seminar was for writing honors theses in women’s studies, which meant there were no texts; in addition, the students were all doing subjects in sociology or political science or anthropology, and I know little of these fields beyond their relation to my own rather ancient interests. I had worked hard, and under some unpleasant opposition, to help establish women’s studies at our college, so I had little excuse not to take my turn in directing this seminar; in any case, there was no one else available. There were twelve students, all seniors, and yes, it did occur to me to relate it to the Last Supper, which I mention only because you will then understand what the seminar invoked in me.” A sigh escaped, but Beatrice, with an encouraging pat from Cynthia, continued.

“The young are rude today; anyone who teaches undergraduates can tell you that. They are not so much aggressively rude as inconsiderate, as though no perspective but theirs existed. The odd part of this is that the most radical students, those who talk of little but the poor and the racially oppressed, are, if anything, ruder than the others, courtesy being beneath them. Forgive me if I rant a bit, but you wanted to hear all this.

“The point is, they hated me on sight and I them. Well, that’s an exaggeration. But when I tried to suggest what seemed to me minimal scholarly standards, they sneered. Quite literally, they sneered. I talked this over with the head of women’s studies, and she admitted that they are known to be an unruly bunch, and that they had not wanted me for their seminar, but she couldn’t do anything except cheer me on. They spoke about early feminists, like me, as though we were a bunch of co-opted creeps; worst of all, they never talked to me or asked me anything; they addressed each other, turning their backs on me. You’re a teacher, so perhaps this will sound less silly to you than to the police. It was the kind of rudeness that is close to rape. Or murder. Oh, don’t think I don’t usually run quite successful classes; I do. Students like me. Of course, my students are self-selected: they’re interested in the subject, which they elect to take. But even when I teach a required history survey, I do well. I’m not as intimate with the students as some of the younger teachers, and I regret that, but I grew up in a different time, and it seems best to be oneself and not pretend to feelings one doesn’t have. Do you agree?”

Kate nodded her agreement.

“The dead girl-they called each other only by their first names, and hers was Daphne, but I remembered her last name (which the police found suspicious) because it was Potter-Jones, and that sounded to me like something out of a drama from the BBC-she was the rudest of the lot and was writing on prostitutes, or, as they insisted on calling them, sex-workers. I should add that all their subjects were enormous, totally unsuitable to undergraduates, and entirely composed of oral history. All history, all previously published research, was lies. They would talk to real sex-workers, real homeless women, real victims of botched abortions, that sort of thing. When I suggested some academic research, they positively snorted. Daphne said that being a sex-worker was exactly like being a secretary-they were equally humiliating jobs-but at least we might try to see that sex-workers got fringe benefits. My only private conversation, if you can call it that-they never, any of them, came to my office hours or consulted me for a minute-was with Daphne. She had been advised at a seminar to pretend to be a sex-worker and try to get into a ‘house’ so that she might meet some prostitutes; she had, not surprisingly to me but apparently to her and all the others, found it difficult to get prostitutes to talk to her. I took her aside at the end of the class and told her I thought that might be rather dangerous. She laughed, and said she had told her mother, who thought it was a great idea. I know all this may sound exaggerated or even the wanderings of a demented person, but this is, I promise you, a straightforward rendition of my experience. I have spared you some details, considering them repetitive. No doubt you get the picture. It occurred to me, when I was in Riker’s Island, that perhaps I might now be of some interest to the members of the seminar, except of course that they thought I had murdered their friend, so I failed to interest them even as an accused murderer. Cynthia thought I oughtn’t to mention that, but my view is if, knowing it all, you can’t believe me, I might as well plead to manslaughter as my young but clearly smart lawyer urges.”

Kate did not break for some minutes the silence that fell upon them. She was trying to order her perceptions, to analyze her responses. Could the hate Beatrice felt have driven her to violence? Kate put that thought temporarily on hold. “Tell me about the night of the murder,” she said. “You were here the whole time alone. Is that the whole truth?”

“All of it. The irony is, Cynthia tried to persuade me to go with her to the party, which she thought might be better than most. I almost went, but I had papers to correct, and in the end I stayed home, thereby sacrificing my perfect alibi. Do you think the moral is: always accept invitations?”

“When did you last see Daphne?”

“I last saw them all the day before, at the meeting of the seminar. I think they had been told that I would give them a grade, and that attendance would count. The director was probably trying to help me, but that of course only increased their resentment, which increased mine. I don’t want to exaggerate, but at the same time you should know that this was the worst teaching experience I have ever had.”

“Were you shocked when that young man picked you out of the lineup?”

“At the time, yes, shocked and horrified. But soon after it all began to seem like a Kafka novel; I wasn’t guilty, but that didn’t matter. They would arrange it all so that I was condemned. And they had found my fingerprints on Daphne’s notebook; it was like mine, and I had picked it up by mistake at the last seminar. Daphne always sat next to me, I never knew why, but I supposed because from there, as I was at the head of the table, she could most readily turn her back to me and address her comrades. I had opened her notebook before I saw my mistake; I’ve no doubt I left my fingerprints all over it, But that also told against me. You might as well hear the worst. Before I was arrested, I would have told you that I was incapable of bludgeoning anyone to death. Now, I think I am quite capable of it.”

Some days later Kate summoned Leo to dinner, requesting that he bring along Beatrice’s lawyer; they met this time in an Italian restaurant: Kate’s tolerance for watching Leo consume raw fish had its limits. Sally had clearly come prepared for Kate’s admission that any defense would be quixotic, if not fatal.

“I’m not so sure,” Kate told her. “There’s nothing easy about this case. Beatrice’s reaction to this seminar was unquestionably excessive; on the other hand, had murder not occurred, she would probably have forgotten the whole thing by now. No doubt her words would seem extreme to anyone who had not labored long in the academic vineyards; I’ll only mention that when Beatrice took up teaching, she saw respect for the scholar as one of the perks of the job; she has, in addition, risked much and undergone considerable pain as an early feminist. To her, it seems as though all this has become less than nothing. Add that to what may well be a period of personal depression, and you have this reaction. Do we also have murder? I don’t think so, and for three reasons.

“First, I think the last thing Beatrice would do would be to go to that girl’s room under any pretense whatsoever; Beatrice claims never to have entered a dormitory and I believe her. I know, so far nothing counts that much with you”-Kate held up a cautioning hand to Sally-“but I have two other reasons, both of them, I think, persuasive. One, I purchased a cheap gray wig, donned some rather raggy clothes, and wandered into the dorm where Beatrice was supposedly spotted. I’m prepared to stand in a line and see if that young man or anyone else picks me out: to youth one gray-haired, frumpish woman looks very like another. Doffing my wig, donning my usual dress, I returned to the dormitory half an hour later; needless to say, no one recognized me. I was there this time to interview Daphne’s roommate, who was also in the seminar. She told me how close she and Daphne were-they even looked alike-and how devastated she was. She, it turned out, was writing on the homeless and had had almost as much difficulty in interviewing her subjects as had Daphne. Her animus against Beatrice was pronounced, but that was hardly surprising. I asked how her paper was going; she had gotten an extension under the circumstances, but had, in fact, found only one homeless woman to interview. She told me about her. No, don’t interrupt. Good pasta, isn’t it?

“I tried to find this homeless woman and failed, but I did get a description. I would suggest that when you find her, she and some others similarly dressed be put in the lineup with Beatrice to let that young man reconsider. No, that isn’t my clincher. Here’s my clincher.” Kate took a sip of wine and sat back for a moment.

“I noticed that Daphne had a MasterCard, an American Express card, and no VISA card. Now that’s perfectly possible, not all of us carry every card, but I was, as you know, grasping at straws, or at least thinnish reeds. Nudged by me, the police arranged to see every credit card bill that came in after Daphne’s death. That merely seemed like another crazy idea of the lady detective, until yesterday. The VISA bill came in yesterday. Here it is.” Kate passed it to Sally; Leo looked at it too. “See anything of interest?” Kate asked.

“Yes,” Sally said. “There’s a charge during the days when Beatrice was in Riker’s Island; two, in fact. But these charges aren’t always recorded on the day they’re charged.”

“Those from supermarkets are,” Kate said. “I’ve checked with this particular supermarket, which is in a shopping center near the college; Beatrice never goes there, since she lives in the city, but it’s also doubtful that Daphne did; she was, in any case, dead at the time of this charge.”

“Let me be sure I have this right,” Leo said, as Sally continued to stare at the bill. “You’re saying Daphne’s roommate’s homeless interviewee killed Daphne, tore up the pictures in anger, perhaps mistook Daphne for her roommate or was too full of rage to care, stole the cash and one credit card that she later used to buy food at a supermarket. The police will have to find her, that’s for sure.”

“I think if the police put their minds to it, they’ll find more evidence still. What you’ve got to do, Sally, after you’ve got the charges against Beatrice dismissed, is take up the defense of the homeless woman. I’ll pay the legal costs. Given one of those uppity girls questioning and patronizing her, and probably inviting her once or twice to their comfy dormitory room, I should think you’d get her a suspended sentence at the very least. Extreme provocation.”

“Please God she hasn’t got previous convictions,” Sally said.

“I doubt it,” Kate said. “It could well take an undergraduate to send even the most benign homeless person over the edge. The trouble with the police,” she added sanctimoniously, “is that they’ve never tried to teach a class without a text. One can do nothing without the proper equipment, as they should be the first to understand. I have urged Beatrice to write a calm letter to the director of women’s studies suggesting an entire revamping of the senior thesis seminar. They must require texts. Under the circumstances, it seems the least they can do.

“More wine?”